A Case For Conners

Chapter 3

Chapter 2: Cold as Ice

Michael was forced to thank Hunter and his group of cronies for one thing: they had given him knowledge of just where to get the papers to make himself legal. And thanks to the failed deal, he had the money to get it all pushed through.

He knew he couldn't take the time to stop or think too hard about what he was doing. Anytime he did, he kept seeing the child's eyes… a bullet hole right in the center of his young forehead… He wanted, needed to do something about it.

Michael got licensed and could (finally) try getting an actual job. However, he knew that he didn't want to sweep floors from nine to five. He wanted to help stop the gangs, and the police force was the best way to do that. However, he feared the police. Not least of all because of his own history. Not to mention he felt pretty sure that the police could tell if his ID was fake.

He figured the next best thing was to get labeled as a private detective. Unlike cops, investigators usually dug into your files and paper trail instead of just verifying an ID. All he had to do was make sure his papers had a little history and for enough cash, and black market dealer could do that.

He showered in a public shower house, did a search on the library computer and finally had three companies he wanted to try. First, he decided he needed a good change of clothes. His old jeans and hoodie were practical, but not very impressive. He felt the stack of bills in his pocket and figured he still had about half of it left. If he played his cards right, he could get a change of clothes and a week's worth of food.

He went into a clothing store and noticed a huge difference from the thrift stores he'd known before. Security was much better of course, but the clothes were all new, and they had several designer styles. Michael bought himself a new pair of well-fitting jeans and shoes. Then, he donned a dark grey shirt and long black trench coat. The coat wasn't exactly commonplace, but no one gave it a second glance. Still, it provided him with a look of mystery that he liked.

Satisfied with his new look, Michael ran to the first building that was hiring new detectives called Connan Deductions. A man showed him in and Michael's mind took a snapshot of the guy.

The badge that hung around the detective's neck was old, showing nicks and dents. So, the man had been with the business for a while. Michael caught the .45 under the man's left arm and saw the gun glisten. The man was a hard worker, he took the time to regularly clean and service his own pistol. Things were looking up for Michael.

That was until he talked with the head detective.

"So Michael Conners," said the old man behind his desk. "What brings you here?"

Michael would've loved to analyze the man, but he sat in almost complete shadow. All he could gather was the man had a flair for the dramatic, but that wasn't much to go on.

"I want to help out with some of the crime in this city, but cops are too slow. They do their public bits and bobs but most don't actually care enough to see a case through to the end."

Michael knew most cops didn't care what happened to their case or clients, just so long as they got paid at the end of the day. He just hoped the old man across from him knew it too.

The old man laughed. It was not quiet, but loud and with real mirth.

"Do you have any experience at all?"

"Well... you see, I actually had an accident where I-"

"Get out of here! We don't have time to help you grow up."

Two men walked in then and grabbed Michael and dragged him to the front door. He struggled to keep on his own feet as they unceremoniously dragged him back to towards the front door. On the way, he saw something, something he wanted very badly. It was a handbook of state law. Michael internally smiled as he pretended to trip and fall, pocketing the small book. While they didn't catch his thievery, they did throw him out onto the street, and Michael swore as he got to his feet.

"Bastards," he called, looking up at them.

Michael spent two days studying the booklet. It may not have everything he would need, but it was a great base to work off of.

The second place he meant to try was called Knighthawk Investigations. He walked in, head held high. The description he'd read flooded through his mind as if he was reading it straight off the review.

...flawlessly working detective agency that has never once failed to solve a case, regardless of the cost to the detective himself.

Michael had spent a bit of time yesterday looking up information about the company at the library. The more he found, the more he liked it. He would've crossed his fingers if he thought it'd help.

From the description in the reviews, he expected a grand room with a roaring fire, but it was just one thin, aging man sitting behind the desk. Conners reasoned that the man was in his fifties, maybe early sixties, and had a powerful gray mustache. It was also clear he was starting to go bald, despite his hair being cut short. The old man's clothing was simple, but practical. He wore an old button-up shirt, faded jeans and a pair of work boots.

The man clearly didn't think he needed to impress anyone. Part of that came from his build. Despite being so thin, he had a fair amount of muscle on him. He looked like he could charge through a brick wall if he wanted to bad enough. However, it was his height that truly made him scary. He was easily near six and a half feet when he stood up. The man devoted himself entirely to his art, but didn't do it for the money. He'd once been much stronger, though age and carelessness had let his body relax. This man had found something that interrupted what had once been a strict physical routine. What was that? The death of a loved one, maybe?

Michael checked and there was no ring on the man's finger, meaning he didn't have a wife... or at least not one anymore. It was unlikely he had kids at home, but that didn't fit, because there was a bit of crayon on his left wrist that caught Michael's eye. A quick glance around his desk revealed no pictures, no notes from a family of any kind.

Did he watch young children who were not his own? It would fit in with the selflessness the man was supposed to have.

All of this took Michael one second to analyze, as the adrenaline laced through his body. The man stood, and instantly things shifted.

