A Pain in the Knee

                                                                  A Pain in the Knee
My left knee was acting up, so I went to an orthopedist to get it examined. The receptionist gave me a clip board and told me to have a seat.  I told her I can't sit down because I can't stand it.  She gave me a mechanical stare and I immediately thought she was programmed with ten lines and she couldn't compute my response.  She still hadn't blinked when I took the clip board out of her hand and sat down.
It wasn't your normal waiting room. This was something like the recreation room of a nursing home.  A hundred old souls walked passed me, all holding canes. There were all kind of canes, aluminum; steel; canes with skeleton tops and braided wrist straps.  Some were carved out of wood with talon shaped handles and finger grooves underneath.  Some snapped open like a switch blade.
My name was called and a puffy cheek nurse with pouty lips led me to an examining room and sat me down on the examination couch.  Then another nurse came in and told me to roll my pants up past my knees and led me to the x-ray room.  As I waddled down the corridor, I felt like Lucy Ricardo on her way to stomp grapes in the wine vat.  After the x-rays were taken, I was led back to the examining room.  The doctor came in and told me I had arthritis and my cartilage was gone.  He gave me a pain prescription and said to tell him when he should order the knee replacements.  I told him I'd get in touch, maybe.
As I was on my way out, the nurse with the puffy cheeks looked down at my chart and said, "You're a private eye?"
I said I was, "but I can't get around like I used to."
"I think my husband is cheating on me.  We haven't had sex in over a year.  But I saw naked pictures on his computer.  He tells me he is going to the gym but he has no gym clothes in his gym bag. When he comes home he says he's tired and goes to bed."
"I charge fifty dollars an hour for murder, but I can go forty dollars for cheating hearts."
"When can you start?"
She gave me her address and a picture of her husband.  I told her I'd bill her for my time and drop it off at the hospital. I said, "Don't worry.  These things usually work out with no harm done.  Maybe there's an innocent explanation."
"I hope so.  But a woman has instincts, and I am leaning toward those instincts." She shook back her long black hair and said her name was Linda.
We shook hands, and I limped out the door.  I paid the parking fee and got in my car. I looked at the address she gave me and hung a left. The towns were small and the speed limits kept changing every time I went through one. Burger King, Giant Eagle, McDonalds, red light. Burger King, Giant eagle, McDonalds, red light.  How do these places stay in business when they're so close to each other?  As I drove, I pondered Linda's predicament. None of us know what others deal with.  A private eye never sleeps.  He watches and waits for things to happen.  And then they do, and the mystery begins.
On Saturday, Linda worked while Jim was off.  I parked up the street away from Linda's house on the side of a black asphalt lane, so I could watch her house.  I lit up a Swisher Sweet cigar and blew sweet cigar circles that swayed and danced against the windshield. I was ready to get out of my truck when Jim opened his front door, sauntered down the concrete walk and got into a maroon Malibu. I followed him to North Park.  He parked along Lake View Drive and went into an outhouse.  I pulled my truck over, further back and walked up to the Shaler grove, took out my paper and sat down on the picnic table.  A few minutes later Jim came out of the outhouse and walked up to me.  I said, "Howdy."  He just looked at me, and I could tell he didn't want me there.  A black Kia pulled up next to Jim's car and a swell looking muscular guy with broad shoulders and wavy black hair stepped out and came up the slope toward us.  He glanced briefly at me and they both walked into the woods.  I limped down toward the Kia and took a picture of the car and the license plate. Then I dragged my knees back up the slope and back to my newspaper.  For fifteen minutes I studied the box scores, absorbed the obituaries, and finished the crossword puzzles. Finally, they came out of the woods. Both their heads were down and I couldn't extract eye contact from either one of them.
I managed to snap a picture of the gay couple before they could spy the camera.  I left the paper on the picnic table and stumbled down to my car.  I guess puffy cheeks will be very disappointed.
The next Saturday, I watched Jim do his routine at his house.  I gave him a head start.  I just wanted to confirm my perceptions. I traveled back to Shaler grove and took a Chandler novel this time. I had no idea when the happy couple would come out of the woods again. I was half way through "The Big Sleep" when I began to realize something was wrong.  Could they have already met and departed?  I took a walk through the path they took last time. There was a rocky winding one-man road going down a hill and curving into a hidden grove just barely butting next to a steep cliff.  I went to the railing overlooking the cliff and glanced down.  There was a pile of leaves unnaturally formed.  There was also a vaguely familiar stench rising up to my nose. A stench all private eyes and cops are familiar with.  I took my cell phone out and dialed 911 and told the operator there may be a body at the bottom of a cliff near Shaler grove in North Park.  I went back to my truck and got my binoculars and waited for the cops.
It didn't take long before I heard the sirens and then I thought, "What if it's a dead groundhog?  Will I still have a license in the morning?" A young mountain climber with pegs and stakes and rope jerked his head at me and I pointed down the cliff.  Soon he grappled his way down and landed like a parachutist at the bottom.  He ruffled through the leaves and a boot appeared and then a body followed.  I looked through the binoculars and was shocked that it was the guy with the black wavy hair. What happened?
I drove back to the hospital and showed the picture of the Kia to Puffy Cheeks and she exclaimed, "That's Tracy's husband's car.
"Who's Tracy?"
"My next door neighbor."
"What's her husband's name?"
"Tom.  Why?
"Tom was found dead at the bottom of a cliff in North Park.  Did you kill him?"
"No, why would you think that?"
"He was your husband's lover."
