Hank Bledsoe, Private Eye
by Mark Broucek

Conclusion

Ah, the Dolphin. Where do I start with this guy? Have you ever met someone and after they leave, you just kind of shake your head and think, ‘Man, what a character!'? Well, that's the Dolphin. I met him late one night in the Templeton neighborhood (Yeah, yeah, I know – what was I doing down there ? And at night ? I wish I could tell you it was for a case, but it wasn't. Remember earlier when I mentioned my “vacation” in the county jail? Well, that night in the Temp, my stay in stir and the Dolphin are all interconnected.). The story of how he got his name is all you need to know to get the picture of who this guy is. Here goes:

Like I said, I'm in the Temp and this scrawny black dude slides over out of nowhere and starts talking to me as if we were right in the middle of a conversation. “I don' know why you needs that stuff, but I all over it,” he said by way of introduction. Somehow, he knew why I was there, what I needed and could get it for me. “I be the Dolphin. Who you?”

“I'm Hank,” I said. “You're the what?”

“The Dolphin, man. Y'know, like a prince.” I couldn't have been (or looked) more confused if I tried. He picked up on that right away. “Man, you not from here, right?” he asked.

“No, I'm not,” I said, wishing I was somewhere else right about then.

“Well, lemme tell you 'bout the Temp. If you wanna survive, you have got to be at the top ah the heap – or at leas' close. If you at the bottom , you gonna get stomped regular. But then again, at the very top, you gonna get stomped by all them fools that wanna be at the top. So they is no sense in bein' the king. I figure a prince should be enough. So I start callin' maself the Prince – y'know, jus' high enough. Then Booker come by – he real smart and all – and say, ‘Hey Prince, you like the Dolphin in that book.' Well, I don't get to the ly bary too often so he esplain what he mean. He say that there be this book named Huck Film or sumpin' with this dude who be a long los' prince from France and they call him the Dolphin. Much more high class then jus' sayin' Prince. Sound good to me so now I be the Dolphin.”

Amazingly enough, after all that, he was pretty close. But I didn't have the heart (or the guts) to tell him that the character was called the Dauphin , which, in fact, is French for prince. I really doubted that anyone else in the Temp would make the connection and correct him. The Dolphin was fine for me. Besides getting you what you needed and getting you out of jail (which, I must add, he helped put me into), the Dolphin knows everything that goes on in the Temp. So when I heard from Bill that the phone booth was in the Templeton neighborhood, I figured that the Dolphin could help me out with an ID.

As usual, he found me, not the other way around. “Hank, mah man!” he said. “Long time. Whatcha want? You need, I got.”

“Hey, Dolphin,” I said. “What's up. I need info this time.”

“Oh, man,” he said, “that be right up my alley.” There was the inevitable pause that I had learned to patiently wait through. “Acourse, some scratch need to change hands.”

“Of course, of course,” I reassured him. “What will it take?”

“Well, that depen' on the sensitivity of the infomation,” he said.

I knew what that meant – the bill grows larger in direct correlation to the chance of the Dolphin getting his ticket punched. As it should be. “Don't worry,” I said. “No one will come back to you on this one.”

“Nice,” he said. “Gie it to me.”

“Okay, here it is,” I said. “Last Thursday, a call was made at about a quarter to three in the afternoon at that booth right over there,” I gestured across the street, “and I want you to find out who made it.”

“That it ?” he asked. “Shee, I have that for you inside a hour.”

“Great,” I said. “I'll be back at seven.”

“Why not jus' stick aroun',” he said with a knowing grin. “It prolly won' be dark by then – you hope .”

“Funny,” I said. “I'll be back at seven. You just have my information ready.”

He laughed at my pseudo-bravado. “Don' worry. I ain't never letchoo down yet and I ain't startin' now.” And suddenly he was gone.

When I came back, I made a special effort to see the Dolphin before he saw me. No such luck. One minute, the coast is clear and the next, the passenger side door is being opened and he's sliding in. “Man, for a fraidy cat like you, you sho' don' worry 'bout lockin' yo doors,” he said. “Don' you know the neighbohood you in?” Smiling.

“You always gotta bust my chops?” I asked.

“You got that right,” he said. “Jus' makin' up for 400 years a the man keepin' me down.”

“Oh really,” I said, “you're that old?”

“No man,” he said. “My peeps. I talkin' 'bout my peeps.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, sighing. “Got anything for me?”

“Man, whyont you gimme sumpin' hard ?” he said. “I got the news in fie minutes flat . The fool that make this call? He whiter than you , if that be possible.” Great disdain at anyone that could be whiter than me. Whatever that means.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It mean this guy were made in 'bout two seconds by Bennie an Dee,” he explained. “He tryin' to be all down wif the 'hood, tricked out all phat y'know, but he so stiff he 'bout break in half , someone look his way. He go in the phoneboof an ack all secret agent-like fo' 'bout ten minutes 'fore he even pick up the phone. Then he pick it wif two fingers like it gonna infec ' him or sumpin'.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “He prolly right on that one, though. Anyways, he dial an' he waitin' while it ring an' then he get this look , like scared an' surprise wrap together, an' he hang up real quick, never even say a word.” The Dolphin gave me a look like, boy you white folks are strange.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Oh, well then he recover real quick-like an' go from Mistah Sweaty Palm to Mistah Cool Dude, y'know, to blen' in. Only he stick out more cuz not too many white Mistah Cool Dudes is visitin' the Temp but we used to seeing a whole lotta white Mistah Sweaty Palm down here. He get inta his car an' drive off.”

