The media - in their infinite quest to get the news out before the facts were in hand - labeled Carlton Book a cop killer. Scores of news crews and reporters filled the street in front of the Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell building. Cameras photographed the paramedics carrying the black plastic bags that contained the bodies of Lena Truman, Book and Detective Desmond Fine.
Detective Frank Costa, who spoke in a forced monotone, looking angered at losing a close friend, partner and ‘one of their own’, told the microphones, the cameras and the viewing public that there was a shoot-out between detective Desmond Fine and accountant Carlton Book in the offices of Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell. The hostage, Ms. Truman – who was seriously wounded in the apparent crossfire - was able to grab a gun and kill Carlton Book. The accountant’s ID was confirmed because his wallet was found in the pocket of his jacket. Costa was asked if Book was the 3-Monkey Killer because of Detective Fine being on the scene. Costa said that Book had presented himself as FBI Special Agent Eric Scarborough, but that was all he knew and that the investigation was ongoing.
Costa and the Crime Scene Investigation Unit searched Book’s apartment, confiscated his computer and looked for evidence that would link him to the 3-Monkey Killer. They went through his closets, his drawers, the cabinets in his kitchen, his desk, and pulled apart the living room but found no weapons hidden. Detective Richard Washington of the forensic computer division personally checked Book’s hard drive and could only find records of his clients, an extensive file on the Sarbanes Oxley Act of 2002 regarding accounting and financial disclosure, and several Internet searches on old movies. The only prints found in the apartment were Book’s and Lena Truman’s.
The morning newspapers and televised special reports showed Book’s photo and asked the question, ‘Is This The 3-Monkey Killer?’ Clients of Book (the legal ones) were interviewed on camera, stating that they did not believe that the Carlton Book they knew was capable of hurting anyone, that he was a good friend and a great accountant, and that he was always smiling, joking and showed nothing but a good and humane nature.
When they were asked why Carlton Book was in a ‘battle to the death’ with Detective Desmond Fine they had no answer. The photograph of Lena and Carlton surfaced and more questions were asked about Book’s dyed hair and false mustache. Law enforcement had no answer to that question either except that it was his agent Scarborough disguise. This response begat more unanswered questions. The FBI denied any knowledge of Book or his actions.
After five days of non-stop biased reporting, the commissioner of police called a press conference.
The commissioner’s face looked waxy and drawn on camera, like he had not slept in days and/or was going through a mild form of shock. One camera caught and focused on a noticeable flicker of one eyelid. This video was the basis of many editorial comments made by the local newspapers and cable stations. Is the Commissioner Falling Apart? Who Will Take the Job When The Commissioner Loses It? Did This Case Break the Commissioner? and the oft-viewed Commissioner Watch were a few of the titles.
The commissioner was flanked by the mayor and by detective Frank Costa. As worn out as the two men were, they made the commissioner look like a sunny ray of health in comparison.
The commissioner cleared his throat several times and told the waiting reporters that key evidence was located in the home of Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell receptionist Lena Truman; evidence that linked the woman to the 3-Monkey Killer murders. The steps of City Hall erupted in questions and the commissioner of police held his hands up for silence. He went on to state that he had no doubt that Truman was actually the 3-Monkey Killer.
One reporter asked, “What about Carlton Book?”
The mayor exchanged places with the commissioner and took a several second pause before speaking. The mayor stated that he had no idea, or would venture a guess how Book suspected Truman of being 3-Monkey, but felt that he began his own investigation after the death of George Parnell. He went on to state that Carlton Book gave his life to protect the city from the 3-Monkey Killer and was, in his humble opinion, a hero. Before closing the press conference, the mayor added that a posthumous award would be given to Carlton Book for his courage. Like an afterthought, the mayor mentioned that a similar award would be given to Detective Desmond Fine, yet no one really paid attention to that.
The media vultures returned to Carlton Book’s clients, interviewing them and asking questions about the accountant’s life. They were disappointed to hear the same answers they received when Book was suspected of being the 3-Monkey Killer. One client - Bobby Felder from Delmar Fashions – waited until the reporter finished his query before sending an uppercut to the man’s jaw, thus ending the interview
More questions surrounded Lena Truman and her being one of those rare occurrences; a female serial killer. Photos of a smiling Lena Truman were placed next to Dorothea Puente, Aileen Wuornos and other female killers of note during articles and interviews with members of the psychiatric profession.
