A Case For Conners

Chapter 13

Chapter 12: About the Classics…

Conners had been out of the hospital for about two hours before he had his next client in front of him. It was a nice side effect of having worked with the police. He rarely ever wanted for a case anymore. Between his fame with the cabbies and his name getting thrown out over the news a few times, people who wanted their crimes solved came flooding to his door. Luckily, most were small uninteresting cases and he didn't have to leave his apartment to piece his solution together. A quick call to the station would get them to confirm his theory, and that ended most cases. However, he had a small number of interesting cases that he could take when he got bored… which was at least twice a week.

In front of him sat Paul Boston, a wealthy, self-proclaimed philanthropist. He was one of the few men who had been born into money and not immediately squandered most of it. The man was a business investor and had a keen eye for what would and wouldn't take off. At first the man had spoken to him at length about Knighthawk and wanted Conners to expand it, take on his own partners and grow the business to other cities.

"It could be the investigation firm of the country, my boy!"

Conners had been steadily declining the offer for help. As much as he'd like to be able to help out people from cities away, he could never train people to be what he was. He was able to work like he did because of his gifts. Oh sure, a lot of it was training from Bill, but that didn't mean he could pass on what he'd learned so easily.

Teaching was a gift, and it was one Conners wasn't sure he actually had. The idea of having an annoying newbie tailing him and asking pointless questions did not appeal. Besides, how was he supposed to appoint a manager based on their tendencies to skirt the law? He wasn't at all sure he could do Bill justice as a teacher and didn't want to put the wrong person in that position.

It took a lot of convincing, but eventually Boston forgot his idea of expanding the company into a firm. It was at that time that Boston got down to the real reason he had visited Conners' apartment. His wife, Rita, had been found dead that morning and the police had found traces of poison in her system.

"Well, it seems like they're on top of that. Why hire me?"

"They are mistaken in the intent. They say it's likely related to my business empire. This is impossible."

"Your wife wasn't involved in the business?" Conners asked.

"Please detective," said Boston. "My wife was a beautiful woman and a good host, but she wasn't a business woman."

"And you haven't been threatened or asked for any large favors?"

"I get ten threats and requests a day. I've gotten nothing out of the ordinary for how much it's worth."

"I doubt it's someone who wants to get you to do something for them. They would've threatened your son as well. Children spark an even deeper desire to protect than spouses do."

"I see. So you agree with me that the cops have the matter wrong?"

"Yes. I'll be sure to look into your case. I won't bore you talking about my fee, I'm sure you're good for it."

Honestly, Conners hadn't bothered a lot of his clients with his fee. The police frequently paid him for his consults and several of his clients were too poor to actually afford him. It wasn't as if he had a lot of expenses, and his landlord had even lowered his rent as he was drawing so many new tenants to the building. Still, when he had clients that were well-off he felt no shame in pricing them for his services.

"Here you are," said Boston, handing him a blank check. "Any amount you put there will be less than I'd have paid you anyway."

Conners nodded to himself, placing the check on his mantelpiece. Boston was business, through and through. To him, his daily routine was as important as the life of his family. He was a bad family man, but that didn't mean he was likely to be a murderer and the fact that he was willing to go against the police lead meant he was likely innocent in the killing.

Sighing, Conners went over to his array of supplies that he would need before going out for a case. He would need the cane, and his handcuffs for sure. Sherry could likely stay behind, the manor was in a very upscale part of town. He decided to bring along a stash of jolly ranchers too, just in case.

Satisfied he had everything he needed, Conners walked out of his apartment, almost squashing a mouse in the process. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card that the cabbie had given him. Why not use a cab driver that he liked and who liked him?

"Hello?" said a slightly tired voice on the other line.

"Hey. It's Michael Conners, the detective you drove around a month ago."

"Ah Mr. Conners!" said the driver, instantly growing excited. "Good to hear from you. Do you need a ride? I'm free now!"

