Rings of Memory

 A friend receiving emails from his dead mother leads Tom and Rachel on a search for the answers behind a 19-year-old murder case.

Rings of Memory, Part One

Rachel slammed the door, threw the deadbolts, and hurled her backpack on the living room floor. A moment later she stalked into our office.

            I swiveled in my chair. “How was school?” 

            “Don’t ask.” She’s studying psychology in a graduate program. Rachel has red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she can be scary when she’s pissed off.

“I can zap yesterday’s eggplant parmesan any time you want.” Maybe dinner would help her calm down.

“Give me a few minutes.” She leaned over her desk to check her email. She groaned. “Idiots.”

I didn’t ask. She sat down and fired off a few emails, then hopped up and headed for the door. “I’m going to change. No rush on dinner.”

“Got it.” I finished up an email to a client, checked a few other cases, then put my computer to sleep and headed to the kitchen for a beer.

We ate in front of the TV. Rachel had changed to sweatpants and a T-shirt. She still looked hot. We drank beer while she whipped through the channels, looking for a reality show she wasn’t bored with yet. 

“Oh, there’s a friend of mine who needs some help,” she said, pausing for an infomercial.

“What kind of help?” I sipped my beer. “Late night study sessions? Explorations into deviant sexual behavior? Clothing optional?”

Rachel punched my shoulder. “Your kind of help.”

I’m a private detective. “Okay. And, you know, ow.”

“He’s been getting emails from his mother.”

“So? She’s nagging him to get a job?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” That was different. And unfortunately, right up my alley. “Maybe your kind of help too.” In addition to being hot, Rachel’s psychic.

“She was murdered by Colin’s father. He died in jail. His aunt and uncle raised him.”

“Wow.” I looked at her. “What class is he in?”

“Addiction. We’re doing heroin right now.”

“Did you think to bring any home for me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. Will you help him out?”

“Sure. Have him send me the emails and anything he can share about his parents. Any friend of yours, you know, etc., etc.”

“Thanks.” She tossed the remote down. “Nothing good. I’m bored. Let’s have sex.”

“Can we play the pirate and the shipwrecked captive again?”

“Only if you’re the captive this time.” She grinned. “Avast, matey!”

I groaned, but I knew better than to argue.

 

The next morning I got an email from Colin Mannes:

 

            Tom,

            Thank you for looking into this for me. Rachel says you’re a top detective.

            I’m sending you some news articles about what happened to my Mom. and the emails I’ve got so far, starting last week. Let me know if you need anything.

            C.

 

The emails started out in a normal tone: 

 

            Hello, Colin,

            How have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Hope you’re doing well. I miss you.

            Love, Mom

 

Colin must have ignored it. A second email came a day later, with basically the same message. Colin replied:

 

            Whoever you are, stop sending me emails. This is sick.

 

            The sender replied a few hours later:

 

            Colin, it’s really me. I know it’s been years, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you. Please answer me. I need you.

 

            Colin sent back:

 

            My mother is dead, you sick fuck. Stop contacting me.

 

            Then the sender sent:

 

            Colin, it’s me. Don’t you remember how I used to make you brownies every Friday and we’d hide them from your father? Your favorite TV show was X Files. You wanted me to read Star Trek stories for bedtime. One time your father made you tell the paramedics that I fell downstairs.

            It’s me.

 

            After a day, Colin sent:

 

            My mother is dead. Stop bothering me!

 

            Then:

 

            Colin, it’s me. Please help me.

 

            There were two more from the sender after that, but Colin stopped responding.

 

            I went to the news articles he’d sent. The story was horrific, and depressing. Colin’s father, Bradley Mannes, had beaten his wife Eileen to death, then set fire to their house. Colin had been eight at the time, spending the night with his grandparents—Bradley’s mother and father. They’d all lived in Remington, a small town west of Kankakee about an hour south of Chicago. It happened 19 years ago.

            Bradley confessed, recanted, and went on trial. The jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to 35 years. That was the last news item.

            Colin included a note after attaching the articles. “I got a letter from the state a month ago saying my father died of cancer in prison. I don’t know anything about where he’s buried. I haven’t talked to them since mom died. Let me know if you need anything else.”

            Rachel came into the office while I was rereading everything. “Don’t talk to me, I was up all night studying. After—you know.”

            “Oh, I know.” I grinned. “Did you get any sleep?”

            “Just enough. I’ve got class, but I’ll be back this afternoon to work.” She’s a graphic designer on top of everything else, and her schedule was chaotic, balancing school, her job, and occasional sex. “Get anywhere with Colin?”

