When I was a teenager, my family went to a place called White Lake North Carolina. We stayed in a small cabin, and next to the cabin was a hotel. On rainy days there was nothing to do, so we often spent those rainy days in the lobby of the hotel

There was a bookcase of old paperback mysteries, I and I would read them as the rain fell and the thunder and lightening had their way. As a result, I am a total sucker for the mysteries of the forties, where the dialog and characters were often more fun than the actual plot. A few years ago I wrote a few with two alter-ego characters based loosely, VERY loosely, on myself and a friend. A decade or so ago I stuck them in a drawer and I’ve dragged them from apartment to apartment and finally to my house here in Vermont.

I rediscovered them not long ago and thought to myself that I never explained how Watson and Herzog came together. Never mind that no one ever read any of the other stories, I just felt like they needed a starting point.

So this morning, that’s what I did. I wrote their starting point. And I had a blast writing it – totally out of genre with anything else I do. I thought you might enjoy it too.

Tom

———————————————————

Beginning With Murder

 “It’s Watkins.” Herzog could hear the puzzlement in his wife’s voice as she handed him the phone.

“Yes?” Herzog asked. It had been years since he had spoken to Watkins. They had been best of friends once, but no longer. There had been no fight or breaking off point, just a slow wasting away caused by time and distance. A story most people have experienced in their lives.

Herzog lived in the outskirts of Philadelphia, while Watkins lived in the southern city of Roanoke, Virginia.  Herzog picked up the phone.

“A question, Herzog. Is it better to allow fate and God to work, or should we trust ourselves to create the momentum to make the world happen?”

Herzog laughed. It was a question that the two of them had bantered back and forth twenty years earlier. They had been in graduate school then, earning their master’s degrees in creative writing, and there were many such nights of philosophical banter.  Herzog’s stance was that God was not to be trusted with the things of life and that men needed to act in order to move life forward, while Watkins was more the wait and see sort, more willing to trust fate. Herzog had come to believe that Watkins’ view was based more on Watkins’ curiosity of what might happen next than any moral view, but with Watkins one could never be sure.

“We never settled that one, did we? Have you changed your view?”

Herzog heard Watkins sigh deeply. “I am in Philadelphia, downtown to be more precise.”

“Philadelphia? What are you doing here?”

“Coming around to your view of things, I am afraid.”

“Well, that would be a switch.”

“Circumstances change one’s viewpoint. Sometimes dramatically. It seems I am in jail. They have suggested a lawyer. If I were true to my cause, I would trust justice to emerge on its own, but I am afraid justice might need a bit of nudging. Can I afford your services for a few days?”

“I am not a criminal lawyer.”  Far from it, Herzog thought. I have spent the past twenty years in finance law, a complex practice of even more complex rules and regulations. Nice. Safe.

“And I am not a criminal, though there are those here who seem to have a different view.”

“Why are they holding you?”

“Murder, they say.”

“And who are you supposed to have murdered.”

“My father, it seems.”

“I’ll be right there.”

 

Herzog had spent most of his forty one years in Philadelphia and had never been to the city jail. His was not that kind of law. His clients fought a secret kind of law where the weapons were nuances and bank accounts. There was, he realized, a part of him that was a bit afraid as he approached the city jail.

He need not have been. It was all very business-like. He had to sign in as Watkins’ lawyer and they took him to a small room that looked remarkably like the interrogation rooms in television dramas. A small table. Two chairs on one side. A single chair on the other side. Florescent lights buzzed quietly in the ceiling. There was a mirror on the wall.

An officer led him down the hallway and let him into the room. No one was there.

As if reading his mind, the officer spoke. “He will be down in a few minutes.” Herzog waited. He felt uncomfortable here. Like somehow he was the criminal. He laughed nervously. His wife would have a field day with that thought. She was always telling him he had an over developed sense of guilt.

He was also bored. He had no real connection to Watkins any longer. It had been years since they spoke or even exchanged a card over the holidays.  He had enjoyed his time in graduate school with Watkins, a pleasant break between his pre-law undergraduate work, and his years in law school at Vanderbilt.