Before, Michael had been standing, approaching the old man. Michael had the power and the movement then, and he'd been directing the meeting. The second this old man stood up, it was he that gained control of the room.

It was incredible. Without a single word, this man had just yanked Michael's "power" away from him.

"What do you want?" the man asked, but not harshly.

His voice was soft, but carried itself naturally. Michael felt he could hear him in a crowd with no trouble. It made sense this man was the one in charge.

"I'm here to apply f-for an investigative position."

Michael cursed himself as his voice shook slightly. What was it about this man that unnerved him so severely? He couldn't pick any one thing out, but this old man definitely carried power, and was used to it.

"Well... let's have a look... Conners hm? That's an interesting name. It says you have no work history. So, why try here?"

Michael started to explain his story, though he left out the bit about being in a gang and killing a boy.

He cut Michael off with a gesture, and then paused for a very long time without speaking.

"So," he said finally. "What do you know about God?"

Was that was drove this man? His belief in that dead man in the sky? Michael knew about this God... at least enough to know he wasn't interested in knowing more.

"Enough."

"So, you don't believe."

"How do you know that?" Michael asked, his face twisting a little.

"Because anyone who says they know enough doesn't actually know anything."

Michael scoffed at the jab and stood up to leave.

"If you won't hire me that's fine, but there's no reason for you to insult me. If you can't see that I want to do some good, I'll go somewhere else."

"Stop!"

Michael froze. He was too scared to move an inch. He half-feared the man would pull a gun on him.

"You're hired."

"What?"

"Grab a badge off the desk there and fill out the forms here."

"I'm sorry but... what?!"

"I don't do well with repeating myself, Conners."

"But why?"

"Because you're the only man in here for five years that has had the balls to stand in my face and tell me no, while not losing their cool. You were calm and insistent, and those are important traits. I'd prefer you believed, but I don't have to agree with your philosophy to work with you."

Michael studied the old man for a long moment.

"So what's your name, boss?'

"Bill."

"All right, Bill. When do we get started?"

"Now."

Michael nodded; it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.

"There's a man who's turned up dead in the road and the wife's getting a huge payoff from the insurance, so the police suspect her."

"The police suspect her?" he repeated. "So, you think she's innocent?"

"I know she is."

"How?"

"She hired me," said Bill, picking up a set of car keys. "Let's go."

When Bill drove him to the crime scene, the police stopped them instantly. This was something Michael had been worried about. Cops didn't seem to appreciate someone like them messing with ongoing cases.

"This is a sealed crime scene, sirs," said the officer.

"Really?" said Bill, acting as if he was truly shocked. "I guess we didn't see the crime scene tape or the media around. Sorry about that."

"It's fine. I just need you folks to back up."

"Yeah," said Bill evasively. "About that. It's the damn funniest thing, but I think the gearshift on this car just went out. Here just let me try to back up."

Bill drove straight past the cop onto the actual scene and got out of the car.

"Aren't we going to get wrung out for that?" asked Michael.

"Probably, but we've got a good ten minutes before anyone else shows up and we do have the paperwork to be here. I just love f*****g with these bastards."

Personal vendetta with the police, Michael noted.

"Better steel yourself Conners, don't want you puking."

"I won't," he said.

Bill brought him around the corner and they saw a dead man, clearly in his golden years. He lay face-down in the street, arms sprawled out. This wasn't the first time Michael had seen a dead man, but the smell was always awful, especially this close. He gagged slightly, but kept his food down.

"You ok?" asked Bill.

"Yeah, just… Yeah I'm fine," Michael said, inwardly thankful for the light rain that had helped wash away some of the stink.

"Good, what do you see?"

Michael knelt and examined the man.

His chest was busted open as if he'd been crushed by something.

"Hit by a car?" Michael asked.

"Maybe," said Bill. "Don't assume anything. Lots of things can do that to a man. Any other injuries on him?"

Carefully checking over the body, Michael noticed several bruises and a long cut on the inside of the man's right hand.

"Definitely hit by a car," said Michael confidently.

"How do you figure?" Bill asked.

He hadn't said that Michael was wrong. Bill wanted to give him a chance to explain himself.

"Well, the car could've come flying down this way while he's in the street. The driver couldn't stop in time and crushed his chest in. He hits the ground and is sent rolling, and gets the bruises and bleeds out."

"What about that cut?" asked Bill, pointing to the man's hand.

"Glass from the windshield."

"Not bad."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean you saw everything important. However, you are completely off in your analysis and missed several things that aren't here, so you're completely wrong."

Michael growled, "How am I wrong?"

"Well for starters, where did that windshield go? If glass cut his hand it would be lying here in the street. There aren't any car parts here whatsoever, and no break marks either. So what, did it come flying down the street at him on purpose and then clean up after itself?"

"Could've hit him somewhere else and moved him here later."

"Did they move the blood too?" asked Bill raising an eyebrow.

He was right of course, there was far too much blood for the body to have been moved.

"Ok, you're right," Michael admitted softly.

"So he wasn't hit by a car, how'd he die?"

"Baseball bat or a sledgehammer."