“Did Bennie or Dee get a license number?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “The boys got right on that since they so used to reportin' suspicious activity to the po -lice.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “How about a description?”

“Yeah, man,” he said. “I aweready done tole you – he white.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “We all look alike. Give me something about him.”

“Okay, he tall, he rich say Bennie cuz how he act and he a pretty boy. He done sumpin' bad, he in a load a trouble when he get to the big house, lookin' how he do.”

“Thanks, man,” I said, preparing to leave.

“No man, you got it all wrong,” the Dolphin said, stopping me. “ You don' say thanks to me , I say thanks to you – after you han' over mah Grant.”

“Fifty!” I protested. “For less than an hours work?”

“It the goin' rate,” he shrugged. “I got ovah head an' all.” All I saw overhead was the darkening sky so I didn't argue and paid him. “Thanks, man,” he said and vanished.

What I did next was not the most professional thing in the world but it wasn't illegal or even a censurable offense from the National Board of Private Investigators (okay, we don't really have a national governing body but you get my drift). What I should have done was go back to my office, write up the report and call the client with the news. What I did was go straight over to see Betty. I justified this in many ways: A) She needed to be kept apprised of all breaks in the case (that was stretching it; I never feel the need to keep my clients apprised of case progress). B) It was closer to just drive over, bypassing my office (it was closer if the shortest distance between two points is a curved, many stoplighted, construction-filled line). C) I liked her company and we hit it off after a rough start (this was a little touchy but I was okay with it). There was a D) but I forced that out of my mind since I really would be in that censurable zone: If I did my job right, Betty would be beyond wealthy. Did I admire her smile and spunk before or after I found out about the four mil payout? Before, before, before, I kept telling myself (and I think I mostly believed it).

Anyway, when I came over she didn't seem too put out that I just showed up without calling first. In fact, her smile was still there – at least until I gave her the update. Betty was unable to help me with someone from Bracken's circle that fit the description that I had obtained from the Dolphin. We couldn't even agree on whether he was friend or foe (I was leaning toward the latter and Betty was hoping for the former). We decided to meet for breakfast on Friday before the will reading and I said my goodbyes. Nothing unprofessional happened but she did give me a hug as I left. It was not a good sign.

There are many types of hugs out there, including, but not limited to, the Relative Hug (reserved for greeting and leaving non-essential relatives, e.g. aunts, uncles, etc. – pretty innocuous), the Long Lost Girlfriend Hug (reserved for making a big deal about meeting someone who was barely on your radar screen in a former life), the Consoling Hug (lots of crying and not-wanting-to-be-the-first-to-let-go involved) and the Resignation Hug (otherwise known as the “Thanks for all your help; you tried your best” hug). This is what I received from Betty. Twelve hours earlier (this case was not even a day old??) and I would have taken it as a slap at my abilities. But now it was pretty obvious that as Betty had gotten to know me, she realized that I actually did have a little expertise in my chosen field and that the case, not the P.I., might be the “pure dog”.

Does anyone out there enjoy irony? If so, you've come to right place. Check this: The one thing that most depressed Betty about the case (our “big” lead seeming so insignificant) was the main thing that kick started my engine. As I've said before, most of my jobs were solved by just chipping away. So when I get a lead – any lead – I latch onto it until it crumbles or moves the case forward. This Mystery Phone Man had to mean something. I just had to figure out what. In the meantime, I had 24 hours to become a lawyer.

****

In a movie, whenever someone has to do a lot of research on something, here's what you'll always see: A table with books spread out everywhere in a dark, nearly deserted library. One desk lamp seems to illuminate the whole wing. Our hero, hair crazy and tie loosened, is wearily poring over the stacks of books. Well, that is sooo passe (I know it looks like I spelled the word pass wrong, but its really the word that's pronounced passay . My old Underwood doesn't have any accents and I couldn't think of a better word to substitute.). Nowadays, here's what anyone with half a brain does: Drive over to the nearest Super-Mega Bookstore/Coffee Shoppe and find the pertinent section. They're well-lighted, fairly quiet, air-conditioned and even have comfy chairs. This is what I did. Their section on legal mumbo-jumbo would have done Harvard Law proud. In fact, I was so confident after learning all my ipso factos, party of the first parts, codicils and other legalese, that I spent a little time contemplating the case.

Betty was positive that she would be in the will. This then begs at least two questions. Was she really left out in the first place or was there an amendment (the codicil that I mentioned earlier)? Yes to the first question and her uncle was a real jerk, contrary to everything ever written about the guy. Still, a possibility (think Bing Crosby). Yes to the second question and then things get interesting. Who made the codicil? When was it made? Who is the beneficiary? A quick call confirmed that the will had already gone through probate (the formal certificate given by a court that certifies that a will has been proven, validated and registered and which, from that point on, gives the executor the legal authority to execute the will; in case you didn't know) so everything seemed kosher. But my research also turned up that if a will has been tampered with, without the knowledge of the probate court, then it reverts back to its original form. My heart was racing with the possibilities. Or was it just the four iced Mocha Lattes that I consumed while wading through this drek? In any event, ten o'clock the next morning would go a long way towards answering those questions and just maybe force the issue on this case.

As the new day dawned, I put on my most lawyerly looking suit (actually, the only one I owned) and went to meet Betty at Sunny's. A long time ago, I read in a magazine or a book that everyone in the world has an exact double somewhere out there. So it stands to reason that everyone would have a polar opposite, too (I think I married mine – twice, but that's another story). If so, then I think it also applies to buildings. The reason I say this is because there could not be two establishments of fine dining that could be more different than Sunny's and BoBo's. Where BoBo's was basically a cave, Sunny's was bright, cheerful and airy. While it would seem to the uninitiated to have the perfect name, this would be an example of why they were uninitiated. The place was actually named after the specialty of the house, Sunny Side Up eggs. The old joke has it that it was between that and the scrambled eggs and, thankfully, Sunny's won out over Runny's.