            “Just starting. How old is he, by the way?”

            “Twenty, uh, six? Twenty-seven? Something like that.” She was checking her email for urgent messages from clients.

            “Younger man, huh? Cute?”

            “After last night you’re interrogating me? Yeah, he’s cute. Just young. Plus, he has a boyfriend.” She kissed me on her way out of the office. “Don’t get any ideas about this afternoon, lover. I’ve got too much work that I should have done last night except for you distracting me.”

            “Me? I just—” But Rachel was gone already. I heard the door slam, and the locks click. 

            I had some questions for Colin, so I sent him an email asking him to call me. Then I went onto a different case, executive misbehavior at a restaurant chain. Sometimes the life of a P.I. is busy.

            Colin called me half an hour later. “Hi, Tom. Is it okay if I call you Tom?” He sounded young, nervous, and slightly frazzled.

            “That’s fine. I had some questions, can you talk right now?”

            “Yeah, I’m in the car. Not driving, just waiting for class. Thanks for doing this, by the way. How much is this going to cost?”

            Money. “I’m doing this as a favor for Rachel. If it gets too involved, we might have to talk about expenses, but don’t worry about that right now.”

            “Thanks. Rachel’s great. She’s really smart. And she talks about you all the time.”

            Really? I smiled. “That stuff the sender told you, about the brownies and the Star Trek stories—I assume that’s true?”

            “Yeah, and nobody knows about it. I mean, my dad never put me to bed or read stories to me, or cooked anything. He was—well, he beat my mom. And me. She didn’t have any friends, she was afraid—afraid of him. Afraid of everything.”

            “I’m sorry you had to go through all that. Did you have any contact with your father after—after it happened?”

            “No.” He sighed. “I had to see him in court once. My grandparents took me. After that I lived with my aunt and uncle, and I never saw my grandparents again.”

            “Who do you think is sending you these emails? Does your mother have a sister, or cousins, or anyone who’d want to make contact with you?”

            “There’s my aunt, but that’s her only sister. I think there’s a cousin someplace, but I don’t remember meeting them—him or her, whatever.”

            “What about your father’s family?”

            He hesitated. “I haven’t—my grandfather died a long time ago. My grandmother sent me an email. Other than that, I haven’t heard from her since—since it happened. I didn’t want anything to do with his family. I don’t know about anyone on that side.”

            I could understand that. But—”Can you give me what contact information you have on her? I won’t contact her without discussing it with you first, but it might be useful.”

            “Sure. I’ve got her email, the last address I have for her. I’ll send them over.”

            “Good. I don’t know how much luck I’ll have tracing the email address—actually, Rachel is better at stuff like that—but in the meantime, I’d like you to send a message to her.”

            “Okay.” He sounded reluctant. “Like what?”

            “Ask her some more questions that only she would know. Ask her why she’s contacting you. Ask her where she is. Maybe tell her a lie that she’d catch if—if it was really her.” I was spitballing ideas. “Don’t argue with her. Just let me know what she says.”

            “All right.” I heard his car door open. “I’ve got to get to class. I’ll send this stuff later. Thanks again.”

            “Very good. Say hi to Rachel for me if you see her. I’ll be in touch.”

            We hung up. I tried working on the email address but got nowhere. Rachel might be able to hack it, but it was one of those sites where anyone could sign up for an email address, and even with a lawyer I might not get more than a fake name and another email address.

            I dug deeper into the mother’s murder. Remington wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime, although it had its share of small-town problems. People dying from fentanyl, drunken arguments that turned into stabbings and gunshots, that sort of thing. Two men and a woman had been killed in a meth lab on the outskirts just days before Eileen Mannes had been died, and a white supremacist spraypainted a swastika on a church the day after. A woman was arrested for trafficking a teenage girl out of a local motel. Small town America in all its glory.

The body had burned almost beyond recognition, but nobody questioned that it was Eileen Mannes. The police had focused on Bradley Mannes right away, and he confessed pretty quickly, then got a lawyer to get the confession put aside. Even without it, a jury convicted Mannes in less than a day, and the judge had delivered the harshest sentence she could, making a speech about the hideous nature of the murder. I couldn’t imagine what Colin must have felt.

Now what? If someone was impersonating Colin’s mother online, what would they get out of it? Was there a secret inheritance? Did someone have a grudge against Colin? Questions, questions. I sent him an email.

Then I looked up the number for the police in Remington. After explaining who I was and what I wanted, I waited five minutes until someone finally picked up. “Kalinsky.”