"Not impossible, but not likely. Look at these houses."

Bill pointed up at a blue Victorian home on the corner.

"What about them?"

"How tall are most of them?"

"Four to five stories."

"Any idea what a five story fall will do to someone?"

"He was thrown of a roof? But I wouldn't think his chest would be that messed up, even if he hit chest first, his head and legs would've taken way more damage."

"Unless something broke his fall."

"Something… like what?"

"Don't know yet, but we're gonna find out."

When they got back in the car Michael sat thinking for a short time. He was surprised at all the information they'd gained without using any lab equipment.

"That's the importance of observation," said Bill, as if reading his mind. "You have to see what you can't be told. What was out of the ordinary last night?"

"Last night?" Michael asked, thinking about any news he'd heard. "Nothing."

"It rained."

"Why does that matter?"

"Rain matters a hell of a lot. It washes away evidence, and changes the landscape. If our guy jumped or was pushed, and my money is on jumped, whatever he landed on was washed away."

"What's solid enough to land on, but will get washed out by rain?" Michael asked.

"A small number of things. I have an idea, but I need to ask his widow two questions first."

"Just two?"

"Just two." Bill said. "At least if I'm right, and I usually am."

They pulled up to the client's house and Michael leaned back, prepared to stay behind, but Bill waved him inside insistently. They were let into the large home by a house cleaning lady who spoke very poor English, and Michael glanced around trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. He didn't catch much, except that this woman was obviously well off.

"Hello Betty," he said to who must be their client. "It's William from Knighthawk Investigations, we spoke on the phone."

"Oh yes," she said, distractedly. "Thanks for coming to see me. What can I do to help you?"

"Just need to ask a couple questions about your late husband," said Bill calmly.

"Of course."

"Where did he work?" Bill asked.

"Polar Ice Company He'd been retired for some time before that, but he wanted to get out and be a bit active again. So, he got a job. I didn't want him to, but I never could stop him when his mind was set on something."

"All right, and how had your marriage been recently? Any arguments?"

She bit her lip anxiously, and Michael took it to mean a yes.

"I mean, we were doing ok and everything."

"Betty," Bill said softly. "I don't think you killed him, but it is really important to find out who did."

She nodded. "Well honestly, we had been fighting a bit before he took the job. I thought maybe he did it to just get out of the house. I was worried he might get hurt. So, I upgraded all our medical stuff."

"And your accidental death coverage?" Michael asked, starting to understand what Bill was putting together.

"Yes," she said. "He got really mad about it. He thought I wanted him to die and left the house ranting. I was mad. So, I let him just go. I knew I should've stopped him."

At this, she began to cry softly, and Michael moved to put a hand on her shoulder.

"I see," said Bill. "Well, we will have to talk to the cops as soon as they get here, but I do know what happened."

He sat back in the chair calmly for about five minutes, thinking. There was a loud knock at the door and the cleaning lady let in the disgruntled police detective.

"Dammit Bill!" he shouted. "You cannot just barge in on a crime scene and interrogate my lead suspect!"

"Well tough s**t, because she's innocent."

The detective was an old man with white hair and was even thinner than Bill, face worn from years of police work. He wore a dark three-piece suit and from the body language and the voice he used, he knew Bill very well. He grimaced before speaking again.

"Ok," said the police detective, sighing. "What do you have?"

"Victim worked at an ice company and got pissed when his wife increased the insurance policy. They were fighting, so he decided to make it look like she killed him."

"Oh really? How did the blood get on the hood of her truck then?"

"Check the cut on his hand; it's self-inflicted."

"And his chest getting smashed in?"

"Check the blood and you'll see it's mixed with clean ice water. He held a huge chunk of ice to his chest when he jumped, and let the rain wash away the block and most of the blood. Check with Polar Ice Company. I'm willing to bet he made a pretty purchase there. Anyway, ending is that she'd get blamed and goes to jail for being what he thought was a selfish bitch."

"…I hate when you do this."

"Well someone needs to do your damn job," said Bill bitterly getting back in the truck.

"We'll check on what you said. For your sake, I hope you're right."

"Always am."

"Not always," said the old man defiantly.

"Conners!" called Bill. "We're going."

Michael got in the truck with Bill and the drove off, leaving the police to finish up most of the paperwork. He was really impressed by Bill, though not with the police.

"Is it always like that?" asked Michael.

"Sometimes," said Bill. "We got a little lucky. That one knows me. I used to be his partner years ago: stubborn old bat. But he knows that I know what I'm doing so he had to listen. As a private investigator, you get discredited by the police very fast. Even if you're right 99 times out of 100, they never forget the one time you weren't."

"How did you see what I didn't at the crash site?" Michael asked quietly, embarrassed at having missed such vital clues.

"Years and years of practice. Stick with me and I'll bring you up to speed pretty quickly. You didn't do bad, but you're still wet behind the ears. Now, hush up a minute."

Bill kept his eyes focused on the road and muttered quickly under his breath. It took Michael a moment to realize he was praying. Bill was such an odd old man.