The skyline of the big city at night, quite a sight to behold in its magnificent array of glowing lights, impressive structures and bustling sounds that stir the imagination. It was nights just like these, slow and quiet nights that allowed him to take a glance out at the world from the mounting discomfort of his office window. Each light comprised of an office or residence, just like his, where men like him or unlike him were working or residing and living and dying with lives of their own, that for better or worse continued on as the world turned in perpetuity.

     Adjusting downward the wide brim of his grey fedora, the brown haired and brown eyed man could not help but think about how the classy one of a kind piece of attire was the only thing about him that still commanded respect, as he retreated to the desk. Collapsing into his seat after growing tired of the urban beauty, the tall glass of whisky and ice was clamoring for his thirst. Indulging in a generous sip, he coughed following the sting of the drink, his iron stomach was not what it once had been, and neither was his tongue. Closing his eyes as he rocked back into the chair, memories from days gone past come flooding back much like the alcohol gliding down his throat as he traces his life back to his noble roots...

     Graduation from law school was the first stop on the brief journey through the years. Smiles abounded between the younger man, his friends and colleagues following an arduous passage collectively endured by all parties decorated in regalia. It had been particularly trying for the daydreamer following his early struggles, but his bright eyed smile shined brightest of all as at last, the day was his. Listening intently on each word spoken by the Dean and keynote speaker, every fiber in his being intended to follow through on devoting his career in the name of the words and wisdom of which they spoke as he received his diploma and set out on his career.

     Fondly recalling the handshake at the conclusion of his first interview, the early years working as an attorney were his most cherished. Intelligence and wit go a long way in the legal profession, and he was able to pick up on the tools of the trade rapidly as he ascended up the chain of command.

     As the years passed he came across and often times stood face to face with corruption, not an easy obstacle to avoid when it prowled in every direction of the by-the-book adherent. Conflicts of interest were ripe, the young attorney finding himself trapped in the crosshairs on several occasions, as it often became a matter of integrity versus strategy, a contrast of values that would serve as an introduction into the next portion of his life. Unwilling to acquiesce in pressures exerted from above while keen on keeping within distance in order to leave an eye on each development for purposes of critical assessment, the gateway drug had been digested, and would prove to be a fatal dosage.

     The last stop along the flashback freeway consisted of the most painful memories of all. The newspaper headlines were fresh in his mind, shouting troubling words that amounted to daggers, including bribery and scandal, only they failed to acknowledge the truthful counterparts to those words such as cover up and scapegoat. The ensuing months were hazy but such was for the best given the lack of any warm fuzzy memories, as that time frame was a dizzying array of press conferences, firings, hearings and disbarment. Falling on the sword split his body, mind and spirit forever on that fateful day, slicing through him far more severely than any mere instrument of impalement ever could.

     The shrill blow of a car horn in the distance brings him back to the present as he gazes down at his drink, the once copious miniature sized floating icebergs melted into a puddle of watered down whiskey. It was not often that the mild heat of the room temperature beat him in consuming the ice before he could appreciate the beverage in its zenith.

     Out of the corner of his eyes a white figure interrupts the stoic calm, garnering his attention as he instinctually commits a soft jump in surprise, before closing his eyes and exhaling loudly in an attempt to temper down his reaction.

“Pardon me, it’s not often that I receive visitors at this hour. Much less guests of such stealth demeanor and fine style, the weather is no match for your taste in fashion,” acknowledges the reminiscing drinker. “How did you get in here by chance, I’m not one to leave the door unlocked?” he asks, eyeing the sharp white suit and cap of his guest, a man in his forties with a set of sky blue eyes, jet black hair, a faint dusty beard and a yellow tie to complete the ensemble.

“Stealth had always been my most favorable attribute. A steady rain has begun to fall, I imagine you may be inquiring as to why my suit is dry?” asks the visitor.

“I’m at a loss,” replies the host in a sarcastic and uninterested manner.

“Why, you are the detective are you not? A Mr. Gordon Graham?” asks the guest.

“Obliged I’m sure. I take it you’re a comedian?” asks Graham.

“Not especially although I had quite a sense of humor,” the man responds with a chuckle.

“Is that right. What happened to that? Although to fully answer your inquiry I am Detective Gordon Graham at your service, in the flesh. Care for a drink?” asks the detective.

“Ironic that you should mention that. No, alcohol and me do no longer mix I am afraid to say,” replies the guest.

“Very sad to hear that. A man without alcohol is like a flower without petals. Please do not mind if I engage, I am just working as a private detective until I can become a professional alcoholic. Care to introduce yourself or are you the type that likes to play games?” asks Graham.

“The name is Lionel Criswell, and I do have quite the puzzle for you, and I can promise you that it is unlike anything you have encountered before in your career,” replies Mr. Criswell.

“Delighted to meet your acquaintance,” declares Graham. “Something tells me that what you are about to say goes beyond merely a missing kitten or tricycle. Do you reside here in Detroit?”

“That was once the case, although a more accurate and contemporary depiction of me would be that of a homeless man,” replies Criswell.

Glancing up with a perplexed look on his face, Graham responds. “You look damn straight for a street rat I must say.”

“Mind if I have a smoke?” asks Criswell.

“Of course not, I was beginning to wonder if you were some sort of inhuman monster,” replies Graham.

“You may not come off like I expected you too, but you do have quite an inquisitive mind. I do not know just what it is about me that gives my secret away, granted I do not feel the way that I once did and for some reason can no longer drink. Thank goodness for the taste of cigarettes. May I ask why you are a private detective instead of working as a public servant with the police department?” asks Criswell.

Chuckling to himself under his breath as he walks towards the window, Graham replies, “You just asked a mouthful. Let’s just say that I do not have a lot of friends downtown, blacklisted. Now, what type of secret do you have to share with me?” asks Graham.

“Sharing it is one thing, explaining it another matter altogether, describes Criswell.

Hearing a faint train whistle carrying off in the distance, Criswell briefly pauses before continuing. “It is sounds like those that make me feel alive, sounds I have missed the most, and that I now appreciate once more. This may shed some further light on what I am asking of you this evening,” replies Criswell as he unveils a crumpled, folded up newspaper containing a picture of a man evoking a strong likeness. The headline reads: “Brewer Murdered.”

     “I see. That is some resemblance, brother of yours?” asks Graham.

     “Distant relative that happens to be especially close,” replies Criswell.

     “You going to share with me your relation and tell me what you prerogative is, or do you just have a series of games that you would rather play?” demands Graham. “Granted time is heavy on my hands but this is growing increasingly ridiculous.”

     “I will not tell you. I will show you. Figure this one out Mr. Detective,” boasts Criswell before disappearing, vanishing into the air directly in front of a shocked Gordon Graham.

 Becoming increasingly perplexed as the minutes tick away, the detective briefly ponders down in order to examine the stiff punch of his drink before slumping back into his chair, searching around the room in desperate need not for the man but for an answer and finding none as he turns his gaze towards the rotating planks of the ceiling fan...

2: Prologue

Enter the clean office and messy mind of the world of Private Detective Gordon Graham. A man with a checkered and questionable past, he has been through quite a bit and feels as though he has seen it all. Suffice to say he has never encountered a client just like Mr. Lionel Criswell, a man who did not disappear into a magic box and is not readying to jump out of a hat. Detective Graham may not have many clients or allies these days among the living, but it is safe to say that he now has one of each among the deceased.

     Mr. Criswell needs both help and some answers, and although he may not fully realize it just yet Detective Graham has more in common with this dead man than he would care to admit. Together they are about to embark upon an adventure where they will team up with a dear friend of Graham’s, as they come across a deadly assassin and his scheming beautiful young wife who will stop at nothing to uphold the legacy of her dangerous husband. It’s a race to the finish line in this cat and mouse game of life and death. Detective Graham may have been bored earlier this evening but the starting gun has already been fired off, both in the fight of his life, and the fight for his life...

3: Chapter 2:

In some ways post World War II America was a much simpler time than the general hustle and bustle of subsequent generations. For others working the circuit or keeping pace with the racket it was a far more hectic era than many before or after. Rumbling down the street in his brand new 1947 Green Chrysler Club Coupe, Detective Graham glances downwards at his gold watch, a gift from a grandfather and a reminder of better days. 1:15 p.m., about seventy-five minutes past his usual opening time of noon, although hardly the first instance of his tardiness. Parking his car on a coating of gravel, Graham turns off the ignition and exits his vehicle, strolling along the sidewalk in his wingtip shoes towards his office before grasping for his keys that have sank deeply into his pockets.

     “Sleep well last night?” speaks a familiar voice beckoning rather loudly in his ear.

     “You spooked me,” replies Graham.

“Pun intended?” asks Criswell.

“No, I have hardly the need for puns, I never use them. Come in,” explains Graham.

“It is a lovely day outside, do you mind if we take a stroll in the park up the block?” asks Criswell.

“A little fresh air will do me well, come on,” replies Graham as the two head off down the block.

“Your office hours read noon,” remarks Criswell.

“I am not a morning person, although I am hardly a night owl either. Suppose it is just never my time of day,” explains Graham.

“Mr. Criswell, my health and mind are not what they once were, and I am no doctor, but what I do know is that I am hardly the type to suffer from delusion. If there is but one soft spot left in my heart, it is for honesty. So what I am trying to ask you is, are you really...” Graham’s voice trails off; uncertain of whether he can carry through on his questioning.

“Dead? It would appear so, would it not?” replies Criswell.

“Detective Graham, before I share my information with you, would you answer a few questions of mine?” asks Criswell.

“Shoot,” replies Graham.

“I came to you because from what I have heard over the years, you are the best in your field of expertise, may you confirm my analysis of your reputation?” asks Criswell.

“Well, I’ve never been of the arrogant variety, or the breed that enjoys a tooting of my own horn. That being said you happen to be looking at a man with an uncanny knack for getting to the bottom of things. A real ace when it comes to solving problems--that is when I’m not creating them. The door swings both ways,” explains the cynical detective.

“Why were you not stationed in the war?” asks Criswell.

“My eyes are shot, lifelong heavy prescription. Don’t get me wrong I’d love to have been a sharpshooter,” replies Graham in a sarcastic manner. “As you know, they let any blind fool in that can follow orders and goosestep without tripping over his own shoes. The real reason is because my employers handled their business in keeping most of us intact, at least those of us whom were over thirty at the time and I was thirty-six when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. At the conclusion of my up and down and ultimately unsuccessful legal career I was disbarred following a bribery scandal of which I can assure you I played no prominent part of. The central figures were straight at the top of the underworld pyramid but I was the fall man,” explains Graham as his eyes look distant as his thoughts travel back again as he tells his story.

“Did you ever wish to strike back at the perpetrators?” asks Criswell.

“Strike back? When a Rottweiler bites your leg you do not bite back, explains Graham.

“Before I request that you fill me in on the details, do you have any physical or paranormal explanation at your disposal to offer me, if you would be so kind?” asks Graham.

“Certainly. As far as why on Earth I am here, I haven’t the faintest. The only explanation I have reached is that I have unfinished business of some sort,” elucidates Criswell.

“You mentioned that you can smoke but not drink, how is that so? Don’t get me wrong I am not any sort of a scientist, my analysis is merely for sport, but any further information you have at your disposal couldn’t hurt,” replies Graham.

“What I can tell you is that it began several months ago. That is how long I was gone; the seasons had changed overnight as far as I was concerned. It was the little things I was able to focus on at first, simple shapes and objects. Everything was hazy, but as it began to come into form I started remembering things. Initially I was only seeing light and shadows, and then came the colors flooding back. Red was first, and then the rest in turn. It was as if I was learning everything over again, as if I had suffered some traumatic injury or amnesia,” declares Criswell.

“I see, go on,” remarks Graham, briefly cutting him off mid stride.

“My walking was quite different, despite moving my legs I would feel as though I were floating. Was no longer tired or hungry, and felt an empty void in the pit of my chest, something that I just cannot put into words. Slowly, the recollection of my most recent memory began to become clear, and it was then that the awful truth dawned upon me. Speaking to others was of no use, as they could not hear me. Nor could they see me,” explains Criswell.

“Yes, but how is it that I can see and hear you?” asks Graham.

“Enraged, saddened and frightened all at once, I let out a great burst of anger, and it was then that I learned the secret. Placing every ounce of my being into focus, working hard and concentrating my immense amount of energy was the only means of being able to appear as well as communicate. However, it has not always worked, and some people cannot see me at all, although I do seem to be growing articulate of the nuances. Alcohol has not cooled my concerns while cigarettes have. The physics were not explained to me, as death does not come with an instruction manual,” quips Criswell.

