Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator Page 10

  “Fran!” The voice is coming from my mom’s room, of course, echoing down the hall. Is she dreaming? Seeing a ghost? I try to ignore it. Then I hear a thump. What the hell? Maybe there really is a ghost. This time Mom says my name.

  “Guy!” She sounds panicked.

  “What?” I say. Actually I half whisper, half scream it.

  “Come here,” she says.

  “You come here,” I hiss. Then I realize that’s not a very manly thing to say, so I get up and go down the hall to her room. I half open the door and stick my head in. The huge bed in the middle of the room is barely visible.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks.

  “I heard you talking to Dad,” I say. “I don’t think he’s going to answer.”

  “No, not that,” she says. “That was just reflex. I heard a noise and yelled his name.”

  “You heard a noise?

  “Up in the attic, I think.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say, even though I too heard a thump. Then it comes again. Louder. Not just a thump, but a voice. It seems to be saying “Crap.”

  Mom jumps out of bed and grabs me. We stand there like that, frozen in the mostly dark room, paralyzed with fear.

  “Intruder!” she says. “Where’s the phone?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, annoyed. She turns a light on and we look for a phone. The cordless isn’t in the room. One of us has to go back down the hall to my room to retrieve my cell. My instinct is to vote for Mom to do it. But I know that’s not right. So I volunteer myself, even though the words feel weird coming out of my mouth. “I’ll do it.” Who is that talking? My heart is racing, and I’m sweating, and for some reason I feel like I really have to go to the bathroom. I inch my way down the hall, taking tiny steps. I adopt a karate stance even though I don’t really know anything about karate. I mean, sure, I took lessons at the Berry Ridge Mall for about six weeks when I was nine, but I didn’t quite achieve the rank of black belt. Not even a white belt, which is the belt they start you with. I don’t think I got any belt at all. Not even a pair of suspenders. Watch out for my fists of fury.

  I sneak back into my room and look for my phone. Why is this place such a mess? I sort of wish that it wasn’t filled with laundry and junk. I know my phone is in a pants pocket, but which pants? Why do I have so many pants? Why do we have to have so many pants in a world where intruders are in your attic? Finally I locate the phone and rush back down the hall, holding it like a lance. Mom has apparently been looking for household items to use as a weapon and has settled on the ever-lethal combo of a jewelry box and a curling iron. Yeah, that’ll work if we need to give him a makeover.

  “I think he’s gone,” she says, hopeful. “But I’m going upstairs to check.”

  “No you’re not!” I say. The force of my words seems to surprise her.

  “At least let me call,” she says. I hand her the phone and she dials 911. She tells the dispatcher that we have an intruder, gives our address and some other information, and hangs up. The more I hear the word “intruder,” the less it sounds like a real word. Intruder. Intruder. Intruder. There is an intruder in my life. Within minutes, two members of the Berry Ridge Police Department are at our door. They both have flashlights and guns and mustaches blazing. Mom shows them the door to the attic, and they creep up the steps. They motion that we should get out of the house, so we do. We’re standing there in the night, wearing pajamas. Then Mom starts to cry. That’s not very Mom-like. I put my arm around her. She cries harder.

  After a few minutes the two police officers meet us outside. They tell us that the house is clear. “All clear,” they say in their jargon. “He must have left the way he came,” they say. Well, one of them says it. They don’t talk in unison. It’s mainly the older one talking. But he says it like maybe he doesn’t really believe us that anyone was there in the first place, which is highly annoying. We heard something—wind doesn’t mutter “Crap.” So the police take a bunch of information from us, as if filling out a stupid report is supposed to make us feel better. If a killer is standing over you with a knife, he’ll really check to see if you filled out some paperwork. Sorry, sir, I know you want to slit my throat, but if you check at police headquarters, you will notice that I have all the correct paperwork.

  “Want to have a look?” the older of the two says. “See if you notice anything missing.”

