Bouncer Read online

  “Hello,” he said gently. “Do you remember me? You and I played catch last Monday? My name’s Philemon, what’s yours?” There seemed to be vast hesitation as if the child was afraid to answer. Finally one word drifted over the wall.

  “Bon . . . Bonsir.”

  It was hard to ascertain whether it was a male or female voice, or even whether it was young or old.

  “Bouncer,” Philemon repeated. “That’s a fine name for such a great pitcher.” He in turn bounced the ball high before tossing it barely clear of the high spikes upon the wall. They played for another five minutes until, just like on Monday, the game stopped abruptly.

  “Bouncer, do you want to play some more?” Nothing but the distant complaint of a mocking bird’s chatter filled the morning air. With great reluctance, Philemon returned to his tasks, the game with the lonely child occasionally returning to his mind as he tidied and trimmed, ensuring Mrs. Simms’ garden remained the most beautiful on the block.

  And so it continued through that week and into the next. On Monday, he played three separate times with the silent child who seemed quite skilled, if his creative tosses and rapid, scrambling retrievals were any clue. On Wednesday, Philemon had just thrown a high spin when he heard Mrs. Simms’ brittle voice behind him.

  “What on earth are you doing, Philemon?”

  He turned guiltily. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Simms. I’ll make up the time. Bouncer and I were just playing some ball.”

  “Bouncer?”

  “The little kid on the other side of the wall. We’ve been tossing the ball back and forth. It’s a harmless game.”

  Mrs. Simms’ pale blue eyes narrowed as she studied the high wall. “I’ve never heard of anyone called Bouncer living there.”

  “That’s the name he gave me. Assuming he’s a male, of course. I remember playing catch with my own two boys, and it brings back pleasant memories. I didn’t mean to be negligent on the job.”

  Mrs. Simms swung her faded eyes back to him and smiled sweetly. “I could never accuse you of that, Philemon. Will you come around the back and carry some bricks for me into the greenhouse?”

  Philemon took a relieved breath. He loved his job and didn’t want to jeopardize it by annoying Mrs. Simms. Luckily, she was an easygoing, uncomplaining sort. He didn’t return to the front yard that day and wished he could have told little Bouncer goodbye.

  Friday Morning, September 20th, 2002

  The end of the week stayed busy. Mrs. Simms had a million projects, and Philemon started his day by pruning the myrtle shrubs and removing the heavy purple-black berries nearly ready to drop when Mrs. Simms showed up at his elbow.

  “I have to go to the bank, Philemon, and dump off some clothes at the hospice shop. Here’s your money for the week, and I’ll see you first thing on Monday. Make sure you hang up the tools, won’t you?”

  She’d dressed in a bright pink frock that made her look old and tired. More rouge than necessary gave her pallid cheeks some life, and she resembled a manikin with the falsely painted colors.

  “No problem, Mrs. Simms. I’ll see you Monday, then.”

  He kept working as she backed her huge blue Chevy out of the driveway and waved in return when she lifted a pale hand to him.

  Finished, and with just over an hour to kill, he wandered into the front yard. He wondered if Bouncer wanted to play.

  “Hello, Bouncer,” he called. “It’s Philemon! Would you like to play ball?”

  There was an immediate response as that breathless chuckle again rose above the fence.

  “Fil, Fil.”

  “Yes, it’s Philemon.” Philemon was a damn hard name for a child, and ‘Phil’ was close enough for him. He’d been called that more than once by many he hadn’t liked half as much. “Throw me the ball, Bouncer.”

  It spiraled and plopped not three feet from the curb, and they played merrily for several minutes. The wind picked up, and a couple times whirled the ball off course. As Philemon approached the high wall, a putrid scent assailed his nostrils, and he grimaced before returning the ball. It didn’t come back, but Philemon knew to expect that now. Their game always randomly started, and as abruptly, ceased. That was simply the fickle nature of children. Philemon turned to leave when he swore the raspy voice said, “Phil . . . Mag . . . mag … nolia.”

