coffee cups, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Two notebook computers and a printer sat on a credenza against the back wall, where a small group of people huddled together, talking in whispers. A woman with a tear-stained face came out of the bathroom; her puffy eyes met mine for a moment before she left the suite.
We went through a side door I assumed was to a bedroom, but instead of a bed there was a large wood veneer desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties: John Bascom.
Cutlip closed the door behind us and motioned for me to sit in a chair facing the desk. He took a seat at a small table off to the side.
Bascom had changed out of his tuxedo into slacks and a black polo shirt. An oversized vein pulsated on the side of his forehead, and he looked at me with small, darting eyes. His lips were pressed against his teeth, and his jaw quivered in the last of the day’s sunlight, which weakly lit the room from a large window looking over the street.
“Do you have a business card?” he asked. I pulled one out of my wallet and handed it to him. He looked at it long enough to read every word twice.
“Okay, Reno, here’s my situation,” he said. “My son was beaten, robbed, stabbed to death. He died of his wounds, probably bled to death, in a suite at the Crown Ambassador Hotel. I just got back from there, and now I need to go formally identify his body at the coroner’s office.” He stopped talking and turned and gazed out the window. I waited, and the silence grew awkward, but he just sat and stared, for a minute, then two, until finally he regained his composure and continued.
“I just met with the two local detectives assigned to investigate my son’s murder. I don’t have a great deal of faith in small-town police agencies, and these two are a good example why. I question their commitment and competency—let’s leave it at that. And I won’t even go into my opinions about the state of our courts.” He stood, sighed deeply, and walked over to the window.
“I lost my first son when he was twenty-one. My remaining son has just been murdered…” His voice cracked, and I thought he might break into tears, but instead he whipped around so quickly I almost put up my hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, his teeth clenched in a snarl. “And I want the lousy scum who did it.” He stood looming over me, shaking with anger. “Am I clear?” he hissed. “I want who did it! I don’t give a flying fuck about anything else! I don’t want the murdering bastard on the streets or even sitting in a cozy little jail and getting butt-rammed all day long! I want him!” His words exploded from deep in his chest, his face purple, spittle flying from his lips.
He took a couple of long breaths, then snapped his fingers at Edward Cutlip and said, “Turkey.” Cutlip scrambled out the door and returned with the fifth of whiskey. Bascom splashed a few ounces in his coffee cup, drained it, and sat back down heavily.
“Reno, I’ve checked your background. I know your history. The only thing that concerns me is you’ve never been in the service,” he said.
“How did you access my background?”
“I’m connected, believe me.”
I wondered to what extent. “What does the service have to do with it?” I asked.
“I did two tours in ‘Nam, Reno, and spent six months in a POW camp. It gives one a certain perspective on crime and punishment.”
“I’m not sure what you want from me,” I said. “The police are just beginning their investigation, and there’s a good chance they’ll make arrests within a couple days. Why do you need a private investigator?”
“And if they don’t make arrests quickly?” Bascom said.
“Why not give them a chance?”
“Yes, and wait for them to flounder and let the trail grow cold. And then I wait for them to commit more time and resources they don’t have to the investigation. And eventually the case gets old and stagnant, and that’s it.” He paused, and we looked at
We went through a side door I assumed was to a bedroom, but instead of a bed there was a large wood veneer desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties: John Bascom.
Cutlip closed the door behind us and motioned for me to sit in a chair facing the desk. He took a seat at a small table off to the side.
Bascom had changed out of his tuxedo into slacks and a black polo shirt. An oversized vein pulsated on the side of his forehead, and he looked at me with small, darting eyes. His lips were pressed against his teeth, and his jaw quivered in the last of the day’s sunlight, which weakly lit the room from a large window looking over the street.
“Do you have a business card?” he asked. I pulled one out of my wallet and handed it to him. He looked at it long enough to read every word twice.
“Okay, Reno, here’s my situation,” he said. “My son was beaten, robbed, stabbed to death. He died of his wounds, probably bled to death, in a suite at the Crown Ambassador Hotel. I just got back from there, and now I need to go formally identify his body at the coroner’s office.” He stopped talking and turned and gazed out the window. I waited, and the silence grew awkward, but he just sat and stared, for a minute, then two, until finally he regained his composure and continued.
“I just met with the two local detectives assigned to investigate my son’s murder. I don’t have a great deal of faith in small-town police agencies, and these two are a good example why. I question their commitment and competency—let’s leave it at that. And I won’t even go into my opinions about the state of our courts.” He stood, sighed deeply, and walked over to the window.
“I lost my first son when he was twenty-one. My remaining son has just been murdered…” His voice cracked, and I thought he might break into tears, but instead he whipped around so quickly I almost put up my hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, his teeth clenched in a snarl. “And I want the lousy scum who did it.” He stood looming over me, shaking with anger. “Am I clear?” he hissed. “I want who did it! I don’t give a flying fuck about anything else! I don’t want the murdering bastard on the streets or even sitting in a cozy little jail and getting butt-rammed all day long! I want him!” His words exploded from deep in his chest, his face purple, spittle flying from his lips.
He took a couple of long breaths, then snapped his fingers at Edward Cutlip and said, “Turkey.” Cutlip scrambled out the door and returned with the fifth of whiskey. Bascom splashed a few ounces in his coffee cup, drained it, and sat back down heavily.
“Reno, I’ve checked your background. I know your history. The only thing that concerns me is you’ve never been in the service,” he said.
“How did you access my background?”
“I’m connected, believe me.”
I wondered to what extent. “What does the service have to do with it?” I asked.
“I did two tours in ‘Nam, Reno, and spent six months in a POW camp. It gives one a certain perspective on crime and punishment.”
“I’m not sure what you want from me,” I said. “The police are just beginning their investigation, and there’s a good chance they’ll make arrests within a couple days. Why do you need a private investigator?”
“And if they don’t make arrests quickly?” Bascom said.
“Why not give them a chance?”
“Yes, and wait for them to flounder and let the trail grow cold. And then I wait for them to commit more time and resources they don’t have to the investigation. And eventually the case gets old and stagnant, and that’s it.” He paused, and we looked at
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