Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) (3 page)

Smart Pig, still 9/4/2012

Smart Pig Thneedery is my base of operations, my office, my bat-cave, my studio, my bolt-hole, and my place from which to watch the Winter Carnival Parade on Main Street each February. I can walk to almost everything I ever need in town, and sometimes go a week without seeing my Honda Element in the parking lot behind the building. “Smart Pig” is from a play-on-words game that my Dad used to play with me about our last name, Cunningham. He would come up with variations on the theme in different languages as I grew older, but Smart Pig (
from when I was four
) was always our favorite. The concept of a Thneed, an item that can be anything to anyone, came from a duck-squeezer book my Mom read to me when I was a kid. I loved the idea of a Thneed, if not the transparent agenda of a children’s' ecologist with questionable credentials. I am seldom whimsical, but when the landlord asked me what should go on the nameplate and mailbox, I told him, “Smart Pig Thneedery”.

As the name suggests, I provide all sorts of things to all sorts of people; most of it entirely legal, some of it a bit less so.
I do charcoal drawings, carve wooden decoys and fishing lures, mess around with digital photography, make a few bits of camping gear, investigate and solve mysteries, work at watercolor landscapes (
I use more cerulean blue than I should, but it's coming along
), split and stack wood, deliver Adirondack/regional documents, and also make dog and cat treats. Your eye likely skipped through the list, and then jumped back to the one in the middle about investigations and mysteries; mine does also, but it's the one that's most problematic and that I understand the least. All of the other things, along with a dozen more that take up the majority of my time as a thneed-tician, I learned by reading about and reverse-engineering samples and talking to experts in the field; the only explanation that I have for the sleuthing is that I read a lot.

I used to love to read Detective/Crime novels: Block, Burke, Chandler, Child, Christie, Crichton, Deaver, Doyle, Hamilton, Hammett, Hiassen, Leonard, MacDonald, Parker, Sandford, Stark, Stout, Thomas, and lots of others to a lesser degree (
the ones that I listed above have been read completely, with other authors I read only selected works
). Starting at about eight years old, I started mixing these books in with the other things my “teachers” had me read as a part of my education, like spices in a nutritional but sometimes boring stew. They kept me reading when the other kids in the homeschool collective wanted to get together after school hours... I couldn't relate to them in the ways that they (
and I?
) wanted, mysteries provided relief and escape from the pressures of being different (
in my own different way
). I have a list of 67 books that I've worn out with repeated reading, they got me through the months after 9/11, and carried me through to my new life here (
I have multiple copies of each of these books cached in a couple of spots in case of zombocalypse, Ebola, or some other extinction level event that miraculously spares me
). I think that reading Detective/Crime fiction would be my guilty pleasure, if I understood or felt guilt.

Mysteries, along with reading books in other fields of interest that I've data-mined over the years, combines with the way that my brain works and allows me, from time to time, when the mood (
or subject matter related to the mystery
) inspires me to do so, to dabble in private investigations. Most of the time though, I find other things that I'm more interested in than other peoples' problems, such as camping and/or exploring the Park to expand my mental world map.

I felt a nagging concern for Cynthia that I couldn't shake or get to solidify into reasoned thought; it just lurked at the edge of my consciousness bothering me (
like a mosquito inside your tent can do
). I had been thinking about her a bit while breaking into and exploring her house, chewing it over in my back-brain while rifling through her things, wondering if she had in fact lost a parent during my brief absence (
to the best of my knowledge, she has no other close family
). She had talked with me briefly the previous Thursday about something that she needed my help with (
more specifically, she had said “your kind of help”
); something having to do with drugs (
a boogeyman topic perennially lurking under the bed or in the closet for her
). She had started talking about it in the library, and then shut down at some point, while describing the information/proof that she had gathered, and asked if she could meet with me after her work to discuss a “field-trip” to see what we could find out and prove. Later that afternoon, I got a call from my acquaintance Gregory, and tumbled headlong into my Amish adventures for a long weekend of research and driving, six minutes of agonizing stress, followed by more driving. I had begged off on the meeting with Cynthia, and promised to look her up when I got back, but now she wasn't... here. I had a feeling of dislocation and anxiety that reminded me in some ways of the days and weeks following 9/11.

I grabbed a coke from the coke-fridge and sat down at the kitchen table by the big window overlooking Main Street.
I don't have a kitchen, but the table is nice for working or reading or thinking... for thneeding. I sat down prepared to think about tracking down Cynthia in an orderly manner, using a sharpie and my big pad of newsprint paper; and before I even got started, I knew, without much room for doubt, that Cynthia had been taken while messing around with stuff with which I should have been helping her... the stuff that she had asked me to help her with.