            I introduced myself and explained what I was working on. Kalinsky grunted. “I worked that case. Long time ago. Pretty bad.”

            He must have been a young man then, near retirement age now. I could hear it in his voice. He was being cautious with me, like all cops when a stranger calls them from nowhere to ask about an old closed case. Especially a P.I. 

Kalinsky didn’t ask what I wanted. He just waited for me to talk. Another good tactic for cops. And P.I.s. And reporters, like I’d been a lifetime ago.

“This is going to sound like a crazy question.” Like lots of the questions I ask. “But is there any possibility that the body in the case was—misidentified? That it could have been someone else?”

Another grunt. “Well, not the craziest question I’ve ever heard.” He paused, as if thinking over all the stupid questions he’d heard throughout his career. “I’ve got the file right here. We digitized everything a few years ago.” Another paused as he scrolled down the page. “Well, there was no DNA test, and her face was bashed in pretty good, so dental records would have been out. And her wedding ring was gone. On the other hand, she was the right size, in the right clothes, in her own house. And yeah, the husband confessed.” That came out dry, not quite mocking me but not worried if it sounded that way.

“But he recanted.”

“Well, that happens a lot. Lawyers come in and the first thing they want is to get the confession thrown out. We beat the guy, we tortured them, we lied, we didn’t read him his rights, we didn’t give him a glass of water when he asked for it, all that crap. Sometimes it sticks and the confession goes. Still got convicted, though. Jury of 12.”

“Not questioning your performance, detective. I just have to ask.”

“Yeah.” He sounded skeptical. That happens to me a lot. “I’ll tell you, I talked to Mannes the first thing they brought him in. I wasn’t a detective yet, but it was a small department then. Anyway, he didn’t say anything for an hour. Not one word. Didn’t seem like he heard me when I asked him anything, even if he wanted coffee or something. Then, all of a sudden, he starts talking. How when he drinks he goes all out of control, can’t remember anything. He didn’t remember doing anything, just setting the fire, but in the end he says he’s sure he did it. He didn’t want to fight it. I called my boss, we brought someone in to write it down so he could sign it, even though we were recording the whole thing, and we did a video as he read the confession and we advised him of his rights again, and we got video of him signing the document. So that was it.”

“How long did you question him for? Did he call anyone?”

“He called his parents. His folks came in, but they were only there five minutes and then they left with the kid. We offered him another phone call, but—”

Huh? “Wait, what kid?”

“Kid about eight or nine, a little boy. He just sat on the bench in the hall, we didn’t let him see his dad—”

“But it was Mannes’ son?”

Kalinsky gave it a moment’s thought. “I don’t recall that anyone asked. I guess we just assumed it.”

Colin hadn’t mentioned a visit to the police station. Maybe it was too painful to remember. “When did he get the lawyer? Who’d he get?”

“Local guy, friend of his, let me see here—Trevor McCloud. I guess they went to high school together. Trevor did all sorts of work, criminal, civil, property, wills, the way it goes in a small town. Smart guy. He retired a few years ago, moved to Florida. His son’s a lawyer too now.”

I could find the lawyer if I needed to. “All right. Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Any time, Mr. Jurgen. You have a good day.”

            We hung up. I made notes, had some more coffee, and went back to my other case. A few hours later, Colin called back.

            “I got another message,” he said before I could ask him any questions.

            “What is it?”

            “I’m sending it to you. It says, ‘You’ve got to help me, Colin. She said that a few times before, when I was ignoring them, but now she says, ‘You’ve got to find him.’”

            “Find who?”

            “I don’t know! None of this makes any sense! Sorry.” Colin took a deep breath. “Sorry. This is driving me crazy.”

            “I can imagine. Is there anybody you can think of who’d want to do that to you? An old friend, an ex, someone from your past?”

            He sighed. “I tried to think about that, but I just can’t think of anyone who’d want to screw with me, or at least anyone who knows about my parents. I don’t tell a lot of people what happened. I didn’t even tell Rachel until she said you were a private detective.”

            “Is there any money associated with the family? An old bank account maybe?”

“We didn’t have much money. Grandma and grandpa bought the house for us, I think.” 

“I have to ask something else.” I hoped this wasn’t too tough for him to go through. “I talked to one of the detectives who handled the case. He mentioned that your grandparents came down to see your father on the night of—that night.”

            Silence. “Yeah. They got a phone call. I didn’t hear any of it, but then I had to go to a neighbor’s house for a while. I didn’t know what was going on. They didn’t tell me anything until the next morning.”

