…

Just who is this Alexander Bergman?

…

Bryson was fully aware that you can only get answers to the questions according to what you know about a victim.  It’s why no one told him about Bergman having any military service or anything that might be relevant outside his usual business, and affairs.

A conversation between Worthey and Bergman’s daughter raised the possibility of military service, most likely in the Army, and equally likely somewhere in the Middle East, but a follow-up conversation between Worthey and her over the phone produced no further results.

It did yield one more interesting fact, that the daughter was from an earlier rather brief marriage and that Sandra had remained with the mother and had known nothing about her father until the mother had died and left his details in a letter to be given to her.

Her acquaintance with him had been relatively brief, six months at most, and in that time, she had failed to find out anything about him other than he was selfish and inconsiderate, and that it was no surprise her mother had not told her about him.

She was surprised to learn that he had made her a beneficiary of his will, not that it would amount to much.

Bryson then moved on to his most recent spouse, Stacy.  She had been number four.  The most she could say about the other three was that the first was a mistake, the second lasted exactly six weeks, and the third was to an older woman, a rich widow, Stacy said, who died in suspicious circumstances.

It was where Stacy said, Bergman got the funds to set up his business.

Stacy had first met Bergman in a night club where she was a dancer, no, not an exotic dancer, and he had been with wife number three at the time.  She should have realized that Bergman was not trustworthy when he asked to date her on the pretext that he and his current wife were estranged and were in the process of divorcing.

She hadn’t realized at the time that her death might have been suspicious, just that she had conveniently died so she and Bergman were free to marry.

She knew nothing about any military service, he did not mention it.  He said he had once worked for an international aid organization and had often travelled and remained overseas for months at a time, but those visits had been curtailed once he married her.  However, he frequently made flying visits to both suppliers and clients, but these, she was assured, were all in America.

She had never seen him with a passport, had seen his travel arrangements from time to time in the form of itineraries, and on several occasions had asked her to go with him, but she had declined.  She did not travel well in aeroplanes.

Wendy Anderson proved to be a more difficult case to get information out of.

It was clear from the outset she knew a lot more than she admitted to.  The call on the telephone started badly and ended abruptly.  He sent Worthey and several officers to arrest her and bring her back to the station.

Once in the interview room, a lawyer by her side, Bryson told her, “At the moment I’m half inclined to charge you with obstruction.  I asked a simple question, do you know whether Alexander Berman was in the military/  It isn’t a difficult question.”

“It is as if what he did was something he was not supposed to mention or talk about.”

“He obviously told you.”

“I can keep a secret.  I made a solemn promise never to repeat to anyone what he told me.”

“He’s now dead, that hardly seems relevant.  What is relevant is the fact that whatever it is he did might have some direct effect on why he’s dead.”

“It wasn’t that spectacular.  If you’re looking for a murderer look no further than James.”

‘So you keep saying, but the facts say otherwise.  I assume you knew he had four wives, the most recent Stacy, and that he has a daughter, Sandra.”

“Did he?”

“You mean in all of the thirty-odd years you have known him he never mentioned it?  Or the fact he was briefly married to one Annabelle Bentley, shortly after he graduated from University?”

Bryson was observing Wendy Anderson very carefully and when he mentioned the daughter, she showed genuine surprise.  That wasn’t the same when he asked her about military service.

“If he did have a daughter, I’m sure it was a surprise to him as well.  Perhaps they had parted, and she was pregnant and forgot or deliberately didn’t tell him. 

It was a logical assumption, Bryson thought.

“And as far as I was aware, Alex was in the National Guard for a brief period, arising from his time in a cadet corps when he was much younger, something his father made him do.  I had no idea if he carried that forward, and he never mentioned it.”

“How do you explain the obvious absences?”

“The charity work involved staying overseas for long periods.  From time to time I would visit him in various locations.  Not one was he in uniform, or anywhere near military action.  If he was, he hid it well.”

Or she just wasn’t all that observant.

“You have other matters you wish to ask me about?: she asked.

Perhaps it was time to throw the car among the pigeons.

“We have managed to get access to the text messages on one of Bergman’s cell phones, and there is a considerable exchange of sometimes very explicit tests between yourself and the deceased, as well as some attached photographs which suggest that your relationship is not what you are portraying it as.  That phone is currently missing.  Now, I will ask you once again, what was the nature of your relationship with the deceased.”

