He Must Tell A Story He Never Can

It started on a Friday. Heavy, fibrous debris pouring from overcast skies. It looked like ash against the fluorescent glow of undercloud. But when it crossed the horizon, the darker background of trees and buildings revealed its true identity and color. Snow, white as the sky. It kept on until Sunday, covering everything, exaggerating every tree branch and fencepost. Then the sun cut through, bringing the temperature above freezing and the people from their homes. A couple walking in the park called the station to report something resembling a body uncovered by the melting snow.

The couple stood with a small crowd of onlookers fifteen or so feet behind Detective Warren Beale. One hand gripped his belt above his left thigh, the other above his right buttock. He pulled, grabbed his belt another way, and pulled again. Experience had taught him that this little ritual would afford his pants the necessary slack to accommodate an impending squat without tearing. He bent his knees, feeling the sudden urge to bring his scarf over his mouth and nose. Sweat and urine and whiskey. That, paired with the tattered clothes… well, it was no mystery. It was a homeless man, dead from prolonged exposure to the cold.

Detective Beale placed his hands on his knees to help propel himself out of his squat, but his boot slipped and he toppled onto the thawing corpse.

He choked on the odor as he scrambled back to squatting position. Remembering the crowd of spectators behind him, he squinted intently at the body in an effort to play off this accidental tampering of a crime scene as a deliberate investigative forensic tactic. He poked the body. He swept snow with the back of his hand. He even went so far as to rub his chin and furrow his brow, as if to aid him in his contemplation of this tragic casualty.

It’s possible that the detective put so much effort into this performance that he convinced himself it wasn’t one. Breaking his fall with the corpse had turned it onto its side, exposing a small patch of grass in a field otherwise covered by snow. And though he didn’t notice it at first, wedged between the corpse and the grass was a black moleskine notebook. He pulled it loose, rising from his squat with a grunt and the snow-dusted moleskine in his hand.

He opened to the last page.

...Can’t buy clothes. No one lets me in the store. One look and they come yelling and shooing like I’m gonna steal. If they just lemme buy new clothes I won’t look like this. Money doesn’t make a difference. They think I stole that too. I hear the sirens after I go. Hotels won’t take cash. Most say I need ID. All of them want credit cards. Except the motel, but Rat’s there. I tried to get ID, but the DMV won’t give me one. They say I needa birth certificate, social security card, proof of residence. The bank won’t gimme a credit card. Not even when I show them the money. Twenty thousand dollars I can’t spend. Whata joke. Rat came at me witha knife yesterday. Had to jump in the lake to get away. No idea how he found out about the money. If I can’t figure something soon I don’t know...

He closed the little black book. He had no interest in entertaining delusional thought processes, let alone the delusional thought processes of the deceased and homeless. He was tired and hungry and he could feel the spectators watching him. They would have questions. Always wanting to know what they didn’t, always wishing they didn’t know what they did. God, people are stupid, the detective thought, and he waddled over to them like a child to a flock of seagulls.

When the crowd dispersed, Detective Beale dialed the station on his phone.

“Yeah.”

“Tell Vern I need the wagon. There’s a body in Agatha.”

“Shoot, Warren, why don’t you just eat it?”

“Don’t give me this right now. Just tell Vern to bring the wagon.”

The line was dead before he finished speaking. Warren stared at the upturned body, the only not-white lump in his entire field of vision. His grip on the phone tightened, not yet convinced he should do what he was going to. If they had, in fact, sent the wagon, then they’d really give it to him for calling back. And if they hadn’t, a second call would accomplish nothing. Nothing but more jokes at his expense.

He approached the body. It made sense that they hung up on him. It wouldn't be the first time. But if they didn’t, if the line had actually disconnected on its own, they may not bother to notify Vern. He hitched his pants with two more tugs and re-dialed the station. His stomach rumbled and the dial tone rang as he lowered himself over the body. It looked like an Egyptian sarcophagus with the arms folded in front, tucked inside a half-zipped jacket.

“Yeah?”

“Are you sending the wagon?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Beale, damnit!”

Warren heard laughter. He unzipped the jacket the rest of the way and pulled the folds back to find frozen hands clutching a massive wad of bills. Almost as a reflex, he wished for a bag of sand, precisely weighted so as to counteract any pressure-sensitive boobytraps.

“Calm down, Warren. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“Don’t give me this right now,” Warren said, remembering who he was. He pried the money from the cold, dead fingers. “Just send the wagon and come get this guy so I can go home. I’m freezing.”

“We already told Vern. He’s coming.”