            “The cop says they brought you with them. You waited on a bench in the hall—”

            “What? No. They took me to the neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. I remember that. They weren’t gone long, maybe an hour. I just watched TV.”

            So who was the kid? Maybe Kalinsky remembered it wrong. I wasn’t sure it mattered, asking questions is my job. It bothers me when the answers don’t line up right.

            You’ve got to find him, the message had said. 

            “Ask her who she’s talking about,” I said. “Who she wants you to find. If you haven’t done that already.”

            “No, I just saw it when I got out of class right now. All right.”

            “Let’s wait and see what she says. In the meantime, can I contact your aunt and grandmother? I’ll be as discreet as I can.”

            “Sure, I guess. Like I said, I haven’t talked to grandma in years. I’ll send you their phone and email.”

            “Let me know what the sender says.”

            “As soon as I hear. Oh, Rachel says hi, by the way. Something about sharks again tonight?”

            “Yeah, that’s a—a private joke.” I grinned, though. “Talk to you later.”

            We hung up. He forwarded his “mother’s” message, and sent me info on his aunt and mother a few minutes later.

            

Later that evening, after Rachel saved me from the sharks (again), we sat in front of a quiet TV as Rachel studied and I read a book about the Crimean War. I was on a history kick lately. 

            My phone buzzed with a text. Colin. “She answered. Forwarding the email.”

            I looked at the email:

            

            Find your brother.

 

            Then the phone buzzed with a call from Colin. “I don’t have a brother!” he said before I could say anything. “I don’t know what she’s talking about!”

            “Okay, but is it possible your father could have had another child?” I was thinking of the child Kalinsky had seen.

            “I don’t—I suppose anything’s possible with him.”

            “Your grandmother might know.”

            “Maybe. I can’t—I just can’t. Let me think about it.”

            “I understand your feelings.” I looked at Rachel. “I could drive down and talk to her. But it would help if you could talk to her first.”

            He hesitated for a long time. Then he sighed. “Yeah. I’ll call her. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

            We hung up. Rachel looked up from her laptop. “‘I understand your feelings?’ Have you been reading my Psych books?”

            “Just watching TV.” I picked up my book. “Looks like I’m driving down to Kankakee tomorrow. Do you have class?”

            “You mean, do I want to come with you?” She snorted. “Hard pass. I’ve got work, and then my night class. Try to keep up.”

            “Just want you to feel included.” I went back to my book.

Rings of Memory, Part Two

Lillian Mannes lived in an assisted living home halfway between Kankakee and Remington. A wide lawn and bright flowers surrounded the front entrance, and the word PEACE in sky-blue letters rose above the doors as they slid open silently.

            A woman at the front desk made a call, and an attendant in a blue uniform led me down a hall and knocked on a half-open door. “Come!” a woman’s voice called, weak and hoarse.

            “Ms. Mannes? I’m Tom Jurgen. I think your grandson spoke to you?”

            She looked me over from her wheelchair, an oxygen clip in her nose. In her 90s, Lillian Mannes looked frail, in a flowered dress and slippers, but her face was hard set, the eyes behind her thick glasses bright and fiery. 

            “Yeah.” She reached over to a table for a bottle of water and took a swig. “It’s about Bradley, isn’t it?”

            “Yes.” I looked around, found a chair, and sat down.

            The room was small, with a bed, shelves, a bookcase, a TV, and two straight-backed chairs. Candles sat in the bookcase, on top of the dresser, and next to her cup of tea on the table at her left hand. 

“I’m sorry to bring up the past,” I said, shifting my chair to face her better. “But your grandson has been getting some unsettling emails.”

            “Like what?” She brushed a strand of gray hair from her face.

            “From someone calling herself his mother.”

            Her fingers twitched, as if someone had poked her. “He killed her. Bradley. My son. My—son.” She looked down into her lap. “What does she want?”

            “She told Colin to look for his brother.”

            Her head jerked up at me. She stared, breathing a little harder, but didn’t say anything.

            “I spoke to a police officer who said you and your husband came to the station while Bradley was being questioned. You brought a young boy with you. But it wasn’t Colin, you left him with the neighbors. Who was he?”

            She shook her head without looking at me. “It was wrong. It was all wrong.”

            “Did Bradley have another son?”

            She took off her glasses and set them on the table next to her teacup. For a moment she was crying softly, tears dripping onto her dress. 

            Then Lillian Mannes looked up again, put her glasses back on, and pointed a finger. “Out. Get out.”

            “Who was the kid, Lillian?” I asked. 