  The older one has holstered his flashlight, but he hasn’t turned it off, so it makes a bright spotlight on his left foot. Like his foot is onstage, about to launch into a song.

  “Will you … come with us?” Mom asks. She’s so scared. It breaks my heart. They follow us up. Mom and I both notice at once. The cigar box. Dad’s coins. Gone. Mom starts to cry. I try to explain to the police. They look perplexed.

  “Anything else you’d like me to note?” the younger officer asks. My gaze returns to his eyes. His pencil is poised over his small notebook. He looks like a waiter asking what type of soup I want. I’m tempted to blurt out, “I’ll have the beef orzo.” Also, I’d like him to note that this whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier to handle if Dad were here. Please put that in your report, Officer. Note that life isn’t fair.

  Of course I don’t say that. Instead, I mumble, “Nothing.” I think Mom is thinking the same thing—about Dad, that is, not about beef orzo. The corners of her mouth start to tremble and her hands are balled into tight fists.

  “Let’s go downstairs, Guy,” she says. She’s giving up. I think, What would Fran do? And yeah, he’d probably make some dumb joke or two, but he’d probably also take charge.

  “Are you guys in a rush?” I ask the now startled-looking cops. “Do some analysis. Let’s get some fingerprints, look for DNA, stuff like that.” The policemen look at each other and sort of smirk. It pisses me off. “Listen,” I say. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am. I don’t just watch forensics shows on TV. I learned all about this in school. And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say this was a nonviolent crime, and that the way this shit goes down is nothing like on TV.”

  Mom looks shocked that I said “shit” to a police officer. As if they haven’t heard worse. I continue.

  “I’m telling you, we’re lucky. This might not have been a violent crime this time, but maybe it will be next time. Let’s stop this freak before things get really bad here.” They look at me with a little more respect. But they aren’t exactly calling in the pros. They think my imagination is just getting the best of me. I know that isn’t true, but I also know I can’t change their minds. The Berry Ridge Police Department forensics team isn’t coming. There is only one thing to do. I have to take charge. I have to process this crime scene myself.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It really isn’t like it is on TV. That much is true. I head up to the attic, even though Mom keeps telling me to forget it and go to bed. I do not want to forget it. And I don’t want to talk about it. I want to look at the room. Problem is, first of all, real life is messy as hell. Most of us don’t have things so organized that you can tell if a single hair is out of place. The attic is always filled with boxes and junk, and somebody never puts things back where they belong anyway. The way I live, every day looks like a crime scene. Every room looks like it’s been broken into. It’s like I’m mugging myself. You see my point.

  The point of entry, at least, is clear enough. The attic window is still open. The intruder simply climbed the elm outside, jumped over to the roof, and crawled in through the window. I’m poking around, trying not to disturb anything, but it’s impossible. I keep tripping over boxes, and it’s impossible to tell if anything has been messed with. I’m trying to think like a criminal. What did he want? Why was he here? Was he on his way downstairs to slit our throats in our sleep? If so, why did he seem to be ransacking these boxes? It’s hard to focus. I am tired. And I am scared. And I am angry. It makes it hard to concentrate. This is probably why you wouldn’t ask a detective to investigate his own attempted murder. I
t’s clear what I need. I need my sidekick. I need Anoop.

  It’s well after midnight, but I call him anyway. This is what friends are for, right? You can be in the middle of a big fight and it can be past midnight, but if you really need them, you can call. The phone rings and rings and he does not pick up. But I am not worried. I call again. No pickup, but I’m still not worried. We long ago made a pact that no matter what is going on, if one of us calls three times you have to pick up. You just have to. You can be taking a bath or be on the toilet or double-cupping the most beautiful boobs in the world—you have to stop and answer the phone if the other one calls three times in a row. I often imagined the situation in which it might happen, but I never imagined that it actually would happen. I call the third time and okay, I do start to get worried after a few rings. But Anoop, that beautiful bastard, picks up. He sounds tired.

  “Hello?” he says.

  “Hey, what took you so long to pick up?” I ask. “Were you double-cupping some beautiful boobs?”