An almost priceless expression on her face, surely she had some idea if anything happened to her boyfriend the police would be looking at his phone records.

“And you were not the only woman he was conducting this type of relationship with.  We have, so far, found three others, equally as intense, shall we say.  The nature of the text messages and the tenor of one of the last he sent you, which I’m sure you are aware of, where he said he would have no hesitation in showing your husband those photographs, gives you a clear motive.  And, if you say your husband has a gun, I’m assuming you know where it is, and how to gain access to it, if you follow my meaning.”

It was very clear by her expression she did.  “I did not kill him.  He did not tell me what he was about to do, though I did ask him to destroy those photographs.  Equally, if Bergman intended to use those photographs to get my husband to sign the divorce papers, for whatever reason, then would that equally give James motive?”

It would, or it might have been a case of good riddance, but Bryson could not allow his snap judgement of wither to interfere in an unbiased investigation.

Yes, the expression had changed again, he thought, having realised what she’d said.  It was apparent to him she was truly angry at a husband, but for different reasons, none of which were attached to Bergman, but she had been handed a perfect opportunity to set him up for the murder.

And one thing was certain about her.  She was making it noticeably clear to him that she wanted her husband to take the fall for the murder.

“Just so you know, we believe there is another phone, the one that he received a message to meet him at the Zoo carpark at 10pm.  There was evidence in the car and on his person of perfume, Mrs Anderson, not unlike what you are wearing now.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

A matter of diplomacy

…

I had to wonder, in that brief moment standing there, how I had come from a contented life plying space in a nomadic cargo vessel, to this, in charge of over 2000 crew, on a spaceship the size of a small town, on a mission to find new life out beyond the known edge of space.

And succeeding beyond all expectations without the loss of a single life, or perhaps that wasn’t quite true, the previous captain had become a casualty in exceptional circumstances.

I looked over at the head of Diplomacy.  “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

After coming back from the alien vessel, I had immediately gone to the head of the Diplomatic mission and told him to pick a team to go down to the alien planet, telling him that we had been given permission to learn about their culture and others in their galaxy.

There had been no shortage of volunteers, and they had left not much more than an hour after I arrived back on board.  It was an opportunity not to be missed.

The other matter was about leaving some people there until we came back, or the next earth vessel arrived.  It was not what had been considered back on earth before the mission left, but to me it had some merit, perhaps setting up what might be a galactic embassy smoothing the way for other vessels like ours.

A sea of expectant faces, only one asked the question on everyone’s mind, giving my diplomatic chief a little more time to come up with an answer.

“Who are they, and are they like us?”  The fourth officer had finally appeared from his room in engineering where his interest lay, but from a practical standpoint, was there in case the bridge was lost.

“No.  And yes.  They are consciousness in an artificial body that looks like us, but I imagine it would take the form of any being they came in contact with.  I suspect they have evolved beyond the need for a body that wears out over time, which it seems is our problem, and we are only at the threshold of robotics as replacement parts, even bodies.  I don’t know the whole story, but that’s one for the medical people.  But…”

I turned back to my diplomatic expert, “we are going to have to talk to these people and not only that, we need to understand them and their customs before more of us blunder into their territory and do everything wrong.  You have permission to send two representatives to the planet to talk to their scribes, which I believe are most likely historians.  They are going to tell us about the peoples of this galaxy and perhaps beyond.  It will at least give us something to work with before as they rightly put it blunder our way into possible diplomatic nightmares.”

“Do you think they’d let us set up a diplomatic outpost?”

“You could work on a proposal, but for now we have about six days or so to get as much information as we can.  Anything else is your department, and for you to decide.  I understand there are some in your department who signed on in the hope they might get to stay in a new world, but, again, you will have to make a threat assessment based on all of the contacts so far.  I have endured all of the recordings of our encounters are available.”

“How long have I got?”

“Until we reach the Princesses home planet in about three days’ time.”

Not a lot of time to review and assess given most of the encounters were hostile.  But an arrangement with these people would be considered advantageous as a first stop on the way to other galaxies.  And I had no doubt they had a vast store of knowledge of other alien life forms which would be invaluable.

“How did we get stuck with taking the Princess home, and how do we know they will want her back?  We don’t know the precise circumstances of how she got there in the first place.”

The second officer was not backwards in voicing concerns.  He was the ship’s resident Mr doom and gloom.  But for all that, his was a view that could be used as a counterbalance when making a decision.