"Sure are eager. Yeah, I could use a lift if you're able. Need a ride out to the Ogden District if you can go that far."

"For you? Absolutely. Be there in two minutes."

"Fast."

Conners hung up the phone and smoked a cigarette, waiting. He didn't even have time to get halfway through before the cabbie skid to a stop in front of him, but not driving the cab. He was driving a classic red convertible. Several cars were honking at the insane driver; So, Conners leapt into the passanger's seat and he sped off.

"Nice ride, where's the cab?"

"Cab's a rental, this is my personal baby."

"I take it you don't usually take clients out in your own car…"

"Nope, but you're not my usual clients. I called the station and got a cop who would finally talk a bit about you. Spoke to someone called Lawrence."

"Oh boy."

"Yeah, she said you were amazing. Like nothing she'd ever seen. I figure if you can get a cop to gloat about you that much, you gotta be one hell of a badass, then there's all the news on the internet about you."

"Well yeah," said Conners smiling. "But that doesn't explain why you're so willing to help me."

"You're getting to be a local hero. People look up to you. You dish out a proper brand of justice. They're calling you a vigilante."

"I'm not," said Conners. "I'm a detective."

"You know when too far is too far. You take care of people even if you have to go outside the law's ways to do it, right? I saw that video of you arguing with the lieutenant."

"I suppose, but…"

"Sounds like a vigilante to me."

Conners shrugged. He'd never intended to become a sort of hero. Granted, he wasn't exactly famous, but people who had heard of him knew him for his abilities and his heart. Bill would've been proud of him for that.

"So," said the driver. "You need a ride for a case, just text me and I'll pick you up my man. Day or night."

"What if you have another fare?"

"Then, I'll call one of my boys. Just give me a heads up, and we'll get you where you need to be. I've been putting in the good word for you down at the dispatch. You ought to stop by, they'd love to see you."

"Will do. What's your name by the way? I don't think I ever asked."

"Call me Joe, everyone does."

"Joe it is."

Joe dropped him off at the front door of the manor and Conners tipped him handsomely. Normal cabs and even the police couldn't have gotten him here quicker. Conners knew he'd have to call Lawrence to let Joe out of any speeding tickets, or set him up with a fuzz buster.

The detective let his mind roam over the vast landscape of the manor and sighed as his brain dissected it bit-by-bit for him. He could see that hired help trimmed the hedges each week, judging by the multiple sets of footprints. Their lawn was kept dictatorially neat, with perfect lines, and there were no flowers or trees. They had no desire for beautiful yard, just for a professional one.

The manor itself was grandiose and pointless. The brickwork was top notch and the Bostons had no doubt paid top dollar for it. It was essentially a huge library that a small family of three and their help lived in. Conners preferred his apartment or Lawrence's place any day of the week.

Shrugging, he walked up the steps and through the large double doors. Their floors were polished to the finest shine, and the walls were practically spotless. It was impossible to believe someone actually lived here. He didn't want to touch anything for fear of a security guard descending on him. As this thought cross his mind, an older man in a black suit and tie came up to him.

"Hello sir. I take it you are Mr. Michael Conners?"

"Detective Michael J. Conners."

"Apologizes detective. May I take your coat?"

Conners did a double-take, and let his mind run over this man. He was obviously a butler or caretaker of sorts, and looked like he'd been in the same profession for years. Nothing about him was off-putting. He'd even had Botox to keep his face from sagging improperly. Conners felt a chill come over him. What sort of family would have their doorman get cosmetic surgery just for an appearance?

"Sure," Conners said, handing the man his coat, despite his desire to keep it. "How long have you been working for the Bostons?"

"I have been working for them for several decades now. I served master Paul's father before him, and now I serve master Paul and master Roth."

"Roth?" repeated Conners, confused.

"Master Roth is son to master Paul, detective."

"And you've been their b***h for decades?"

"I wouldn't phrase it so crudely, but I have served them for a long time, yes."

