Chapter 6
By the time the painters had reached the driver, I had smoked at least three extra sticks of cigarette, and I had handed the driver a couple more sticks while I waited.
It wasn't a habit of mind, but in times such as these, I was so tense I needed something to keep myself busy.
Not willing to finish the pack in my pocket, I began to pace the stairs leading up to the driver, until I heard that the painters were done.
Each of the four painters had drawn something slightly different. There were similarities but also many differences. The driver, however, looked at each of them and concluded on one of them very quickly.
"That's the one. He looks closer to that one," the driver said.
"Do you know him?" I couldn't help but ask Jack, who was rubbing his smooth chin and looked to be deep in thought.
"I'd be damned if I say I do. I have no idea on God's green Earth as to who this person is."
"But one thing is sure now… You have to release the butler."
"And it's not just the butler," I added when I saw the look of reluctance on Jack's face. "The child's testimony was fine. It checks out."
"I know that but…"
"Oh, come on. But what?" I questioned.
"You don't mean to keep the poor men in there for any moment longer now, do you? Just let them go. I'll stay and then we can figure out something else.
Look, I know you want to appease the press for now, but there's really no need for any of this. We have a face. You could put the face on a wanted poster for all I care, but let the Butler and the servant go."
"Fine. I'll let them go. But we need to talk to the boy again."
"Can you get the father? I'm sure the father will only agree if you apologize. Frank is not a petty person, but you shook his son up pretty bad."
"Whatever. We'll do things your way for now," I couldn't contain my excitement. I patted Jack on the shoulder and beamed with a bright smile.
"That's what I like to hear," I said, and led the man away to the police station where the butler and the manservant were released.
It was rather satisfying to watch Jack nervously apologize to both the manservantand the butler, but once he was done with that ordeal, I led Jack to Frank's house on the other side of town.
It was a lovely house, rather far away from civilization, making it a hassle to reach.
"Why did he build a bloody house in this damned wilderness? Clearly, you should see my father's house," I couldn't help but relate.
"This is quite a surprise, I must say," he added.
I could see the nervous look on Frank's face as his eyes darted back and forth between me and Jack. "I assure you, Jack is not here for any trouble. In fact, he's here to apologize. Aren't you, Jack?"
Jack looked as though he was having a battle with his job. His face was set in hard, harsh lines as he clenched his jaw so hard I could see the muscles moving underneath.
I nodded at Jack until his lips opened and, from between his teeth, came the words of an apology.
"I'm sorry for treating your son…"
"Well, that will suffice," Frank remarked with a smile.
After some gentle words from his father, Michael looked as though he would be willing to manage a car ride with the colonel.
The ride to the St. John Estate was long and awkward; Michael actually spent it looking out the window.
"Everything finally checks out," I thought to myself. As much as the story was unbelievable, a dead person really did go to see Robert.
The man's actions caused Robert to have a heart attack. It was a strange concoction, but it was definitely murder. It was also so perfectly right up my alley, being one who enjoyed strange concoctions.
Once we reached the St. John Estate, the woman who came to my office the last time was the one to answer the door. I had long since forgotten her name, but I remembered her slicked-back hair and courteous bow.
"I'm afraid Mrs. St John will not be able to attend to visitors. The death of her husband has left her in a rather perplexed state. She won't even remember his portrait," the woman remarked as she led us to Robert's study.
The boy narrated everything again. This time, Jack made him practically act out the entire scenario. Once the boy was done, I watched him and his father leave the study.
"This is impossible," Jack mumbled.
"This is so impossible, it's nothing short of a convoluted mess."
"But it's the mess we have, and that's the mess we must run with. It's the mess we have to investigate." I rubbed my chin in frustration.
"Jack, we've been over this."
"Dead people don't talk. That is fact," Jack asserted.
In my opinion, Jack was a little too aggressive with his reiteration of what fact was.
"I'm not a child, Jack. I know dead people don't suddenly stand up and start walking. I know that this is just as confusing as the beginning of the case. But evidence points to the fact that there was a dead man. And the dead man sat in that chair," I pointed to the chair.
"The dead man spoke to Robert, according to young Michael's testimony. The dead man was in the car, seated like a normal distinguished gentleman, that we believe was, according to the driver's testimony. Both testimonies point to the obvious fact about the walking dead man."
"A dead man! Only if you're writing a novel, and it would make a very interesting novel by the way," Jack walked over and leaned on the desk before continuing his strange speculation.
"It would make a wonderful novel, is what I'm trying to say. In fact, I will buy it."
"So what do we do, Jack? What are we supposed to do?" I couldn't help but ask twice. "We both know what is within the realm of possibility and what is well without it. What choice do we have?"
"We find someone to blame. We can arrest the butler…"
"That's out of the question. Those men are innocent and you know it. You cannot put innocent men in prison, Jack. We just have to figure out what is wrong. Someone has obviously upset the balance between life and death."
