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Authors: William Bernhardt
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investigation.”
“But it sure facilitates matters. The D.A. would appreciate it, too.” He shoved his hands deeply into his coat pockets. “Have you been keeping up with the murders of the teenage girls?”
Ben nodded grimly. “Three murders in less than two weeks.”
“Yeah. Grisly, too—heads and hands cut off. Apparently a serial killer with a serious grudge against teenage girls. First bona fide serial killer we’ve ever had.”
“What’s your point, Mike?”
“My point is that every available resource in the department, including me, has been diverted to these murders, and given the magnitude of the crimes, rightfully so. How much interest do you think I’m going to be able to stir up for your alleged murder with no corpse?”
Ben didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew Mike was right. “Any recommendations?”
“You could look into this matter yourself. Do some checking on your own. You’ve done it before, and not altogether unsuccessfully. If you can uncover more information, or better yet a corpse, maybe I can pull some men off the serial killer case and put them on this one.”
“Where would I start?”
“You need to find out everything you can about the victim. When he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, people are going to start talking. Listen to what they say. Find out whatever you can about your new colleagues. Given where the body was found, the guilty party may be an Apollo employee.”
Ben hated to become the company mole. It seemed like a betrayal—only two days on the job, and already he was going to be investigating his co-workers, possibly trying to incriminate them. “I’ll see what I can do. Mike—thanks for coming out.”
“No problem. If you see your sister any time soon, put in a good word for me.”
“I could try, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Alas, ’tis only too true. Before I go, Ben—mind if I ask a question?”
“Ask away.”
“What the hell are you doing working for this big corporation?”
“I don’t under—”
“I thought you got this money-grubbing routine out of your system during the Raven, Tucker & Tubb fiasco.”
“I hardly think that was typical—”
“Have you read much Samuel Clemens—Mark Twain?”
“You’re the English major, not me.”
“Do you know the story of Tennessee gold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s something Twain’s father talked about when Twain was young. He was always dreaming of easy wealth. Some of his get-rich-quick schemes involved land speculation—Tennessee gold. He never found any gold, but that desire for instant security infected Twain for the rest of his life. Even after he became a successful writer and was relatively secure financially, he continued to pursue the dream. He invested in an unperfected typesetting machine. It was supposed to revolutionize the publishing industry and make him rich beyond his wildest imagining.
“But there were development problems, complications, demands for additional start-up cash. To make a long story short, the machine drained Twain dry. And it bombed, never made a cent. Instead of being reasonably well-off, suddenly Twain was penniless. To pay off his debts, he went on the road, taking on a nightmarish schedule of speaking engagements—and this was late in his life and during a time when travel was not easy. He wrote a flurry of books of dubious quality. He did almost anything he could for money. He eventually got back on his feet financially, but it embittered him, cost him his health, estranged him from his family, and possibly contributed to the death of his wife and two daughters.” Mike’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Get the message?”
Ben pursed his lips. “I suppose in your subtle lit-crit way, you’re suggesting that I’m chasing after Tennessee gold.”
“Yup. And I think you got it the same place Twain did. From your father.”
“Really? Christina attributed this career decision to my mother.”
“That’s
“But it sure facilitates matters. The D.A. would appreciate it, too.” He shoved his hands deeply into his coat pockets. “Have you been keeping up with the murders of the teenage girls?”
Ben nodded grimly. “Three murders in less than two weeks.”
“Yeah. Grisly, too—heads and hands cut off. Apparently a serial killer with a serious grudge against teenage girls. First bona fide serial killer we’ve ever had.”
“What’s your point, Mike?”
“My point is that every available resource in the department, including me, has been diverted to these murders, and given the magnitude of the crimes, rightfully so. How much interest do you think I’m going to be able to stir up for your alleged murder with no corpse?”
Ben didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew Mike was right. “Any recommendations?”
“You could look into this matter yourself. Do some checking on your own. You’ve done it before, and not altogether unsuccessfully. If you can uncover more information, or better yet a corpse, maybe I can pull some men off the serial killer case and put them on this one.”
“Where would I start?”
“You need to find out everything you can about the victim. When he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, people are going to start talking. Listen to what they say. Find out whatever you can about your new colleagues. Given where the body was found, the guilty party may be an Apollo employee.”
Ben hated to become the company mole. It seemed like a betrayal—only two days on the job, and already he was going to be investigating his co-workers, possibly trying to incriminate them. “I’ll see what I can do. Mike—thanks for coming out.”
“No problem. If you see your sister any time soon, put in a good word for me.”
“I could try, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Alas, ’tis only too true. Before I go, Ben—mind if I ask a question?”
“Ask away.”
“What the hell are you doing working for this big corporation?”
“I don’t under—”
“I thought you got this money-grubbing routine out of your system during the Raven, Tucker & Tubb fiasco.”
“I hardly think that was typical—”
“Have you read much Samuel Clemens—Mark Twain?”
“You’re the English major, not me.”
“Do you know the story of Tennessee gold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s something Twain’s father talked about when Twain was young. He was always dreaming of easy wealth. Some of his get-rich-quick schemes involved land speculation—Tennessee gold. He never found any gold, but that desire for instant security infected Twain for the rest of his life. Even after he became a successful writer and was relatively secure financially, he continued to pursue the dream. He invested in an unperfected typesetting machine. It was supposed to revolutionize the publishing industry and make him rich beyond his wildest imagining.
“But there were development problems, complications, demands for additional start-up cash. To make a long story short, the machine drained Twain dry. And it bombed, never made a cent. Instead of being reasonably well-off, suddenly Twain was penniless. To pay off his debts, he went on the road, taking on a nightmarish schedule of speaking engagements—and this was late in his life and during a time when travel was not easy. He wrote a flurry of books of dubious quality. He did almost anything he could for money. He eventually got back on his feet financially, but it embittered him, cost him his health, estranged him from his family, and possibly contributed to the death of his wife and two daughters.” Mike’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Get the message?”
Ben pursed his lips. “I suppose in your subtle lit-crit way, you’re suggesting that I’m chasing after Tennessee gold.”
“Yup. And I think you got it the same place Twain did. From your father.”
“Really? Christina attributed this career decision to my mother.”
“That’s
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