Readjustment (Restitution #2)

6

Adam Dawson

How many people can say they’re as close to a breakthrough as they are to rock bottom?

I pondered that special kind of hell as we approached the home of Harry Newson, Professional Conspiracy Theorist.

“I bet I could clear that fence in one hop.” Caleb pointed to the iron fencing around Harry’s yard.

I looked back at him with one brow cocked.

“I might need a running start,” he sized it up, “but I’m pretty sure I’d make it.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“What? You’ve seen what I can squat.”

“That is not an image I need to be thinking about right now.”

Beyond the iron fence, an army of broken gnomes littered the front yard. A few sat on a rusty metal workbench with open paint cans beside them. Like most of the homes in this neighborhood, it was a ranch style with white vinyl siding and rust accents. Moss and mold grew on the siding and overgrown boxwood branches snagged my pant legs as I followed Caleb up the narrow stairs to Newson’s front porch. Sun-bleached newspaper covered the front windows, and I was already dreading what we’d find behind them.

“This guy takes home surveillance seriously.” Caleb pointed at one of six cameras under the eaves.

“Guess so.” I said and rang the doorbell.

The door opened, and Harry Newsom appeared, his abdominous frame blocking the doorway. His hair was a disheveled mess of wispy white curls, and a ratty blue robe hung open over a stained grey shirt that was at least two sizes too small. His stomach hung from the bottom and shadowed his camouflage tactical pants.

Harry glanced at the cameras, shifting his focus back to us. “Can I help you?”

“Hi Mr. Newson. I’m Detective Straus.” He pulled his badge off his belt. “My partner Detective Dawson and I believe you may be able to help us with our investigation into—”

With wide eyes, Harry backed away and opened the door just enough for us to peek through. “Who sent you?” His voice was frantic. “How did you find me?”

“We’re with Peyton PD,” Caleb said gently. “Jordan Hawes told us you might have some camera footage that may help us with a case.”

Harry pulled back the door gradually, his posture stiff. “You’re not with the CIA?”

“See for yourself.” Caleb handed his badge to Harry, who ran his fingers over each detail. “If you’d like, you can call the station and confirm our badge numbers.”

“No, no,” Harry returned the badge to Caleb, “please come in.” He took one step away and sharply turned back. “But don’t touch anything.”

The inside of the house burst at the seams with stacks of magazines, newspapers, filing cabinets, and racks full of military style food rations. Glimpses of the wall revealed tan paint. Dead flies covered windowsills that looked soldered shut. Cameras, mounted in every corner of the main room, lights flashing, recorded our movements. Rat shit carpeted the floor, and I had to breathe through my mouth to keep from vomiting.

“Sorry for the mess.” Harry carried a stack of plates into his kitchen and set them in an overfull sink. “Is this about Keola’s death?”

“Yes sir,” Caleb flashed a placating smile. “Your camera set up is impressive, Mr. Newson. Keola’s roommate tells me you look after this neighborhood, and we appreciate it.”

“Gotta be prepared for what FEMA is trying to do,” Harry said. “They’re just waiting for the right time to create a disaster so large they can declare martial law and ship us off to concentration camps. I’ve been following all their movements since Hurricane Katrina, which they totally botched. Even reached out to the affected to—”

“Mr. Newson,” I interrupted, “we’re not FEMA. We’re homicide detectives, and we really need your help.”

“Of course.” Harry clapped his meaty hands. “I take it you’re looking for footage?”

“From two nights ago, if you have it,” Caleb said. “We’re looking to see who came to the house to give Keola a ride.”

“Let me grab my laptop.” Sheets of plywood over cinderblocks formed a bridge that groaned under his weight. As he carefully navigated the path down the hall. He reappeared a moment later with a laptop case that had the words “Top secret” spray painted on it. After setting it up on a food rack, he plugged in an ethernet cord and clicked the mouse a few times.

“Let’s see…” Harry tapped through a series of folders, “Here ya go!” He spun the laptop’s screen toward us. “This was the last thing in my movement folder for the night.”

A dark SUV pulled into Keola’s driveway at 9:18 p.m., and a slender, clean-cut driver stepped out with his phone to his ear. When Keola exited the house, there appeared to be a short, heated conversation before he got in the car. With credit to the high definition of Newson’s cameras, the plate was clear as day.

“This is great, Mr. Newson.” Caleb handed Harry a card. “Any chance you can send us all the video of this area from Monday night?”

“Sure.” Harry gave Caleb a salute and the wretched smell of body odor from his underarms nearly knocked me over.

“I’ll call this in.” I didn’t wait for a response before I headed out the door.

I gulped in fresh air, and in my rush, missed the bottom step and stumbled into the gate. The putrid smell of Harry’s home stuck with me until I got in the Charger, leaving the door open to air out my clothing. After wiping my hands on the stack of subway napkins Caleb had stuffed in the glove box, I leaned back on the headrest and called the plate into the sheriff’s office. After some clicking and typing on their end, they said they’d email us a report shortly. Looking out the windshield, I tucked my phone under my thigh and watched as Caleb gave Newson a polite wave, then joined me in the car.

“We should have Social Services check on him.” He pulled his safety belt over his chest. “He needs some serious help.”

“Who’s to say his family hasn’t tried?” I asked.

“Maybe they have,” Caleb shrugged, “but it wouldn’t hurt to follow up.”