            “It’s too long ago.” Her voice was a whisper now. “I can’t talk about it. Everyone’s dead.”

            “Even the child?” 

            “No.” She blinked, still crying. “Not him. Not him, please, no . . .”

            “Where is he? What’s his name?”

            She shook her head again. “It’s no use. It doesn’t matter. You can go now. Just get out.”

            I tried to ask her another question, but she leaned back, reaching for a button on the table next to her that would call someone to help her. I didn’t want to get thrown out. 

            I dropped my card on the table. “Please call me. I’m only trying to help your grandson.”

            She sagged in her wheelchair, closing her eyes, letting her arms droop to the sides. With a deep breath, she turned her face away from me, shutting me out.

            I left. Out in the parking lot I called Rachel. “On my way home.”

            “How did it go?” She sounded busy and distracted.

            “She sort of confirmed the second kid, without telling me anything about him. Too bad you weren’t here.”

            “You know I can’t do the Vulcan mind meld, remember?”

            “You might have picked up something. And you’d be company in the car.”

            She snorted. “Yeah, we could argue about the radio station.”

            “How’s it going there?”

            “Work, work, work. Let me get back to it.”

            “See you soon.”

            I waited until I was home to call Colin. Rachel was working on her side of the office, but she stopped to listen.

 “She wouldn’t say it straight out,” I told him, “but she definitely implied that your father had more than one child.”

            “I don’t know, man.” Colin sounded confused and upset. I couldn’t blame him. “I mean, even if I do, what does this have to do with those emails?”

            “Maybe it’s some strange attempt to bring the two of you together? A reconciliation?”

            “Then why not just tell me? Why pretend . . .” His voice broke. “I don’t know.”

            “Do you want me to keep on this?” If this was too much for him, quitting might be the best answer. He could simply block the emails—

            “No, not yet.” He took a deep breath. “Now I’m—I need to know. See if you can find anything out about this brother. I’ll let you know if I get any more emails.”

            “All right.”

            I hoped the truth, if I found it, wouldn’t make things worse for Colin. We hung up and I went to work.

            We hung up, and I looked at Rachel. “What do you think?”

            “How would I know? You’re the brilliant detective. I’m just the hot sidekick.”

            “You’re more than a sidekick. But you are hot.”

            “And don’t you forget it.” She stretched, as if reminding me. “What now, Holmes?”

            “The aunt.” I had her phone number, and I’d already sent her an email this morning. She was agreeable to a talk. 

            She was a very nice lady. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any useful information. She confirmed everything I already knew about Colin’s parents, and she knew nothing about another child. “We didn’t—I should have tried harder to stay connected with her. After she married Bradley.” 

            I thanked her and we hung up. 

            I ate a late lunch, and took a sandwich in to Rachel. She forgets to eat if she has too much work, and then she gets cranky with me. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.

            I did a deep dive on Bradley Mannes, Colin’s father. He’d worked an assortment of jobs, mostly in construction, but also in warehouses and occasionally places like Wal-Mart and Jewel. Arrested several times—DUI, drunk and disorderly, misdemeanor assault, shoplifting—but no jail sentences. Charges had either been dropped or he made a deal for probation. No domestic assault charges filed, but that wasn’t unusual, sadly.

Searching birth records would take time, and without a name for the hypothetical other child, I’d have trouble knowing what to search for. I tried local newspapers for birth announcements, but in the middle of that I got a call from my other client on the sexual harassment case, and I had to shift gears to handle a new development—a witness I’d have to track down and try to interview. 

We ate an early dinner, and then Rachel kissed me and headed off to class. After dinner I worked a little more on the harassment case—I was getting paid for that, after all—and then I went back to the newspaper birth announcements from 27 years ago. Searching for Bradley’s name didn’t get me anywhere, except for Colin’s own birth announcement, a small item in the local Remington paper. 

Then I found something interesting in another section of the newspaper’s website.

I double checked to make sure I was reading everything correctly. Then I texted Colin to call me as soon as he was out of class.

I was watching TV, catching up on Cobra Kai, when I heard the locks snap on my door. I muted the TV and turned around on the sofa. “You’re early.”

“Colin wanted to show you something.” Rachel dropped her backpack. “Colin, this is my boyfriend, Tom. Tom this is—hey! Are you watching Cobra Kai without me?”

“Just the ones you already watched.” I turned off the TV. 

I hadn’t met Colin in person before. Face to face, he had a neatly trimmed beard and large ears. We shook hands, and then he held out his phone. “I got your text, but—look at this.”