"That must make you angry sometimes."

"I would never speak ill of the Bostons, sir."

Conners eyed the man. In no way had he denied hating them, merely admitting that he wouldn't say he hated them. This doorman was definitely getting his attention.

"Do you get days off, paid vacation?"

"No sir, I do not ask for them. I am to serve the Boston family in all their needs. I am well compensated for my work."

"How?"

"I get a generous salary and am permitted to live within this glorious manor."

"What good is your salary if you're stuck in this place?"

"My family is well provided for sir. I couldn't ask for a better way to care for them. We were immigrants coming to this country from Germany. It was the Bostons who gave me a chance to do many things for my family."

"Except ever see them again, you mean."

"They are permitted to visit upon occasion, detective."

"Oh. Well that makes it the same thing then," Conners said sarcastically.

"I am happy here, honestly. For some, a life here isn't ideal, but this is much better than struggling to find work as an illegal."

Conners remembered when he'd been forced to run with Hunter's gang.

"True enough," he said. "Where did Mrs. Boston die?"

"In the bedroom detective. It's this way."

Conners was led into the master bedroom and noticed it was only slightly bigger than the whole of his apartment. The bed alone seemed more like a boat in the sea that was the room. The floors were even an ocean blue-green color, and the walls were painted a yellow-orange combination that reminded him of the setting sun. The room had two long end tables and a large dresser all made out of oak and polished to a shine. He could smell the scent sprayer they had plugged into the wall, and could feel the softness of the carpet beneath his feet.

Crouching down like a cat, Conners examined the floor and furniture. There was very little out of the ordinary, except that it was all kept so clean that it barely seemed used. The walk-in closet showed rows of suits and clothes for husband and wife alike, including a selection of lingerie for her, so their marriage was actually relatively happy, at least enough for them to be sexually active. That made it even less likely that the husband was unhappy with his marriage and had killed his wife.

It was also unlikely that he cheated. Affairs were typically committed because of something missing in the marriage, whether it was s*x, support or companionship. Mr. Boston seemed to have all of these in his wife, so an affair didn't fit. It was under the bed on the Rita's side that he found something interesting. The carpet was clean as it was anywhere else in the room, but it was also damp, which mean something wet had recently fallen here. It couldn't be from a leaky roof, the angle was entirely off.

Conners pulled out his phone and activated its flashlight, shining it behind the end table on her side. To his satisfaction, he found an empty glass with bits of the liquid inside still clinging to it.

"Was it Mrs. Boston's habit to take a drink at night?" Conners asked the doorman.

"Yes detective," he asked solemnly. "She often found it easier to sleep with a glass of water or warm milk."

"I see, and did she regularly knock it off the end table too?"

"Not really," he admitted. "It's happened before, but not commonly."

"I see," said Conners, putting a sample of the liquid into a vial to analyze later.

It may be nothing, but if she'd been poisoned by a glass of water, it meant the doorman would become his suspect number one. The woman's body would be in police custody so he couldn't really examine it here, but the imprint on the bed told him enough to move forward.

"Where is Roth?" asked Conners.

"Master Roth should be in his room or the study right around now. Would you like me to call him?"

"No, take me to his room."

The doorman nodded and led Conners through the left wing of the building. This palace was simply impractical. It would take him days to properly explore and test each room, but the police would've combed through the place and as idiotic as they could be, they would've caught any major evidence.

Soon enough, the doorman opened a large door and it was as if it led to another world. The rest of the house was neat, pristine and dust dared not show itself. This room was littered with dirty clothes, used tissues and several toys and controllers. Conners saw two guitars on the walls, joined by several posters that were hung haphazardly around the bed. The bed itself was a twin mattress that seemed as if it was glued to the floor. There was no bedspring or frame that belonged to the mattress, and even the sheets there were on it seemed to be there by accident.