Mixing with the likes of Watkins, young poets and writers, fed his spirit. But they did not feed his family. He was steeped in the law now. It was all very logical and, he thought, profitable. But it was not very exciting.

And this afternoon visit to the jail to see his old friend, even if nothing came of it, was definitely not boring. It was a spark of the unknown. What was Watkins like? What did he do now? And how is it that he was in Philadelphia visiting his father, who himself did not belong in Philadelphia?

Watkins had never liked his father, a relic from the Plantation Age of the south, the old man had never let go of his prejudices towards all things not white or southern. Men had certain roles in life, and Watkins had fit none of them, studying English, and later taking to writing poetry and painting odd abstract paintings that were obscure, though full of color and strangely appealing. Certainly not what the old man might have wanted.

No, Watkins had never liked his father, but that dislike was a mild thing, an irritation and disappointment, not the kind of thing that would lead to a murder.  But then, things change over time. People change.

The door opened and an officer walked in. Behind him was Watkins.

He had not changed much, Herzog thought. His age showed in his hair, which had tendrils of white scattered in it, but the hair was still thick, still a little too long and unruly.

And he was still thin. As thin as he had been in graduate school.  In a man his age, Herzog thought, that kind of thinness seemed out of place. He looked down at his own middle, thick with middle age. For a moment he wondered if his old friend did drugs. It would be out of character to the Watkins he knew, but… well people change.

Watkins seemed at ease. That much had not changed. Watkins had always seemed at ease when they were young. He had dragged Herzog to all sorts of places in Roanoke, from the unsavory to the elegant and somehow seemed at home everywhere he went. Even here, in his bright orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him, Watkins seemed remarkably comfortable.

“Thank you for coming.” He said as he sat down in the single chair.

“You always did know how to spark my curiosity.”

Watkins smiled. That same bashful smile he had often worn when people complimented his writing and art thirty years ago. “This is a curious thing.” He said. “I can see why they assume I killed my father. Based on what they know, I would likely think the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“They found us in the same room. He was dead. A single gunshot through his head. My fingerprints were on the gun. And it probably only takes a call or two to Virginia for them to find out how the two of us got along.” Watkins subconsciously rubbed a scar on his forehead. Herzog knew the story of that scar. Watkins’ father had given it to him when he was ten.

“What was he in Philadelphia?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why were you here?”

“I have no idea about that either. In fact, I don’t even remember coming here.”

Herzog stared at his friend, who smiled ruefully.

“It’s true. The last thing I remember was leaving the Rebel Yell after perhaps one too many Southern Comforts. I bumped into a lovely blonde as I went out the door. After that, nothing else. I woke up here, ten hours away, in a room with my father who had that unsightly hole in his head.”

“What did you do?”

“I called 911 on my cell. It was a little confusing, to get Philadelpha, but still, I talked to then. I had to look around the room to find something to tell them where I was – in a was a hotel downtown. The Regency. “

“Nice.”

“I am sure without blood on the floor and wall, it is a very nice place.”

Herzog thought. He noticed that his mind was working very fast. Evidently it liked new challenges, because this was unlike anything he had ever done. But a certain clarity seemed to be opening before him.

“OK.” He said. “Have they given you a blood test?”

“No.”

“We need to get one, if someone drugged you, it might be too late for it to still be in your system, but there might be a trace. Then we follow the money.”

“The money?

“Who did your father’s estate go to? “

“Oh, that.”

Herzog laughed slightly at his friend. “Money is one of the main reasons people kill.” He said matter of factly, as if he had been a criminal lawyer all his life.

“I know.” Watkins said. “the other two being love or power. And a few others in the more interesting cases. No Herzog, I would not have killed Father for his money. You see, he had none.”

“But….”

“I know, he had the big estate and the farm and the land yacht of a car, but he was leveraged to the hilt. Two mortgages on the house, the farm rented out to pay the taxes. I think the car is paid for, but that’s the only thing. Keeping up appearances is very expensive. The fact is, I’ve been subsidizing him for a decade. I suspect the only thing I will get is the car.”

“The same car?”