  “Just my own,” he says. “Also, it’s the middle of the night and I thought you hated me.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “You told me that you hated me. Plus, you were avoiding me.”

  “You were avoiding me!”

  “Whatever. What’s going on? Did you just call to make up?”

  “I wish,” I say. “Some crazy stuff went down tonight at Langman Manor.” I tell him the whole story. I tell him everything that’s gone down since we last talked. I catch him up on the stuff with Jacques and how Hairston helped me. I tell him about the break-in, the cops, all of it. He seems a little annoyed that I called Hairston and not him to help find Jacques’s criminal history and address. But he gets over it. Good friend.

  “A real crime,” he says. “Hot damn.”

  “I know!”

  “Is anything missing?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Dad’s treasure.”

  “The Playboys?” he asks. “Lisa Baker, Playmate of the Year for 1967? She is hot, but you’d think the thief could probably get most of his porn online …”

  “The coins!” I yell.

  “The thief absconded with them?” he asks.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

  “Only because you won’t read that SAT prep book I loaned you.”

  “No, I mean, I know what that word means—it just doesn’t make any sense that some random thief would know how valuable they are. Or even where the coins were situated.”

  “ ‘Situated’! Nice! You did read the book!”

  “I skimmed it,” I say. There is a pause. “So what do we do now?”

  “Listen,” Anoop says. “I’d come over there right now and analyze the balls out of that crime scene, but my parents would kill me. It’s late. Tomorrow I’ll be at your place at quarter of.”

  “Quarter of what?”

  “Quarter of eight in the morning,” he says.

  “There’s an eight in the morning?”

  “Be there or be dead,” he says.

  “Right on,” I say. “Right on.”

  “Rules for Living”: The Francis Langman Story

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Love is not complicated. Women will make you crazy, yes, but love is not any more complicated than a thunderstorm. All you can do is run for cover or face the storm. I always face the storm.”

  —Francis Langman

  Francis Langman married Tammy Reynolds of Bayonne, NJ, the woman who would be his last wife, in 1990. She was a prom queen or something, but also was into metal. She, of course, became Tammy Langman after hooking up with old Fran. They moved to Berry Ridge, NJ, and a son was born. He was given the name of Guy to honor Fran’s father. They should have named him Wolf. That would have been so cool. But he was named Guy, and he’s tried to do the best with the hand he was dealt. “All any of us can do is try to do the best with the hand we’re dealt,” Fran would always say. Pretty wise. Still a stupid name, though.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The doorbell sings an annoying song, bright and early. I roll out of bed, grab some clothes off the floor, and stumble to the door to let Anoop in. Only it’s not just Anoop. TK is there too for some unfathomable reason. He looks tired. His jumpsuit is rumpled, and even though he’s wearing a baseball hat, his bed head is apparent. He has a Styrofoam cup in each hand, sipping alternately from the left and then the right. He barely looks up to say hello to me as I open the door and invite them in.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” I mutter out of the side of my mouth.

  “I can hear you,” TK says. He takes a sip.

  “Well, at least you were considerate enough to get me a coffee.” I reach over to take one of the foam cups. TK narrows his already narrow eyes and violently points his elbows up at me to protect the coffee cups. It is a move that reminds me of a documentary I had seen about prison life late one night—it is like I am a fellow con trying to steal his lunch at San Quentin.

  “This is not for you,” he says in a quiet but firm voice.

  “What the hell?” I say. “You got one for Anoop and yourself but not for me? Thanks a lot, TK.”

  Anoop laughs a pissy laugh and says, “Guess again, Guy.”

  “What?” I say.

  “That second coffee is not for me either,” Anoop says.

  “You got two coffees for yourself, TK? What the hell? Why are you always so tired? Yeah, and don’t tell me research.”

  “It is research,” TK says. “And this isn’t a second coffee.” He holds up the cup in his left hand. “It’s tea.”