“What information do you have pertaining to your final memories before this incident happened, what recollections were becoming clear?” asks Graham, lighting his cigarette and offering one to Criswell.

“The images from that night began playing back repeatedly in my mind. I was walking back to my car and it was very late when it happened. Such a beautiful night it was, the calm interrupted by the sound of a door opening. That creaking noise was subsequently interrupted by a much more unpleasant sound of a gunshot. It felt as though it had taken my ear off the blast was so loud and so close, and my head exhibited a piercing sensation I had never felt before in my life. Only my head had not been shot. It was at this moment that I found myself on the ground as the pain spread throughout my chest. The last thing I remembered was feeling the blood pour out of my wounds, and after that there was nothing,” explains Criswell.

“That hardly sounds like an enchanting evening. Please forgive my robust sense of humor. Any idea on who would have shot you?” asks Graham.  

“The conclusion I have drawn is that I have been placed here for a reason. Yes, I know precisely who shot me. A Mr. Melvin Selden. His presence was strong that night, and although I cannot yet piece together entirely what happened or why, I can tell you with absolute certainty that Selden was the man behind the gun,” offers Criswell.

“Melvin ‘Curly’ Selden. That is a name that many in my circle have heard before, one that is quite familiar to myself for that matter. A most unsavory fellow, this Selden character,” declares Graham. “Do you have any proof, evidence, anything tangible?”

“Not yet I am afraid, the police have questioned him but have been unable to deduce his precise role in the crime, which is why I have come to acquire your services,” replies Criswell.

“I understand. Tell me, have you met first with the police?” asks Graham.

“My attempted communications fell short, in fact I was not sure that I would be able to appear before you last night,” explains the ghost.

     “This is hardly the type of case that I had in mind, but I’ll accept. I pledge you everything in my power to provide justice to you. Provided that you are able to offer some means of compensation?” jokes Graham as the two once again find themselves in front of his office following their walk in the park.

     “Naturally. Help put Selden behind bars, and there is a combination to my safe that is yours for the taking, the contents include much of my wealth and several deposits I had made for safekeeping during the depression in the event of a bank run, a grand sum of approximately thirty five thousand dollars,” replies Criswell.

     “Well that is one form of acceptable payment,” replies Graham enthusiastically. “Mr. Criswell, your case just shot up to the top of my priorities,” boasts an excited Graham.

4: Chapter 3

Resting his back against the comfortable contours of a chair with his red ribbon black fedora hat covering his eyes rests Ren Funk, emitting not so much as a flinch as Graham returns inside the office. Aside from a slightly healthier frame, Funk’s appearance strongly resembles that of his partner with brown hair, brown eyes, and a height somewhere in the neighborhood of six feet tall.

     “Wake up your majesty, I have something to say that will scratch you right where you itch, and better than any dream could do,” exclaims Graham.

     “Nothing beats a catnap after lunch, it’s the little things in life is it not?” asks Funk following a deep yawn, stretching his arms and gathering himself.

     “Ren, how long have we been partners?” Graham asks, lighting a cigarette.

     “The better of three years this October,” replies Ren Funk in a stern manner.

     “Right. Feels like it’s been a decade. I shall never forget the circumstances of our first encounter, having just opened up this operation I was in need of some support staff. The very first applicant, in you came, beaten and bruised and bitter at the world that had let you down, much as I was. Honest as all get out no less, sharing with me very candidly your classified exploits as a wartime spy,” declares Graham.

     “Regretfully enough, that is a most honest assessment of myself. They showed me little loyalty, what good is it to hold up my end of the bargain. As of late I have increasingly turned to the rearview mirror of my life. My parents emigrated from Germany after the First World War, and fortunately enough for me they did not change our name or our cultural habits. German was spoken in our house and thus I spoke the language with supreme fluency. Why, your Kraut partner was as German as Oktoberfest. The War Department put my skills to good use. One thing led to another and I found myself spending a great deal of time in Berlin during the War. Spent so much time taking down the Third Reich that in some ways I would like to believe that I helped defeat those Nazi relatives of mine,” explains Funk with a chuckle.

     “Well, despite not being adorned in decoration and recognition of your service, at least you left a legacy in some capacity,” replies Graham.

     “The knowledge and remembrance of my contribution are the only aspects of the those years that I dare ponder about anymore without feeling pain. 1945 was celebrated everywhere in America with the exception of my home, as the end of the war was the beginning of the end of my career. Tossed aside as if I were yesterday’s news, like a seventy-year old assembly line factory worker, only my back was strong, my mind was sharp and my hands had so much more left to give. There was more to it I suppose than that, transitioning from fighting fascists to fighting communists, but my intelligence was lacking with regards to that land in the East as I did not know my A-B-C’s from my 1-2-3’s in that Cyrillic alphabet of theirs. Just as well, who wants to work in Russia?” declares the disillusioned former spy.

“Now, after I was rudely interrupted from my slumber, you claimed that you had something exotic to discuss?” asks Funk.

“Ren, in this day and age there are only three things that men fight over that are worth a damn; money, politics, and women. Considering that I’m burned out on the latter two I’ll maintain my focus on the first item. The past few years have been an economic boom time, a prosperous new age for America’s most thriving metropolis, this arsenal of democracy of ours. As you know we seem to be stuck in 1930s wage stagflation. It would delight you to know that a change is afoot. A brewer named Lionel Criswell was murdered several months ago and I spoke to...well, a very dear relative of his who asked to remain anonymous,” explains Graham, unwilling at this time to reveal the truth of the ghostly presence.

“They seem to believe that Melvin ‘Curly’ Selden, the underground figure and notorious and noted assassin pulled the trigger. If we can help prove it, a safe full of thirty-five thousand dollars is at our disposal,” explains Graham.

Ears perking up like a dog asked whether he would care to romp around at the park, the eyes of his partner light up. “Now that is a bed time story worth spinning a dream over. I will get on this one immediately,” replies Funk.

“See to it that you do. Having looked into it I have found that the police have linked Selden, they just have been unable to find that proverbial smoking gun. If the relative of Criswell is on the level as much as he thinks, it’s only a matter of how long until they find it. Time is of the essence,” declares Graham.

“Right boss. Oh, Gordon? It may be the dollar signs dancing in my head, please forgive me for not saying this enough, but thank you for all that you have done to help me these past three years,” announces Funk as he removes his cap out of respect.

“Wouldn’t be the same around here without you either Ren,” replies Graham with a nod, as his partner smiles, fixes his red ribbon black fedora and sets off.

     As the face of his small agency, Detective Graham took a no-nonsense viewpoint in his work, using traditional legal means and coming through the front door when it came to investigations. Conversely, Ren Funk tended to favor the more covert and underground backdoor approach, a method that had received Graham’s blessing, on the one hand in order to allow Funk to continue to practice the art of spying in his current pursuits. More importantly, as a non-government sanctioned or police affiliated enterprise, the rigid constitutional restrictions that applied downtown were off the table for Graham and Funk. Search and seizure, reasonable suspicion and probable cause did not come into play for these two, and they used that to their advantage as much as possible.

     Partaking in his usual customary and straightforward methodology, still buzzing from the unusual high of ambition, the eager detective dialed in the digits of the phone number of Selden, placing a call to the prime suspect.

     “Hello?” a voice on the other end answers after the phone rings five times.

     “Good afternoon I am looking for a Mr. Melvin Selden,” asks Graham.

     “Speaking,” replies the voice.

     “Yes, Mr. Selden this is Detective Gordon Graham, I understand you are in the midst of a situation involving a Mr. Lionel Criswell, would you please be so kind and schedule an appointment with me at your earliest convenience?” utters Graham.

     “...I have been cleared you know, of what happened and am no longer considered a suspect,” replies an angry Selden following a brief pause.

     “Mr. Selden, Mr. Criswell’s death remains an ongoing investigation. You could do yourself a great deal of service by coming in and speaking to me for a time of no more than fifteen minutes,” offers Graham.

     “This is ridiculous, but you know what? Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide, if this will help clear my name, I will come. Graham is it? Yes, I know a good amount about you. Your office Friday at 3pm I will be there,” replies Selden in a tone constituting a mild shout, before hanging up the extension.

     Friday inevitably rolls around as it often does, with the usually calm detective feeling a different demeanor on this afternoon, a somewhat nervous kick in his step and restless motion in his legs. Polishing off the remaining couple of shots in his whiskey bottle, reaching a slight buzz was the best way of maintaining a loose yet focused grip on his work, and clients and suspects seemed to appreciate it. Losing faith that Selden would hold true to his word Graham puts aside his impatience by strolling around the office, rotating between walking in circles and glancing out at the city from his perch at the window.

     At last, his door opens slightly past 3:30pm and in walks the towering gruff faced blonde with his trademark long curls.

     “Mr. Selden, Gordon Graham,” the detective introduces himself with the offer of a handshake, an offer falling on deaf ears as it is declined.

     “I appreciate you coming to speak to me this afternoon, care for a smoke?” asks the detective in his standard friendly offering.

     “No thank you I quit,” replies Selden in a firm tone.

     “Some habits die hard, do they not?” asks Graham with a smile, invoking the past transgressions of Selden.

     “Some of them do not die at all,” replies Selden.

     “It is understandable that you are frustrated with this case, just as I am. Like yourself, I would very much care to get to the bottom of it just as you would. Forgive me if you will, but you have quite an illustrious career record, the police seem to think that you are connected to Criswell’s murder. Did you know him?” asks the detective.

     “Let it be established on the record that I have only decided to avail myself to you today in an attempt to provide to you complete and total transparency on my behalf and bring this to an end,” demands Selden as the two meet eye to eye and nod at each other in understanding.

“Now, off and on, yes I did know of Mr. Criswell. He owned a first class establishment, the Bob-Lo Island Brewery. Myself, my wife, and friends and colleagues of ours enjoyed many a meal and many a beverage in that place. It has such a charming atmosphere of both youthful exuberance and nostalgic wonder,” responds Selden while reminiscing. “You should try a drink or two over there, given your substantial appetite for alcohol.”

     “Indeed, Bob-Lo brews a very smooth and soothing beverage, I have been there a handful of times,” replies Graham.

     “Regarding my past, it is no secret to anyone that I was involved with less than admirable individuals and enterprises. However, I can assure you that what is in my past, remains locked away forever in my past. There are but two ends for a man choosing to live that lifestyle. Murder or prison, either of which would take me away from my wife. Surely you can agree with me on the merits of a fresh start? Your fall from grace is common knowledge all throughout town, a once promising legal career tarnished in corruption, banishing you from the promised land of courts and columns and trapping you into this lackluster excuse for an office,” jokes Selden, beginning to laugh.

“The public sector was stacked with Detroit’s best and brightest as you have somewhat alluded to, forcing me to open up my own office in the private sector. As you can tell it has brought me great fame and fortune,” replies Graham in a dry sarcastic manner.

“Was it just for the money Graham, the thrill of being a criminal underneath your degrees and your good name? Someday you will mature and realize that there is more to life than crime, detective,” declares Selden, attempting to spin the blame and place the heat on the other side of the table.

     “The difference between you and I is the fact that my heart has always been pure, it is not wretched, corrupted and blackened like that rotted void in your soul, if you even have one,” declares Graham, as Selden chuckles with a sneer upon his face.

     “Those people you have killed, do they call out to you? Do their voices speak to you in the night? Or do they have no time to converse with a cancer?” snaps Graham.

     “You’re a two-bit detective!” shouts Selden in a menacing tone.

     “Just as you’re a cut-rate con-man under the magnifying glass of every God forsaken police officer in Wayne County. However, you are able to call a spade a spade, so I like you. Easy to respect a man that speaks his mind, any man, even one as brazen and broken as you. Why, I would kiss you on the paw out of admiration but Selden does not sound like it has much of a Dago ring to its name, so I don’t know what to do,” replies an angered Graham.

     “I am of Irish heritage, same as yours!” shouts Selden.

“So pen me a limerick, if that big mouth of yours could drop a gold coin for every smart word you spoke you’d almost be worth a damn!” declares Graham as Selden rises to his feet and storms out of the office.

“It is no wonder you’ve fallen so low, do you insult each of your clients and interviewees with crass remarks as to their creed or ancestral leanings?” asks Selden, returning to the guest chair in order to fire off another grenade of words.

“Apologies for my outburst, I would hate to offend a man of such high character and sterling ideals,” mutters Graham sarcastically.