Anyway, Betty greeted me with a very hillbillyesque, “Boy, you shore do clean up real good.” She even had the twang down. Funny lady. But at least she was smiling. We mapped out our plan, such as it was, ate our Sunny Side Ups with bacon (always go with the specialty) and left for the reading. The grease from the breakfast was already churning a hole in my stomach but, for Betty's sake, I pretended that impersonating a lawyer in front of a real lawyer was something I did just about every day.

To say that the reading was revelatory would be putting it mildly. As expected, Bracken's family weaseled their way in, too. Meeting them was worth the price of admission. Have you ever seen people fight in public? Suddenly your fingernails or fake conversation with your companion become awfully interesting while you are straining to hear and not look. That was not needed here. After a while, you gave up all pretenses of decorum and just stared and listened. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

First off, a list of those present: The aforementioned family (wife, two kids and lawyer), six charities (the American Heart Association, two AIDS research groups, two cancer groups and the Sierra Club), Cat Fancy magazine, for some reason (“I think it's a joke,” explained Betty, “Uncle Tom hated cats.”), the live-in maid (don't get any ideas – she was certainly no French bon bon; but rather a 60ish woman of some indeterminable south of the border origin), the family physician, Bracken's personal psychiatrist (who wouldn't have issues with that family) and Betty (with her personal lawyer, me).

One thing about the Clan Bracken, subtlety was not their forte. During the intros of all the participants, they actually sniffed in Betty's direction, just like a cartoon or something. ‘What is she doing here?' was one of the nicer comments thrown our way. To Betty's credit, she ignored them as long as possible (which was increasingly difficult). The tension in the room was so great that I found it hard to breathe (although part of it was my aversion to ties and dress shirts – when you have the same one for twelve years, and you definitely have added a few pounds to your old fightin' weight, you have to be prepared to have both your windpipe and carotid artery cut off). Another fun thing was beginning to happen, too. As I got more nervous about this charade, the sweat stains from my pits were marching towards each other across the middle of my chest. As they met, a great river was formed, not unlike the Mighty Mississippi, which culminated in the creation of a delta in the waistband of my shorts. I can't even imagine the look on my face as I was trying to pull this off.

Finally, the reading began. After the preliminary blah blah blahs, the doling out of the cash started. It seems that Bracken also had no idea as to his actual wealth, since he portioned out the entire will in percentages, except for the maid. He gave her the house (“To Carmelita,” the lawyer droned on, “I give my house and all the furnishings therein, since she was the only one ever to lift a finger in its upkeep.”). The howls began from the family before the executor could form the p in upkeep. I was actually grateful for their almost continuous outbursts as any attention directed their way was attention diverted from me.

This went on during the remainder of the reading. With each successive party, the catcalls grew louder and more vicious. I swear I would have decked all three during their AIDS bashing if I weren't a respected member of the bar. I could see them adding up the percentages as it went along and grow more desperate as their slice of the pie lessened. In their righteous fury, they seemed to forget that they weren't even in the will.

Cat Fancy came up when there was 15% left. They were given 3% of the fortune, which seemed a strange number until the executor explained. “This percentage of my estate,” he read, “represents not my love for cats, for which I have absolutely no use, but rather should make my feelings towards my immediate family abundantly clear.” What a cruel (but appropriate!) joke. The family was in the original will. Instead of just cutting them off, he was going to give them less than he gave to a magazine devoted to his hated cats! Pandemonium broke out, with screams from the Bracken's and applause from everyone else. This enraged the family even more (it didn't help that Betty was giving a standing ovation).

I knew what was coming next. I could tell from the executor's face. He was about to drop the bomb that not only did Cat Fancy get more than the Bracken's, they were about to be cut out totally! He waited as long as he could and began:

“Order, Order!” he barked. “There is one more section to be read.” As people quieted down, he cleared his throat and said, “There is a codicil to this document. An addendum, if you will. The original will stipulated 2% to the immediate family,” the Cat Fancy people purred while the Brackens growled, “and 10% to the decedent's niece, Elizabeth Armstrong.” He paused for the inevitable buzz that ripped through the crowd. “However,” he continued, “the will now stipulates that the remainder go to Dr. Emil Montrose (the psychiatrist).” The family went ballistic. Blood pressures skyrocketed dangerously and I'm positive that I heard at least two of them speaking in tongues. Betty was curiously calm. I learned later that she felt that all the energy and hatred in the room was being already consumed so why add to it. I wondered how this all came about. I didn't have to for long.

“How in the hell did this happen?” wailed the wife.

“Let me take care of it,” bellowed her lawyer. “Read the codicil,” he ordered.

“Its quite simple, really,” said the executor. “Mr. Bracken drew an X through the last two paragraphs and in the margin wrote, ‘I hate my family! The rest goes to Dr. Montrose.' End of story.”

“The hell it is,” yelled the wife. “Tell 'em Spaulding.”

Spaulding (her lawyer) said, “We were ready for this. I obtained a restraining order against whoever was named as beneficiary of my client's rightful inheritance. I guess that would be you !” He threw down the folded paper on the table in front of Dr. Montrose. What happened next meant nothing to anyone but me. But when it happened, I had to scoop my eyeballs back into their sockets, I was so shocked. Dr. Montrose picked up the order and placed it in his jacket pocket. It was not what he did but how he did it that so startled me. He picked up the paper with two fingers as if it was infected.