The entire room stank of s*x, smoke and easily a regular use of weed. Conners was never surprised when the children of rich assholes were revealed to be drug users, but normally it was a shameful part of the family, something done in secret. This was about as subtle and quiet as Conners himself was.

The furniture, such as there was, was all scarred and scratched and needed to be condemned more than repainted. The closet door was hanging by a single hinge and Conners wouldn't trust it to stay attached if it was touched.

"Not like the rest of the place, huh?" said a voice.

It took him two seconds before he could even see the actual life form through all the garbage. It was a teenage boy more tattooed and greasy than many others he'd met. His clothes were wrinkled and faded and he wore all dark colors. His expression was one of acute interest, and he focused on Conners as the detective focused on him.

"You're Roth, right?"

"Yeah, who are you?"

"Detective Michael J. Conners."

"You're no cop."

"Private detective, how do you know I'm not a cop? I did use to be."

"Cops are assholes. Too pretentious and they usually wear nicer clothes."

Conners nodded. He liked the kid's way of summing things up. It was a shame he was such a big piece of the case, or he may have actually liked the kid. As it was the kid was, out of necessity, a suspect.

"You're not wrong," Conners said. "So… sucks about your mom."

"Eh," said Roth, disinterestedly. "I guess. We never really talked much. Sounds horrible to say, huh?"

"No," Conners said sarcastically. "It's totally normal to show no reaction to the death of your mom."

"Hey honestly, I was too stoned for us to ever connect. She and I have been dead for years before this."

"So you resent your father's business? It tore you both down?"

"Yeah, but that's not it. Not really. Paul made his choice… he wanted to work and be really good at it. I don't blame him for that. Just makes him a shitty dad. Hell you saw him. How shaken up is he?"

Conners noted that the kid referred to his father on a first name basis.

"Not very."

"We aren't really family," said Roth. "At least not like the cartoons depict. We're just people who live in the same house. Rita was the arm candy and entertainer. I'm the screw-up kid. We all just have roles."

"So your rebellion is actually compliance?"

"Yeah… I guess it is."

This kid was strange, no denying it. He seemed to have no emotional attachment or care for anything at all. Yet, he didn't strike Conners as a narcissist. He was equally indifferent to his own life as much as anyone else's. If it was true that all of his dark and edginess was really there just because it was his job to be the rebel, then his entire life would have little or no actual bearing on the case.

It was possible he resented the father for this life and punished him by taking away his wife, the hostess. However, it was off. For one thing, it hadn't affected Paul much, and if Roth wanted to punish him, why not take his own life or kill Paul… something was off. Still, the boy was far from cleared in the crime, and Conners figured he'd at least hear what the boy had to say for himself.

"So did you notice anything odd about your parents last night?"

"Not out of the ordinary," he said. "Mom went to bed around nine or ten, dad went up around midnight."

"And you were?"

"Girl up the street and I had s*x for a while."

"This girl have a name?"

"Probably, didn't ask her. We weren't in it for talking."

"Why did you sleep with her?"

"Why not? It's what rebel kids do. Have s*x, do drugs and play loud music. It's what I do most days."

"And you do all this to fit the rebel role?"

"It's what Paul needs from me."

"I see," Conners said, briefly considering whether or not this constituted as child abuse. "So you aren't close at all?"

"I won't say we disliked each other. There was nothing. It's like a classmate you don't talk to. You have no reason to like or dislike them."

"You are totally fine with obeying by disobeying? That isn't frustrating to you? It'd drive me mad. You have no actual freedom. Even your freedom is a cage in a way."

"Never really thought about it," said Roth. "I can do whatever I want. I can leave; I could stay until I'm 40. I can't piss them off."

"Some people like the rules and discipline."

"No, not really. They think they do at the time, but it's really an attention thing. I have attention whenever I want it. If Paul is having a dinner party all I need to do is drunkenly stumble down the stairs and I have an audience."

"Fair enough. Do your parents ever ask you to do anything? Mow the lawn, maybe?"