“Whatever values and ideals you hold, just be careful that you do not find yourself falling for them, being made into a martyr in their name,” replies Selden, eliciting his response with wide eyes and clearly audible language as he points a poignant finger at the detective as if offering a warning in his carefully crafted and articulated response.

“Appreciate the concern, but I don’t intend to die for anyone’s sins, not even my own, my blood is too impure. The two of us may have more in common than we would think, perhaps we are derived from the same bloodline or type, and I’m not talking about Irish roots,” declares Graham, as Selden rose to his feet once more and makes his way to the door.

“One more thing, refrain if you will from throwing any unsolicited threats my way. If you did indeed murder Criswell I will see to it that you’re hanged. How fitting, they could dangle you from your pretty blonde curls. Or perhaps it would be best to have you fried in the chair, so those curls of yours could cook like scrambled eggs. Personally I would prefer seeing a man of your history and contempt for humanity hanged on a cross, but seeing as though your perished body would be a waste of rotted wood and rusty nails, a simple string of rope would suffice,” acknowledges Graham.

“By the way I’m as red, white and blue as Uncle Sam and American as apple pie!” shouts Graham towards the door as Selden leaves the premises.

“The drink is not reserved solely for the shamrock children of a hilly green island,” utters Graham to himself, pouring a drink as he runs his hands across his face in a stressful motion. “Hmm, perhaps I stand corrected,” he whispers aloud, noticing that he has just cracked a bottle of Irish Whisky...

5: Chapter 4

“How did things go?” asks Funk an hour or so later in the office.

     “Selden is the killer, you can generally always tell from the glint in a mans eyes and his demeanor in such an investigation. His eyes possessed the fire of a man living up to the standards of the underworld urban legend that Melvin Selden has created for himself. He made some inflammatory statements and I returned in kind, we argued and I lost my cool after he attacked some tender aspects of my personal and professional life. We must tread carefully and will have to conduct our business in a covert and delicate manner considering who is involved. Melvin Selden is a veteran assassin and although he is the killer here he has concealed his tracks well. From me, from the police, even from the man he killed. This is not his first rodeo, and we are not going to be able to get around his shields and evade his landmines by attacking him conventionally,” explains Graham.

     “What do you have in mind?” asks Funk.

     “The way to any mans heart is a beautiful and likeable woman. His wife may be our first class ticket into his brain. We’ll add her into the mix as well going forward. Be careful, she is a character arguably as dangerous in some ways as her husband,” warns Graham.

     “Do you have a line on her?” asks Funk.

     “Katherine ‘Kat’ Duchene...the sophistication of a Parisian swan with the off color, after hour antics of a Prague street jockey. She comes equipped with the intellect and wit that measures up to her Cambridge sheepskin, the street smarts of a hustling grifter, and the Hollywood goods looks radiant enough to spread a plague of jealousy throughout all of California,” explains Graham.

“The girl kept her maiden name?” asks Funk.

“Dame is a real firebrand, this one. She works as a secretary up in Corktown and dines out for lunch each day within that vicinity. We’re going to investigate the girl and uncover information that you cannot acquire from a background check or through back channels. Starting Monday you will follow her, speak with her, hopefully earning enough trust allowing you to gain insight and catch a glimpse into her life, and more importantly the life of her husband,” explains Graham. “Remember Ren, she’s a witty dame with a sharp tongue, a real sassy rogue, this one. In order to gain her trust you must go against the grain to stand out.”

     “I may not be able to trust her, but I know just how to handle her,” pledges Funk...

     It was roughly ten after twelve the following Monday afternoon when Duchene made her way out of her office building, as the undercover operative stashed away his newspaper and lifted himself off of the street bench. Walking at a pace that was in between brisk and casual overall but incorporating elements of each, Funk keeps his distance and maintains his motion for a block until she slides inside a restaurant deli.

     Standing in line beside her, Funk has to hold back from staring too hard at the woman standing before him. Avoiding eye contact had always been a textbook exercise in his undercover operations, and his execution was generally flawless. Everything was a little bit different on this day, as Funk musters up the focus and channels his acting abilities to their utmost in order to pull off the coup.

     Adorned in a long green dress and matching hat affixed with a white ribbon to go along with her white heels, her radiant brunette hair contrasted with her sparkling lake blue eyes. As she orders the cup of hot soup and completes the exchange, Funk can only watch, completely enthralled with the girl as she makes her walk away from the counter, gliding her way into the booth most delicately, as if she is a rare flower sprouting from the desert sand. His thoughts centered on how her appearance was more akin to a brilliant renaissance painting as opposed to any real person, thoughts interrupted by the coarse tone of the deli attendant.

     Receiving his lunch, Ren Funk makes his way towards the young woman, all of about thirty years old at most. Sitting down on the opposite side of her booth, Funk takes a sip of coffee as he examines his newspaper, intentionally avoiding eye contact with the flabbergasted girl.

“How is the soup today?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper.

     “Excuse me?” she replies in a tone of astonishment.

     “The wild mushroom soup. How is it today?” responds Funk looking up, exchanging glares with the girl.

     “What are you doing sitting in my booth, do I know you?” she asks, still confused and somewhat angered.

     “Well, surely you did not think I would entertain the notion of sitting next to grandma at that table or the fat ass over there. Consider yourself the customer du jour,” explains Funk, pointing out the less desirable customers of the deli.

     Not saying a word, Duchene contorts the muscles of her face into a look of bewilderment, removing a cigarette from her purse.

“Allow me,” declares Funk as he removes a lighter from his jacket, igniting her tobacco.

     “At least you’re making yourself useful,” she replies.

     “How’s that? No thank you? It appears that I have had a rare lapse in judgment, you’re not a very polite woman are you,” asks Funk in a playful tone with a hint of seriousness.

     “Don’t need to be,” she replies showing off her wedding ring.

     “That is only semi-impressive for a woman of your stature and command upon Mother nature. Just asked for a meal, not a nightcap. Does not mean we cannot enjoy lunch,” replies Funk, directing his attention away from the woman and towards his sandwich, coffee and newspaper in the hopes that she will take the bait and bite.

     “You do have a nice tie. Red, the color of power, the only admirable one across the entire spectrum,” she declares, sipping down a deep gulp of iced tea through her straw as she looks at the spy. “There is enough sour in this city, happy to see that there just may still be left some sweet to go along with it. What is it that you do?” asks Duchene inquisitively, as Funk smiles, knowing that he has her hook line and sinker. 

     “When I was a child I dreamed of becoming a corrupt politician, only I was just too damn nice for such a profession. So I became a grifter instead, specializing in scamming children, the elderly, and lovely women like you out of their life savings,” he replies with a wink. “Truth is I am a chef, an accounting clerk specializing in crunching numbers and cooking books. As you can tell from both my demeanor and my words I am seeking thrill and adventure. Tell me a bit about you?” asks Funk, hoping to receive some information to build upon.

     “By day I am a married secretary living a buttoned down life, by night I am someone much different. Watch out though mister, if you’ve come looking for adventure, you have found it with me, more than you have bargained for. Thank you for joining me for lunch, but alas, my day job is calling,” declares Duchene, rising up.

     “Tell you what, I retract my statement pertaining to my lapse in judgment. I’m also going to call your bluff. If you happen to feel adventurous, give me a call and I’ll share with you some more about myself,” says Funk rising to his feet, handing her a fake card with his real number etched upon it. Glaring down at the card in her hand before looking at Funk as if to study him for a moment, the spy signals his goodbye with a tip of the cap, uttering “good day ma’am,” before taking his seat and resuming the coffee and newspaper routine.

     Back inside of the office Gordon is preparing his meeting with Criswell in order to update him on the progress of his case. At 1:00pm on the dot, Criswell appears before the detective out of thin air.

     “One would think that I’d have grown accustomed to that entrance by now, but some habits take time to develop. By the way, do you ever change your attire, as fancy as it is?” asks the detective in his usual sarcastic tone.

     “Afraid this is the only suit I can muster up, this same white suit that I was shot to death in. Thank Goodness I went out in style, at least the bloodstains did not immerse themself into the fabric. My memories are somewhat intact but widely scattered, like the contents of a picnic on a windy afternoon. This physical manifestation of my spirit, or whatever my conscience has become, will likely remain stagnant until justice is served I suppose. At that point one can assume I would be able to rest, meeting my destiny and move onto the next plane of existence, wherever that may take me,” acknowledges Criswell.

     “We’ve had enough exercises in philosophy for one lifetime here Mr. Criswell. Came across Selden, we had quite an exchange. My staff and I have not yet uncovered any proof, but it is safe to say that your initial instincts as to his role were spot on. My top man is shadowing his wife in the hope that she can shed some light on your case. Do you have any information about her, or anything else of note that you may have remembered?” asks the detective.

     “Kat Duchene, very easy on the eyes, always very kind and quite bright. She generally wisely kept her distance from her husband’s activities, with one exception that I am aware of. I do recall that Selden was once involved with running illegal under handed numbers lotteries at the Ford plants. Back during the war production was booming and there was money to be made everywhere. His bum knee kept him out of the service. Selden was rarely around there himself, only occasionally. Rumors were rampant and it was widely known that his wife, good as she is with numbers, had the money laundered through her in some capacity,” describes Criswell.

     “Now, something has come back to me regarding my involvement with Selden. There was a purpose behind my position in that section of the town at that hour of night. A business arrangement had been entered into between the two of us. The specific details remain rather cloudy, but I was set to gain substantially on behalf of my brewery. That is how he coerced me to meet him inside of his tailor shop, a short meeting unfolded and before long I was off and on my way. To think that he was signing what I thought was a windfall on my behalf was but a death warrant on my behalf. The deal was a ruse and I was set up,” narrates Criswell.

     “Now we’re getting somewhere warm. If you can remember what the business arrangement entailed, or if my team and I are unable to uncover it, we’re substantially closer to locking up that walking drain upon society,” explains Graham.

     “Slowly but surely my recollection is returning to me, please note that I am doing the best that I can in piecing together the puzzle pieces of information at my disposal. Again, I feel like a victim of short-term memory loss,” replies Criswell.

     “For the record, or off if you would prefer, do you happen to recall if you crossed paths with Selden on a routine basis?” asks Graham.

     “Not at the moment. One thing that I happen to remember is that I did know who he was. In my younger teenage days I would occasionally get into trouble for burglarizing neighbors. Nothing too fancy, just a bit of cash here and there. Sometime during the last year of my life I considered what degree the thrill would be of burglarizing an assassin with ties to organized crime. Was not quite willing to risk such a venture though I must say, besides I laid to rest such childish things many years before and was in no position to dust them off,” reminisces Criswell with a chuckle.

     “Once again I find myself envying the dead, just the notion of playing a hand and rolling the dice. How old are you, were you?” asks Graham correcting himself.

     “Forty-five years of age,” replies Criswell.

     “Dead at forty-five. I envy you ghost, at thirty-six years of age, not being greedy I wished for but five more years at most, now I’m forty-three and find myself pushing the envelope. Only one dream remains intact in my spirit, I would just like to leave a legacy, something positive to balance out and cancel out all the negativity of my prevailing reputation. In addition of course to your case that is. You’re not the only specter haunting me here, as I am also haunted by the ghost of my past. That is a nightmare far more frightening than you could ever be,” declares Graham.

“When we send Selden away, you’ll receive your long awaited redemption,” promises Criswell.

6: Chapter 5

As Graham and Funk lock up the office later that evening, the stars were out in abundance and exceedingly bright, an irregular occurrence in the Southeast Michigan night skies, often murky from the smog and pollution of the factories and clouding the air in a softly glowing purple haze. Lifting the heavy side door of Graham’s Chrysler Coupe, Funk climbs into the passenger seat, agreeing to ride along with his friend and partner in conducting some business after-hours. Starting up the car and pulling away from the office, the two embark upon their destination towards the Bob-Lo Island Brewery, both in order to investigate the deceased Lionel Criswell and obtain a better idea for his work, and to enjoy a few beverages for their trouble.

     It was a quiet ride, each man slightly fatigued from the hours they were devoting into the Criswell case, at least that was the case for the first several blocks and traffic lights.

“This rear side motorist has been tailgating you,” remarks Funk with a casual stare out the rear mirrors.       “He’s been on me for a little while now,” replies Graham, keeping a cool grip of one hand on the steering wheel while averting his attention from the road as to take a quick glance up at the mirrors himself.

     “Cut through a side street and come back onto the main drag, we’ll see if he’s still on our tail,” replies Funk.

