“Yeah,” I answered as I took another deep drag on the cigarette and expelled the smoke, this time without incident. “It’s just been awhile. But I’m much better now.”
“Jeez, white man,” Ben exclaimed, waving with annoyance at the dense scud of smoke hanging around us. “Give it a rest, will’ya? You’ve hot boxed damn near half a pack already.”
He was correct. In fact, I was working on number ten at this very moment, and the ravenous craving had only now begun to smooth around the edges. Upon leaving the parking lot of the city morgue, I had done no less than demand that he pull into the first open gas station we came upon. There followed a few tense moments of opposition from both Felicity and him, however, I won out. I celebrated my victory by purchasing an entire carton of menthol-tipped 100’s and a disposable lighter.
I’d had no choice but to give in to Ben’s refusal to allow me to smoke in his van and, therefore, ended up quickly huffing a pair of the butts before climbing back into the vehicle for the short trip back around the block to our originally intended destination.
We were now parked in an out-of-the-way back corner booth at Chuck’s, not that where we sat really mattered as we were the only patrons at the moment. The three of us were taking turns administering doses of sugar and creamer to coffee that was an hour or so beyond its expiration. Promises of a fresh pot were already reaching our ears as the coffee maker behind the counter audibly spewed hot liquid into a stained Pyrex globe.
“Aye, slow down,” Felicity chimed in. “It’s bad enough you’ve started up with those nasty things again. You don’t have to chain-smoke as well.”
“Maybe you should talk to Helen about this too, Row,” Ben offered. “She’s probably got some psychobabble to help you out with quitting.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” I agreed if for no other reason than to hopefully get them to quit harping on me. I didn’t bother to point out that she was a smoker herself. “I’ll mention it.”
Still, although I was embracing the practice for the moment, I was as disturbed as they were that I’d started up again. It had been almost two years since I’d quit, and it hadn’t been easy to do in the first place. I’d told myself that the occasional cigar was as far as I was going to venture into this realm ever again, and I’d stuck to it-until now. It was true that I’d been under some very severe stress, but I couldn’t see blaming it all on that. Something else was amiss. Some other factor was definitely at work here.
“Were either Debbie Schaeffer or Paige Lawson smokers by any chance?” I asked as the thought rolled in from the back of my brain.
Ben thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Don’t think so. I can check into it, but I don’t recall either of ‘em havin’ cigarettes in their personal effects. Why?”
“Are you thinking that you’re channeling impulses from one of them?” Felicity queried.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Even when I went through withdrawals back when I quit, I didn’t crave nicotine this intensely. There’s got to be something more to it.”
“Well, I’ll check,” Ben told me. “I’m almost positive it’s a no on Schaffer, but I can’t be completely sure about Lawson. But like I said, I don’t remember any cigarettes with her stuff either.”
“Maybe it’s someone else entirely,” I speculated.
“What?” Ben furrowed his brow. “Like another murder victim?”
“Maybe.”
“Well it’d hafta be another case entirely.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because we’ve already had our quota on serial killers this century.”
I shrugged as I shook my head. “Just speculating.”
“Well speculate somethin’ else,” he instructed.
I stubbed the remaining couple of inches of the cigarette out in the small glass ashtray, and its smoldering carcass joined the other half dozen yellow-brown stained filters. I felt a need to immediately light another but resisted and hoped I’d had enough of a fix to hold me for a while.
“So,” my friend directed us back onto the original topic we’d set out to discuss, “why don’tcha tell me what I just got my ass chewed for?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I returned.
“That’s not what I wanna hear, Row.”
“I know, Ben, but that’s what I was trying to tell you back at the morgue. It’s all a jumble. I don’t really remember anything coherent.”
He brought his hand up and massaged his neck then sighed. “Lemme cut ya’ a little slice of reality here. We all know that I’m not exactly one for goin’ strictly by the book, so I already walk a thin enough line as it is. Well, tonight just turned that thin line into a fuckin’ tightrope, so you’re gonna hafta give me somethin’. Anything.”
“What if you just start with anything that you can remember,” Felicity ventured. “Maybe we can piece it together.”
“Well…” I thought hard for a moment, trying to pick out something of consequence and settling for whatever I could grasp. “A lot of darkness, and a cheerleader with an attitude for starters.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘attitude’?” Ben asked.
“Exactly that.” I shrugged. “She seemed really cocky… And incredibly demanding. But she kept bouncing around, and she was kind of hard to keep track of.”
“What makes you say she was cocky though?” he pressed.
“Well, she kept calling some guy a moron, I remember that pretty clearly. I seem to recall her referring to him as an idiot too.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the guy that killed her.”
“Yeah, no shit. I kinda figured that part out myself. I wanna know who he is. Did’ya’ see ‘im?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t really remember seeing anyone other than her…” I thought hard for a moment. “Although there was this shadowy movement here and there and I heard a male voice.”
“What did he say?”
“He was angry. Something about her crying and her makeup running.”
“What do you think that’s all about?” Felicity asked.
“Search me.” I didn’t know what to say. “I told you I didn’t remember anything that made any sense. I suppose it might not have been the guy that killed her at all. Maybe it was some kind of latent memory. Argument with a boyfriend or something?”
“Maybe her boyfriend is the killer,” she offered.
“We’ve beaten that horse.” Ben shook his head vigorously then took a sip of his coffee. “Boyfriend’s clean.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” I posed.
“There isn’t one. You gotta understand,” my friend explained, “this girl was like right out of a fifties TV show. A regular Stepford kid.” He began ticking items off on his fingers. “Honor roll, cheerleader, never been in trouble, been datin’ the same guy since high school. She’s friggin’ unreal.”
“That sure isn’t the impression she gave me when she was bouncing in and out of my head,” I told him.
“What can I tell ya’?” he shrugged.
“It doesn’t really matter.” I was shaking my head now. “Because you’re right, the boyfriend idea is the wrong track anyway. If it had been her boyfriend, then we’d be talking about a crime of passion, right?”
“That ain’t a given, but it’s pretty likely. Why?”
“Well if it was a crime of passion then it would be an isolated incident. There wouldn’t have been any reason for her to insist on me touching Paige Lawson. Unless, of course, there’s a connection there that we’re missing.”
“We haven’t had a reason ta’ look for one. Lawson is an accidental death… Whoa… Wait a minute, back up… So are you tellin’ me Debbie Schaeffer’s ghost had somethin’ ta’ do with that whole stunt you pulled back there?”
“Exactly.” I nodded affirmation.