  Magnolia? What on earth did that mean? “Hey, what’s that? Bouncer, are you there?” Not even the crunch of gravel or the whisper of wind through the huge maple trees lining the street whispered back.

  Poised in the middle of the cul-de-sac, Philemon peered about. The two large end houses dominated the large circular curve of the street separated by the unclaimed area. Too small a lot for another house to be built and too large to be simply classified a dog park; it remained a nature reserve for the residents. Shaped like a piece of pie, the narrowest part opened to the cul-de-sac and the widest backed onto the shrub oak forest that sloped gently to eventually meet the gentle Monroe river that flowed only periodically. During drought, nothing existed but a trickle, but at the whims of the fickle rains during winter, the river actually rose one to two feet as it flowed towards the Sacramento River.

  Within this large wedged piece of land, a huge magnolia tree of at least fifty to sixty years old dominated the landscape. It cast a huge circle of shade, and its massive trunk measured twice a grown man’s arm span. Abundant large white flowers opened towards the sun, a marvel indeed in this sparsely treed piece of land. The magnolia seemed to defy the scrub nature of the oak forest and reminded the gardener more of the deep South than semi-arid California. This tree must be what Bouncer had referred to.

  He vividly remembered that, in his childhood, his parents had had a large climbing tree growing in their backyard. He and his two brothers had built a rough shack among the broad branches and called it their hideout, though it was obvious to everyone where they disappeared every afternoon. Perhaps Bouncer had his own special place among the shady leaves and twisting trunk of the magnolia, and Philemon decided that after work, he would check out the old tree. Perhaps he’d find some clues to Bouncer’s identity, or better yet, find a small child playing there. Housed deeply inside Philemon’s soul was the need to return to innocence, and that possibility of reliving some of his own lost childhood made him anticipate quitting time. He wondered if Darcy would mind him bringing some Legos or something for Bouncer out of the hoard they’d collected for his grandchildren.

  Philemon worked diligently for the rest of the morning before heading to the pie-shaped field. He’d told Darcy more than a week ago of his pleasant game with the child so she wouldn’t be surprised if he was a mite late. Philemon was a natural with children, so she laughed and encouraged him. She knew how much Philemon missed his grandchildren.

  At roughly 12:05, Philemon waited under the heavy shade of the magnolia tree. Someone had been busy here, for a great deal of loose dirt and rocks were piled about. He remembered that, as a boy, he’d dug tunnels into the earth, pretending he was a pirate burying his ill-gotten treasure in deepest secret. Apparently, Bouncer had done the same. Philemon moved closer. The dirt seemed grossly disturbed, the sparse grass bent between the white river rock scattered liberally over the newly upturned soil. He knew from his own experience digging in Mrs. Simms’ garden that the rocks were a major nuisance. Philemon suddenly stopped abruptly, his throat paralyzed.

  There, situated between a small cluster of river rock and savaged earth, poked one partially unearthed human hand. Philemon gave an inhuman scream and backed away, resisting the urge to run. Seeking to control the burst of fear and revulsion threatening to paralyze his whole being, he moved forward on leaden legs as a horrible wave of déjà vu overwhelmed him. It was indeed a hand upon closer inspection; curled and grossly pale with just the faintest trace of black human hair evident above the knuckle of three protruding fingers. The bile rose in his throat, and he rushed to the edge of the street, his brow and back suddenly soaked with perspiration. Philemon clumsily retrieved his c
ell phone from his jeans’ pocket and with a shaking dark finger punched 911.

  Chapter 2

  Friday afternoon, September 20th, 2002

  Monroe had always been touted a peaceful town by the locals. Therefore, Police Chief Richard Rollins, who had hoped to obtain an eventless retirement in less than five months, was thoroughly pissed off. This couldn’t be happening now! He observed the heavy body being slowly unearthed by his three grim-faced deputies wearing protective masks and gloves against the gagging stench. Inspector Roger Chung, Monroe’s second-in-command, hovered to one side, shaking his dark head. He had briefly interviewed the visibly shaken Philemon Jenkins before moving on to the site, and it had taken him only a couple minutes to suspect the identity of the bloated corpse. A white-faced Randy Phelps, the newest officer on the small force, snapped photos, the whirring sound of the camera vying with the hum of persistent flies.