"Then I would have killed Jim."
"Where is Jim? I asked. "He never showed up at the grove."
"I don't know. That's why I hired you; to keep track of him."
"Wow. Busted again," I thought.
"What about Tracy? Could she have killed Tom?"
"She has a short fuse, and I would hate to think what she would do if she found out that her husband was gay."
I thought I better have a talk with Tracy. I left Linda crying her eyes out.  I think she could have handled a hot young babe, but this same sex business was out of her league. I went back to Tom's house before the cops could notify Tracy.  I knocked. She answered.
Tracy had short red hair, a pointed chin, and a stern looking face that could bring a first grade class to the verge of tears. I told her about Jim and Tom.  She told me she had been raised as a strict Catholic and had no tolerance for homosexuals.  She became so enraged that her face turned red as a sunset. I began to think she already knew about Jim and Tom.  She was Irish and I could tell that the jig was up.
"Tom's been murdered." I said.
She looked at me with dark dagger eyes, and slammed the door in my face.
I walked across the lane and knocked on Jim's door.  No one answered, but Jim's car was parked in the driveway.  I called Linda at the hospital and asked her to buzz Jim.  She called me back a few minutes later and said all she got was voice mail.  I went back to my office and caught up with my other cases-there were 24 cans in each case. I was lonely and frustrated and I called Linda again.
"No, Jim hasn't come in yet." She told me.
"Linda, I need to talk to Jim, before the police get to him."
"Oh my.  Do you think Jim did it?"
"Do you or Jim own a gun?"
"No, but I know that Tom keeps one for protection."
"I guess it didn't do a good job of protecting him. Tell Jim to call me as soon as he comes in."
Each day that Jim failed to come home or even call, Linda grew more desperate and reliant on me. She came to my office and then she came on to me.  I offered my shoulder but she tried to kiss me with those pouty luscious lips, but I am a knight of the round bottle and I pushed her away. She kept crying and I told her she has to accept the facts.  Either Jim left her, or Jim is dead too. I kept thinking about the fiery hate burning in Tracy's face like a carved out pumpkin glowing in candle light.

I had no idea where Jim's body was, but I knew Tracy was responsible.  Since there was no body; there was no crime.  The police wouldn't be able to touch her and Jim would remain the only person of interest.  Still, no one deserves to die.  I took his picture out of my wallet again. He looked like someone I knew, but I couldn't connect the time or the face.  I stopped in a local tavern for a burger and a shot of bourbon.  The TV was airing a movie with bad dialog and poor acting.  But one of those bad actors looked like my old buddy and had a strange resemblance to Linda's husband.  I waited for the credits, and sure enough it was Stu Studenny.  I looked him up on line to see where he lived, and was surprised to see he ran an acting school here in Pittsburgh. I called ahead to make sure he was in, and then drove down to talk about old times and a missing body.
Later, I called Tracy and told her I needed to talk to her in private.  I suggested the Shaler's school auditorium.  I knew the janitor and he let us in. It was dark, and shadows kept drifting around whenever something moved.  The stage had a long wooden bench with a picket style back and a dim spotlight overhead softly illuminating it.  I had left the side door open for Stu.
We sat facing the stage and I said to Tracy, "You think you're going to get away with this, but guilt can punish you more than a cell block can."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Just then a dark figure strutted upon the stage.  His Fedora hat was pulled low over his forehead, but the dim light revealed a face bearing an eerie likeness to Jim.  His right hand shot out and a long index finger pointed at Tracy.
"Tracy.  Why did you do this to me?"  Tell them where you put me. Tell them where to find my rotting corpse. Tell them or I will haunt you till your dying day."  And then he vanished in a cloud of smoke.
I was watching Tracy. Terror opened her eyes wide.  She was gaping at the ghost of murders past. Stu put on a hell of a performance and actually had me thinking it really was Jim.
Tracy had her head buried in her knees and I couldn't hear her.  Slowly she lifted her head and said, "Did you see him?"
"See who?" I asked.
"You didn't see him.  How could you? It was me he wanted. I'll tell you where he is.  He's...he's under the tall mound of mulch over at the park's landscape lot."
With my accusing eyes on Tracy, I took my cell phone out and dialed the Shaler Police. I left her sitting there and walked through the double doors.  As I went over to the side entrance searching for Stu I saw a black BMX pull up next to me.  Stu Studenny got out and said, "Sorry, I was held up in traffic.  Is she here? Am I too late?"
As the sirens became louder and the red and blue lights seemed to go in circles around me, I shook my head and thought to myself, "Jim, wherever you are right now, you did it.  You son of a gun.  Let the light take you now.  Your job's done here, and Linda, she'll be proud of you."
I met Linda down at the police station.    They found Jim where Tracy said she put him. Tracy confessed that she took Tom's gun and followed Tom and Jim to the grove where she shot Tom in the back of the head and threw him over the railing.  Then she turned on Jim and forced him into his car.  When they got to the mulch piles, she ordered Jim out of the car, shot him and buried him under one of the piles.  Then she drove Jim's car home and parked it in his driveway.  She left Tom's car at the park, so the police would think that Tom and Jim drove together.  I guess she thought since Jim couldn't be found,  the police would think Jim was the killer.
Did I save the damsel in distress? I'd like to think so, but in the pit of my stomach I know I had another fight with evil and he's still laughing at me.  Linda is no longer the pretty black haired girl with puffy cheeks and pouty lips. She has been injured, possibly beyond repair.
I need a drink.