The Poet

I looked at the Marlboro Man, his crinkled eyes and stoic chin unchanged by time. He'd always been one of my heroes, an icon, no matter that he was always as shallow as a magazine page or a billboard sign. I remembered being at the dinner table, my position every night always to my father's right. Him always smoking and the ashtray always to the right of his plate. Me learning to smoke by virtue of that. He looked like the Marlboro Man to me, my father. Back then, at least.

Back in the room, I called home and my mother answered. She went into histrionics asking whether I was all right and gently scolded me for not calling sooner. Finally, after I had calmed her and assured her that I was okay, I asked her to put my father on the line. We had not spoken since the funeral-if we had even spoken then.

'Dad?'

'Son. You sure you're okay?'

'I'm fine. You okay?'

'Oh, sure. We were just worried about you, that's all.'

'Well, don't. Everything's fine.'

'It's a crazy thing, isn't it?'

'You mean about Gladden? Yeah.'

'Riley's here with us. She's going to spend a few days.'

'That's good, Dad.'

'Do you want to talk to her?'

'No, I wanted to talk to you.'

That silenced him, maybe made him nervous.

'You in Los Angeles?'

He said it with a hard G.

'Yeah, at least a day or two more. I just… I called because I wanted-I've been thinking about things and I wanted to say I'm sorry.'

'Sorry for what, Son?'

'Anything, everything. Sarah, Sean, you name it.' I laughed the way you laugh when something isn't funny, when it's uncomfortable. 'I'm sorry for everything.'

'Jack, you sure you're okay?'

'I'm fine.'

'Well, you don't have to say you're sorry for anything.'

'Yes, I do. I do.'

'Well… we're sorry, too, then. I'm sorry.'

I let a little bit of silence underline that.

'Thanks, Dad. I'm gonna go. Tell Mom I said good-bye and tell Riley I said hello.'

'I will. Why don't you come down here when you get back? Spend a couple days, too.'

'I will.'

I hung up. Marlboro Man, I thought. I looked out the open balcony door and saw his eyes peeking over the railing, watching me. My hand was hurting again. So was my head. I knew too much and didn't want to. I took another pill.

At five-thirty Bledsoe finally called. The news he had was not good. It was the final piece, the final tearing of the veil of hope I'd held on to. As I listened to him it felt like the blood was draining from my heart. I was alone again. And what was worse was that the one I had desired had not simply rejected me. She had used and betrayed me in a way I would've thought no woman could do.

'This is what I got, buddy,' Bledsoe said. 'Hang on to your hat, is all I can say.'

'Give it to me.'

'Rachel Walling. Her father was Harvey Walling. I didn't know him. When he was in dicks, I was still in patrol. I talked to one of the old guys from dicks and he said your guy was called Harvey Wallbanger. You know, after the drink. He was sort of an odd duck, loner type.'

'What about his death?'

'I'm getting to that. I had a buddy pull the old file out of archives. Happened nineteen years ago. Funny I don't remember it. I guess I was working with my head down. Anyway, I met my pal over at the Fells Point Tavern. He brought the file. And, first off, this was definitely her old man. Her name's in there. She was the one who found him. He'd shot himself. Temple shot. It went suicide but there were some problems.'

'What?'

'Well, no note for one thing. And for another, he'd worn gloves. It was in the winter, yes, but he did it inside. First thing in the morning. The investigator wrote down in the reports that he didn't like that part of it.'

'Was there gunshot residue on one of the gloves?'

'Yeah, it was there.'

'Was she-was Rachel home when it happened?'

'She said she was upstairs in her bedroom sleeping when she heard the shot. In her king-size bed. She got scared, said she didn't come down for an hour after the shot. Then she found him. This is according to the reports.'

'What about the mother?'

'There was no mother. She'd taken off years before. Rachel was left alone with the father then.'

I thought about that for a few moments. His mention of the size of her bed and something about the way he'd said the last line bothered me.

'What else, Dan? You're not telling me everything.'

'Jack, let me ask you something. Are you involved with this woman? Like I told you, I saw on the CNN how she wal-'

'Look, I'm out of time! What aren't you telling me?'

'Okay, okay, the only other thing noted in the reports that was strange was that his bed was made.'

'What are you talking about?'

'His bed. It was made. The way it had to have worked was he got up, made his bed, got dressed and put on his coat and gloves, like he was going to work, but then instead sat down in the chair and put a bullet through his head. Either that or he stayed up all night thinking about it and then did the job.'

I felt depression and fatigue wash over me in a wave. I slid off the chair to the floor, the phone still held to my ear.

'The guy who worked the case is retired but still around. Mo Friedman. We go back. I was just coming up in dicks when he was near the end. But he was a good man. I just got off the line with him a few minutes ago. Lives up in the Poconos. I asked him about this one and what his take on it was. His unofficial take, I told him.'

'And he said?'

'He said he let it go because either way he figured Harvey Wallbanger got what he had coming.'

'But what did he say his take was?'

'He said that he thought that bed was made because it never was slept in. Never used. He said he thought the father was sleeping with the daughter in the king-size and one morning she drew the line. He didn't know about anything after that, none of this stuff that's been going on lately. Mo's seventy-one years old. He does crossword puzzles. He said he doesn't like watching the news. He didn't know the daughter became an FBI agent.'

I couldn't talk. I couldn't even move.

'Jack, you still there?'

'I gotta go.'

The field office operator said Backus had left for the day. When I asked her to double-check, she put me on hold for five minutes while I was sure she was doing her nails or touching up her makeup. When she came back on she said he was definitely gone and that I could try back in the morning. She hung up before I could say anything else.

Backus was the key. I had to get to him, tell him what I had and play it whatever way he wanted. I decided that if he wasn't at the FO, he might be back at the motel on Wilcox. I had to go there anyway to pick up my car. I threw the strap of my computer bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. I opened it and stopped dead. Backus stood there, fist raised, ready to knock.

'Gladden wasn't the Poet. He was a killer, yes, but not the Poet. I can prove it.'