“A good question and one I intend to get answers to right after we finish here.”

That left general business on the table, departmental reports, crew statuses, and the all-important ship systems.

Good to know the crew was reasonably happy, all performing their duties through the various crises, and systems had only minor failed that the skeleton shipbuilders crew were able to fix, one way or another.

Best of all, the chief engineer was happy, so far.

An hour later, it was time to visit the Princess.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

We have a situation

…

Home wasn’t home anymore.

I stood inside the front door, as I had many times in the past, but this time it was different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe I hadn’t been there for a few days, maybe I had irrevocably changed in those few short days.

It seemed that I was someone else, that the old Sam had gone away, and a new version had replaced him.  Had I finally grown up, or was I still reeling from the ordeal and, more likely, mourning the loss of what had been my one true friend.

Right then, it felt like Boggs had never existed, and that Nadia had invaded that space.

Nadia.

Until now, right this moment, I hadn’t really thought about what I was about to do.  Since being in the hospital, every movement I’d made felt mechanical, and someone else was manipulating the controls.

Wanting to leave was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that failed to recognize others may have a role in what happened, like my mother.  I gad completely discounted her because of her association with Benderby, but what if that was no longer the case.

With Alex off the hook, they no longer had to worry about Nadia or what I might say or do, not that there was anything we could do.  I felt for Charlene who literally was between a rock and a hard place, having to compromise her principles to uphold justice and her disappointment in her father.

To be honest, his actions came as a surprise, despite the rumors of corruption.  It didn’t occur to me that it might have been the lesser of the evils, getting Vince off the streets, nobbling the Cossatinos, and to a lesser extent, using the situation as a bargaining chip with the Benderby’s.

But all of that was moot.  Another rumor circulating, according to the newspaper I’d seen at the hotel, was that a third term for the current sheriff was looking unlikely.  It was joined by an interview with Benderby on the construction of a new resort on the mall site.  Noticeably absent were any reports on Boggs, the treasure, or Cossatino.

I considered briefly whether I should go to the newspaper and tell them the whole story.  If he considered it had any element of truth, he’d publish it and be damned, but the thought of how his wife, an Ormiston, would take the news of finding her father, only for the body to disappear, would serve no purpose.  If there was a body, I would not hesitate.

But, now, it was enough to make a decision on what I would do next.  Pack a bag, tell my mother I was leaving, and call Nadia.

It was impossible to fit a lifetime into a bag.  It was fortunate, perhaps, that my situation had not afforded me the luxury of too many possessions, or anything of value.

Even so, what fitted wasn’t much.  I wanted to believe it was going to be a new start, but it seemed like I was just running away, that the problems I was running from would just come with me. 

And, then, there was Nadia.  I was today’s flavor of the month, but would I be in a month, or two? 

That thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.  I stepped onto the passage just as my mother closed the door.

“Sam.  Where have you been?  I’ve been calling, and leaving messages.”

She wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to her tone.  I should have at the very least sent a message to say I was OK.  It didn’t help my phone battery had died.  I’d put it in the recharge, and minutes later continually dinged with missed messages

“I had to get away.  Either that or I would have done something I regretted.  I thought you’d moved in with Benderby.”

“You thought wrong.  This business with Alex.  I remember you told me he was responsible for what happened to you and Nadia, and when I overheard him arguing with his father, I realised you were telling me the truth, and neither of them could be trusted.  I just told him I needed some time to sort out some issues.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No.  What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing for me here.  I’m not going back to the warehouse, nor do I want to be here anymore.  Not while Alex is put and about.  It’s only a matter of time before he comes after Nadia and I.”

“Then you’re still going to Italy with her.”

“For a while, see how it works out.  You should come too, at least for a holiday, think about what you’re going to do.  Personally, I think you should also leave, start fresh somewhere else.”

“Maybe you’re…”

We both heard the screeching tires of a car coming to a sudden stop outside, followed by the slamming of doors.

Alex not waiting to clean up his mess?

A sudden pounding on the door revised that assessment, if anyone was here to do us harm they would have kicked the door down.

I moved my mother behind me, and the protection of the door as I opened it.

The sheriff.

“We have a situation,” he said in his most serious tone

Warning us the Benderby’s were coming for us?

When neither of us responded, he added, “Elsie Boggs has the Benderby’s at gunpoint at the Blue Circle, and she will only talk to you.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020