Watkins nodded. “A nineteen seventy-two Cadillac convertible. White with red leather seats and a red top. He loved that car. I think I had the engine rebuilt twice for him. Not my style really, but there is something very appealing about it. Very Cornel  Sanders.”

“So not money. But then, I doubt they need motive with you right there and the prints on the gun..”

“They don’t seem to be the least concerned about motive. In fact, no one has asked me much of anything. It is, as the young woman from the District Attorney’s office said to me this morning, ‘an open and shut case.’”

Herzog thought. “First the blood test. Then we’ll see where we go from there. When do they hold the bail hearing?”’

“I don’t know. It’s a weekend. I think I am low on their priority list right now.”

“I have to be honest with you Watkins. This isn’t my thing. I haven’t tried a criminal case in my entire career.”

“That’s OK. They will assign me a court-appointed lawyer.”

“Can you afford your own lawyer?” It suddenly occurred to Herzog that he had no idea what Watkins did for a living. “I can recommend someone.”

Watkins smiled, an odd half smile that Herzog could not interpret. “I can afford a lawyer. I’d prefer it be you.”

“I really am not the best choice.”

“But I know you. I trust you. You have a logic I need, and I know you never give up on an argument you believe in.”

“People change.” Herzog said, thinking of his practice, his quiet predictable life and how different it seemed from the heady days of graduate school.

“No,” said Watkins, his voice almost a whisper. “They don’t. Not really.”

The looked each other in the eyes for a moment.

Herzog blinked. “OK. I’ll do it. You hang tight. I’m going to get the blood test, just in case. And I’ll see if there is a chance to get you out. Will you be OK here?”

Watkins leaned back, his eyes crinkling. “Oh yes. Jail is a fascinating place. Murder, it seems, has a certain cache. I’ll be fine.”

Two hours later, Herzog had things in the works. They were back in the cinderblock interrogation room.

“They won’t let you out.”

“I am not surprised. Open and shut has that effect on people.”

“I am not sure what to do now. We’ll have to wait till they arraign you. That will probably be early in the week.”

Watkins sighed. “I am afraid, Herzog, that I have grown impatient in my old age. Can I impose on you to take a trip to Richmond?”

“Richmond?”

“I need eyes and ears and mine are incarcerated at the moment.”

“Richmond?”

“The Grove to be precise. His nursing home.”

“You father was in a nursing home?”

Watkins nodded. “A memory care facility to be exact. A lifetime of bourbon and Marlboros took their toll, I am afraid. There’s not been much of the old man left for a few years now.”

“I’m sorry.”  Herzog thought of his own father, still hale, hearty and alert at eighty-four. He remembered Watkins’ father. A bigot perhaps, but a smart man, good with his hands and good in business. It was hard to imagine him vague and old.

“Don’t be. He earned it.”  Herzog could hear the familiar undertone of anger in Watkins’ voice.

“What would I look for?”

“Anything that looks out of the ordinary.”

“Like I would know what’s ordinary for your father. It’s been twenty years.”

“Go anyway.  Money is not an object. Seriously.  I am enjoying my stay. Just this morning I learned all about running numbers. I thought that was something from the forties. Al Capone and all that. But it seems it’s alive and well and terribly sophisticated.

“I am enjoying my stay, but I am sure I would not enjoy being a guest of the state for the rest of my days.”

Herzog shook his head. His wife would think he was crazy. “I’ll go.”

 

—————-

 

The Grove was a sad three story brick building off of Monument Avenue. Monument Avenue was the third most beautiful roads in America according to the brochure Herzog had picked up at the rental car counter. But here in February, it was grey and dreary. Even the big statues of Confederate soldiers lost some of their impressiveness in the cloudy day.

The parking lot was cracked and there were only two other cars in the lot. He had talked to his secretary the whole way from the airport, giving her instructions on rearranging appointments for the next two days.  She was probably rolling her eyes at him. Just like his wife.

Herzog was a creature of habit. Habit and procedure and rules defined his life. Visiting old friends in jail on Saturday night was not part of his habit. Uprooting his schedule on a wild good chase was not part of his habit. No wonder his wife looked at him like he was a man possessed when he came home and made the flight reservation to Byrd Field.