  I furrow my brow. He doesn’t look at me, so I narrate: “Guy furrows his brow.”

  TK continues. “It’s research to test the effectiveness of various caffeine delivery systems. I’ve tried coffee. I’ve tried tea. Now I’m trying an admixture based on alternating sips between the two. I’m trying to figure out the ideal formula to deliver maximum alertness.”

  “And what do your findings indicate thus far?” I say.

  “I’m getting some interesting results,” he says. “But there is one problem with this type of research.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “What is that?”

  He holds up both cups. “No hands free for taking notes.”

  “You need a research assistant,” I say. “Maybe MF is looking for a job.”

  “I don’t think she’d be interested,” he says.

  “Me neither,” I say. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with TK. He seems all right if a little—okay, a lot—weird. We’re all weird, some of us just hide it better than others. Those who hide it the best are very often the weirdest.

  “So what’s the plan, then?” I ask. “Figure out some super-mix of coffee-and-tea hybrid you can bottle and sell for millions?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not into it for the money. I’m just in it for the research.”

  “Okay, listen, you nerds,” Anoop says, which is hilarious. “We have some work to do here.”

  “I’m up, aren’t I? And seriously: what is TK doing here?”

  “We could use some help.”

  “Yeah,” TK says. “I’m not really sure what kind of help you need. Anoop wouldn’t tell me anything. I hope you don’t need help moving a fridge or something. I sort of hurt my back.”

  “I do not want to know how you hurt your back,” I say.

  “Moving a fridge,” he says, narrowing his eyebrows. “What else?”

  “Dude, you better give me one of those cups,” I say.

  “I need them for my—”

  “If you say ‘research,’ I’m going to punch you in your Polish balls.”

  “Hey,” TK says. “What’s wrong with being Polish? Copernicus was Polish.”

  “Copernicus loved the Polish sausage, that’s for sure.”

  “Now we are going to have a problem if you bad-mouth Copernicus.”

  “TK, you’re so wei
rd. Who cares if I talk about Copernicus?”

  “Copernicus was a revolutionary genius. The modern heliocentric cosmology began with Copernicus.”

  “Yeah, well, he also was a giant dork who never got laid.”

  “Who cares if he was?”

  “Wow, TK, I don’t care if Copernicus got laid. I just feel like breaking your balls. Relax.”

  “Well, he did get laid. He had a bunch of kids.”

  “Fine. Copernicus was totally a massive stud who loved to hand out the Polish sausage. Fine.”

  “Guys,” Anoop says. “I hate to break into what is clearly the stupidest conversation I’ve ever heard in my life and possibly in all of human history, but we have things to do.”

  “Yeah,” TK says. “What do we have to do?”

  “I was being respectful,” Anoop says to me. “I figured I wouldn’t tell him anything you didn’t want me to tell him.”

  Great. Now I have to tell TK that my house was broken into. I mean, it’s probably public knowledge, but it feels embarrassing. I decide to keep it brief. “Someone broke into my house last night,” I say. “The cops didn’t do shit. Anoop is going to help me take some prints upstairs. You’re welcome to help, I guess.”

  “Sweet!” TK says. “Real-crime time!” I roll my eyes. Anoop goes for a high five. It’s maybe a bit rude, but I leave him hanging.

  We head up to the attic. I don’t even bother to explain to Mom what we’re doing. Could she possibly understand? I highly doubt it. Luckily, she doesn’t ask.

  “Man,” TK says. “It’s a mess up here.”

  “Pardon me for not meeting your standard of housekeeping,” I say. “As I said, someone broke in here last night.”

  “Did they ransack the crap out of the place?”

  “Not really,” I say. “It was always kind of a mess up here.”

  “So, what was stolen?” TK asks. “Anything?”

  I typically make a habit of not telling anyone that we have thousands of dollars of sunken treasure in the attic, but it doesn’t seem to matter much since it’s gone now anyway. “Some coins,” I say. “Some very valuable Spanish coins my dad found when he was deep-sea diving a long time ago.”