DEAD TIRED
A Bo Fexler Story

Clair Dickson

"How honest are you?" he asked once we'd established that he was William Regland, potential client, and I was Bo Fexler, female private eye from Michigan.

"Mr. Regland, you shouldn't trust any answer to that question since anyone with a half-ounce of sense would claim to be very honest."

"True. I just-- I really want the truth here."

"With?"

"My son's death. I don't want anyone to sugar-coat anything. Or hide anything because I'm a good person. Or because Billy's my boy."

That fired the right synapse, triggering the recollection that William Regland was a local lawyer-- but more importantly a popular philanthropist and frequent volunteer.

William went on, "Years back, some cops tried to cover up a little trouble my oldest daughter got in-- because . . . they thought they were looking out for me. I don't want that. I just want to know why Billy died."

"I'll look for the truth," I stated.

"Then, you're hired."

"Almost. There's some paperwork and details to go over." We agreed to meet at the Pine Lane apartments the next day."

Arriving, I slammed the car door, checked the scrap of paper I'd scrawled the address on, and walked across the parking lot. The man standing by the door was dressed in pressed slacks and a sport coat. No tie. He looked at the cigarette in my mouth and frowned.

After a morning spent in court, I was recovering lost time with the nicotine. I extended a hand. "William Regland?" I asked around the cigarette.

"You must be Bo Fexler," he said slowly, taking my hand, but not before a quick visual inspection for obvious signs of leprosy or such.

"How long ago did Billy die?" I asked, after blowing out the smoke. I took another drag once I finished talking.

William pressed his lips together. Then, he said, "Four months ago. I would have thought you'd taken notes," he chided.

"I presume the police went through his things?"

"No. They said . . . they said it was open and shut. It was two in the morning. He'd had a long day. He admitted to a couple of his friends that he had trouble sleeping the night before. They said he nodded off at the wheel, which caused him to drive off the road and . . ."

"He still lived with you?" I asked, nodding towards the apartment building as I blew out another breath of smoke. Not that I even believed for a moment that William Regland lived there.

"Oh, God, no. He was twenty-four. This is where his apartment is."

I raised my eyebrows. "You've been paying the rent on the apartment since then?"

"Yes. We . . . we've had trouble accepting this. It doesn't seem right that Billy would die, like this. We've gone through it, ourselves, looking for some clues. Answers. He was an excellent young man. Very, very responsible. He worked hard as a mortgage broker. He supported himself. He was good about getting a ride with friends if he had been drinking. I just can't believe he would drive if he was so tired that he'd fall asleep."

"Was there an autopsy?"

"No. The police didn't think it was necessary."

"And you didn't push for it?"

"Miss Fexler, this has been very difficult on my wife and I. We have done the best we could. We thought the police would take care of things."

I didn't have a decent response. I took a final drag, then stuck my cigarette butt into the receptacle by the door. "Ready to go in."

William led the way to a second floor apartment. He unlocked the door and I stepped inside. It was cleaner than I expected. There were a few dishes on the coffee table, a shirt thrown over the side of the couch, and dirt tracked into the carpet. It didn't look like it had been vacuumed in the last decade.

I started with the beginning: the front coat closet. I pulled at a one of the coats, checking pockets.

"The red one is the one Billy wore most often," William offered, surely thinking he was being helpful. Like an umbrella in a swimming pool.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but if I need something, I'll ask. Otherwise." I debated how best to say 'shut up'. I settled on, "Otherwise, don't say anything. Thanks."

William frowned hard. He probably felt that his money should have gotten him better treatment. I was fine with disillusioning him.

The coat closet didn't turn up anything that jumped out at me as being useful. I went through the living room quickly, then into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet-- a nice vintage 1970's piece with authentic rusted hinges-- was unusually full for a single young man's apartment. There were a handful of pill bottles. And a pair of prescription bottles. One was labeled as amoxicillin. The other was labeled Tylenol-3. I noticed, however, that the date on the Tylenol-3 bottle was almost two years old. The amoxicillin was much newer-- filled only seven days before Billy's death.

"How long had Billy been living in this apartment?" I asked, continuing to peruse the contents of the cabinet.

"About two and half years. He moved here when he got a promotion and a nice raise at his job. He was well liked there," William plugged. William could have made a fine walking personal ad for his son.

A razor. Aftershave that was never opened. Razor blade refills. Deodorant. Box of adhesive bandages, store brand and in large sizes. Facial cleanser. I went back to the two prescription bottles. There was one amoxicillin tablet left. Next, I pushed-and-turned the cap off the Tylenol-3 bottle and peered inside. Then shook the three tablets onto my hand. Then I pulled out my memo pad.

"What?" William asked.

"These aren't Tylenol-3."

"That's what the bottle says they are. Look, here, it's a generic. That's all."

"Uh, no." I said firmly. I've taken enough Tylenol-3 tabs to know those weren't, but since I didn't know what they were, I didn't offer him anything. Perhaps a mistake. Wouldn't be the first I've made in dealing with people. Or even with dealing with William Regland.

"Now, look, Miss Fexler, my son doesn't mess around with drugs. He only uses what's needed. He's been very outspoken against drug use."

"Use or abuse?"

"There's not much difference, is there? Abuse, I guess."

"You have a good relationship with your son?"

"Yes. I . . . did. We were very close. He was very open with me."

"Why was he out that night? At 2am, no less."

"He went out to give a ride to a buddy who had a little too much to drink at a party."