“I expected this from all of you,” he said. “See you in court.” With that, he executed a perfect about face and left. The room was silent before exploding with bursts of conversation from all quarters.

“Betty, get over here,” I said, grabbing her arm. She looked as if she were in a daze. “I know that guy!” She wasn't even listening.

“He really did cut me out,” she mumbled. Now it made sense. She was in a sort of shock that Bracken could have lumped her in with the rest of his family. I don't think the money was even entering into this equation. She couldn't come to grips with the apparent fact that her uncle felt that she was one of them . Well, my law degree wouldn't be worth the sheepskin it was printed on if I didn't attempt to rectify the situation.

“Excuse me,” I said to the executor, my new friend, Carrington. “I realize that since Spaulding has obtained the restraining order my client is not going to lose her inheritance just yet.” He nodded. I pushed on, relieved that I had been correct – at least on that matter. “But I'd like to see the codicil anyway, if I could.” He shrugged and pushed it towards me. It was as I had hoped. No need to fight this battle here. Betty would need a real lawyer if it came down to that. I just needed to get her out of here and explain a thing or three.

I hustled Betty out of there as quickly as I could, considering she was acting like a zombie. I, on the other hand, could barely contain my excitement. Things were actually beginning to fall somewhat into place. Walking to my car, we probably looked like some kind of old vaudeville act – The Glee and Glum Twins. When we finally got into the car, I wanted to tell her about Dr. Montrose but I could see that I first needed to bring back the old Betty. I found a pen and a gas receipt and went from lawyer to psychiatrist. I only wish I could charge their fees.

“Betty,” I began slowly, “check this out.” On the back of the receipt, I wrote ‘Hank Bledsoe is the greatest lawyer in the world.' Underneath that, I wrote ‘Betty Armstrong is a great lady who deserves better than being lumped in with the Brackens.' I showed it to her and said, “One of these is true and one is false – but not by much.” I smiled but she didn't. Okay, keep moving. “Watch what happens when I cross out the false one.” I did and then showed it to her. Still nothing. All right, time to go from shrink to third grade teacher. “Look, Betty,” I grabbed her arm and shook her just a little. She looked. “When you X out something, the intersection of the X goes through the middle of the thing you are trying to cross out, right? That shows what you were trying to get rid of.” She looked a little closer and was at least curious. “But sometimes, like now and in the will, the bottom of the X goes into the next line a little bit. Especially if you do it fast or are not paying attention.” Now I had her full attention. Her eyes got wide.

“The X was directly through the section about the Brackens,” she asked and stated at the same time.

“Right,” I said, “and your section just got some of the spill over.”

“And when he wrote in the margin, ‘I hate my family…” she began.

“Then the probate judge just figured a niece is family…” I continued.

“But I'm not in that family!” she finished, beaming. I knew she was all the way back when she looked at me sideways and said, “So, I'm a great lady, huh?”

Well…you know…sure,” I said, ears burning. “Anyway, if this whole case falls apart, then hiring a real lawyer should get you reinstated. But I'd rather not leave it to that. Especially since I think I know who killed your uncle – or at least had something to do with it!” I finished with a dramatic flourish. Just like on TV. Her eyes got even wider than before and I explained about the Dolphin's ID of the Mystery Phone Man's handling of the receiver and how he picked up the restraining order in the same way. “I'm sure it's the same guy,” I said, “but I'll get a picture and confirm it with the Dolphin. But look at what we've got so far: The person who calls four minutes before Bracken shoots himself turns out to be the same guy who greatly benefits from a will change. Seems fishy to me.”

“Couldn't he have called, found Uncle Tom suicidal and tried to talk him out of it?” Betty asked. I looked at her and she quickly added, “Just playing the Devil's Advocate.”

“Okay,” I said, “good point. But look more closely. The phone records didn't even record a third of a unit so the call was less than 20 seconds. Not much time to talk someone off a ledge. Also, the Dolphin said the guy looked very surprised that the person on the other end even picked up the phone and that he hung up quickly. And last, if he did try to counsel Bracken and fail, then wouldn't he have rushed over to the house immediately. Or at the bare minimum, call 911. He was at a phone booth, after all. We know that the wife called it in over an hour later. So something's going on.” I could Betty was impressed with my deductive skills. Hell, I was impressed.

“What's our next move, partner?” Betty asked. Partner, now. She was impressed.

“ Our next move is to take you home,” I said. “ My next move is to see the good Dr. Montrose and see what I can see.”

What I really wanted to do was verify Montrose as the Mystery Phone Man but it wasn't even noon so I knew that the Dolphin wasn't open for business yet. But I was on a roll and just couldn't wait for him to stumble out of bed, or wherever he hides after a night of work. So I pushed forward, found my own phone booth and called the good doctor for an appointment (as Betty's lawyer, of course). I figured that he might put me off but surprisingly I got in right away. He seemed quite relaxed and confident, as befitting someone who just came into a load of money and figured that no one suspected anything. We'd just see about that.

While I was driving all the way across town, I started thinking about the Navy. You know that old recruiting poster that they have, “Join the Navy – See the World”? Well, I feel like I signed up for a two year hitch. Anyone that lives near here knows exactly what I mean. Here's my last 48 hours: My office to Betty's apartment to Bracken's estate to BoBo's to the Temp back to Betty's to the bookstore to Sunny's to the will reading and now to Montrose's office. This should definitely qualify me for Frequent Driver Miles. Anyway, when I got there, I made the instant connection that shrinks make more than P.I.'s. A lot more.