  Thad Fisher hadn’t been seen for nearly two weeks, and Roger had personally been of the opinion that the ex-mayor had finally left his overbearing and persnickety wife for his mistress. Thad Fisher had been a big man at over 6’1” and two hundred-fifty pounds. He’d possessed a large, soft belly and boisterous laugh, and as the dirt slowly disappeared, his once-white dress shirt half-revealed a hairy abdomen that forced Richard Rollins to lurch off, his stomach churning. Roger examined the area under the magnolia tree meticulously, ordering his junior officer to take more photos before allowing the others to dig.

  Even though he instructed the stoic senior officer, Brian Stevens, to mix plaster of Paris for a smeared footprint in the dirt, Roger harbored no hopes that it would reveal the killer. He was certain the print belonged to the helpful gardener now being interviewed by the force’s only remaining on-duty officer, Jesse Steele. A small crowd of interested bystanders from the posh neighborhood remained at a respectful distance, and Roger was grateful the magnolia tree was located a good two hundred feet from the curb. There was little the crowd could discern or disturb, thank goodness. Roger Chung hunched down and examined the body, steeling himself against the reality of what an extended time underground produces in this hot weather.

  His dark eyes widened as Thad Fisher’s left arm was finally unearthed; it flopped heavily upon the dirt and Roger leaned forward, suddenly intent. One of the ex-mayor’s five digits was missing, that of his ring finger. It had been neatly and precisely hacked off, and in addition, a feminine ring consisting of shiny silver braiding rested on his pinkie. Inspector Chung had, upon occasion, played small-stakes poker with Thad and had never before noticed evidence of any such ring, though Thad Fisher had been just the personality for it. Thad loved to flaunt his financial success and prominent position in the small city. Loud and opinionated and blessed with a notorious roving eye, he’d been a colorful, though highly ineffective mayor.

  Roger straightened up, a sharp pain forcing him to push harshly at his right abdomen. The pain decreased after rubbing it for a few seconds and nearly back to normal Roger took a deep shaky breath. He readjusted his Ray-Bans and strolled up to Richard Rollins, who, as he peered down the cul-de-sac, kept his back turned both to the magnolia and the grisly remains of Roger’s one-time poker partner.

  “It’s Thad, isn’t it?” asked Richard, already knowing the answer. He fished out his handkerchief and mopped his heavily lined brow. This damn heat sucked the moisture from the living and caused the dead to stink.

  “I think there’s little doubt,” said Roger in his usual, quiet way and described the missing finger as well as the ex-mayor’s strange acquisition of the tiny pinkie ring.

  “You’d better call your wife,” stated Richard, wishing this day was already over. He’d have to contact the Realtor and reschedule his long awaited meeting regarding selling his house. “Looks like we’re in for the long haul here. Time for you to do that magic we pay you all those big bucks for.”

  Both knew the big bucks were a wishful joke, but Roger’s incredible skills as a detective were not. Richard Rollins made no secret about his intense admiration of his second-in-command’s methods. Roger had graduated in the top five of his class in San Francisco, and even though the detective hadn’t had the opportunity to use his skills much here, Richard was highly impressed by what he’d seen. He studied the stocky Asian man, who once again analyzed the vacant lot. His subordinate was hardworking, dedicated, and so intelligent one would feel intimidated if Roger wasn’t such a nice guy.

  He should have felt complimented, but instead, Roger felt only a mild wave of dizziness. Usually, the heat didn’t affect him like this. It was high time for summer to release its grip on the Big Valley and usher in cooler days. He needed to continue this conversation in the shade, so Roger gently tugged at Richard’s arm until his chief followed him reluctantly to the gravesite.