"Not really," he said. "Every once is a while they'll have me get them a paper or drink, but even then if I want I can just tell them to go shove it and I'm just the acting out teen."

"And where does that end for you?"

"Mostly likely in a few years or so, I'll come to my senses and start off working high up in Paul's group of investors and eventually inherit his position."

Conners frowned. This young man was completely dedicated to this role that he'd invented or been given. There had to be something somewhere he was missing.

"Well that's all I need for now from you. Is there a room where I can think and smoke for a bit?"

"Sure," said Roth, turning to the doorman. "Show him to the study, you dick."

His insult wasn't heartfelt. It was another part of his rebel teen role. It was honestly disturbing to see the kid carry out this act or part with such indifference. It wasn't even a feeling of belonging; he was acting as if he didn't belong in order to not belong… It was very off-putting.

The doorman led him through the hallways and Conners heard their footsteps reverberate off the floors in a steady pattern as if they were the metronome for a musician. He was shown into a large room with comfy couches and chairs. He settled into a leather armchair by a large fire and searched himself for his cigarettes.

"Anything else, detective?"

"Yes, I'll need my coat back; I left my smokes in it."

"Right away."

The doorman reappeared in moments with Conners' coat and handed it to him.

"Thanks," said Conners pulling out the addictive tobacco slips.

He lit three of them and began to rapidly smoke all three, allowing the nicotine to flood his system, forcing him to think faster.

"Three cigarettes, detective?"

"It's a three smoke problem," said Conners irritated.

Soon the doorman left him to his own devices and Conners leaned back in the chair, occasionally working his ways through another few cigarettes. This was a thorny problem. Sure the doorman had the classic indentured servitude as a motive, but so did the boy and he seemed cold and logical enough to be a killer if he thought it would work. On the other hand if Roth was being honest about his being content in his role, then he would have no reason to kill Rita.

It was as he was getting started on his second pack that Roth walked into the room and sat across from him.

"Hey dickhead," he said, the name-calling as dishonest as before.

"Hey ass," said Conners calmly. "Why you here?"

"It's my house," he said simply. "I like watching you think. You're smart, right?"

"Damn smart."

"Right. It's cool seeing you put pieces together… it's fascinating really."

Conners suddenly realized something, or at least had an idea.

"How often did your mother take a drink of water at night?"

"Rita? Hardly ever. I don't think I saw her do it once… except last night. I saw her drinking one as I sneaking the girl in."

Conners pulled out his phone and sent a text to Paul, asking the same question about Rita's nighttime thirsts. He replied a few minutes later.

I rarely ever saw her take a drink of water to bed. Why, is it important?

Conners did not reply and turned to Roth.

"Where is the doorman?"

"George? In the kitchen, I think.

"He have a last name?"

"Hope, I think."

"Get him in here please."

Roth did as he asked and Conners instantly put cuffs on the man.

"George Hope, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Rita Boston."

"This is insanity, you've seen too many horror movies!" George shouted, losing his professionalism.

"You have the right to an attorney!" continued Conners. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?"

"f**k you!"

"I'll take that as a yes," said Conners, calling 911 for a squad car.

The rest of his arrest went pretty smoothly. He kept George under watch until the car showed up and then the officer took his statement, calling in the situation. Conners could tell from the look on his face that the officer didn't much like him, but also that he was afraid of Conners' reputation, and wouldn't say anything.

When Paul Boston showed up back home, he showed a little shock, but no real concern about his doorman. This didn't surprise Conners much. After all this man wasn't normal by any standards, and the news of his doorman probably mattered as much to him as the weather in Istanbul.

Later that evening, Conners was at the bank, depositing the check. He was sliding it in the ATM when he heard a noise behind him. Turning quickly, he held the cane out in front of him, ready to strike. There was nothing there. No heavy breathing, no attacker… not even a dog barking.

Sighing, he turned back to the machine only to feel a needle enter his neck, and the world went dark around him.