     Sure enough the mystery car follows the out of the way path laid down by the shiny green Chrysler.

     “There is little doubt about it now, he’s following us,” remarks Graham, pulling onto Jefferson Avenue. “It just occurred to me, you see what that car is?”

     “Cars are not my specialty, all I can tell you is that it’s not a Mercedes,” replies Funk.

     “It’s a Bugatti. Selden drives a ‘37 Bugatti,” declares Graham, as Funk eyes him with a look of apprehension.

     The eerie quiet calm of night is shattered by the menacing howl of gunshot, fired from behind and aimed in the direction of the Chrysler.

     “Son of a bitch!” cries Graham as his once loose grip on the steering column tightens up instinctively as he floors the gas pedal.

     “Are you sure it’s him? I thought you mentioned that he was associated with Ford, what is he doing with an Italian automobile?” screams Funk attempting to connect the dots.

     “Who else is it going to be? It’s him!” replies Graham with a high-pitched shout.

     A quick glance behind confirms the assertion and connected whatever dots remained as another pull of the trigger produced a fiery spark that lit up the night sky and created an accompanying ear-splitting explosion of sound. As Graham would learn and Funk would be reminded of, the worst noise in the world is the blast of a gunshot when the path of the speeding bullet is intended to kiss the listener.

     “You’ve got your revolver, right?” cries Graham, speeding through traffic and running lights left and right.

     “What do you think I’m doing here,” replies Funk as he readies his weapon and fires three shots in unison towards the Bugatti, remaining steadfast in its determination to seek revenge upon the private detective.

     “He’s still hot on our trail. Canada!” declares Funk.

     “What?”

     “Head for the Ambassador Bridge, it’s coming up!” demands Funk.

     “No, We’d have to come to a halt. We stop we’ll get shot. We won’t live long enough to see the consequences of his actions. Besides, you’re firing that thing off into the night air as well, and neither of us are in any condition to receive a pass or benefit of the doubt,” snaps Graham.

     Turning on to Woodward Avenue, Graham continues weaving around cars and taking advantage of green lights, while dodging cars when the inevitable and plentiful red lights and stop signs yield their ugly faces.

     “Hey, you know you’re not bad at this, especially for a first timer. If we don’t succeed in putting Selden away, you may be able to race in the Indianapolis 500!” jokes Funk cracking a smile, although the fleeting jubilant moment is not shared by his partner.

     “He still behind us?” asks the intrepid Graham.

     “Same as ever. Just trying to set the standard you know. If you can laugh while being chased and shot at, there is no place that is not appropriate for a joke, not even a funeral procession,” remarks Funk, firing another round at the Bugatti.

     “The next funeral you attend may be sooner than you would like,” replies Funk.

     “He hit someone!” cries Funk in excitement, causing Graham to peer his reluctant eyes into the rearview mirror for the first time since the gunshots began ringing in his ears. Slightly more serious than a fender bender, the Bugatti was seriously damaged but not fatally totaled, after colliding and crumpling into another car, still able to continue the hot pursuit, although the unwanted carom had brought the brakes upon its velocity.

     Seizing the moment to separate from the pack in the two-car race, Graham zigzags his way through several side streets before turning onto Telegraph Road, where the Bugatti was nowhere to be found. The shootout had ceased for Detective Gordon Graham and Ren Funk, who had escaped from the tenacious and harrowing chase with their lives intact to fight another day.                                          “A friend of mine lives up this way, we’ll camp out for the night and head back home at daybreak, no reason to tempt fate and drive back into an ambush tonight,” explains Graham.

     “Let’s stay completely clear of Selden for the meantime, no spying, no shadowing, anything. That hostile murderer is more reckless than I imagined, we’ll keep our focus on that broad of his in order to avoid getting killed,” declares Graham, lighting a cigarette.

     “Do you want to involve the police in what happened tonight?” asks Funk.

     “No,” replies Graham following a moment’s hesitation. “That won’t help us get any closer to proving this murder. The two of us will keep doing what we do, besides they would just get in our way,” he directs as Funk nods in affirmation.

     “The real tragedy of this evening was that you had promised to pay for my tab,” boasts Graham in a lighthearted tone, his first such tone since before the chase.

     “Your next drink is on me, I owe you one,” replies Funk.

     The sun would rise and it would set the next day for the two partners, inconvenienced with not an ounce of interference or intermeddling from Selden. At approximately 9pm the telephone began clanging about in the den of Ren Funk’s home.

     “Good evening, residence of Ren, how may I direct your call,” declares Funk, careful not to use his real name considering that the name provided on the business card reads Ren Franks.

     “Remember me from the deli?” the soft yet instantly recognizable and immediately memorable voice whispers into the phone.

     “The soup woman if my memory is correct?” replies Funk in a playful demeanor.

     “Cannot talk long but how does dinner sound Thursday evening?” she asks.

     “Meet me at the Bob-Lo Island Brewery at seven,” demands Funk, in an authoritative tone.

     “Make it five,” she replies, hanging up the phone before Funk can unleash another assortment of hastily assembled vocabulary.

     It may have been risky seeing the wife of an assassin, much less one who had targeted his partner and him by default, but whether de facto or not, Ren Funk had been targeted many times before and had inadvertently RSVP’d his way onto several hit lists. It was just another day in the life of a spy.

     Bob-Lo was the setting of choice in the hopes that it would evoke from Duchene memories and emotions of Criswell and his still mysterious connection to Selden. At about 5:15, the sassy rogue made a dazzling entrance, strolling her way into the dining area where Funk was already seated. Funk sat mesmerized in amazement at the dashing beauty of Duchene, dressed from head to toe in a shimmering shade of bright red, dress, bonnet and heels in all.

     Funk had taken the approach of a spy, having gone ahead in managing a table, thinking that Duchene might care about drawing as little attention to her as possible. So much for that idea, as Funk’s head was far from the only one turned as she sat down.

     “Good evening. Drinks are on me tonight. I shall pay for your dinner too as long as you behave,” declares Funk, regaining his composure in order to suck back the drool that threatened running down his chin during her appearance. “You never did tell me your name the other day.”

     “Katherine Duchene, you may call me Kat,” she replies.

Apparently she was not as secretive in nature as to her name and life as Funk was.

     “Be advised however that I am only doing this out of intrigue and friendship, nothing more is to come of this,” declares Duchene glaring at the undercover spy.

“What a coincidence, I was at the drugstore this morning, when I realized that what I really needed was a friendship. Have you been here before? This Bob-Lo Island?” asks Funk.

     “Several times, brings back a lot of memories. My husband and I used to know the owner here,” she admits, looking off into the distance.

     “He sold it?” asks Funk nonchalantly as he looked over the menu.

     “Actually there was an accident. Well it really was not an accident,” Duchene begins to explain before being cut off on account of the pesky waiter.

     “My selection will be the salmon my good man, and a pint of your Huron Lager,” requests Funk.

     “And for the Mrs.?” asks the waiter.

     “Mine will be Rib eye steak, cooked medium. Make it the 14 oz., and to drink I will also have the lager, although make mine a pitcher. I am driving tonight,” she exclaims as she peers over in the direction of Funk.

     “Color me impressed, to think I had you pegged as a girl who would fritter away my hard earned money on a side salad, why be a lady when you can be a woman!” boasts Funk with a smile.

     “Of all the nerve, for that glorified busboy to assume I am your wife,” snaps Duchene.

     “That is insulting, when you would be unworthy enough to qualify for so much as an affair,” responds Funk with a quick tongue. “Now before we each lose our appetites, back to this husband of yours, what does he do for a living?”

     “Melvin works in Finance with the Ford Motor Company, at least he used to, now he works part time on account of his investment activity,” explains Duchene.

     “Investing?” questions Funk.

     “Yes, my husband is a whiz when it comes to the market. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, real estate, commodities, foreign currencies,” expounds Duchene, peeking down into her makeup mirror, starting to do so continuously as if habitually as the food arrives.

     Growing frustrated, as the detour in the conversation has erupted into a frolic, Funk spouts off.

“Princess, no one here is denying that you’re a cute girl who has been blessed with pretty looks. It may be irrelevant to you but I’m at the stage where personality counts the most. There are a million pretty faces out there, just look at the men in here that glance out the window as the other girls walk by. A pretty dame without a heart and brain is just another dame. If your needs require validation from others or from that damn beauty mirror of yours then well, your looks cannot possibly be nearly as gallant as you would hope them to be. Your insecurity on the issue proves my point,” declares Funk between bites of his smoked Alaskan sockeye salmon.

     “Well that unnecessary outburst of yours, as thorough and direct as it was, still managed to miss the mark. A dame like me would make a fine role model for any young girl or young woman or lady befitting of whatever definition you have at your disposal. They would be well off to put my portrait up and make me a poster child, much like that Rosie the Riveter. Unlike that mannish butch, I’m dimensionally sound, quite cerebral to go along with my curves, and am quite charming, regardless of your fraudulent perceptions. My charm has merely been misplaced this evening, it is still hiding in there somewhere, although you might have to dig far to find it,” she explains pressing her chest.

     “A propaganda tool may just be right up your alley,” replies Funk taking in a deep sip of beer.

     Duchene responds with a heavy bout of laughter.

“A trifle comical I suppose,” replies Funk.

     “What is funny is that you men think you run the world, but you only see half of the picture. You can look no further than physical strength and power, ridiculing us with your pet names and little else of value. It takes a woman’s touch to incorporate grace and beauty, which flows infinitely more smoothly than brute force. We are the straw that stirs the drink of true universal order and balance. Stands a reason why it is called Mother Nature instead of Father Nature. Men may be the movers and shakers on the grand scale, but we hold the strings in the home, and those strings stretch farther than you could imagine,” boasts Duchene guzzling down the remainder of her pitcher.

     “Very enlightening discussion. Your husband, I take it he would approve of these convictions of yours?” replies Funk, receiving just a stink eyed womanly smirk in response, the type most any man is familiar with receiving. Ren Funk was no stranger to them, having amassed quite a few in his day.

     “My husband and I do not see eye to eye on many issues these days. Sorry to ramble on, I suppose much of my anger that I have directed ought to be aimed in his direction,” replies Duchene with a much softer tone.

“Care to talk about anything? Believe it or not I have been told that my listening skills and knack of delivering advice, both solicited and unsolicited, would make me a great psychologist had I chosen such a path. You look like you need to get something off of that heaping chest of yours? Why, the ease of our discussions are quite remarkable as it stands and we have already navigated through the thick stuff and rough waters,” describes Funk, fishing through those waters for answers.

“Perhaps another time?” utters Duchene in a reluctant manner.

”In that case, my regards to the chef, this is fantastic. I knew a man that used to work here, a Lionel Crawford, I believe his name was,” declares Funk.

     “Criswell, Lionel Criswell,” corrects Duchene.

     “Criswell, that’s it. Wonder how he’s doing nowadays, I shall ask the waiter to see if he is in tonight,” states Funk in an elegant manner.

     “No need, he is the man that was involved in the accident,” replies Duchene as she opens up.

     “I mean...the accident I had discussed earlier, I’m not entirely certain that it was an accident. It may have been a murder. That’s not all, I am afraid...” reveals Duchene, her voice trailing of.

     “Yes? Go on, you can tell me whatever your heart desires,” replies Funk with the tone and words of a sweet romantic, although underneath his cool demeanor and caring exterior lurks a Venus fly trap ready to devour another unsuspecting victim.

     “My husband...I think...I’m afraid that he was involved and I am terrified at the prospect that he was responsible!” cries Duchene.

     “The police have interviewed him and they believe he did it, and I tend to take their side, with how different he has been acting about the whole thing. I know my husband better than anyone, and he is just not the same. I don’t mean to spring this on you like a woman unloading her baggage at a weigh station, but I had to tell somebody!” declares Duchene with tears welling up in her eyes and running down her cheeks.

     “I am glad that you did,” replies Funk, evoking a sliver of sincerity and feeling it deep within.

     “Promise me Ren, that you will abstain from informing the police of the subjects spoken of here tonight. The fuzz cannot get to me based upon the concept of spousal immunity. It is time to go, my husband becomes suspicious when I am out late during the evening hours. Thank you for dinner,” she kindly declares before leaving in an urgent frenzy before Funk can deliver a response, as he is left behind at a table once again... 