  Richard stood over the corpse and examined a man he’d had little respect for. Roger watched the play of emotions drift over his superior’s face. Another sharp twinge twisted his side, and Roger Chung shoved his palm forcibly against the pain. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d seen corpses before, and they’d never affected him like this. He should feel exhilarated by the first apparent homicide in Monroe County in over six months, not dizzy. The last had been a drunk who’d been dumped on the highway just past the northernmost potato fields. While it had screamed possible homicide, it later came to light that a remorseful farmer, one John Houghton, had deposited the body by the road after giving a ride to a derelict that’d ungratefully died of a massive heart attack in the bed of his battered pickup. John had panicked and later admitted to what happened, but the body had lain in the sun all afternoon and been an awful sight to behold.

  Roger pressed at the pain again. The nausea persisted along with a queer clutching ache on his right side no matter how hard he massaged the area. He forced himself to study the crime scene now being efficiently taped off by Randy Phelps. Thad Fisher lay totally exposed upon his back, his partially unbuttoned shirt stained with blood and dirt. Randy, finished with his task, waited for new instructions. The entire department consisted of only five officers, a dispatcher, one secretary, and two clerks along with Roger and the chief. In a situation like this, every man had to pitch in. The highway patrol governed the long stretch between here and Modesto, and until now, Roger had felt the department grossly over manned.

  “Start taking close-up pictures,” instructed Roger, “while I record what I see.” He removed his small handheld recorder and began a monotone recital as Randy snapped away. Roger always recorded his first impressions on tape.

  “Rigor mortis unapparent, which means body has been dead well over 24 hours. The skin of his abdomen has taken on a greenish tint, also placing time of death to several days, perhaps even a week. Bloodstains liberally splattered over victim’s shirt and hands. A small, deep entry wound is evident on the left side of the throat.”

  Roger squatted closer, the stench of death causing his stomach to swirl as he studied the unearthed mayor. The dirt and debris made it difficult to determine if there was an exit wound, but it was apparent, by the lack of burn marks and precise symmetry of the entry wound, that Thad Fisher hadn’t been the victim of gunshot. In addition, no blood stained the earth near the body, but even so he instructed Randy to take soil samples. A mild clench of excitement joined the vague nausea. Clearly, the mayor had not been killed here. He dictated his findings into his recorder as Richard, now in control, studied Thad Fisher.

  “The bastard cut off his finger as a souvenir. How sick is that?”

  “Serial killers often take trophies,” said Roger. His hand shot to his side, pressing hard. His black eyes closed for a moment in pain.

  “Good God, Roger, are you all right?” asked Richard Rollins, momentarily shaken from his perusal of the dirty puffed body.

  Did his chief really have two double chins or was he seeing quadruple? “Of course,” Roger responded until another acute attack doubled him over, and he pitched face down onto the short dry grass of the vacant
lot, barely avoiding striking his head on an unearthed rock before losing consciousness.

  “Ah, shit,” said Chief Rollins before crying out to the paramedics who had just arrived on the scene. “Something’s wrong with my man!”

  Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm

  Chief Rollins was livid. He knew he should only be concerned about the health and upcoming appendectomy of the city’s only detective, but strangely felt only inconvenienced. Roger’s willowy wife, Susan, leaned near her husband, holding his hand in support, and Richard felt a twinge of envy. Susan Chung was exotic and lovely in the way only East-Asian women can be, and it always startled him when she spoke, her voice sounding as Californian as any other born and raised here.

  “All will come right,” she whispered to her husband, who felt rather well after the mega-dose of painkillers.

  Roger turned his head towards his Chief. There was something important he had to say, and he frowned, concentrating hard. Ah, yes, the body of their ex-mayor and the now stifled investigation.

  “I’ve put you in a fine pickle,” he stated, his voice slurred from the numbing barbiturates.

  “It’s okay,” Chief Rollins mumbled, knowing he couldn’t utter anything else. What the hell was he to do now? He hated to call in the boys from Cameron, 50 miles away. They were all so pompous and depreciating now that they had their new state of the art forensics lab, and that blowhard, Bill Peters, with his smug demeanor and condescending voice, always put him on edge. But it was clear he had no choice; he had to call in someone before the crime site turned cold.

  “Thayne,” slurred Roger. “Call in Nick Thayne.”