Book’s smiling face (courtesy of Lena’s personal photograph collection) appeared on the covers of the New Yorker, People, Time, Rolling Stone and other periodicals, all sporting a black crepe banner that read ‘Hero’. Several Book-related Internet sites went up (a few seeing the FBI’s denial of Book as a fodder for a conspiracy) and tee-shirts with his likeness began to be worn around the city.
A combination concert and candlelight vigil was held in Central Park in Carlton Book’s honor. Several local bands and a string quartet played while a cadre of celebrities and politicians came from all around the world to honor Book and to give their thanks.
The several elaborate funeral wreaths and bouquets that lined the stage from anonymous donors were never questioned.
One who attended the vigil was Bernard Edison III, who was still on an emotional high since receiving the overnight envelope from impresario Taylor Fisher. The enclosed letter stated that he relinquished all rights to Bernie’s Costumes & More and included a check that not only paid off the establishment, but gave Bernie enough to run the place from his new home in Florida. There was only one strange request made by Fisher; to mail a letter for him on a specific day. Seeing he was now well off, the cost of the stamp was not an issue.
‘Young’ Mr. Book did say that rich people were out of their minds.
A week later, Variety reported that there were several film studios were vying for the rights to produce a film about Carlton Book and his investigation of (and battle with) the 3-Monkey Killer. The article went on to say that Gwyneth Paltrow and Ralph Finnes were being sought to play Lena Truman and Desmond Fine, respectively, and that George Clooney, who was said to be interested in playing Carlton Book, was seen supposedly in preparation of the role by ‘hanging out’ at a CPA firm in Los Angeles.
Clooney, Paltrow and Finnes declined to comment on the story.
Two weeks later, the carrion of the media found something new and meaningless to report on and Carlton Book became an historical note.
* * *
Frank Costa stood in front of the grill in his back yard, sipping on a beer, watching the flames consume his copies of the 3-Monkey case. He had ignored all the hoopla about the accountant on the news, feeling that Des had deserved equal praise and angered that he didn’t get what he deserved.
No memorial concert. No picture on magazine covers. No TV specials or talks about how much Fine had dedicated to the case.
“Fuck em’,” Costa groused and drained the bottle in his hand. He reached down to the remaining beer in the six-pack and opened it, flipping the cap in the fire.
He thought about bringing the true background of the killer’s victims to light, but knew that it would be a grandstand move ( Sour grapes, he thought). And he knew in doing so would only bring pain to the people trying to get on with their lives.
He lifted the thick folder that contained the identities and past of the 3-Monkey victims and added it to the burning paper.
You deserved more , Des, he thought. You should’ve gotten at least a . . .
And Frank suddenly recalled a conversation (again, over beers) he had with Fine when the detective uncovered that big sex-trade case so many years ago. He asked why his friend didn’t parlay the media blitz to something more. He could use the press to write a book about the case, or even get a movie deal. He could take the scratch, move to Florida and fish (and drink) all day. After Fine stopped laughing, he looked at his friend and partner and said:
“You idiot! I’m not a celebrity. I’m a cop!”
Costa looked at the burning folder and smiled. He grabbed the bottle of lighter fluid he had dropped on the grass and squirted more on the papers. He watched the flames rise.
I hope she took her time with you bastards , he thought. Any way you wanna look at it, justice was served.
“Fuck em’,” he said again and went inside the house for more beer.
* * *
Sean McGee filled a large mug with beer and placed it in front of a tall man who sat in the corner of the bar. The man wore metal framed glasses and was both in need of a shave and a haircut. He wore a worn denim jacket over a crimson colored tee-shirt. He placed a twenty on the bar and McGee went to the register and returned with change. The man smiled at McGee and drank his beer in silence.
McGee cleaned another glass and placed it on the towel near the taps. He went to the shelf of DVDs and ran his finger across the titles.
The man adjusted the glasses on his nose, glanced around the empty bar, then back at McGee. “You’re Sean McGee, aren’t you?” the man asked.