7: Chapter 6

The scene was far different back in the inside of the office, routine and conventional as opposed to quaint and majestic. Following a late departure from the office, the exhausted detective shuts off the lights and makes his way down the creaking staircase, locking up as he makes his way down the sidewalk and to the car. Tranquil and calm, the scene was far too quiet for the typical weeknight evening, discharging an aura of unsettling trouble in the air. Something was afoot tonight, the instinctual bells clanging raucously in the head of the detective, alerting him that something was not right.

     Opening the door of the Chrysler and freezing in place as he discovers the obstruction thwarting his peace of mind, Graham averts his eyes from the parked Bugatti as he frantically rushed to start the car, turning the key and finding no sign of life purring from the engine as beads of sweat race down his forehead, doubling in intensity as the bright headlights of the Bugatti shine their way into the Chrysler, blinding Graham and reducing his dimming chances of starting up the automobile.

     Panicked, Graham gives up on the failed getaway vehicle, leaping out of the car and crashing onto the sidewalk, dusting himself off before racing down the street as fast as his stiff legs could carry him. Nobody was in sight to help and each door on every building was locked, office, restaurant, home, it was of no matter, for none would be providing sanctuary in this time of need.

     Hearing but three sounds during the duration of his mad dash, the undesirable auditory emissions include the aching squeal of the car tires peeling his way, along with his heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing. No longer feeling weightless, the oxygen in the air felt as though it were collapsing his lungs as he races through the urban jungle in hopes of finding anything. A Lion or Rhinoceros would have been most preferential as an alternative foe in light of the headlights threatening death as the Bugatti picked up the pursuit right where it had left off from the prior night.

     Darting between buildings and reluctant to call out for help in fear that his cries would provide a trail to his assailant(s), a stroke of luck plays a hand in the chase as Graham locates an automobile with a window rolled down, allowing for a makeshift hideout. Desperately seeking a further break in the form of a friendly set of keys in the ignition, finding none he hunches onto the floor of the automobile, pulling the front seat down and hiding as best as he can.

     Tires could no longer be heard screeching and no headlights were perceptible from his vantage point, although the sound of footsteps could well be heard. Thudding around on the pavement, it sounded as though there were two men, but he could not be sure. It sounded as though they were across the street, but he could not be so sure. Hands clasped around his mouth in an attempt to curtail his rapid breathing, the lack of oxygen and unyielding pounding of his heart struck a new concept of fear into what remained of the fleeting competence of his mind, the anxiety that he may collapse into an unconscious slumber and never awaken. Keeping agonizing watch out the lowered window, all that could be done under the circumstances, Graham remains as silent as possible in his state of trepidation.

     At last the footsteps slowed to a crawl and faded from observation, as he was at last able to relax. The pause in the action would be interrupted by a dark figure emerging out of the shadows and examining the contents of the car through the window. Detective Graham would never hear the gunshot, as the image of the gun pointing and firing its way at him would be the last thing he would ever see.

     Arising from his bed in a profuse pool of sweat as dense and gloomy as the Amazon, he runs his hands through the moisture gathered on his face and hair, breathing just as heavily as he had done on the streets of the nightmare, collapsing back into the drenched pillow and sheets. Dreams of such a vivid flavor and texture were as rare in experience and appearance as the famed Halley’s comet, which Graham saw as a young child in 1910 and figured to never witness again.

Awakened from his rest and unsure of how he could ever fall back asleep, somehow he found a way to slowly drift back, just as he always did, and just like all of us always seem to be able to do despite the most trying of bumps in the night. Doing so by thinking not of counting sheep, but out of hope that like the comet, he would never experience such a garish nightmare ever again—-either in his dreams, or more importantly in real life...

     The next evening back in the office finds Gordon Graham in one of his familiar, favorite positions. Pouring a drink into his glass and lighting a cigarette, he glances out his familiar window at the thundering downpour that is taking place outside. Ren Funk enters the office to inform the detective of the latest on the case, folding his umbrella and removing his coat and hat in an effort to warm up and dry himself of the unwanted wetness.

      “It’s been raining every night of my life since the day of graduation,” declares Graham.

     “How’s that?” Funk asks his boss.

     “It was a warm late May afternoon. Hot even, but not the oppressive variety. I recall conversation and celebration amongst friends and drinking champagne under the sun, feeling free and shooting upwards like a rocket bound for outer space with endless boundaries and possibilities and nothing but the clearest of skies in my way,” explains Graham lowering his head in shame.

“That was a very different time Ren, when I was leaving behind the storm clouds and moving into the future still equipped with hopes and dreams,” continued Graham, his focus now on his glass. “First you stop counting the years, next it’s the months, followed by the days and eventually its right down to the hours. I cook breakfast in the evenings and eat dinner at dawn. It does not feel right and it does not feel wrong. Doesn’t feel like anything anymore.”

     “Does any of this happen to pertain to Jane?” asks Funk.

“Jane had not even entered my thought process, hasn’t for months, honest to God. Every now and again I do contemplate how she moved to one town and I moved to another. For years I told myself that I chose the job over her, although in the end she chose her career over me. To think, all of that happened before everything else went to hell. When it rains it pours,” he utters looking out the window.  

“Just goes to show you that it’s never one item on your plate, the problems of men like you and I are as common and prevalent as choices on a buffet menu. Pardon the expression; perhaps I’m just hungry for a bite to eat. Either way, remember that Ren. It is not just one thing or another through the years that molds us into who we are and who we become. Each of us is a complicated three dimensional puzzle as detailed and chaotic as our physical bodies,” explains Graham, trailing off as he thinks back to his lost love, but a footnote at this point of his life, and even less than one in this case, but a stark reminder of how sometimes the weight placed upon our subconscious is the heaviest weight of all.

 “The older I grow the more I reminisce. I suppose, such is a natural consequence of aging and wisdom, whether that applies to me or not,” he reveals with a laugh.

     “What’s wrong then Gordon, if it isn’t Jane?” asks a concerned Ren Funk. “You’re looking as dreary as the weather, even for you.”

     “Just a dream, pretty ugly one last night where Selden finished the deal and rubbed me out. The ordeal was very real as if it were a memory as opposed to a dream. Who is to say that it didn’t happen in another lifetime or a parallel universe, or that what happened was not a brief glimpse into tomorrow, a snapshot or coming attraction of what was to come. Who is to say that Selden did not already get to me, what you see standing and speaking and smoking and drinking here before you may be a ghost!” laughs Graham.

     “That philosophical question is easy to answer, there are no such things as ghosts,” replies Funk, drawing a silent and straight eyed cast from Graham.

     “What, do not tell me that you believe in ghosts, Gordon,” declares Funk as the usual hardliner of a detective willfully avoids eye contact. “You look as though you have something you would like to say?” asks Funk.

     “No, I have rambled on enough for this evening, hope you have some good news?” asks Graham, eager to change the subject after grappling with whether to inform the informant on the truth of the matter.                        

“Even better, there is great news that is guaranteed to cheer you up this evening. We’re getting close to an answer. She opened up quite a bit about herself and a little bit about Selden as well. Apparently the two are laboring away in a quandary, which I have been able to parlay to our advantage, using those feelings of bitter anguish like a dagger in our quest to land the details. Bob-lo Island seemed to hit her right in the heart, old emotions came flooding back and even a woman as staunch and fierce as her was useless to repel the floodgates. Duchene was practically crying and even admitted that she believes her husband was involved with the preparations of the murder, going so far as to say that he may have pulled the trigger,” explains Funk. 

     “She doesn’t know for sure?” inquires Graham.

     “No, the dame was holding back, she knows, I could tell that she wanted to say more. She is going to leak like a faucet and reveal the secrets of her husband; it’s only a matter of time. Today was unable to work for her given her busy schedule, I was hoping to catch her for lunch in Corktown but she was nowhere to be found. Hopefully I will see her within the next few days. We shall have our answers soon, and you will be drinking the fruits of your labor once again with a gleam of pride in your eyes,” promises Funk.

     “Great work Ren, great work. I owe you one,” utters Graham. “Omen or no omen, this damn case is a race, between us and the police, and us and Selden. I have lost enough under the bright lights, and this is one race that I do not intend to lose. Not going to wind up like Criswell...”

     Waiting alone at the bar and glancing down at his watch impatiently, Funk begins wondering whether she was going to follow through on her promised appearance. It was going on 9:00, which sounded late if you were a schoolboy with a curfew, or a spy awaiting for a woman late to the meeting place, and whose heart of stone and vault of secrets had been breaking in front of his eyes during the prior engagement. Casually at first, and then nervously, and then altogether feverishly, Funk began looking around the bar at anyone deemed suspicious. After all Selden had taken aim at him as well, and if the assassin found out about his meetings with his wife, well, it hardly takes a schoolboy to ascertain the likely result.

     Was he being setup? Was this the end of the line for him? He was already pushing into his golden years relatively speaking as far as career spies were concerned. Unlike his hardened and beaten down partner, this spy still had a full life to live. In the wake of being shot at and wondering if the final curtain call was looming on the horizon, he sipped his gin and tonic wishing it would not be his last and that there would be many more to come over the course of the ensuing years.

     At last, Kat Duchene arrived. Studying her look and demeanor, it was clear to see where this was going. Draped in dark, bland, unremarkable clothes and with no lipstick, eye shadow or blush applied to her face, the natural beauty of Duchene still shined through and lit up the bar, although it was concealed. Translation: she hadn’t much time.

     “Evening. The last several days have been difficult, and although I have become accustomed through the years of running errands all the time at unusual hours in strange places with strangers, time is of the essence. May we grab a private table?” she asks.

     “Would you like a drink?” asks Funk.

“Not tonight,” replies Duchene.

     “What has occurred over these past few days?” asks Funk, absorbing a splash of the musty gin and tonic complete with lime.

     “Trying times, I have become very humbled, a personality trait as lacking as my charm. We married when I was just a young girl, very immature and caught up in his daring and adventurous side. Growing up on a farm my first dozen or so years the country was the last place I wished to wind up. No wonder I became so blindsided with the allure of his money and adventurous ways. Now it is only love that I seek, and there is no longer any remaining in our marriage,” she replies.

     “Go on,” states the spy.

     “Melvin made me a bevy of promises that he has failed to keep, and I am tired of lying to myself that the day will come when he keeps any such promise. Melvin is not the man to mature and move on in life. Regardless of whether his heart continues to burn for me, it continues to burn for too many of the wrong things; horrible, dastardly things that I have come to realize are pitiful. He will never change his ways, and his ways do not provide for settling down or having children. Hate to mention being up against the clock, but I am advancing on in years,” she says grimacing her cheeks and choking back the tears.

     “Becoming increasingly cognizant of these issues when I have brought them to his attention he has punished me in many shapes and forms. The day has finally come for me to accept his limitations and my own and make amends for my past transgressions. I do have information about a murder, and I cannot continue to live this lie as it is eating away at my heart, a heart that has been nearly weathered away. I can only wish that there is still an ounce of goodness and decency left in it, and doing the right thing is but the only means of addressing it,” she declares.

     “Tell me Kat, for the sake of your heart and your soul,” offers Funk, in the caress of a longtime friend.

     “Melvin murdered Lionel Criswell in order to become the sole partner in the brewery partnership. He drew up false papers arranging for Criswell to become the sole partner, doing so to lure him to the tailor shop to pick them up, only he had no intention of relinquishing his control. There were plans to discard the body however a car turned onto the street and stumbled upon the scene. Both the gun and Criswell’s wallet are hidden in the garage of our home in Palmer Woods, in the back of the bottom drawer of the tool cabinet. Please use this information wisely, tell whom you must, but please do not implicate me,” she asks as she embraces Funk in a hug, holding him tightly as he responds by kissing her softly on the cheek. A kiss not born from passion, rather derived to ease the mounting tension of a human being weary from turbulent quarrel.

     “The time has come for me to remove myself from this establishment, not afraid of being seeing in general but afraid of being seen like this with tears in my eyes,” she says with a slight chuckle. “Will I ever see you again?”

     “Of course. As long as you never inform your husband about me,” replies Funk with a slight chuckle himself, only the joke was merely a guise, he was one hundred percent serious.

“I have broken many promises myself, to myself and others, but that is one that I shall keep,” replies Duchene.

It was difficult to lie in the face of a woman whom had just presented the fallen pieces of her life in plain view for him to see, a woman who did possess a heart underneath the ironclad intellect, stone cold wit and sins notched along her bedposts. Funk had lied to Duchene before but hoped this promise of striving to see her once again would be the last, as deep down his enthusiasm was off the charts as his heart skipped a beat given his excitement in receiving the critical information and reporting it at once to his partner.