I can't explain the process or even the leaps that my mind takes from observation to conclusion any more than a dog could explain to me why one stick is better than another, or a fisherman can explain catching fish to a novice. Knowledge and observation and experience mix together with wiring in our brains and miraculous things happen.
Regardless of how it happened, I was now in a place where I no longer thought about finding so much as rescuing or possibly recovering Cynthia. The trouble was that I had no idea how to do that; while the initial stages of my investigation may have been a closed book, the next step was a blank page.

I felt a driving and personal need to find her and fix this... I had allowed her to place herself at risk, and I had to undo the damage that I had done.
I had wasted four days getting a complete stranger out of an admittedly nasty situation of her own making, at Cynthia's expense (
to what degree I still had no idea
). I had found the Amish and “Rumspringa” aspects, contrasting with the “club-kid” and date-rape slick-nastiness of Jacob's (
and Sadie's
) problem more interesting than Cynthia's long-term hang-up on the drug trade. Now, though, I wanted those days back; would have traded Sadie back to the boys that took her for Cynthia in a second. A part of me wanted to bring the police in now, this very second; but I knew that they wouldn't be particularly interested or motivated to find her without more concrete reasons to worry. I needed to think, but it felt as though that was the one thing on Earth that I was incapable of at that moment; my anger at myself for getting seduced by the plain but mysterious ways of the Amish, and at Cynthia for potentially jumping into harm's way by herself without waiting for me, was interfering with the normal functioning of my thought-process. I found it slightly interesting and very scary, as I do most new things in my life.

When I investigate things, I don't do what police do, because the police are good at what they do, have more men and time and equipment than I do, and are trained to think and act in a logical and straightforward manner that solves the vast majority of crimes that are going to be solved quickly and efficiently.
If Cynthia could be found through those means, then the police would do it; so I had to find other means. In other investigations that generally means reading everything that I can find on the matter and/or pushing on everyone even remotely involved, and watching for reactions or mistakes that lead me to a next stage, and eventually to the subject of my investigation. I needed to think about how to proceed with Cynthia as the object of my investigation, mindful of the ever-present possibility that I was wrong, and that she was at her Aunt Mo's funeral, and would be angry and hurt by my intrusion both into her house and into her affairs.

I lay down on the couch that often serves as my bed, balancing the half-empty coke can on my forehead, and focusing on keeping it balanced to avoid a sticky mess until the conflicting opinions/feelings/worries about Cynthia quieted down a bit (
thus hopefully avoiding another kind of sticky mess
); then I moved it to the floor and went to sleep for a bit.

I woke up nearly four hours later. I keep trying to program a clock in my head, as some characters in books I've read seem able to do.
Admittedly, my brain seems as though it should be well-suited to this sort of thing, but no luck so far, so I try to come up with interesting facts about my nap lengths. I splashed my face and thought about 233 minutes of sleep... not only is it a prime number, but it's also the 13th number in the Fibonacci sequence... and a sexy prime. I was determined to try and sleep 239 minutes after getting some work done (
I don't sleep for more than two to four hours at a time, unless I'm sick
). The face-bath and numerical nerdery had me awake enough to face Frank for our informal meeting at his son's football practice. (
I've never been to an actual informal meeting that needed to identify itself as such, so I had my doubts about this one
). I grabbed a coke from the coke-fridge and a handful of jerky from the cupboard on my way out.

Frank, still 9/4/2012

I walked over to the football field outside of Petrova Middle School. I would have been able to pick Frank out of the crowd even if I didn't know him, he was wearing his uniform. The juxtaposition of the informal setting and official costume balanced the tenor of our meeting with a reminder (
implicit threat
) about the way the meeting could go if everyone (
me
) wasn't smart. Frank Gibson is a police officer working for the Saranac Lake Police Department, and we've been playing a careful game of cat and bigger cat since I arrived in the Adirondacks. He probably could have been chief by now, if he was more interested in doing the correct thing (
as opposed to the right thing
) and less interested in knowing the answers to questions he shouldn't ask. I was willing to bet a fridge full of coke that today's meeting was going to be all about Sadie and Jacob and the car fire unless I could derail him with something he would find more interesting.

“A state trooper, friend of mine, saw you driving
a few under the speed limit on Route 56, a bit south of Potsdam, early this morning.” Frank's opener set the tone a bit... no question as such, so I did my quiet thing. “Coming back from a birthday party?” he added, to give my comfortable silence a nudge towards worry.

“I had to give a friend's kid a ride home.” I replied, hoping that a half-truth was better, in
this case, than a full-on lie.

“How on Earth do you know Jacob Hostetler?” Frank dropped the bomb, short-circuiting some clever back and forth that I had already scripted.

“He purchased one of my watercolors recently.” Very recently...

“So his daughter just happened to call you and ask for a ride home?” I nodded in response to this, not wanting to give tongue to the lie, when a gesture would do as well.