McGee looked up from the row of movies. “That I am,” he said grinning. He looked at the face and his grin faded slightly. “Why y’ask’?”
“You knew Carlton Book,” the man said.
“Proud to say I did,” McGee said, narrowing his eyes at the man. “If’n you be a reporter or something more scurrilous, I will warn ye I will be givin’ you a serious beatin’ and you’ve only y’self to blame.”
The man smiled sadly. “Nothing of the kind,” he said. “I was lucky enough to call Carlton Book a friend too.” He held up his glass. “To Carlton Book!”
McGee eyes the stranger suspiciously for a moment, then grinned and grabbed a bottle of single malt from the row of bottles. He poured the scotch into a shot glass and held it up. “To Mr. Book!” McGee exclaimed. He turned and held his glass to the framed cover of Time magazine that hung on the wall. Book’s face smiled down on them.
“To Carlton Book!” said the man at the end of the bar holding up his mug.
McGee shot the man a wink and downed his drink in one swallow. The man at the bar drained the remainder of his beer and ordered another. McGee passed a fresh bottle to the man. “On the house,” he said smiling sadly.
The tall man nodded. He left the empty mug on the coaster and sipped from the bottle. “Why don’t you call Carlton ‘Carlton’?” he asked taking a small sip of the beer. “I mean, seeing you’re friends and all.”
McGee grinned. “Sure he’s asked me to on many occasion,” he replied. “But I feel that I would be dishonorin’ the man in some way by bein’ too personal. In me heart, he’s ‘Carlton’, but I canna bring my mouth to say it.” McGee poured another shot, but this time took only a sip. “My turn to ask a question.”
“Shoot,” smiled the man.
“Now don’t take this the wrong way,’ he began. “Ye look like a honorable soul (and could use a good haircut, if ye don’t mind me sayin’), and ye’r presence graces the revered halls of Hanna McGee’s, but somethin’ tells me a wee thirst is not what brought what ye here.”
“Well, you invited me,” replied the man.
McGee’s eyebrow dipped. “Now, I’m not sayin’ yer not welcome to this foin establishment; ye bein’ a friend of Mr. Book an’ all,” said McGee, “But I haven’t the slightest idea what yer talkin’ about.”
The man frowned. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it to McGee.
McGee stared at the envelope for a moment, then removed a small piece of paper and looked it over. It read:
Please stop by Hanna McGee’s at 1:30 on September 23rd.
Yours,
S. McGee
“Now that’s a foin thing,” muttered McGee. “My hand up to the Lord and on my mother’s eyes, I didn’t write this.”
The man looked at McGee, a perplexed expression on his face.
“You didn’t send this to me?” he asked.
McGee shook his head. “That’s not me handwritin’,” he said. He placed the envelope and note on the bar and tapped the postmark. “Odd one, this,” he said stroking his thick mustache. “It has a name and address on it I’m unfamiliar with, but will assume is you. An’ it’s postmarked a month ago, but until this very moment I have never laid eyes on ye’.”
He looked at the tall man whose eyes widened behind the glasses. “You think it’s a set up?” he asked in a soft fearful voice.
“A what?” asked McGee.
“A set up!” the man exclaimed. “Someone wanted us here at the same time!”
The door opened and struck the hanging bell, startling both men. A man wearing a blue uniform and matching baseball cap walked in. Under his arm was a clipboard.
“Mr. Sean McGee?” the man asked glancing at the men.
“Aye,” McGee said raising his hand. “That’s me.”
“Please sign here,” he said holding out the clipboard. Using his pen he pointed to a line marked with an X and offered the pen to McGee.
McGee signed the line and the uniformed man removed a thick 8 x 10 envelope from a side pouch, scanned the barcode on the bottom and placed it in McGee’s hand.
“Have a nice day,” he said as he mock saluted and left.
The man and McGee exchanged confused glances and turned to see a small delivery truck pull away from the curb. The man looked at McGee who was looking closer at the red, white and blue package.
“Well I’ll be,” he gasped. He looked up at the man. “Mr. Book sent it!”
“Oh, that’s way creepy,” the man whispered.
“Aye,” agreed McGee. “Helluva thing.”