Herzog tried not to think about it too much. That was his part of his problem. He thought too much about things. And Watkins knew that. In fact his last words were “Don’t think too much, Herzog. Most things are simple. Just look around. If it looks normal, it probably is. Dad wasn’t very sophisticated in the end.”

The people at The Grove were helpful. Herzog explained about the old man’s death. He had a letter from Watkins giving him access to his room.

The first thing Herzog noticed was that the furniture in the room was far nicer than most of what he had seen in The Grove. The matron helping him agreed, “Mr Watkins, the younger  Mr Watkins, was so caring about his father. He wanted him to have things from home around him.”

Herzog was surprised. That didn’t jibe with the fractured relationship he  remembered between his old friend and his father. Look for something out of sorts, Watkins had told him. Maybe the biggest thing out of sorts what finding out Watkins had treated his father so well in his old age. Maybe people do change, Herzog thought.

Time to look at things.

Those things involved an antique canopy bed, a hand carved colonial original. There was a small dresser used as a side table. The Victorian loveseat Herzog remembered from twenty years before stood under the window, it’s red velvet still pristine.

Herzog looked through the closet. It was a mishmash of clothes, sweat pants, and flannels shirts mostly. Nothing there.

He looked around the room. There were no pictures on the walls, and only one on the dressing table. It was a picture of Watkins’ mother. Herzog had forgotten how beautiful woman she had been. What a tragedy that she died so young, he thought. Neither Watson or his father ever got over that loss, evidently.

He opened the dresser drawers. Predictable. Socks. Underwear. And a small picture in a frame. An older woman. Someone Herzog didn’t recognize. There was an address on the back. He put the picture in his jacket pocket absently and turned his attention to the matron.

“How did Mr. Watkins get out?”

“His niece came and got him. She was going to take him to lunch. When they didn’t come back, we put in a missing person’s report. But Philadelphia?” She shook her head.  “Who would have thought?”

“Who would have thought, indeed?”  There was nothing else here. Herzog suddenly felt heavy. There was nothing to help his friend. Nothing. He had failed.

 

—————

 

Watkins lifted his wine glass. “To you Herzog.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Not true my friend. You found the outlier. The thing that didn’t fit. The key to it all.”

“The picture.”

“The picture. As soon as I saw it I knew. The woman I bumped into at the Rebel Yell was the spitting image of the woman in the picture, just a generation younger.”

“And the picture had her address.”

“And from that, everything became clear. My father had been having a letter writing affair with her ever since my mother died.  I am still having trouble with that. My father, writing love letters.” Watkins shook his head and sipped his wine.

“When I put dad in the nursing home, there wasn’t much of him left. The letters to the woman stopped. And broken hearted and not quite all there herself, she killed herself.”

Herzog shook his head hard. “People do that?”

“Ah my friend. Too many. Life is messy. Not like your law books, I am afraid.”

“And so it was the daughter.”

“It was the daughter. She lived with her Mom. Adored her. Too much methinks. Think of it Herzog. five years planning it. Discovering me, him, and effectively killing us both by drugging me and framing me for the murder of my father.”

“I thought you hated your father.”

“I hated what he was. But he was my father.”

“My wife still thinks I am nuts.”

“She’s right.”

“What?”

“You hate what you do.”

“No I don’t.
“Ah Herzog, you should have seen your face this week as we dug all this out. You were alive my friend. Alive! You should come to Roanoke and become my partner.”

“A poet’s partner?
“I never managed to make my living in poetry.”

“But all the books you publish.”

“Do you know what the average run of a book of poetry is, Herzog? About a thousand copies. At a couple bucks a book royalties, I’ve made, over the last twenty years, maybe enough to starve on for six months.”

“So what?”

“I figure things out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s kind of like being a private detective, but without a license.”

“You can do that?”

“I do. I sort of fell into it. Think about it Herzog. We’d have fun. Like this.”

Herzog just stared.

Watkins smiled and finished off his glass of wine.  “OK, I am willing to go back to my default and wait for the Gods to show you the way. You go back to saving the banks of America. But think about it.”

They shook hands and Watkins sauntered off.

Damn him, Herzog thought. He was thinking about it