“You pick her up in Saranac Lake?” This was a trap, but Frank had the courtesy to smile and let me know that he knew it was an easy one.

“No, I picked her up sometime around 3a.m. (
more like 2:25, but precision never improves the early drafts of a story
), at the gas station near Despo's.” This last detail was a lie, but I had stopped at that station on the way out of town for a coke and some other stuff for the drive up to Madrid Springs; I even had a receipt if it came to that (
I find that precise details/evidence that don't really mean much can nonetheless be useful in persuading Frank to move on to harder targets
).

“So you weren't at the Olympic Motor Inn last night for the excitement?” Frank asked.

“Nope, what happened, and what's it got to do with Sadie.” We could both play at the faux show of our cards game.

“Probably nothing...
I hope nothing. I got an earful from a friend of hers two days ago about Sadie going missing after dancing with some boys, said they were from North Country.”

“North Country School?”
It's always worth dodging the easy traps.

“North Country Community College.
Sadie's friend thought that the boys might have doped her drink and taken her for a private party back at their place; and late last night two boys from NCCC had some car trouble... their car, what kind was it again?”

“I don't know, you tell me.” I've been trapped by Frank before, but the day he gets me on a lob like that, I'll pack my bags and move to Detroit.

“It was a Honda, if that matters.” I couldn't imagine how it could, but didn't want to stop Frank’s flow; he continued, “It burned to the exterior metal, and melted the tires so it was resting on rims by the time the Fire Department finished foaming it down.”

“Sounds nasty, was anyone hurt?” I already knew the answer to this one, but I liked serving it up to Frank to remind him that I'm as careful as I can be.

“Lucky break... nope, nobody hurt... the boys had asked for a room way off to one end, so there weren't any other cars nearby. Interesting thing about the fire and the boys though...” He left that hanging there, so I stepped up, reasonably sure that I could see the path this conversation was taking.

“What's that?
Did they know Sadie? Now that would be a coincidence.” Luckily I don't do much in the way of facial expressions, or I might have let a smirk slip at this point.

“Well, at first they were really pissed about the car, and who wouldn't be?
They were yelling at each other when the LPPD rolled up after the fire trucks were pretty much done hosing their car down. But once they started talking to the police, they got quiet and stupid and obsequious with the LPPD.”

“Nice word.” I nodded at Frank.

“Thanks... anyway once they started talking to the responding officers in LP, they backtracked a bit from an earlier version that sounded as though they blamed 'some bitch' or 'that bitch's friends'. Instead, they decided that the fire must have been their fault.”

“Huh...
well there you go, nothing to do with me or Sadie, just some dumb kids.” I'm not a physical guy, and once I had found Sadie, I couldn't think of a way to get her out of the room, past the two big guys, that didn't involve Frank's type of solution, or me bleeding in the gutter... neither option appealed to me, so I went with plan C. A nice parking lot fire is easy to start (
HEET gas line cleaner, works well
). It gets peoples' attention, makes lots of noise, throws lots of pretty colors and shadows, and generally provides great cover for a daring rescue. Once the boys went out to watch their car burning, I let myself into their room with my key (
a wrecking bar
) and took Sadie out and away in the confusion.

“Must be that's the way it happened...
anyway... they signed a statement to that effect.” Frank kept eye-contact longer than I was able to, but I covered by slapping a non-existent mosquito off of my calf.

One of the beautiful things about Frank Gibson, cop and sometime dinner-host to yours truly, is that he doesn't feel the need to call me on my activities of last night (
or arrest me for arson and whatever other laws I broke getting Sadie home
). He knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew; but he was glad that Sadie got home and away from the monsters-in-training and that nobody got hurt any more than could be avoided. He had busted my chops a couple of times over the years about my investigations without benefit of license from New York State, but since they really are arguably favors for friends, and not services for cash, he is mostly interested in keeping an eye on me (
and in letting me know that he's keeping an eye on me
). Official business out of the way for the afternoon, he relaxed a bit, and started into the small talk.

“Meg wanted me to ask you when you're coming over for supper
again.” Frank and I fell sideways into the bizarre relationship that we have because I knew his wife from my dealings with the Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter. Despite what television, and lots of books, would have you believe, cops and detectives don't work on the same side, same team, or for the same reasons. Most of the time, the police (
rightly
) view detectives as window peepers, ambulance chasers, bounty hunters, or criminals hiding behind a lightweight badge; Frank initially felt that way about me (
and to some extent still does
). Dealing with Frank had been like porcupine sex for the first few years, but we now had some ground rules established, and made it work by building/mending fences where/when needed. He had become the “go to guy” among the Tri-Lakes law enforcement community whenever my name came up or I was connected to a case somehow, so we had meetings like this one from time to time.