I would kill to own any piece of furniture from his waiting room , let alone his office. As his secretary ushered me into his office to wait for him, I realized that his chair probably cost more than the entire contents of my office. This was an old trick to intimidate clients. Let them stew and wait while the big shot pretends to be busy. And all the while, you stare at his very expensive furnishings and feel even more insignificant. It was actually beginning to work until I noticed that for all the trappings, there was no obligatory framed diploma on the wall. If a guy like this went to an Ivy League school or anything remotely close, his diploma would have been on the wall with a spotlight on it, screaming at you to Look at me!, Look at me! So it couldn't have been too impressive. Also, this schmuck quite possibly had something to do with Bracken's demise and was screwing Betty (and me) out of a whole lotta cash. Plus, he was a doctor, not a lawyer, so maybe I could intimidate him with my brilliant legal insights. When he finally came in, I was ready for him. It didn't last long. About two seconds.

Montrose was sneering even before he spoke. “I don't know what you are but I know you're not a lawyer. So what are you here for?” he demanded.

“Wha – what do you mean?” I stammered out. So much for my supreme confidence. Instantly, a flashflood of sweat had reformed and was raging its way down to my genitals, which, I may add, is a delightful sensation – if you're the Marquis de Sade. I wondered if he noticed my discomfort.

“What do you take me for – an idiot?” Oh, he noticed.

“Well, maybe if I get to know you a little better,” I said, rallying a little. He was not amused. Tough.

“I checked the bar association records for the whole state and there was no Henry Bledsoe listed,” he said.

“You sure you spelled it right?” I said, continuing my smart ass comments to buy some time.

“I think so, B-L-E,” he started before catching himself. “Listen to me, you little punk, I'll bring you up on charges for impersonating a lawyer,” he roared.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, “look through all your literature. I never said I was a lawyer. I just said I was representing Elizabeth Armstrong in the matter of the will.” When backed into a corner by words and not muscle, I'm pretty quick on my feet and don't usually back down. And I wasn't going to start with this guy. But I didn't want him to know I was a P.I. either. “Look, I just want Elizabeth to get what she rightfully has coming to her.”

“I'll bet you do,” he said, “and at my expense, no doubt.”

“No really, there's been a misunderstanding,” I said and launched into my X marks the spot lecture that I had just given Betty. He was not quite as receptive.

“I have never heard such a load of bull in my life,” he said, just warming up to the subject. “If you think you can railroad me with this…this crap , then you are as stupid as you look.” Not too original, but he had more. “Get out of my office. And if you come back without a real lawyer to argue this garbage, then I'll call the real police and have you thrown into a real jail. Good day.” He suddenly became quite interested in some files on his desk. I had been dismissed.

Well, I know when I'm not wanted and I beat a hasty retreat. But in the waiting area, I paused and pretended to need something out of my briefcase. I stalled long enough that the secretary finally went into Montrose's office. I wanted to play a hunch and had to be alone to do it. A 30 second look at Montrose's appointment book told me more than I had learned in all the time I was in his office.

I had noticed that, for all the anal retentiveness of his office, the files on his desk seemed to be placed there a little too haphazardly. Like they were for my benefit. My files are all over the place but my office is a mess, so that fits. This didn't fit. I had wondered about motive for Montrose ever since I saw him pick up the restraining order. He seemed to have the Golden Goose in Bracken (with his family, there could have been years and years of therapy) and everyone knows that you don't kill the Golden Goose. The opulence of his office would seem to confirm how well his practice was doing. But the little thing of the files lit a candle (not quite a light bulb) in my head. Could all this be a house of cards? A quick check of the appointment book pulled it all together. Going back two months and forward one month (all I had time for) showed about 30 entries. And only three names. Two that I didn't recognize were spaced out at about once every three weeks and the other one was written in three times a week over the duration. This was Bracken. He was such a fixture that he was even listed in the month to come, like clockwork (though I'm guessing he will have a hard time keeping those appointments).

While Bracken was indeed the Golden Goose, there did not seem to be any goslings to speak of. Knowing the rent in this area, Bracken would have had to have been scheduled more than 10 times a week just to make Montrose's monthly nut. And that's just rent, let alone the practice making a profit. But if he were to come into a nice chunk of change… Not a provable motive but, combined with my intense dislike of the jerk, one I could live with. Now for the provable part.

****

We are now entering into the Do Not Try This at Home portion of this tale. Not only is the following dangerous but also highly illegal. A little background:

Leaving Montrose's office, I was convinced that he had something to do with Bracken's death. I was sure of it. But how ? Remember, Bracken was found in a bolted- from-the-inside, windowless room; no other fingerprints were found on anything (gun included); and said gun was in his hand. Also, the suicide note was in his handwriting as was the codicil. That's what the police have. Here's what I've got: a call made four minutes earlier by an a-hole, who just happened to receive the cash from the codicil. And yet, I was sure he did it (maybe it's the a-hole part). I gave up trying to figure out how he did it, which no one would believe without proof anyway (remember, I am representing the person who lost the money in the will change – of course she would try to pin something on the recipient of the gift) and concentrated on obtaining that proof. Maybe I'm lazy (or just not smart enough) but the only thing that I could think of was to look at Montrose's files on Bracken.

Now I may not be too smart but I am definitely not dumb enough to ask for Montrose's permission to peek at the files. So that left clandestine involvement. Or what the Dolphin would call good ol' B & E – breaking and entering.