"How did you . . . find out what he was doing?"

"His friend, Alex, whom he gave the ride to, told me. At," he struggled with his composure. "At the funeral."

"It's too bad Billy's not still alive, he sounds like he would have made a great date for me," I commented, looking for William's reaction.

He beamed. "He was a wonderful young man. Oh, he made us so proud."

"Come to think of it, he may not have made a good date."

"Oh? Why not?" His swing from happy to upset was fast, and extreme.

"It sounds like he did everything right . . ." I left a pause for William to fill.

"He did. Wonderful boy. We didn't have a single complaint with him."

"Girlfriends?"

William nodded in slow motion. "Billy always chose nice girlfriends," he offered. "We liked them all, not that there were many." He smiled again. I doubted that he even considered that his son could get into trouble. Everything he said was over-the-top positive. I continued my search, going through the rest of the apartment, collecting some phone numbers and an idea about the relatively straight path Billy had walked. There was more incriminating evidence in my own apartment than in his.

"I'm going to look some things up. I'll be back in touch with you, soon," I told William.

"Thank you, Miss Fexler."

I shook the hand he extended, left the apartment, and plodded down the stairs. I was starting to feel ill. From suspicion.

I drove to the library to look up the pills I'd found in the Tylenol-3 bottle. It didn't take long to match the imprint on the pills to the generic drug diazepam. Also sold under the brand name Valium. That would put anyone to sleep.

I jotted the suspected timeline in my memo pad. Billy can't sleep Thursday night. Tells a friend who offers a couple diazepam pills-- fairly common among young people. Billy gets home that evening, and before heading to bed, takes one. Unfortunately, his buddy Alex calls and needs a ride home. Billy agrees, gives Alex a lift, then heads home as the drug takes full effect.

He nods off. His car leaves the road and crosses the front yard of an old farm house. The car hits a drainage culvert and flips around, landing on its side. For a moment, it teeters at the top of a small hill, before rolling three times down it and landing against a tree. It's 2am. Billy is pronounced dead at the scene; the police call it a clear case of being asleep at the wheel.

A nice story, but I'm a private eye not an author. I went through my notes until I found the phone number for Alex. I gave him a call, and he denied knowing anything about Billy taking any pills. So, I started making other phone calls until I got the time and address for the next party for Billy's circle of pals. That Saturday, I dressed in a tight shirt and went looking for some pills to 'help me sleep.'

Asking around, I was finally directed to meet a young man in the kitchen. He introduced himself and we started to deal. When he showed me the little baggy with the four little Valium pills, I slowly declared, "Now, perhaps, you can level with me, Alex."

"What?" He blinked.

"You sold some of those to Billy. Didn't you."

"No . . ."

"Gave? Free of charge. He was your friend after all." He kept looking around, as if there would be an answer or a lie he could give printed on the kitchen cabinets or the microwave.

"All right," he finally said, "I gave him some. He said he took one that night, but he said he'd be okay. I tried to get him to crash a while at my place, but, you know, I was drunk." He shrugged. "You can't tell Mr. and Mrs. Regland though."

"Why not? It's what I was hired to do."

"They don't want to know this. It'd ruin their whole idea of their son. Make 'em wonder. Make 'em think he wasn't the good son they think he was. And, really he was. This was . . . this was a one time thing. Maybe you can have a little compassion for that, you know."

"I make no promises," I told him softly.

He shook his head. Then asked, "Did, uh, did you still wanna buy these?"

I answered with an appalled, disgusted look.

The next morning I met with the Reglands. We sat in their living room. I asked, "Did Billy ever get into trouble?"

William shook his head. "No. He did well in school, never got in trouble. I think he may have gotten a speeding ticket once."

"Do you think he could have gotten into trouble?"

"Like what? I mean, I talked with his boss and he said that Billy was a star employee. The police . . . didn't tell me anything. I don't even know what kind of trouble he would have gotten in. He paid his bills on time, had money in the bank, had an amicable split with the last girlfriend."

"Then you just want to know why he was so tired that night and didn't spend the night at Alex's after driving?"

He nodded. "And . . . if he got in trouble, I'd want to know," he said with despair already seeping into his words. It was not an easy choice. Just because I knew the truth didn't mean I had to shatter the Reglands picture-perfect son with it.

"Why?" I asked after a pause that grew to an uncomfortable length.

"Why not? To know what really happened."

"And how would it affect if you did find something?"

"I-- I don't know. It would make me . . . sad. Hurt me. He knew better. Did-- did you find something? With those pills?"

"The pills-- the pills weren't Tylenol-3. They were just prescription strength Tylenol."

"And his last night?"

Alex was right, I concluded. No good could come from William learning the truth about his son. It has been a one time stupid mistake. The last stupid mistake a good kid made. Funny that he died from a little mistake like that while others, like me, made far stupider decisions without any consequence. But not funny ha-ha. I shook my head, then explained, "He probably didn't realize how drowsy the amoxicillin made him. Especially at that late hour. An unfortunate oversight."

"That's all?"

"At least that I found. I mean, it's always possible there's something I missed or misinterpreted. Maybe he took the Prescription Tylenol and that made him tired. Maybe he had a drink when he picked Alex up. He has no history of this. There's no reason to think he did anything wrong this time. Except he didn't realize how tired he was. I'm sorry I don't have anything more for you."

"Well, it seems I wasted your time," he countered. "I hired you for nothing." But he relaxed and smiled.