The man’s eyes returned to the thick envelope and raised them to McGee’s. “What’re you gonna do?” he asked.
McGee gave the man a withering look.
“Well,” he said, “Since I’ve not been granted x-ray vision like that sod from Krypton, I think the best way to get to the bottom of the mystery is to open the bloody thing.”
McGee tore the cardboard zipper and opened the package. He angled it over the bar and three sealed envelopes and three small bank books slid out. Each envelope had McGee’s name and a number written on the front.
McGee frowned and using his thumb opened the one marked ‘Sean - #1’. Inside was a sheet of paper which he laid flat on the bar and scanned it. As he read, his eyes filled with tears.
“What’s it say?” asked the man.
McGee sniffed and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. As the tears ran down his reddened cheeks, he passed the note to the stranger. The man adjusted the glasses on his nose and read it.
Dear Sean.
This is very hard for me to write, so if I don’t wax poetic, you’ll forgive me. I’m good at writing memos, but at something like this, I wish I had a touch of the McGee blarney right about now. If you’re reading this, then I am no longer part of your world. You have given me the best times I have ever had in my life and not being there with you saddens me.
You’ve always been there for me, and for that I shall be forever grateful. I always loved our conversations and our love of movies. Please forgive me for not being there with you, raising a glass to an old Black & White. I hope this makes up for my absence.
Always yours,
Carlton Book
PS: If you continue to call me ‘Mr. Book’, I’m telling your mother.
“Wow,” said the man removing his glasses and wiping his eyes.
“Aye,” McGee whispered, his eyes welling with tears. He used a bar towel to wipe his eyes and picked up the envelope marked ’Sean - #2’. He opened it and unfolded the paper in front of him. “The man was a saint. A true ... sai ...”
McGee’s eyes widened until they took up most of his face.
“Mother Mary and Joseph!” he whispered.
“What?” said the tall man. “What is it?”
“It’s a copy of me mortgage,” McGee said. “An’ it’s stamped ‘paid in full’!” He turned to kiss the tips of his fingers and pressed them against a framed picture of his mother and then a smaller one of Jesus Christ. He looked back to the long haired man. “I own the fookin’ place,” he whispered. “Not the bank; me!”
“What about the third envelope?” asked the man tapping the one labeled ‘Sean - #3’.
“I don’t know if I can take any more surprises,” McGee gasped. He used his chin as a pointer. “You open it.”
The man shrugged as he opened the envelope and pulled out three sheets of paper. His brows furrowed. He looked up at McGee.
“What?” asked McGee.
“It looks like a bill for Blockbuster Video,” he said.
“A what?” asked McGee.
“There’s a lot of titles here, man,” he said flipping the pages.
McGee took the pages from the young man’s hand and looked it over; not once, but twice. He cupped his mouth in his hand.
“Is it an invoice?” he asked.
McGee shook his head and through fresh tears, smiled at him. “It’s a bloody packing slip,” he said.
The man shot up from his seat and twisted his head to look at the papers in McGee’s hands.
“For all those movies?” he asked in a whisper.
“Aye!” McGee replied in awe. “Every movie from the nineteen-thirties all ways down to present that ye can imagine! Classics upon classics upon classics!” He turned to the last page. “And it’s all ... paid for,” he whispered. His hands gripped the edge of the bar. “I think I need to sit down,” he said softly.
The man took a deep swallow from the bottle and pointed at the small bank books. “What about those?” he asked hesitantly.
McGee looked down at the bank books. The brown leather covers bore the red square and the white crossed flag of Switzerland. He opened the top one slowly and dropped it, moving backwards and colliding with the DVD rack, knocking a few off the shelf. He quickly poured another shot and downed it, then followed it with another. He looked at the bank book again and began to giggle. He grabbed the picture of his mother, kissed it hard and held the frame tightly to his chest. He then gingerly picked up the smaller one of the Christ and gave it a reverential peck. McGee dashed from behind the bar and began to dance a jig on the hardwood floor, tra-la-la-ing to the music only he could hear.
The tall stranger stared at him slack-jawed.
“Never in me life!” cried McGee. “Never in me fookin’ life did I ever think I’d say these words: I’m fookin’ rich!”