"And now you sound like a poet. You really ought to look into writing a book, you know," I grinned at my old friend's antics.
"Zombies," Jack's tone shifted as though he was cracking a sick joke.
"It's only zombies in modern times that are known to be walking around."
" But even that has its own limitations. There have been some legends in the past about the dead moving."
"But they cannot talk," Jack suddenly interrupted my train of thought.
"Yes, they cannot talk. Thank you for summing that up. Oh, all they do is click with their tongues. It's very annoying. But what do you expect us to do?"
"I don't know. At least we're not supposed to go around publishing stories about a necromancer who can raise the dead all of a sudden in modern day. This is real life, not a book. We're not writing a fantasy novel here."
"A man is dead. Sooner or later the case is going to be public," I injected.
"What?" Jack asked, glaring at me.
"I'd rather the papers. The case is all over the leaves. It's not mainstream yet, but it will be soon enough. By the way, this is ridiculous. This is not happening. We are going to find someone to pin this on, and that is final now."
"So you would really let an innocent man or two go to prison? Sometimes I'm proud to have you as my friend, and others I'm simply disappointed in the way your mind works. You're supposed to stand for justice as an officer of the law, not whatever is easy for you. Even I know that much."
"Fine. I'll give you three days. Find me this… necromancer, this person that can apparently raise the dead and make them walk. Find them for me."
"Put a name to this face," Jack flipped around the portrait of the prospective suspect and thrust it into my arms.
"Give me that, and I will arrest the person in a heartbeat." I took the portrait.
" What if you cannot explain the strange phenomenon to me? I'm going to lock the butler and the manservant behind bars again, and this time it'll be permanent."
I was left alone shortly after that in the study. The room had been cleaned out rather immaculately. Then again, there wasn't much dirt in the first place.
I went to the servants' quarters and asked each and every one of them if they recognized the man in the portrait, but the answer was the same.
"I don't know that man," all of them said. It didn't matter what questions I asked them.
"Do you think this person had a grudge against Mr. St. John? Do you think he might be a bastard child or something?"
The answers were all the same. "I don't know who he is. I have never seen him before. He doesn't look familiar." The answers were all no.
I even asked the security guard who was stationed outside and got the same response. Frustrated, I found myself back in my apartment and spent the night glaring at the portrait, nearly wishing for the man to suddenly jump out of it so I could take him over to Jack.
The next morning, I grumbled out of bed. Sleeping was nearly impossible after all. I had spent the majority of the night looking at the portrait and burning the sight of the man into my memory.
After a few cups of coffee and a shower, I felt slightly human again. Then I went to the suburb of the intersection the driver had spoken of.
Being a weekend, Bernard was not there to drive me around the suburbs. But I wouldn't have it any other way. If anything, I preferred the solitary legwork I was about to embark on.
With a deep breath in his lungs, I pulled myself out of the car and started to ask everyone I saw on the streets if they knew the man in the portrait.
Unfortunately for me, the suburbs were massive and spanned several miles in all directions.
After the first day, I received similar answers to the ones I had gotten at the St. John Estate.
The next day, I resumed my search from where I stopped. By the end of the day, fortunately, I was parked in front of a similar mansion as the one he parked at the previous day.
It was small and the same, rather gothic in appearance. The paint was dark brown and it was dirty, in desperate need of a good wash.
The driveway was cracked, and the walkway into the compound was also terribly cracked and overgrown with weeds. Two dogs barked furiously at me from behind the fence that had also suffered the same fate as the rest of the house - overrun with weeds, with vines creeping over the windows and the walls outside.
That was basically the kind of house anyone's parents would warn their children to stay away from, and the kind of house that would receive many visits during Halloween.
If anything, I would have thought that the house was uninhabited if not for the two large wolf dogs that were barking at him from inside.
The dogs looked well-fed and robust, drool leaked down from their faces as they snarled and barked at me with threats in their eyes, but I was not afraid. I opened the small gate and walked inside.
However, I was discomforted by the extreme heat. I was sweating so profusely my clothes had all but stuck to my body like a second skin.
"Quiet, you," I said to the dogs as I climbed up the stairs to the porch and knocked on the door. Immediately, the door opened revealing a tall, thin man wearing what I couldn't believe was the same floral shirt that the driver had described.
"Pineapples and flowers," the driver said. "I remember it was against a sunset color," the driver added.
His face was thin, sunken. His eyes were deep into their sockets, and his cheeks were very pale and gray. He looked exactly as he was described in the portrait. Thin eyebrows, thin lips, and a weak jaw line - it was perfect, I thought to himself.
"What do you want?" the man asked with a raspy voice.
"Be a good lad and give me a glass of water, will you? It's very hot," I said as I began to fan myself with the collar of my shirt.
I could hardly wait to call Colonel Jack about my findings. Even he wouldnt be able to restrain himself from such a find.
All I had to figure out now was how this slim man with hollow cheeks and hollow dead eyes managed to make the dead to walk.