An email notification dinged on my phone after he turned over the ignition. “Vehicle is registered to a Mason Tess.” I scrolled down the email. “Twenty-five years old. Drives a black Ford Escape. No criminal record, and he lives in the apartment building next to ours.”

“Oh look,” Caleb smirked as he pulled up the address via the GPS. “We’re going home.”

Home.

The word pinballed around in my head.

Peyton wasn’t my home. Chicago was, and my husband expected me to move back in three months.

The tires kicked up rock salt as they thrummed over the wet pavement. In a matter of weeks, Peyton, Illinois, with its tree-lined streets, Mom and Pop shops with hand-painted signs, and, especially, the man sitting next to me, would fall into the sixteen-year-old black hole that was my life, and be nothing but a memory.

“Wonder what this guy has to say,” Caleb asked, as we pulled into the south building with its maroon accents and dual walk-ups.

“Hmm?” My mind crawled out of the fog. “Oh, uh, yeah.” I toyed with my silver Rolex.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asked.

“I’m fine.” I rubbed my throat until the thickness faded. “Just tired. Let’s get to work.”

The recent snowfall stuck to the concrete staircase. Caleb punched in the emergency workers’ code, and the mechanical door lock clicked open. The apartment building, aside from the accent colors, resembled our own. A metal door led to the stairwell on the left, with two platforms at each level. On the third floor, the worn carpet held the same musty scent of saturated dirt and spilled drinks. Tan walls with maroon doorframes had white metal numbers. We stopped at apartment 3-F, at the end of the hall.

Caleb eyed the ceiling and pointed to the light. “At least the bulb isn’t flickering.”

“So, maintenance does exist.” I said, as I knocked on the door.

Mason Tess opened the door. He was around my height—lean, but not too thin, with ash-blond hair, aqua eyes, high cheekbones, and a tasteful five o’clock shadow. Behind him, an episode of South Park with the whiny voice of Eric Cartman played on the TV.

“I think you guys have the wrong apartment,” he said. “I didn’t buzz anyone—”

“Are you Mason Tess?” I asked sternly.

“Uh, yeah.” The light caught my badge, and his face paled. “Shit.” He tried to shut the door, but Caleb got his foot in between.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Mason staggered backward as I shoved the door open.

“We just want to talk,” Caleb said.

“Shit.” Mason lifted his hands and started rambling. “I didn’t kill Key. I fucking swear, guys.”

“Again,” Caleb kept his hand on the door, “we’re just here to talk. May we come in?”

“Uh,” Mason’s throat bobbed. “Yeah. Yeah come in.”

The apartment smelled like a mix of Axe body spray and boxed macaroni and cheese. In the living room, an open notebook with various scribblings sat on a glass-topped coffee table. A leather sectional surrounded it, and an Xbox controller sat on the couch next to a crumpled throw blanket. The TV sat on a grey entertainment center with farm doors, and Randy Marsh appeared on screen to talk about wine tastings.

“Is that the addictions episode?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is.” Mason grabbed a remote and turned the TV down. “Sorry. I’ve been a mess since… the whole thing with Keola.”

“You said you didn’t kill him,” I said. “Is there a reason you think we’d suspect you?

Mason crossed his arms over his chest. “We, uh, had a nasty argument like a week ago, but we talked it out.”

“What was it about?” Caleb withdrew his notebook and unclipped the pen.

“I thought he made a pass at my girlfriend.” His eyes shifted downward. “She said he invited her to his place to study. They’re both Journalism majors, and he said his roommate wouldn’t be there. I mean, you know how that sounds?”

I remembered “studying” with Josh in our dorms. An image of how we rewarded one another for every chapter we got through flashed across my mind.

“So, you confronted him?” I asked.

“Yeah.” The kid shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “My girlfriend has cheated before.”

After Caleb finished a note, he looked up. “Were you close with Keola?”

“We played on a dart league last year at Rusty’s. We kept in touch and shot pool sometimes, but we weren’t, like, super close.”

“When’d you see him last?” I asked.

“The night before I heard he got killed.” Mason swayed from foot to foot. “He, uh, called me at like eight-thirty and said his car was in the shop, but he really needed a ride somewhere. I felt bad about the fight the week before, so I said I’d pick him up, but he’d need to catch another ride.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I had an interview early the next morning,” Mason said.

“We have footage from a neighbor showing you on a call when you pulled up,” I said. “Who were you talking to?”

“My mom,” Mason said sheepishly, with a half shrug. “She wanted to know what time my interview was, then kept asking a dozen questions.”

“My mom does the same thing.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “What did you discuss with Keola when you picked him up? Looked a little heated.”

Mason tucked his hands under his armpits. “He said I should check and see if his girl was there. I said to get fucked. Just dude stuff. Nothing serious.”

His tone, his blunt answers, and his self-soothing body language told me he was telling the truth.

“Did he seem nervous or worried?” Caleb followed up.

“I think he sounded excited,” Mason said. “He said he was on the cusp of something big and wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

“Did he have anything with him?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. Unless it was in his jacket.”

Caleb wrote as fast as his hand would allow, so I took the kill shot. “Where’d you take him?”

“Some office building across town.” Mason patted around his back pockets. “Hang on a sec.”

He stepped over to the couch and pulled his phone from between two cushions. “Let me look it up.” He thumbed over the screen, then handed it to me. “28 West Hardin Drive. Greenlawn Complex. He said he wanted to talk to a politician?”

I Googled the address in my phone.

It was Pete Janson’s campaign headquarters.