In the interests of full disclosure, I will admit that this was not the first time I had contemplated breaking into a suspect's house or building or even the first time that I had actually done it. But I never stole anything of value – I was only doing it for information gathering. Sometimes (it pains me to say), this is the only way to get confirmation that what you believe to be the truth actually is the truth. I get around a guilty conscience by telling myself that if I asked the suspect about whatever it was I was trying to find out, he or she would just lie (or worse, destroy the evidence) about it anyway. So I'm finding the truth and keeping people honest. Kind of a public service, you know.

So how do you perform a B & E? Well, this is not the time to teach people how to be a detective (or a thief, for that matter) so suffice it to say that if you've been doing this long enough you'll meet people with that particular talent. And for a fee, they're more than willing to show you the ropes. I will tell you that there are two types of B & E: the daring and the chicken. The daring way entails disguises, scripts, extensive planning and the cojones to pull it off in broad daylight. The chicken way consists of breaking in at night when no one is around. You can guess which one I favor.

Besides the obvious (fear of being caught), Montrose had met me so no way would I risk going in as a computer repairman or some such thing. So nighttime activity was the way to go. Besides the expected tools for entering, past experience has taught me to bring one other item to all jobs: a miniature tape recorder. Since I want to spend as little time in there as possible, I find that speaking my thoughts as I'm feeling them helps me remember things when I get back to the office. It's pretty nerve-wracking bumping around in near total darkness and the less I have to remember later is to my advantage. I also use it in case I have to move a lot of items from a desk to get what I need. I just play it back when I'm ready to go (“Three pieces of paper on left side of desk, lamp in forward center position, phone in back right position, etc.”). This time having the recorder was even more important than I ever could have imagined.

Getting in was no problem. You'd be surprised at how easy this actually was. The building held only psychiatrist's offices and any self-respecting second story man knows that while shrinks can prescribe medicine, they don't house the dope – big difference. The security firms that are hired realize this and are pretty lax. After I was in, I surveyed the office. The obvious place to start would be the file cabinet. So I did. Bracken's file was razor thin and basically only contained name, rank and serial number. Pretty lame file on such an important ($$) patient. That meant that there was another file somewhere with the goods that I needed. Whatever that was. Behind Montrose's desk was a set of doors too big to be a closet. These were locked; a good sign. Locked doors = something important behind them. Once opened, they revealed a large bank of pull out drawers, like in a morgue. Pulling out the first one made me realize that I had hit the jackpot.

The drawer was filled with little black boxes (like the ones at the movie rental places) each labeled with a name and a date. Bracken's boxes filled the entire drawer. I pulled out one at random, opened it and saw it contained two micro cassettes. Montrose was obviously taping his sessions! And guess who brought along a miniature tape recorder – your friendly neighborhood detective/cat burglar/accidental genius! I decided to listen to the box labeled the 14 th , the day of Bracken's death. I fast forwarded through all the preliminary how-are-yous and what-should-we-work-on-todays before finally getting to the juice:

“Now, as always, we will use the last part of our session to regress you.” It was Montrose's voice. “After you wake up, I'll let you know how it went and if anything surfaced that we can use. Let's see, last time we left off with you at nine, dealing with your parent's breakup. Let us begin there.” He then proceeded to hypnotize Bracken by putting him into a suggestive state. This is where it got interesting.

“Thomas, can you hear me?” Montrose asked.

“Yes…yes,” came Brackens reply. I was struck for a second by hearing his voice, the voice of a dead man.

“Good, lets get started,” said Montrose. “Repeat after me, ‘I hate my family. The rest goes to Dr. Montrose.'”

“I hate my family. The rest goes to Dr. Montrose.”

“Good. Again, with more conviction – you hate them and only I help you.”

“I hate my family. The rest goes to Dr. Montrose.”

I was still trying to figure out why they weren't in the nine year old Bracken's bedroom before my brain could process what they had just said. Suddenly, it hit me. The codicil ! Those were the exact words from the codicil! Montrose was brainwashing him into changing the will. I was still reeling from that when they moved on to:

“Good. Next, repeat after me, ‘I, Thomas Leland Bracken, being of sound mind, wish to end my life.'”

I couldn't even hear the reply. My ears were ringing and the room was spinning and suddenly very hot. I shut off the tape and tried to collect myself. I was telling myself to calm down and relax when I realized that I didn't have that luxury. I was sitting on the floor of a psychiatrist's office, that I had broken into, going through his auditory files on a patient . Calm or not, I had to move this along and get out of here. I could form an action plan back at my office. I listened to the end of the tape, checked out some tapes from the days and weeks before (all with the same ending) and was about to get out when I decided to quickly look into the other pullout drawers. These were filled with the same boxes but inside were videotapes . I couldn't watch these but figured that they contained the same as the audiotapes. Suddenly, it got overwhelmingly hot again. What if Montrose kept a hidden camera running around the clock? Yours truly would become the star attraction. I got everything back in place and hightailed it out of there.

I didn't stop sweating until I got back to my office. I also didn't start thinking until I got there. I just wanted to get on familiar territory and, at my own pace, process what I just went through. You know how you always hear about people who say that ‘it was a blur; I don't even know how I got home.' And you think, right, that couldn't happen; the person would crash. Well, I'm here to tell you that it does happen. I mean, I know I made rights and lefts and stopped at stoplights and everything, but I really don't remember any of it. All of a sudden, I was in the parking lot of my office. That's how frazzled I was.