The man opened the bank book and dropped heavily on the bar stool, his eyes wide. While McGee kicked his heels, the man opened the second bank book and screamed, stopping the proprietor in mid-kick.
“So am I!” he yelled.
The tall stranger and McGee hugged each other, joined arms and dosey-doed around the bar. McGee ran back and poured double-shots of single malt and passed one to the tall man. They tapped the rims, downed them and continued to dance. The man suddenly grabbed McGee by the arm stopping him.
“Wait!” he said. “Wait.”
“Wait fer what?” asked McGee.
“There’s a third bank book,” he replied.
They stared at each other and returned to the bar. McGee opened the last bank book and looked inside. “That can’t be right,” he whispered, his face darkening.
The stranger picked up the bank book and opened it. He looked at McGee, his eyes turning hard.
“It’s in his girlfriend’s name,” he whispered.
“That can’t be right,” McGee repeated.
“Well, it looks right to me,” said the man. He opened it and paused. He held it out to the bar owner.
McGee saw a small yellow Post-It note stuck to the bank book’s second page. It read:
Lena ,
You are suited for better things.
Love, Carlton
McGee’s face hardened as he closed the book. “The man loved her,” he said sadly. “Prob’ly to his last breath, he loved her.”
McGee poured two more double-shots of scotch. He held up one and turned around to the framed picture of Book. “To Carlton!” he said.
“To Carlton!” the man said holding up his own.
They both downed the spirits in one shot.
“What are you going to do about ... ?” the man asked, pointing at the bank book.
McGee looked at Lena’s bank book for several seconds. He bent behind the bar and brought up a metal trash can. He placed the bank book on the bottom and poured some of the whiskey over it. He pulled a box of wooden stick matches from under the bar, lit one and held it above the can.
“That’s a lot of money,” the man whispered.
“Aye,” replied McGee.
“Don’t you want to know how much he left her?” asked the man.
“Don’t really care,” said McGee. He moved the burning match above the center of the can.
“It does belong to her,” he said.
McGee’s hard eyes glared at the man. “And he belonged to us!” he snapped. He looked deep into the flame. “An’ where she is and where she’s going,” he said softly, “it’s not worth a brass farthing.”
McGee dropped the match. In seconds the inside of the can danced a red glow. After a few minutes the flames died out and small puffs of ash lifted above the rim. He poured a final shot of whiskey and turned to face Carlton Book’s picture. “To Carlton!” he said.
“To Carlton!” the man echoed.
McGee and the stranger looked at each other and after a few beats, the man held out his hand to him. McGee grasped his and gave it a healthy shake. The man pocketed his bank book, walked back to the stool in the corner, picked up a computer bag and hung it from one shoulder.
“Ye not leavin’, are ya?” asked McGee.
“I gotta go,” he said. “But I’ll be back. Promise.” He looked around and took in Hanna McGee’s. “I kinda like this place,” he said softly.
“Ye never said,” McGee said. “How did you know Carlton?”
The tall man grinned and pulled back his jacket to reveal a crimson shirt with gold circled R over the left side of his chest. He tapped the insignia of the Batman’s partner, Robin. “I was his sidekick!” the man said proudly.
McGee walked to the doorway of Hanna McGee’s and watched the tall man walk down the street. The man turned to wave once and McGee returned the gesture. Just as he was about to go back inside the pub, McGee spotted a large brown delivery truck pull up at the curb.
A young man in a faded brown uniform ducked from the driver’s seat to the cargo hold. He then leapt from the driver’s side and ran around the rear. McGee watched him slide the door up and bring down a handcart. He stacked three large boxes on the plate (a fourth would have placed it above the handles), tilted the handcart and dragged it directly to where McGee stood.
“You Sean McGee?” he asked.
“Aye,” McGee squeaked.
He pulled a small PAD from his belt and handed it to the now wealthy bar owner. “Please use the stylus and sign that bar,” the man said.
McGee took the PAD and signed, seeing his signature appear on the small display above the bar. He handed it back to the driver.
“Thanks,” he said. “Where do you want ‘em?”
“Uh, just drop it by the door,” McGee said.
The driver smirked. “Dude,” he said. “I got twenty more inside the truck.”