8: Chapter 7

How the office was a beehive of activity the following morning, a flurry of commotion as Detective Graham and his spy worked speedily and in earnest to put together their plan of attack. A stranger to “book cooking,” Ren Funk played the role of chef for a day as the two collected the necessary ingredients in their recipe for murder in the first degree, a variety with a frigid taste, chilled and served far colder than a plate of revenge.

     Take one murder weapon, season it with the victims wallet, sprinkle in the intent of receiving financial windfall, and stir it with the arm of the known assassin and primary suspect and voila, one bitter yet satisfying batch of murder in the first degree.

      Detective Graham may have been somewhat blacklisted, yet years of working in cooperation with the authorities, both directly and indirectly, had provided him more than enough credibility to make a proper informant. Proper calls were made to the right people, and the arrangements were made as the judge authorized a search warrant, which was swiftly executed.

     Nestled safely in the lower rung of the tool cabinet lay the smoking gun, along with the wallet of Criswell. A purely circumstantial case had just graduated to direct evidence. Throw in Duchene’s account, revealed simply to the authorities as “an anonymous tip,” combined with the arrows the police brought forth from their quiver, and there was ample evidence to charge Melvin ‘Curly’ Selden with the crime.

     Initially hesitant, an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and curiosity took hold of Graham as he drove to the Palmer Woods home of Selden and Kat Duchene. Being that he was an undercover spy in his role with the detective, Ren Funk remained home. Heavy media coverage had descended upon the home as the officers did what they could to curtail the overwhelming fanfare that had developed into a circus. Selden was among the most notorious outlaws in the city for the better of two decades, and at last the powers that be had something vital worth submitting before a judge and jury.

     Arriving just as police were hauling Selden towards their squad car, Graham walks out of his car and into the fray. Coming eye to eye with the killer, and the attempted assassin on his life, Selden stopped dead in his tracks and glared down for a moment at the detective.

“Not what I expected from such an infamous assassin, your blundering hand could not even strike a drunken detective such as myself and with my clumsy driving to boot. The game is up Curly, but I may have just did you a favor,” boasts Graham with a smirk, as Selden turns his head in silence and disgust as he is led away.

     There had been some minor concerns bandied about in the mind of the detective, among them whether it was wise to cross paths once again with the assassin. That being said, Graham already had a bounty placed on his head and had already been targeted for murder, that was not going to change regardless. Besides, two decades worth of anguish and momentum by a weary populace and far wearier justice system were certain to deny bail for the alleged killer, and to the surprise of nobody that is precisely how it all played out.

     What’s more, the Detective could not help but see the reputed killer face to face in the simultaneous moment of the downfall of one man and the triumph of another. This was bigger than solving the mystery and circumstances of Criswell’s death or tying Selden’s hands in it. Aside from avenging Criswell’s spirit, Graham had exorcised the personal demons that had gripped his own spirit with a firm hand, redeeming himself in terms of the city but more importantly in his own eyes. To their credit the police anointed the private detective for his role in helping fill in the blanks. Compensation, reputational clearance, public support, they all had come in by the bushel. A hero at last, and after the long and painful journey the vanquished attorney turned private detective had taken, the rewards were worth the risk of Selden, death, or anything else that presented itself under the sun...

     “You wished to see me?” asks Criswell, a couple of days later back in the office.

     “Please join me in a celebratory smoke. My partner and I were successful in tracing the necessary evidence back to Selden. He was arrested the other day,” Graham reveals as the telephone rang, causing the detective to pick it up, hang it up and remove it from the extension, placing it inside of his desk. “As you can see it has been a busy couple of days in here, hence my delay in speaking with the man that made all of this possible,” explains the detective with a grin as he leans over to light his cigarette.

     “Yes I am entirely aware of this by now,” replies Criswell with a wide smile.

     “Ghostly intuition I suppose?” remarks Graham.

     “Did you find the safe and retrieve the funds okay?” asks Criswell.

     “My partner is over there at Bob-Lo as we speak, as I have been trapped in the prison of the one word I never expected to use again to describe myself. Busy. Then you showed up. The amount is not important, what you have bestowed upon us is most generous, along with the more important matters of reconstructing justice, for both you and I. Why you have also given the deceased a good name. Blame me if you must but I was skeptical of our arrangement at first, engaging in business with a man possessing most elusive attributes. I could not sue or acquire the services of a Melvin Selden to handle, in the event that the need arose to do so,” explains the detective.

     “Everything worked out, although I must inquire, if you knew about the arrest, how were you not aware of where he hid the gun? A ghost ought to be the best type of spy or detective around?” asks Graham.

     “I am but a spirit, not a fortune teller. Although I do come to you today with a wide array of information involving myself and Selden,” declares Criswell.

     “Ghostly testimony would likely constitute hearsay, but the floor is yours,” jokes Graham, as Criswell begins flashing back to his conversations with Selden at the brewery and other distant memories that had become clear...

     “It all started about twenty years ago. Melvin and I were once partners, bootleggers working together during the prohibition era. When I was not brewing the alcohol myself I was receiving it from Canada. The Detroit River scene was always thoroughly policed, so in order to evade the federal and local governments, we based the operation out of my summer home in Toledo on Lake Erie. A boat of ours smuggled it from Essex Point in Windsor into Toledo, and Selden networked it into Detroit from there,” explains Criswell.

“Putting behind my illicit activities following repeal, I used my knowledge for good and ascended to Brew master here in Detroit. On the other hand, Selden descended into the realm of less desirable endeavors. During the Great Depression we fell on hard times, and I needed his help in order to stay afloat for myself and my business, our employees and our beloved customers. Sometimes it takes a bad deed in order to do the right thing. Bob-Lo Island Brewery became a partnership, myself as a general partner, Selden becoming a strong yet silent partner. Over the years we grew apart as he provided no help or assistance or funding to the brewery, even after my debts to him had been paid off and he had been paid handsomely. By the outbreak of the war he had grown into a powerful adversary, while I was powerless to stop him.”

“Say what you want about Melvin, but he could be a fair man at times. Last year he came to me one day at Bob-Lo, wishing to relinquish our deal and sell his shares back to myself at a great price, making amends for what he deemed as dishonorable mistakes. It was very strange in all but I could tell that he was honest and most serious. It was a very busy night and he did not wish to draw attention. Rumors were prevalent about his role in the brewery, and given that he was a most notorious figure by that point, generally the closest he came to setting foot in the restaurant was by means of telephone.”

“He informed me that he would be working late at the tailor shop, just as I would be doing at the brewery. In order to keep under wraps and off the cuff the signing and sealing of the transfer of documentation, Selden requested that I come to his shop after work. He claimed that he was working late on account of domestic troubles, citing increasing friction in the home although he would not elaborate. There was something off about him that night, I had never recalled seeing that man so visibly nervous, it was as though he knew what he was going to do with me. His last request to me after amending the partnership agreement was to turn off the front light in the store on my way out. Leaving the tailor shop I turned onto the sidewalk towards my car and heard the faint sound of a door opening. Before I could turn around I was shot from behind. That’s everything,” clarifies Criswell.

     “Which direction was your car parked from the tailor shop?” asks Graham.

     “To the north,” replies Criswell.

     “No, did you go right or left upon leaving the shop, you said that you turned to your car?” invokes Graham.

     “It was to the left, fifty yards away or so,” he replies.

     “To the left, but you heard the sound of a door coming from the right, is that true?” asks the detective, receiving a reply of yes.

     “Are you hard of hearing by chance?” Graham inquires further.

     “Not at all, that was always my most keenest of the senses,” he replies.

     “If that was the case, and surely you would have heard Selden open the door from your left. The noise you claim to have heard came from your right,” describes Graham.

     “Are you saying you do not believe that Selden was my killer?” asks the suddenly embittered ghost.

     “I am not sure what I believe. There may have been another one involved, why on earth would he leave the body there outside of his own store? His wife claimed he had told her that another car had turned onto the block preventing the removal of your corpse, did you happen to see any headlights or hear any cars?” asks Graham, clearly having second thoughts regarding the entire ordeal.

     “No I do not,” responds the ghost.

     “We may get to the bottom of this speaking with lady Duchene about what else she remembers about the details of that night via the statements made by her husband. She was willing to spill the beans to my associate about the murder plot, we will see if there is any more information she has at her disposal,” announces Graham, placing the phone back on the extension before sifting through his case file, pulling up the number of the secretary’s office as he quickly dials Selden’s wife.

     “Hello, Mrs. Selden?” he asks.

     “Mrs. Duchene,” she replies correcting him.

     “Yes, Mrs. Duchene, this is Detective Gordon Graham. Do you have any free time this week available to come down to my office to chat about your husbands charges?” he asks.

     “It is getting awfully tiresome speaking to the police, each investigation turns into an argument and debate and I am through with finger pointing during these trying times!” she screams into the phone.

     “Fortunately for you I am not a police officer. Frankly I must insist upon seeing you to clarify a few items, the results of which could make or break the states case and be the difference between conviction and acquittal. Do you understand?” asks Graham.

     “If you must. Thursday evening,” she demands.

     “Thursday evening will do, see you then,” he replies.

     Hanging up the extension triumphantly and emphatically, he casts a stare towards Lionel Criswell.     

“This ought to clear things up, there is just one small favor I have to ask you,” asks Graham, clearly suspicious and overwrought about interviewing Duchene.

     “That is?” replies the ghost.

     “Be ready this Thursday for whatever testimony she may have to offer us. You may have all of the time in eternity, but the rest of us do not,” declares Graham, removing his glasses and running the palm of his hand along his forehead to decrease the surging levels of stress and uncertainty that have flooded and cooled the comfortable levels of content that had warmed him following the arrest, levels of stress that were intensifying, pulsating with each passing moment.

9: Chapter 8

“Mrs. Duchene? Detective Gordon Graham,” utters the man as the moment had at last arrived. “Sorry with all that you have had to endure over these past several days and weeks.”

“Much obliged,” she responds.

“You have amassed quite a reputation of being a strong woman, as evidenced by the fact that you kept your maiden name despite marrying a power broker with the Selden brand name so famous that one could just about trademark it for the proper purposes if one were so inclined,” explains Graham, attempting to ease the fears of the women and warm her up to conversation.

“I kept my name. He took everything else. My youth, my passion for living, the ability to see my family, and this reputation of mine that you speak of, through the callous actions of my husband, my reputation by association has been dragged through the mud and stained in the blood of others. You’re damn right I associate by Katherine Duchene,” she angrily reveals in a sneering manner, upset somewhat at Graham, but more importantly at her husband and all he has put her through.

“So you happen to side with the police on this one and believe that he was guilty?” replies Graham in a surprising manner, not having expecting her to travel down this road so soon in the conversation as he rocks back and forth in his chair.

“Come now, detective. You know, and I know, the career highlights of many of his exploits. He may not have the national appeal of a Capone, Luciano or Bonnie and Clyde, but you know damn well what he has done,” she replies in a most serious tone.

“So much for spousal immunity,” cracks Graham.

“If you lived under his iron rule as long as I have you would understand, how would you feel if you were standing in my shoes?” she asks.

“Probably in a lot of pain as I have never tried on heels before,” replies Graham cracking one last joke.

“Lady, my job is to tie up any loose ends. Now your husband informed you that a car came down the street after the shooting that night, which interrupted his plans of hiding the body, correct?” he asks.

“Yes, this is true,” she replies.

“Were you familiar with Mr. Criswell?” he asks.

“He was but one of many associates of my husbands, I knew little about him,” she replies.

“Well before he died he phoned for help, and claimed that he heard a door open from his right side. Based upon the direction he was walking down the sidewalk, such a ruckus could not have been caused by your husband. Do you know if anyone else was involved?” asks Graham.

Normally one to keep, and even flaunt the ease she generally enjoys while making eye contact, Duchene’s eyes dart around the room as she swallows a lump that had gathered in her throat.

“I was not made aware of any details, I merely overheard the witness car and saw where he hid the gun and wallet,” she utters in a much different tone of voice than before.

“Is there anyone that you could think of that possibly could have been involved? What do you make of Criswell’s claims that a door opened from the right hand side?” asks Graham.

“My husband knew or associated with every criminal around, major and minor, it could have been anyone. As far as this Criswell fellow why don’t you ask him, its difficult to remember the details of this witness car!” replies Duchene in a volume practically reaching a shout. “As a matter of fact I did ask him. Refresh your memory?” he asks, motioning to the seat beside her where the shocking sight of the ghost of Lionel Criswell has appeared out of thin air, displacing the bilateralism in the room.