 

FIND HIM. STOP HIM.

 

“I don’t—I can’t—I couldn’t concentrate after that.” Colin shuddered, unzipping his jacket. Rachel took it to hang next to hers. “I showed Rachel—we’re in the same class—and she said to come here.”

“Like you said, she’s pretty smart.” I winked at her. “Now I have to show you something.”

In the office, I turned on my computer and opened the document I’d saved. Rachel and Colin leaned down.

“Is that what I think?” Rachel asked.

“I don’t—what is that?” Colin’s voice was shaking.

“It’s an obituary for a baby who died in childbirth. Kirk Mannes,” I said.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“I need a drink,” Colin murmured.

I have a bottle of whiskey. I hadn’t opened it in months. I poured him a drink and got beers for Rachel and me. We sat in the kitchen.

“So what the hell is going on?” Colin looked from me to Rachel and back again. “I’ve got a twin brother that I don’t know about because he died in childbirth, and my dead mother wants me to find him? And stop him? But he’s already dead?”

Rachel put a hand on his arm. “We’ve seen some weird things. Tom can figure this out.”

Rachel’s confidence was reassuring, but it didn’t give me any ideas for dealing with this. Colin looked at me expectantly. 

I took a sip of beer and tried to think. Finally I said, “The only thing I can think of is to talk to your grandmother again. There was that little boy that she and your grandfather took to the police station.”

“He could ask his mother,” Rachel said. “I mean, she’s not being the most communicative ghost, if it’s even her—”

Colin already had his phone out. I nodded. ”Yeah. Ask her about Kirk and see what she says. But in the meantime—”

“Yeah.” Colin was tapping a message. “I don’t have class tomorrow. We can go down and talk to her.”

I looked at Rachel. “Can you come?” Her psychic abilities would be useful.

Rachel sighed. “Yeah. I can push back my work deadline. And miss my afternoon class. If I have to.”

“Thanks.” 

Colin sent his message, finished his whiskey, and stood up. “I’m sorry about all this. You should let me pay you.”

I glanced at Rachel. “I’ll give you the friends and family discount.” I stood up, we all shook hands again, and Rachel took him to the door, locking up after he left.

She plopped down next to me on the sofa and grabbed the remote. “Okay, yeah, we did already watch this one together.” She opened her laptop. “Go on, I have studying, since I’m missing class tomorrow. Maybe.”

“I’ll do my best to get you home in time.” I took the remote and started up again.

Rings of Memory, Part Three

We drove down to Remington the next morning, Rachel with me in the Prius and Colin in his own car. Rachel studied with her laptop the whole way.

            The woman at the front desk didn’t seem to remember me, but she acknowledged us and called Lillian Mannes’ room just like yesterday. “Go ahead,” she said, speaking mostly to Colin. “She’s scheduled for physical therapy in half an hour.”

            He nodded. “Thanks.”

            Lillian Mannes looked up as we entered. She sat in the same chair, with a different flowered dress on, and turned off her TV resentfully. “Colin.” Her voice was low and raspy.

            “Grandma. This is Tom Jurgen, you saw him yesterday. And Rachel.”

            The room had two chairs and a bed, but none of us sat. Lillian stared at us warily.

“Yesterday I asked you about the boy you took to the police station when your son was arrested.” I leaned against the straight back of one chair. “We need to know about him. Colin needs to know.”

 Stared at me, then looked at Colin. Then her eyes dropped. “Please . . . it was so long ago.”

“Grandma.” Colin hesitated. “There’s—something weird going on. I’m getting messages from mom. Do you get that? She’s dead, and she’s sending me messages telling me to find my brother.”

Lillian shook her head, saying nothing.

“There were two kids, weren’t there?” I kept my voice low. “Colin and Kirk. But Kirk died.”

“No.” She reached an unsteady hand for a plastic cup and gulped water through a straw. “Kirk—no. He didn’t die.”

“But there’s an obituary.”

“No. We told her that he died, and she placed the notice in the paper. She insisted. Bradley didn’t want two children. He tried to—tried—but we stopped him. I stopped him.”

I glanced at Rachel. She nodded. Lillian was telling the truth.

“It was at home. Bradley couldn’t pay for the hospital.” She sat back, staring straight out, avoiding our eyes. She snatched a tissue from a box. “One of the neighbors was a midwife. Eileen—she didn’t know what was going on, she was in too much pain. They weren’t expecting twins, I don’t know, she hardly ever saw a doctor.”

Colin listened, still standing, his eyes closed tight.