Once upstairs, and seated behind my desk, my brain started functioning and it hit me that this guy Montrose was not just an insufferable, money grubbing jerk, but an insufferable, money grubbing jerk murderer . Listening to the end of the tapes had confirmed this. The earlier tapes just had the hypnotic suggestions with no trigger. But the one on the 14 th instructed Bracken that these thoughts would be put into action after hearing a phone ring while in his Reality Room. So that's why he made the phone call. But how could he have known that no one else would have called Bracken. A guy like Montrose would need to control the whole situation. And for this to work, it needed to be controlled. Then I remembered something Bill Friendly said about Bracken's phone logs having quite a few outgoing calls but only the one incoming on the day he died. A quick call confirmed my idea. In my excitement, I forgot what time it was.

“Do you know what time it is?” Betty asked, more sleepy than mad. “In case you don't, it's… it's …well, I'm not turning on the light to tell you how late it is. You called me .” Her tone of voice let me know that it was actually all right for me to call at this crazy hour – as long as it was about the case. I asked my question. “Yeah,” Betty said, “everyone knew when Uncle Tom was in his Reality Room. It was like clockwork – 1 to 4 PM. Rain, shine, birth of children, nothing stopped him from his time alone. And no one, and I mean NO ONE, disturbed him. I can't even imagine anyone being close enough to him to have the incoming number. I didn't even have it and he allowed me into the Room with him sometimes.”

“Hmm,” I said, “I wonder if he trusted the guy that he poured his heart out to three or four times a week for years?” Then I added, almost to myself, “Especially if he was being brainwashed for months.”

“What did you just say?” Betty asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Don't worry about,” I said. “I'll call you soon.” And I hung up before she could ask any more questions.

I had questions of my own to answer. Problem was, I couldn't think straight enough to get answers. My mind was just racing ! Finally, I decided that I needed to get it all on paper or I was going to stream-of-consciousness my mind into an aneurysm. I wrote them down as they came out and then put them in order of importance later. Here's my list:

4) Go to the police?

1) Is there a round the clock video camera?

3) Confront Montrose?

•  Steal some tapes, mail to police?

As I looked over my list, it was obvious that the only thing that mattered was #1. Going back and stealing some tapes to send to the police would most likely get Montrose into hot water of some sort. But a slick lawyer would undoubtedly get the evidence thrown out as inadmissible (due to it being stolen). Confronting him would just alert him to my knowledge and cause him to destroy the evidence. Besides, he's a murderer , for God's sake. I'm not giving him any more ammo against me; we didn't hit it off that well the first time as it was. And going to the police, though the first thing that came to mind, would be the last thing I could do. I would be admitting that I broke into a respected doctor's office on a hunch and, oh by the way, here's the stolen, inadmissible evidence. Even for me, that would be a dumb move.

So it all came down to the camera. If there wasn't one, I had time to figure out my next move. If there was one, then by morning, when the tape was changed, Montrose would know everything and at best, get rid of all evidence. I didn't like the thought of the ‘at worst' scenario. So I had to go on the assumption that a camera was going at all times. That meant that something had to be done that night. It was already 2:30 AM so time was slipping away. Who could I get to help at this time of night? Then the solution to the whole case hit me so fast that I had to stand up (I couldn't plop onto a couch like they do in the movies since I was already sitting but I had to do something dramatic. So I stood up) and begin pacing the office. It would work. I made the call and set it in motion.

Later that morning, when I was sure she was up, I called Betty. I told her that first, she could ask no questions, no matter how much it killed her. When she finally agreed (it's not in her nature to be compliant about being kept in the dark), I told her the case was solved and to watch the papers over the next few days. Then I told her that it had been a pleasure doing business and that I'd be in touch. This was my way of hanging up in a professional way without answering any questions.

It actually took longer than I had expected. I guess the police are much more cautious about moving forward on a public figure unless there is an airtight case (call it OJ-fallout, if you will). But there it was, front page (above the fold, no less) on June 26 th , the arrest of Dr. Emil Montrose for the murder of Thomas Bracken. My hand was on the phone to call Betty when it rang. I wonder who that could be?

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. It was him ! How did you know? How did you do it? Oh my God. I was right, he didn't kill himself! Thank you, thank you. Oh my God , I just thought of something! We're rich!” It was Betty.

After reminding her about our don't ask, don't tell policy concerning the case, I suggested that she make an appointment with the executor of Bracken's will to correct a certain addendum. After fending off a million questions, I finally hung up. I felt kind of bad putting her off like that but I had to. If any of this came back on me, I could lie with the best of them to protect a client. But Betty was new to this game, not to mention honest and straightforward. If I told her how it all went down, she would be an accessory after the fact and would probably crack if given the old bright-light-in-the-face, good cop/bad cop routine. But if she didn't know, what could she say? So I couldn't tell her. But I can tell you. It's the least I can do since you've made it this far.

****

The key to the whole thing that night was the time. 2:30 AM. Late for you and me but primetime for the Dolphin. Here's how I figured it: Since time was of the essence, the best that I could do was to make an anonymous call to the police with my information. Even if they bought it (and didn't ask how I could know about the tapes), they would still need to convince a judge to issue a warrant to check out that drawer. On purely circumstantial evidence. Not likely. So then I thought that I could go back there and trash the place so that the police would be called in the morning and maybe stumble upon the tapes. No good. Before even calling the cops, Montrose would be sure to get rid of anything that could implicate him with Bracken or anyone else.