“Twe ... twenty more?” asked McGee in a small voice.
“Yup,” grinned the man. “It’s Christmas time, baby!” The smile evaporated from his face like mist. “Now where do you want ‘em?”
“Where ever ye find space,” McGee said.
As the deliveryman brought in box after box, Sean McGee smiled a soft smile to the sky.
“You are a lovely man, Carlton Book,” said McGee. “But surely a daft bastard, if ye don’ mind me sayin’.”
* * *
The hacker (or Infojock as he preferred) walked down the street with a noticeable skip in his step. He never met Carlton Book face to face, but through emails, text messages, and rare telephone calls they became close acquaintances. Book was the only one to treat him like a human being, not like a function; a service to a client.
During one of their communications, the hacker remarked he collected comic books from the 1940s and was missing All Star Comics, issue number 14. He emailed Book a .gif file of the cover that featured the super-hero team, The Justice Society of America. He said if he had that issue he’d have every copy in the series.
Book contacted a client of his who had tried to use an extensive comic book collection as a tax write-off and asked him if he knew where he could get a copy of All Star 14. The client - in gratitude for his sizeable tax refund - gave Book one of the two copies he owned; free of charge.
Book texted the hacker asking for his mailing address and was immediately rebuked. He reminded Book of their non-disclosure agreement and adamantly and categorically refused to reveal his snail-mail address. That was until Book explained why he was asking. Within 72 hours All Star Comics, issue number 14, hung on the wall in an airtight Lucite frame in the hacker’s bedroom.
Book’s genuine act of kindness sealed their relationship.
The man did not know of Book’s other profession. In his line of business, the less you knew the better.
He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and felt them water again. A little more than a month ago he had received an emailed message and letter delivered by courier from Book revealing his identity, clearly breaking the ‘No Name’ policy in their business arrangement. A chill crept up the hacker’s spine and the room suddenly felt ... darker; heavier. Tighter. The envelope had the key to Book’s apartment. The email contained instructions.
He removed all the boxes of ammunition, knives, and other assorted tools of the accountant’s second trade. The hacker then copied specific files from Book’s computer onto a fresh hard drive and switched it. After wiping the place down, the hacker went home and waited for his client to contact him.
The morning news reported the shootout at Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell. He would have ignored it and chucked it off as life in the big city, but Book’s name was mentioned. The hacker sat motionless on the couch in front of the television, tears running down his face, his hand covering his mouth to muffle his sounds of anger and sorrow.
When the negative press about Book came out, the hacker began developing a virus that would send all print media publishers, websites, and cable and television stations back to dial-up. Book was a fucking super-hero, but only he knew it. But he’d give it time. Some people were slow on the uptake. When the media reversed their opinion and labeled Book a hero, he was glad he held off.
He had attended the memorial concert and stood in the front row wearing his Carlton Book tee-shirt. Like the many that surrounded him, the hacker cried, said a heartfelt prayer for the man who sacrificed so much for so many, and held up his lit disposable lighter in tribute.
He stopped at the corner and pulled the bank book from the pocket of his denim jacket. As he flipped the pages, a small folded piece of paper fell out. He read the note and fresh tears filled his eyes.
Thank you for everything and for all you’ve done. I could not have done this without you.
Promise me you’ll get out of this line of business. You’re better than that.
Your friend and partner,
Carlton Book
The tall man used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his eyes. He slid the book back into his pocket and took out his cellphone. He created a text message stating he was retiring (effective immediately), would no longer be at this number and recommended two infojocks to handle future business. He sent it to everyone on his Contacts list, deleted the names and numbers from the phone’s memory, turned off the cell, wiped it down and dropped it down a sewer grating. It was his business phone and it was untraceable.
The hacker began to chuckle. After ten years in the business, being at everyone’s beck and call – 24/7 - to obtain and deliver information, break through firewalls to add, alter or subtract data, and/or deliver crippling viruses, the hacker realized that he had absolutely nothing to do.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Carlton Book standing in front of him. He was smiling and shaking his head.
No , Book said. You have everything to do.
The hacker grinned. He adjusted his backpack and walked down the empty street, turned the corner and went out of sight.