“The babies came, and Eileen was asleep, and Bradley wanted to—” She blew her nose. “But we said we’d take him. And we told Eileen he’d died. So we took Kirk home with us.”

“Wait a minute—” Colin dropped into a chair. “You—where did he live? I never saw him.”

“In the basement. There was a closet. He stayed there. Whenever you came over, he stayed there. We taught him to stay out of sight. We schooled him, took care of him.” She sounded defensive. “We did the best we could! But people wouldn’t understand. We had to keep him safe.”

“Safe from your son?” I asked.

She nodded, tears dripping down her cheeks. “Bradley never wanted him.”

“So why did you take him to the police station when Bradley was arrested?”

Lillian blew her nose again and dropped the tissue on the floor. “We thought—we knew we were never going to see him again. What he did to Eileen—he was lost. We wanted him to see Kirk, just once, but he told us to go away. Just go away.” 

“So where is he now?”

She shook her head. “He left when he was 18. He calls sometimes. He’s still nearby—I see him on the street, in the grocery store—at least until I had to move in here, after William died. Two years ago. I haven’t heard from him since.”

I looked at Colin. His eyes were stony, his body taut, as if he were fighting to hold his emotions inside. Rachel put a hand on his shoulder. He groaned quietly.

A knock on the door startled us. A woman in sweats leaned in. ”Mrs. Mannes? It’s time for your physical therapy.”

Lillian looked up, her face shaking. “Just—just a minute.” She blew her nose again and took another sip of water, then stared at us, defiant. 

I had more questions, but I’d have to hold them for later. “Let’s go. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Mannes.”

She didn’t answer. The therapist looked puzzled but didn’t ask anything as we left.

Outside we sat in the Prius. For a few minutes no one said anything.

Then Colin spoke. “I got a brother I never knew about?”

“And she put him in a closet,” Rachel said. “You don’t have to be a Psych student to know that’s going to screw up a kid.”

“But why would mom tell me to find him?” Colin asked. “And kill him?”

Rachel poked me. “Any thoughts, oh master detective?”

“Did you pick up anything, oh hot psychic sidekick?”

She nodded “There’s a little something in the air.”

“Magic? Evil?”

“Maybe, but it’s faint. Like it’s fading, maybe. Plus, she’s scared. Angry. Still hiding—something. She’s closer to him than she’s letting on. I think she’s seen him. Recently.”

Colin stared at her. “Wow. You’re really—I thought—oh no, have you been reading my mind all this time?”

Rachel laughed. “Nothing you can’t tell your boyfriend. Or mine.” She punched my shoulder lightly. 

“If she knows where he is, we ought to go back and ask her. Maybe after her PT is over.”

Rachel shook her head. “We won’t get it out of her now. She’s too scared. She thinks she might be crazy.”

“So what do we do?” Colin’s frustration was growing. “Do we hold a séance?”

“If she really is in contact with Kirk, he might come here. Especially now.” I looked at the entrance to the home. “She’s not going anywhere, so he’d have to come to her.”

“She could just call him,” Colin said.

“She’s too upset.” Rachel nodded. “I think she’d have to see him in person.”

“So I’m stuck here all day.” I sighed. “Wish I’d brought sandwiches.”

“I’ll pick some up for you.” Rachel opened her door. “Come on, Colin.”

“Wait, wait.” He held up a hand. “You’re just going to sit here all day? I’m not even—well, I guess I should be paying you, but I’m just a poor grad student.”

And I had other cases to work on. But I’d brought my laptop, and I could do almost anything I needed to with that. I almost had a few wide-mouthed bottles in the trunk for other bodily functions.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Rachel said. “Right, Tom?”

What could I say? “Sure. Pick me up something to eat?”

“Right.”

They came back 15 minutes later with a bag of wrapped sandwiches, some chips, and a few bottles of water. Rachel kissed me on the cheek, then jumped back into Colin’s car. He waved as he pulled away.

The parking lot was a semicircle facing the building. I moved my car to one end where I could keep an eye on the front door without being too obvious. I could see a loading bay off to one side, but I didn’t know about any back doors. They’d probably be locked to keep the residents from wandering away. I hoped.

I sent a few emails, ate a few chips, and kept my eyes open as I waited, hoping I wasn’t wasting the day on a case that wasn’t going to help pay the cable bill. 

Stakeouts are boring. Keeping your concentration up hour after hour is difficult. I made notes of everyone who came in and checked them off when they left, but I missed two people and one pizza delivery truck. The pizza truck made me hungry, so I ate a sandwich. 