But what if someone were caught in the commission of a crime? Then the room would be sealed off and everything in it would be evidence – off limits even to the owner of the items. Hello, Dolphin. It took a while to convince him of what I wanted to do (I didn't mind telling him the plan; he wouldn't crack even if the police took a board to his back. Not that they would do that, you understand.). Plus, we had to haggle over the money. But not too much – the Dolphin is enough of a businessman to know when he has someone by the short hairs in a negotiation. It cost a pretty penny but I had really no other options. Here's how it played out:

As usual, within minutes of entering the Temp, the Dolphin was right there next to me, scaring the bejesus out of me in the process. I had called his beeper, and was expecting him, but I still was not ready for his unique way of appearing. I told him my idea of breaking in and getting caught . He understood the breaking in part but was not too keen on the getting caught part.

“Okay, here's why,” I said. “This is the same guy that Benny and Dee saw at the phone booth. He's mixed up in a murder and I have the proof. It's on tapes. Only I can't get them to the police. If someone were to break in, grab the proof like they were trying to steal it and somehow be arrested, then the proof would be evidence and this guy couldn't destroy it.”

There was a long pause before he finally said, “This gonna cost.” And I knew he understood and would help me. “Lemme axe you somefin',” he added. “How you know the po-lice gonna even look at dem tapes?”

“Oh, they will,” I said and explained about something Bill Friendly had said to me at BoBo's. He mentioned that when they thought that Bracken's death could have been robbery related, they went over his files with a fine tooth comb to see if anything was missing. If they busted in on some kid with a cassette tape in one hand and a videotape in the other, you'd better believe that they would listen to and view those tapes. Especially if both tapes were dated June 14 th . Even the slowest cop would look back to see when Bracken had died. It would only be a matter of time before they went through all the tapes and began to see a pattern. That satisfied the Dolphin. Only thing left was the payment schedule and a detailed map.

The map was no problem but the payment was a little more complicated. First (as always), was the Dolphin's fee for putting this all together. Then, the fee for the kid who broke in and got caught. It struck me as strange that this was less than the Dolphin got, considering the kid was taking all the risk, but who am I to question the hierarchy of the Temp? Then there was the kid's bail money (“I ain't keepin' a good worker in no jail befo' trial.”), which I agreed to as long as he had no prior record so bail would be low. And last, there was the ‘lay low' money needed for when the kid skipped on the bail and hid out (“Oh yeah, I forgot. He ain't goin' to no trial. ”). So I wasn't getting my bail money back either. Great. But at least the Dolphin was sympathetic.

“Seein' as how you gonna lose yo bail,” he said, “I ain't even gonna charge you fo' the los' re venue while he stashed away.” I was so impressed with his heart of gold that I didn't even inquire as to the nature of his lost revenue.

All that was left was for me to wait for the prearranged time and leave an anonymous phone tip to the police about a break in at an office complex. I figured that I owed Bill Friendly for getting me rolling on this, so I deepened my voice as much as possible, rang him at home and played the concerned citizen. And the rest, as they say, was history.

I found out later that the kid he picked was a pretty good choice. He had gone over the whole place to make it look like a simple robbery and even tried to run when the police came (“Man, yo Occifer Frienly sho' slow ,” said the Dolphin. “My guy hadda fall twice fo' dey finelly grab 'im.”). The kid came up with a story of thinking that maybe there was some kind of porno on the tapes so he grabbed them.

With all the press he got for the Montrose arrest, Bill wasn't even upset about the kid jumping bail. In fact, he was in a good mood all around. When I saw him at the trial, he smiled and said, “I hope you're feeling better.” When I gave him a puzzled look, he added, “You must have had one hell of a head cold. I barely recognized you on the phone that night.” With a wink and a big grin, he entered the courtroom.

Montrose never knew what hit him. I'm sure he was kicking himself over the dumb luck that a minor break in could have brought him down so swiftly. Like he was the first – hadn't he ever heard of Watergate? But in reality, dumb luck did bring him down. If Bracken hadn't picked up that call, no phone records would have been logged and a shooting in a locked room would have been a suicide, not murder. Due to Montrose's arrogant, abrasive and superior manner, I wanted many times to tell him who had really put him away. Because think about it; he had, in essence, just committed murder, and was yelling at me, throwing me out of his office and threatening to call the police on the day I went to see him. But whenever the urge presented itself, I just thought back to the Dolphin's words in describing Montrose: “he a pretty boy. He done sumpin' bad, he in a load a trouble when he get to the big house, lookin' how he do”, and I felt that he would have enough on his mind over the next 20 to 30 years.

Betty's research was pretty good, too. After paying off all expenses, and minus the house (in which Carmelita had lived for awhile until she got tired of cleaning it, sold it and bought a beautiful two story Tudor. With the money left over, she got a maid and just relaxed.), Bracken's estate came to roughly $38 million. Betty was a little upset that the family was reinstated back into the will but for $3.8 million, she was willing to let bygones be bygones.

I'll bet some of you out there are wondering if Betty and I got together. Well, like I said, I really did like her and, in fact, we did go on a couple of dates. But it always came down to the same thing. I couldn't tell her about the case. Who knows when a crafty appeals lawyer might look deeper into the circumstances of Montrose's arrest. She knew better than to ask but it was always there: If I could hold in a big secret, how easy would it be to keep little things from her. Both of us pride ourselves on being what- you-see-is-what-you-get type people, so the writing was on the wall. Besides, if you remember at the start of this thing, I told you that, despite my pretty nice hair, I have yet to end up with any good-looking women after a case. My streak, sadly, still stands.

Betty ended up moving out of state (“Somewhere where the winters don't last six months and the summers twelve days would be nice,” she said.). She sure had the cash to do that. Hell, I had the cash to do that. But I kind of like it here. Money's not a problem, I like what I do and who knows, maybe a case will come along where I actually do get to stow away on a yacht or hang from an airplane. One can dream, can't one?

END