Gasping for breath and rising to her feet, Duchene struggles multitasking her lateral agility with the gravity of the situation, knocking over her chair as she brushes up against the window, a look of terror consuming the face of the woman. Eyes as wide as saucers, lips quivering, and struggling to breathe, she maintains a loose grip on the ability to remain upright, an ability that appears to be slipping away.

“Care for a cigarette?” asks Criswell, waiving to the woman, who responds with a scream.

“Not such a tough cookie are you Kat,” declares Graham with a smirk along his face.

Working up the courage to react, Duchene gathers what remains of her instincts and common sense and runs out of the room as quickly as possible.

“She’ll never live down that exit and display of courage,” jokes Graham. “There is work to be done yet. In the meantime why don’t you go scare somebody, check in on your old brewery or float around the cemetery, do whatever ghosts do,” offers Graham...

“You said that you have an update one the Selden case?” asks Funk, heeding the call of Detective Graham. “We’re not prosecutors here, leave that to the state. With all of the publicity we have received in the wake of this we will be able to take as many new cases as we want, shouldn’t we be concerned with that?”

“The thing I’m concerned about is the issue of Selden’s guilt. Something fishy is going on and after some exhaustive thinking I believe that I know just what it is. First of all I have to be completely honest with you, sit down,” declares Graham, pouring his partner a drink.

“I’m not thirsty,” he replies.

“Trust me, you will need one with what I’m about to tell you,” announces Graham, handing his partner a glass. “The one who filled me in on some of the attributes of Criswell was not a relative of his. The person that hired me was Criswell himself, his ghost,” admits Graham.

“God only knows what you have been drinking, and fortune does crazy things to a man’s mind,” offers Funk in disbelief.

“It’s real, the damn spook has appeared to me in this office, and out on the street. He appeared to Katherine Duchene, why don’t you ask her about what she witnessed in here the other day. Still don’t believe me, look at that!” declares Graham, pointing in the direction of the formerly empty chair. Turning his head in accordance with the flow of the conversation, the chair remains empty and there is nothing to find anywhere in the room for the partner.

“Well?” asks the spy.

“Color my face red, it worked earlier, I swear that it did,” remarks Graham.

“Campfire ghost stories and Halloween hullabaloo aside, why don’t you believe that Selden pulled the trigger?” asks Funk. “Couldn’t you just ask the ghost?”

“A couple of lingering suspicions began weighing heavily on my mind Ren. The other day when I interviewed Duchene, Criswell’s ghost agreed to appear. We put her on the spot and I could tell that she killed him, God golly dammit I could tell,” shouts Graham.

“My head is going to explode hearing this, how on Earth could you tell?” asks Funk.

“Her reaction was not the shock in awe you would expect. It wasn’t what is he doing here, instead it was more of a “my God they know the truth”. It can be very subtle, but it’s very different. You know me and I pick up on the slightest change of bodily expression indicating guilt like a bloodhound picking up a scent, whether it consists of the tone of voice or facial expression. She knew we had her licked,” articulates Graham.

“Great, well what do you suppose we do, call the police and ask them to release Selden because the ghost claims they have got the wrong man?” asks Funk angrily.

“Of course we cannot inform the police, how could I authenticate it when I cannot explain it to you. Don’t blame you for thinking I’m bats over this. The bottom line is that we need more from Duchene, a confession, something. She cracked the other day, she cracked in the office yesterday, if you can see her one more time you’ll be able to get her to speak the truth, I am convinced of that!” declares Graham.

“Duchene has been missing in action since Selden was hauled away. Don’t you understand, she got exactly what she wanted, and that was the arrest, not speaking to me. Once she had the confidence that I would inform the police, she used me only to incarcerate the bastard. The woman played the victim card all along, she plays her cards well, and she bluffed me right out of the building. This information appeared to me only in the wake of her refusing to phone me or answer her own phone since the arrest. How did you manage to get a hold of her?” asks Funk.

“I called her place of employment,” replies Graham.

     “This still makes absolutely zero sense. Let me know if I am hearing you correctly. According to your theory, we managed to get Selden on the hook for a murder that he did not commit. Through the accounts of the ghost of his victim, we then used the testimony of said ghost to convict the man. Aside from the fact that you claim the ghost fingered Selden as the killer, and now you’re pointing to Kat Duchene? Why would she have murdered Lionel Criswell?” bemoans Funk.

     “For the sake of argument lets suspend rational thought and assume everything you believe is correct. The conscious of Melvin Selden is as black as an oilrig; he deserves to be put away, if not for Criswell’s death for the dozen or so others that fell at the hands of that social deviant. What happened to that crusader for social justice? This is not like you at all Gordon, even during your pre-fascist days of yore,” declares Funk.

     “Fascist? I’m looking to do the right thing and you repay me by casting me alongside your friends in the Hitler Youth?” claims Graham.

     “Come now, Gordon, you’re still frothing at the bit from past defeat, you would foam at the mouth for a stab at retribution. This spy can frame a mirror image of you and the ruin of your beliefs and values better than anyone else, including yourself. The taste of bitterness still burns strong enough on the taste buds of your tongue that you would take over the world if you had the power at your disposal to do so,” explains Funk.

     “Astute observation there. A year ago you would have been accurate. A mere month ago and that would have been the proper assessment. Not after this, not now. Maybe, just maybe my life is in springtime, not winter. Perhaps life really is a gift as opposed to a burden, and I have turned over a new leaf,” replies Graham, with a serious yet subtle reaction on his face.

     “This is neither the time nor the place for personal growth, self improvement or achieving that top spot on the pyramid of self actualization. Gordon, the man tried to kill us! He is probably plotting revenge upon us as we speak, both of us!” cries Funk.

     “No, I don’t care. There are more important things than living and dying. This is not about karma; there is no such thing, for if there were I’d have amassed enough credit to buy my way out of anything by now. This is about justice, the same philosophy that failed me, and I am not going to let it happen again when I am holding her scales in my hands. Selden may be the slime of humanity but it is appearing more and more likely that he is clean where it counts. As much as it aches to admit the error of my way, it would hurt much worse letting Selden rot. I shall stop at nothing to get justice Ren,” demands Graham in a solemn tone.

“Go over there, do something, you need to take her out for dinner or a drink and learn the truth,” orders Graham.

An hour or so later the temporary harmony of the office is disturbed with the ringing of the phone, with Ren Funk delivering some newsworthy information.

“Gordon, she has agreed to see me Monday evening at her house, she has promised several more confessions,” explains Funk, conceding to the wishes of his partner. “She trusts me and the friendship we have developed, feels like we have some connection where she can speak to me about anything or some nonsense. The dame is bats. Loonier than your little ghost theory you cooked up or dreamt up. You’re coming with me tomorrow though, no way that I’m going it alone. She’ll cave at which point we will take her downtown. Gordon?”

“Yes Ren?” replies Graham.

“Sorry for doubting you. All signs point to her guilt,” admits Funk.

“That’s okay. I will see you tomorrow evening,” replies Graham.

10: Chapter 9

The ride over was a calm one for the two partners, not a lot in the way of conversation, as they made their way over in Funk’s 1942 purple Cadillac convertible right as the sun was beginning to fall into the cradle of the horizon. An unusual sight accosted them as they neared Palmer Woods, the setting sun and haze of the warm day casting the sky in a light green glaze.

“If you would have told me two months ago this is how I would be spending Labor Day I would have never believed you. Here sit the two of us, a detective and spy looking back into our pasts, working together to solve a murder, and becoming involved along the way with an assassin, his dame and of all things a ghost, as each of the parties involve reach their destinies, some for good and some for evil,” exclaims Graham, describing a capstone wrap up of their case and breaking the silence of the car ride.

It had been a busy Labor Day Monday in Detroit, as President Truman was in town to deliver a speech about labor and the resourcefulness of what the late President Franklin Roosevelt had coined as ‘The Arsenal of Democracy.’ Much of the traffic was making its way home from vacation just as the detective and spy were setting out to put in a little bit of overtime, how ironic yet appropriate given the holiday. For Gordon Graham and Ren Funk, it was going to be a long, busy, and above all, unforgettable evening.

On the one hand the driver could not believe that Graham was right yet again, not to mention his preoccupation with whether this alleged ghost sighting was real, imagined or fictionalized. The passenger on the other hand wondered just how much information Duchene was going to reveal after seeing the two stunningly contrasting sides of her, one tough and one fragile, and although most of us are fully capable of sliding towards either extreme of our personal scale and poles, the instability of the woman had slipped under the radar of the detective’s analysis. Little did he know it but he was about to see a third side to her in the coming moments.

     “Get out here, that is her house, the red bricked one. When she lets me in, wait a few seconds before bursting in. If she sees you with me she’s liable to panic and refuse to open the door,” explains Funk, letting the detective out before parking in front of the home.

Taking in some heavy drags of his cigarette, Graham casually strolls towards the home as Funk races up the sidewalk and to the door before disappearing inside. Wasting little time, Graham heaves away the cigarette, marching through the door to confront the conniving Katherine Duchene.

     Wading around the inside of the mammoth Tudor was quite the sight to behold for the two partners. Hardwood floors, stone white columns spaced here and there, fine imported leather furniture, book shelves full of ceramics, statuettes, collectible antiques and the occasional book. Above all, a towering façade of imposing fire engine red wallpaper that stretched its way through each room.

“I must say I love what you’ve done with the place, the décor is top notch. Although I would have sprang for a brighter shade of wallpaper that was more appetite inducing,” quibbles Graham.

     “What are you doing here? This is Labor Day. While I respect your dedication, can you not suppress those unrelenting alcoholic workaholic urges inside of you and enjoy one day off from your investigation? You are disrupting my company. Well, to think that I was greeted by a friend, do not tell me that all along you were working in tandem with this disgraced civil servant!” shouts Duchene in the direction of Funk, remaining silent but unable to hide the guilt in his eyes.

     “You took advantage of me, my friendship, my trust?” she exclaims disgusted. “Meanwhile, you promised that one interview is all you would ask for!” demands Duchene now glaring in the direction of Graham.

     “Kat, there is something I have to say to you,” utters Funk, the words trembling from his lips. “You know that I am a spy, my work is more active than you would think. Detective Graham and I are partners,” he exclaims, lifting his arm up to point at Graham while lowering his head and closing his eyes out of concealing that morsel of information.

     Slapping Funk in the face with all her might, she begins to speak in a very cool fashion. “That was out of frustration, I knew, for that matter have known that the two of you were in cahoots.”

     “How’s that?” Graham asks.

     “Not such a tough cookie when you are not asking the questions, are you detective? Nor are you so cool in the heat of fire when under pressure. You two were together in your Chrysler the night I followed you. That is when I knew the truth. That night at Bob-Lo, your reactions to what I had to say confirmed my suspicions,” she admits while looking in Funks direction. “Surprised a woman can drive and discharge a firearm at the same time? Don’t worry, I was never going to shoot either of you that night, I just thought that it might be fun to break the house rules here and steal the car for some fun and frame my husband some more!” she boasts, as Graham and Funk look at each other with shock and disbelief.

“I am fair and will give credit where credit is due, how you made that damn spook appear I will never know. To think that I thought you figured it out all by yourself. It’s not so hard when you can apparently channel the dead, never figured you for an expert on the occult,” declares Duchene acknowledging the tactics of the detective.

     “Are you telling me Kat that you really did see some paranormal manifestation in our office the other day?” asks Funk, not believing what he is hearing.

     “Yes I saw it, I saw him, whatever it was, he was really sitting there beside me in that chair,” she declares, confessing as to what she saw in the office.

     “Listen sweetheart, the last time you saw Criswell before your little homicide reunion party, was when you shot him in the back, was it not?” declares Graham.

     “Before I tell you everything, does anybody care for a drink?” asks Duchene.

     “No but I could use another slap in the face after what you have said about being the one involved in the car chase, let alone this ghost,” announces Funk as Duchene slaps him once more for good measure.

     “Like your husband I quit drinking for the time being. When he hears of your exploits he is liable to start again,” declares Graham.

     Returning with a vodka and tonic, Duchene releases her stress by dropping herself into her couch and taking a deep gulp of the drink, no need for a straw tonight.

     “The time is nigh to explain my motive I suppose?” asks Duchene.

     “On the record a motive is of no concern to the courts, only to parties uneducated in the law like police, or detectives. How about that, I am thinking like a lawyer once again. Off the record I am intrigued, go on,” demands Graham.