Rachel called me midafternoon. “How’s it going, Sherlock? Talk fast, I’m on a class break.”

“Nothing yet. I’m going to have to use one of the bottles in the trunk soon. You bought me too much water.”

“Just make sure you throw it out when you get back. No sign of Kirk?”

“No. I’m assuming I’d recognize him. I hope he looks a little like Colin.” I sighed. “At least no one’s come out and told me to move.”

“Thanks for doing this. Colin really wants to pay you, so I said we’d work something out.”

“That makes me nervous, even if he is gay.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. And I’ve met his boyfriend. How long are you going to stay?”

“I don’t know. Visiting hours end at eight.” I’d noticed the sign on the front door. “I’ll try to stick it out until then.”

“We should have found some underpaid staff member to bribe if anyone comes to visit her. Darn it.”

“Next time. Wait, hang on.” A van pulled up the driveway.

“Is it him?”

“I don’t know. Probably just another visitor. I’ll call you.”

The car was black, dusty, and dented, with Illinois license plates and a bumper sticker for a casino somewhere. The door opened, and a young man popped out, in a denim jacket and jeans. I grabbed the binoculars next to me and tried to zero in as he walked to the front door. It might be Kirk—he had the same general build as Colin, similar hair. But I couldn’t get a clear look at his face. 

I made a note of the license plate and sat back to wait, the binoculars in my lap. I sipped some water. Another car parked and two women walked through the sliding doors. A bird flew overhead.

The sliding doors opened and the man walked out. I snatched up the glasses. No beard, short hair, but big ears like Colin. Probably Kirk. I started the Prius.

We drove a few miles. First he stopped at a Taco Bell, and I had to wait outside with my stomach rumbling as he ate a late lunch, or whatever meal he was on. I munched on one of the sandwiches Rachel had brought me. Eventually he came out and started up his van again.

Then he parked in front of a small apartment building—long, two stories, about two dozen units. The siding needed fresh paint and the sidewalk out front was cracked. I watched him go inside, made a note of the address, and called Rachel.

“I think I found him.” I gave her the address.

“You really are a master detective. Now what? We go in, guns blazing?”

“Not exactly.” I didn’t have a next move yet. “Heard anything from Colin?”

“I’ll text him. Want us to come down?”

“Not until I have a better idea of what to do. I’ll let you know when I think of it.”

I called the management office—the number was on a sign out front—told a few strategic lies, and eventually found out that Kirk Mannion lived in apartment 214, had been there for two years, never made trouble and paid his rent on time. He’d worked at a local school as a custodian when he first took the apartment; the manager didn’t know if he was still there now.

I hung up before they got too suspicious of my questions. With the information I had, I could do some snooping on my phone. 

I couldn’t find any trace of Kirk before five years ago. He was listed on the staff at a high school, a manager of custodial services. He’d been arrested on a drunk and disorderly once; he had a Facebook page that he’d never posted anything on. 

An hour later he came out and got into his van. If I was a TV private eye I’d probably have broken in to search his apartment. Since I’m just me, I followed him.

He drove to a Home Depot and came out with a shovel, two buckets, and a rolled up sheet of plastic. Then he went to the grocery store and came out with two plastic bags stuffed with food and a six-pack of beer. Then we went back to the apartment.

It was after 4 p.m. I called Rachel. “I have sort of a plan. Can you and Colin come down later? Before the nursing home closes.”

“Yeah, I think he’s ready to do anything to get this over with. What about you?”

“I want to stick with Kirk.” I told her about the Home Depot trip. Then I outlined what I wanted her to do with Colin.

“Should I bring Daffy Duck?” That was the name we’d given to the handgun I’d bought a few months ago after a run-in with a supernatural serial killer. I still have nightmares about that case.

 “I don’t think he’s dangerous,” I said, hoping I was right. “Just your usual pepper spray.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know when we’re on the road.” 

Rachel hung up. I looked in the rearview mirror. There was a gas station across the street. Maybe I could duck in to use their restroom without losing Kirk. 

 

Rachel called me when they arrived at the nursing home, around 6:30. “We’re here. Anything happening?”

            “No, he’s inside playing Call of Duty or whatever the hot new game is,” I told her, watching the windows. “Colin okay?”

            “I’m fine.” He sounded nervous. “Got another email from Mom. It says, ‘Where are you?’”

            I thought for a moment. “Tell her you’re close. I’ll text Rachel if Kirk moves.”

            “Okay.” He handed the phone back.

            “Don’t do anything stupid,” Rachel told me. “We’re going in.”

            “Love you too.” We hung up.