This time Warren hung up, shoving the money into his pants pocket. He was absolutely sure, without counting, that he had just come into twenty thousand dollars.

He didn’t feel nervous; he didn’t feel much of anything. All he experienced was a persistent, nagging thought, as if he had developed sudden onset tinnitus. He had to be smart. The upturned body looked suspicious, but not in a way that would lead anyone to the conclusion that Warren had found twenty thousand dollars. Still, Vern would have questions. And if Warren didn’t answer them well enough... who knows.

He stood on the patch of grass, waiting for Vern to arrive, surrounded by a sea of snow, alone and sweating on an island of frozen grass, thinking his persistent nagging thought over and over, feeling nothing, his senses numb to the outside world because there was nothing of concern now but the money, nothing but time and towering waves in his way, nothing and no one around him, a round blue body and a corpse in a field of white.

Eventually, Vern came trudging through the park with two junior officers in his wake. Warren just kept standing.

“Warren,” said Vern.

“Hello, Vern,” said Warren.

The junior officers went to work straightaway, taking pictures and pronouncing the dead man dead.

“Where’s the couple who called it in?” said Vern.

“I sent them away,” said Warren. “They were drawing a crowd.”

Everyone listened when Vern spoke. He had an inherent sense of fairness that radiated into everything he did and said. As a result, people often sought him out when they had been cheated or wronged. Warren, who was the subject of countless workplace abuses, felt towards Vern the admiration one feels towards a protector. But he knew that Vern would not allow him to keep the money.

“Was he upturned like that when you got here?”

“No,” said Warren. “I dug around a little.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Vern turned to face Warren. “Nothing?”

Warren shrugged. “He’s a hobo. Couldn’t even find ID.” As he spoke, he knew that he had most certainly not checked for an ID. One of the junior officers unraveled a body bag.

“What’ve you got there?” said Vern.

Warren had never in his life felt so stupid. He was still holding the black moleskine.

“Oh, I did find this,” he said, handing it over.

A weight lifted. Vern would put two and two together. Warren had tampered with a crime scene and sent away witnesses. The notebook was withheld evidence, the cherry on top of the stupid cake.

Vern flipped through the notebook nonchalantly.

He looked at Warren sideways. “A writer.”

“Yeah,” said Warren.

“Gone before his time,” said Vern, and he laughed loudly. He handed the book back to Warren, who did not fully comprehend what was happening. “You can’t make this stuff up,” said Vern. “I can understand why you’d want to keep that. That’s a funny thing to find on a John in the snow.” He inhaled sharply before dealing out his sentence. “I think we can handle it from here. Just make sure you bring that to the station Monday; they’ll get a real kick out of that. Yessir. I imagine you’ll tell this story a hundred times before the week is up. And go get a coffee or something. You’re shivering.”

Warren could not move. He had never felt so triumphantly superior to Vern. He had gotten away with it. Even despite two decisive mistakes, he could go home with the money in his pocket, no questions asked.

But a part of him, a new and small and growing part, felt troubled. Not because the system had failed this homeless man, or because Vern did not live up to the grand upholder of fairness that Warren had made him out to be. On the contrary, Vern did not know enough to be or not be that man. Warren and Warren alone had sufficient information to be that man, and that meant that Warren had to be the upholder of fairness, or else fairness wouldn’t be upheld. But Warren didn’t want to be the upholder of fairness. He wanted the money. He looked to Vern but Vern wasn’t there. It was just Warren. Dressed in detectives’ clothes, in pants that didn’t fit right.

“Maybe we should do a little digging,” Warren said. “He might’ve hidden the money in the bushes.”

Vern laughed again. “Beale, I’m surprised at you!” He pointed at the corpse. “That right there is a crazy person. People with twenty thousand dollars in their pocket don’t freeze to death in the snow.”

“But he did,” Warren said. “He froze to death. It says so right here. No hotel would take him. They ask for a credit card in case you do any damage to the room. It’s not crazy.”

Vern wasn’t laughing anymore. He called over to the junior officers with a tone approaching seriousness.

“Smith, did you happen to find twenty G’s on that John?”

Smith didn’t look up. “No, sir.”

“Well,” said Vern. “I don’t know what else there is to it.”

Warren did not expect to feel such a lonesome guilt, but he supposed he could live with it for twenty thousand dollars. Vern exhaled sharp and rhythmically, each breath curling around his mustache, but Warren never heard him inhale. He sounded like an old train engine coming to a stop and never getting there. The two men shook hands, and the corpse cleared its throat to speak.