     “It started a long time ago. Most women yearn for their husbands to change, I yearned for mine to remain the same, but alas he changed as the years melted away. Melvin was dirty in the 1920s as a bootlegger, dirty during the depression when there was no work for commoners, and then during the war the government seized everything for production. Whether it was that war or something else something changed,” she explains.                                 “Turning over a new lease on life he reached an epiphany at some point. ‘From the ashes of this war may come a more prosperous time in America’. That is what he always said. Melvin wanted out, he was fed up with the lifestyle and demanded that we leave it all behind and adapt. He wished to settle down, live a very modern, very quiet and boring life in the suburbs, despite the fact that I had always enjoyed life in the fast lane, married to him at a young age I was in love with him for his rebellious side. Now he wanted me to domesticate myself, have children, several of them, and age not so graciously or gracefully as a nanny to them,” explains Duchene.

     “So that is why Selden wished to cease the hit man business, so that you could raise a family. To think I thought it was because gainful employment would be difficult to find,” remarks Funk.

     “He killed people, but he was an honest assassin if there ever was one. I had no intention of settling down, and demanded that he dissolve our marriage. That notion sent him into a tizzy, as he threatened that he had one last bullet with my name on it if I pressed the issue,” she explains.

     “What does any of this have to do with Criswell?” asks Graham.

     “Melvin and Lionel were partners, we received several hundred dollars a month from the brewery. Drunk on his new lease on life my husband pledged to right as many past wrongs as he could, starting with close friends of his. Melvin was serious about returning his share in the brewery to Criswell for essentially no cost. It was easy to see that this was only the beginning of his transformation, and I was not going to sit idly by and let him return the thousands of dollars that he had provided to us over the years. Something had to be done,” she continues.

     “I still remember the details of that infamous night quite well, it was clear yet cool and very still,” she describes flashing back. “I told my husband and sister in Cleveland that I would be leaving home to see her that evening. Melvin was working late, as he was most nights around this time as he tried adapting once again to working as a damn tailor. He had delivered to the brewer the transfer of ownership papers earlier in the day, or so I thought. The door must have been open for Criswell, seeing as how my husband never left it unlocked while he worked in the back,” she reasons.

     “Pulling up I slowed by car down to a crawl before turning off the lights and the engine as I waited for Melvin to leave his office. Shortly thereafter upon my arrival the lights turned off, and Melvin locked up and left the store. It was dark so I could not tell for sure, but I assumed that it was Melvin as he closed the door as if he was locking it. He then began to head in the direction of Melvin’s car. I could tell that he heard the faint sound of the door of my car opening behind him as his pace briefly came to rest. No longer willing to waste another second, I shot him in the back. My ears popped as I released the trigger and he collapsed. As if channeling my old ballet lessons I gracefully stepped up to see what I had done, it was my first murder. Realizing the horror of what I had done and finding that it was not Melvin, I took his wallet and hatched the scheme instantly. No stranger of the authorities, Melvin would be a prime suspect immediately,” she admits.

     “So Criswell never saw you?” asks Funk.

     “That is correct. My husband the assassin did not kill anybody that evening, Lionel just happened to think that Melvin shot him. It all made perfect sense. How in the hell Melvin could get away with so many murders but I could not get away with this one I will never know, then again the two of you did happen to stumble into a paranormal gift horse,” she declares.

     “Criswell came to me, I am not one to speak with the dead or dabble in the occult,” clarifies Graham.

     “Regardless, in addition to my desire to leave Melvin, I grew most fearful following the botched attempt on his life that my assassin of a husband would come after me, hence the need to get him killed or arrested as quickly as possible. Detective, your spy friend here was most helpful in that endeavor. Criswell was killed in the crosshairs of the attempt upon my husband. To think that you used his testimony to convict Melvin, putting away the bloodthirsty assassin and inadvertently helping me frame him for the murder, in essence covering up my own and throwing dirt on the truth, and even a double-crossing of sorts upon a ghost of all things!” describes Duchene with a chuckle.

     “The comedic twists and turns in life never fail to amuse me. To think that your husband was a man I despised with every ounce of my being. Why, we do have more in common than I could have imagined. Melvin Selden, from underground outlaw to underworld criminal to peaceful husband with the goal of redemption and making amends. Detective Gordon Graham, from humble roots and a promising career to cynical and sour detective, to a man with a renewed interest and passion and hope for good and justice,” expresses Graham.

     “Comedic twists and turns in life? Hold that thought detective,” replies Duchene, drawing a pistol from her coat and firing a shot into the abdomen of Graham.

     Ren Funk climbs to his feet off of the leather chair in an instant, with a look of astonishment painted across his face as he moves towards his partner desperate to provide aid and comfort--before slowly turning to sit next to Duchene. The level of astonishment is rampant amongst the room, as Detective Graham receives a second helping of it, one of different variety, but possessing a flavor just as bitter.

“That was a fabulous sequence Ren, I just adore roleplaying the game of spy and fair maiden. I do thank you detective Graham for playing along with us, Ren here believes I may have a second career in the theatre,” gleefully exclaims Duchene as the tables are turned.

     “No wonder you were so hell bent on defending that hellcat,” utters Graham, clutching his wound.

     “Loot and lust over loyalty? Three years of working together as my trusted friend and colleague, and you turn on me. All we’ve been through, we go back so far...” exclaims a disgusted Graham.

     “Just the life of a spy my boy, double crossing is what I do best, it is in my blood. For the record I do prefer to think of it as luxury and love as opposed to your less tasteful designations. Did not want for it to come to this, but you were so devoted to your cause of providing justice to Selden, even if it meant turning Kat loose. Recall what you just said about what men fight for? Money trumps politics my friend, and unfortunately for you, so do women. I am having my cake and eating it too,” reveals Funk.

     “Play your little game of double agent for the Nazis and double cross Uncle Sam?” asks Graham.

     “Nein. That was a different time and I was a different man. Besides, the risk was too great and compensation would not have been anywhere lucrative enough for me to have taken such initiative,” chuckles Funk.

“So she was in on this the whole time I take it?” asks Graham, beginning to weaken in his resolve.

     “No. I was initially loyal to you, believing that I was playing Duchene. Next I realized that she was playing me, and then I fell in love with her. Kat told me everything that she told you tonight and then some, proving herself to me by revealing the truth about the murder and how she was leaving it all behind with Selden, regardless of what happens. Through intimate discussions she was serious about not wishing to leave behind the thrill and ever settle down. I promised her that she never would have to do so with me,” explains Funk, looking into the eyes of Duchene as he holds her hand.

     “Are you that dense, she’s playing you now, she’ll double cross you, and when she does I will be there along with Criswell,” declares Graham.

     “Returning from the grave to haunt me along with that brewer, best of luck to you with that,” responds Funk in a coy and sarcastic manner as Duchene uncorks a laugh.

“You have to follow your heart Gordon. It is not about living to fight another day. It is about living to fight! Time is of no consequence,” asserts Funk. “Hope is what you make of it. You can remain coiled and bent out of shape as a cog in the machine, or you can rise above the system. This life is like a locomotive, some of us are conductors, while others are destined to spend their existence riding along and behind as passengers. The choice is yours. Correction--was yours.”

     “Lightning can strike twice, the bribery scandal, and now my curtain call. On a different plane yet simultaneous level, that dame of yours shooting Criswell and now myself,” explains Graham.

     “Purple lightning can strike twice, and you’re just a rainy day. Go attack me all you want, you’ll just fade away,” purrs Duchene, merrily singing the old folk song as she raises the gun to finish the detective off before Funk raises his hand, stopping her.

     “What do you know Gordon, you have come full circle to become a true crusader for social justice once again. I am doing you a favor. I have helped restore the foundation of your life, and I can promise you that your death will not be in vain. You die today having left behind a legacy, the captain of the team that put away Melvin Selden. You are a detective that is at long last basking in that champagne under the sun you have been thirsting for,” declares Funk as Duchene leaves the room.

     “Hollow, corrupt,” chokes Graham, managing to utter some remnants of language.

     “Yes, of course it is hollow and corrupt. You cannot bestow upon someone a legacy of his own. Perception is reality in this world of ours Gordon. Loyalty is a two way street and the same twists and turns you spoke of are most prevalent here as well on the road along the way through life,” declares Funk.

     “Dead ends too, utters Graham in a coarse voice, visibly shaking and spitting up blood.

“You fought for politics dear friend, you win some and you lose some. Call it greed and lust if you would like, but I fought in the name of money and love. Goodbye old friend. In the next life, I owe you one,” remarks a saddened Funk, clutching the hand of his partner.

“No, I owe you one,” replies Gordon Graham with a wink of the eye before collapsing dead on the floor.

     Setting his hand along the cheek of his fallen friend and removing his fedora, free of blood but partly drenched in sweat, the spy places it on his head, a perfect fit.

     An hour or so later after the requisite precautions were implemented in terms of cleaning and disposing, it was time to leave.

Unlocking and springing open the door, Ren Funk gazes up and down at the beautiful Katherine Duchene, admiring her look, as the woman has returned after fixing herself up for the past hour and is ready for a night on the town. After all, it is still the holiday weekend and celebrations are in order now that the last obstacle standing in their way has been surmounted.

“No lies from my lips this evening my dear, you look most dazzling tonight, red is your best color,” offers Funk.

“Represents power as you know and compliments a murder especially well. After killing a man I am feeling that power in spades,” replies Duchene.

Smiling and basking in the glow of each other’s company, the couple locks their arms together in a romantic gesture as they make their way down the sidewalk to the purple chariot parking before them.

“Ren Funk, from ambitious to disillusioned to triumphant in the name of money and love. Katherine Duchene, from money and adventure to love, with money and adventure still in there too. Gordon could not have said it any better himself,” elaborates Funk imitating the style of his fallen partner, wrapping up the destinies of the two lovers as he opens the car door for his girl before closing it behind her.

A low rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance as the two begin encountering the soft touch of a litany of sprinkles. “The rain is beginning to fall, better put the top up for the ride,” exclaims, Funk handing Duchene an umbrella as he lowers the roof of the purple Cadillac convertible.

Firing up the ignition and leisurely easing on down the block, Funk and Duchene are oblivious to the figure that now appears seated behind them, where as still as the dead sits the ghost of Lionel Criswell adorned in his trademark white attire. Staring out the window with an expressionless look sewn across his face, he glares up at the two, transforming the glint in his eyes into a menacing scowl, before settling his facial muscles into a warm and subtle smile, riding along as a silent passenger as the two fail to detect his spectral presence.

     “Where to my lady?” asks Funk, turning the radio dial to the smooth caress of the tunes and notes of a splash of summer jazz.

     “How about the Bob-Lo Island Brewery, they say that it’s haunted you know,” replies Duchene with a quip.

     Taking in a deep and satisfying laugh before exhaling deeply, the spy wraps his arm around Duchene. “You’re a sassy rogue Kat, just how I love them,” he acknowledges driving down the long hill making their way westward towards the downtown skyline and into the rapidly approaching dark skies. The stars had gone to bed, seeking refuge from the coming storm, and it was just the two of them, and that is all that mattered. Through the thick of heavy cloud cover ahead, an electrifying bolt of lightning tinted purple strikes the top of one of the skyscrapers, before a subsequent second bolt strikes the same precise location, the only color permeating from the black and white scenery...

11: Epilogue

Respondeat Superior is the concept of the relationship between principle and agent involving vicarious liability. The notion provides that the principle may be held responsible for the conduct of the agent provided that his actions occurred under the scope of his employment. It is rather simple to conjure up such rules and coin such definitions, harder to enforce them during times when intellectual strategy and passions of the heart come into play. For all of our faults humanity is a most beautiful thing that cannot be restricted nor defined in any table of contents or index of any book, or library full of them.

     As our cast of characters show, values and outlooks can change with the weather. It is no wonder why we have so much in common with very uncommon individuals, given that we are all a part of the same journey together on this Earth. Whether from noble to disillusioned, ambitious to cynical, conceited to homicidal, murderous to diplomatic, to and fro and back again they may transform, with the speed of a lightning bolt, which can strike twice in so many ways.

     A touch of diligence is vital when loyalties and allegiance are threatened, and maintaining awareness upon the ever-changing political, monetary, and romantic landscapes of our lives is key. Mastering the art of understanding just whom you are working for, or for that matter who is working for you, will go a long way towards helping you reach your intended destiny, for better or worse, for good--or for evil. You will then be able to enjoy that champagne under the sun in your own life, or whatever else happens to be your cup of tea.

 

END