“Next Monday, the 10th, would be great, if that works for you g
uys.” Really any night, including tonight, would work for me, but I like to give him some time so he doesn't feel like I'm rushing him... also, a bit of time might allow any remaining questions about Sadie to occur to Frank and then recede again. A fly on the wall during one of these dinners might think that Frank and I are friends, we talk about a variety of non-crime-related subjects centering mostly on a shared interest in camping. I met Meg, Frank's wife, a school psychologist, while walking dogs for the local animal shelter... we both walk dogs a few times a week, and our paths crossed enough times that she found out who I was. One day she came by Smart Pig to check me out; saying that I rang enough weird bells to interest but not scare her, which is better than scaring her, but can sometimes lead to more sharing and self-reflection than I want. We had spent that day talking about our childhoods in big towns, and living in a small town; in combination with our love for homeless dogs and Friehofer’s chocolate chip cookies, it was enough to build an initial bridge that led to friendship over the years.

“Fine.
Same time as usual, and you can bring Cynthia, or someone else, if you want.” said Frank. I've never come to his house with anyone else, but he keeps asking; I think that it's a combination of three things:

1)
He has some level of discomfort with my relationship with his wife, which covers ground and emotional content that theirs does not,

2)
He wants to put me in a box, straight/gay/ single/dating, so that he can get a better handle on me,

3)
He wants to make me squirm a bit (
as I always do
) for the reasons above.

“No, thanks, just me; don't actually know what Cynthia’s up to right now, but can I bring dessert?
I make a mean tiramisu.” I'm not 100% certain what tiramisu is, but am sure that I could make one if pressed. I blurted my offer out to cover my slip about Cynthia... mentioning that she was missing and presumed (
by me
) to have been taken crossed the line between small talk and shop-talk, which was something that Frank and I don't do, for all sorts of very good reasons. Frank stopped watching the football practice to turn and look in my direction for the first time since I had walked up to join him by the practice field. I got a small chill as the benign, bumbling facade slipped for a second while Frank replayed my words and partial recovery, and examined me for guilt or anxiety.

“Funny...
I brought her up because she's been on my mind. She called me the other day to ask me some questions about the way drugs move to and through the Tri-Lakes and Northern New York in general. I went to the library this morning to follow-up and see if there was a reason behind her inquiry, but Ben hasn't seen her; doesn't seem worried though, death in the family or some such... sister maybe... illness.” Cynthia lost her sister to drugs while they were both in college, and had strong opinions on the subject; I had found this out during the early years of our working together.

I wanted to get Frank off the topic of Cynthia, because if we were both looking for her, we would inevitably find each other first; with co
mplications for me guaranteed. “It's always seemed that there's as much drug use here as anywhere... maybe a bit more over in Placid... ski-town and all... and at the colleges, of course, but no opium dens on Main Street, so far as I know.” I was hopeful that useless platitudes and generalities might prime the pump, and get him talking about something besides Cynthia.

“There actually used to be more drugs sold in the Tri-Lakes then we have today, if arrests and related crimes are anything to go by.” Frank said.
“Things seem to have settled down from a few years ago, although George somehow finds enough to keep himself in nice rides.” He pointed with his chin down to the end of the field where a big grey-haired sloppy-looking man in a fancy sweat suit was leaning against a jet-black Range Rover.

“That guy's a drug dealer?” I asked Frank.
“He looks so pedestrian.”

“George stopped dealing ten years a
go, nowadays he's management. He runs what passes for organized crime up here since chasing away all of his contemporaries; he gets a piece of most everything illegal that happens in the Tri-Lakes.”

“If you know who he is and what he does, why isn’t he up in Dannamora?”
Dannamora is a maximum security prison not too far away, one side of their Main Street is literally lined with bars and pawn shops, and the other side is a 60 foot high concrete wall with gun towers every 100 feet; it is both reality and metaphor for those of us living in the North Country.

“He's clever, he's careful, he keeps clean, and he gives us a steady stream of little fish and little busts to keep the system happily chugging along.
In some ways, things are better since he took over; he's actually clamped down on the drugs in the schools a bit since his son”, Frank pointed to the hulking center squirting the ball to the quarterback, “got into middle and then high school. Less drugs for kids than there were five years ago, but he still seems to do OK.”

“Are you a fan?”

I got a cold look from Frank, “He's a stain, but the pragmatist in me sees that my kids are safer with one in-control person running things than with 50 assholes competing for the souls of 7th graders.”

“That's an interesting thought...
a cop using a big word like 'pragmatist'... kidding, I meant the lesser of two evils in a practical situation.” I felt as though I/we were coming out of the dangerous segment of the conversation essentially intact, and that poking him a bit might close the deal.