Vicious Circles excerpt by Eric Dalen

an excerpt from a novel-in-progress
by Eric Dalen

I wish they wouldn't make me do this.

I close my eyes and pray that whoever is under that sheet is not who it's supposed to be.

"Mr. Gideon?"

The voice is polite, and insistent. Maybe he's checking to make sure I'm not going to throw up or something.

I open my eyes and step forward, forcing myself to look up at the attendant on the other side of the table. The guy's maybe 22, 23, with greasy black curls and glasses, and he's a shade whiter than the sheet, as if they're making him do this too.

With still more effort, I nod at him.

Then fear comes over me, as if I just made a mistake. This is perverse, making a son look at his dead father. Who thought this was a good idea?

The corner of the sheet is lifted up and drawn back carefully.

A face is slowly revealed, and relief shoots through me as I see the prayer has been answered. They have the wrong man. The man on the table is not my father; I've never seen this man before in my --

Then the relief gets swept away, replaced immediately by dread. Then horror.

It's dad.

The face is contorted, not natural. The skin, a grayish color. The eyes are closed, yet pain is etched on his face in a way that I'll never forget, as if dad was caught in a horrible moment of time. A horrible moment that will remain like that forever.

Then the man holding the sheet moves his hand slightly, revealing the far side of the head -- where the bullet came out. In a kind of Instant Understanding, I can see how they positioned everything so I would be brought in and shown only the left side of my dad's head -- the right side would be off-limits because they want to spare me the gruesome reality. But it's not really the side of his head that I glimpse, but the area that's missing. Mostly brown, dried, crusty blood matted in the graying hair.

"Mr. Gideon, is this your father?" the polite, insistent voice from behind me says.

I nod sickly, my stomach considering if this would be a good time to revolt; my mouth has already decided, having gone completely dry and unable to work.

The sheet is replaced and I continue to stare at it.

What am I supposed to do now?

This is all wrong, it's all wrong, it's all wrong.

A hand is placed on my elbow before I realize there are tears streaming down my face.

I turn toward the hand and am led away.

* * *

"What's your full name?"

"Matthew Gideon."

"And when did you last see your father?"

"This morning. He was in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee."

We are sitting at a table in the building's cafeteria, which is closed for the night. The harsh fluorescent light makes everything seem dead and old. I keep thinking there's a funny smell in here, but it's probably just a faint mixture of cleanser and old grill grease. A styrofoam cup sits in front of me, empty. The dryness in my mouth is still there.

"Do you have any idea why this would happen?" the detective asks. He had given his name -- Bertinelli, Petrocelli, Cantonelli, Bowl Full of Jelly. Something like that. He's somewhere in his mid-thirties and the size of small grizzly bear. His completely smooth, bald head and neatly trimmed fu-manchu mustache contrasts with the plain white dress shirt, professional, tasteful tie and shiny black shoes.

I slowly shake my head. "No idea at all."

It's the truth -- I have no idea why. Dad never told me what was going on, even after mom was killed. He said it was better that I didn't know.

Now with the image of my dead father forever scorched into my mind, I can't see how not knowing was better.

"Any enemies? Recent arguments? Problems at work?"

Again, I shake my head slowly. "No. He never mentioned anything. Everything seemed normal."

There's a long pause, and the bald man looks uncomfortable, like just farted and is hoping I won't find out. "Was he still married to your mother?"

I stare at him blankly, then look up at the other, older cop standing silently off to the side. He's got graying, wavy hair, a belly that is a deluxe burrito shy of a paunch, and he's watching me carefully. "She passed away several years ago," I answer. "Ovarian cancer."

That's the first lie, and there will be more, most of them so ingrained in me that I'd have no problem with the words. I could pass a polygraph with flying colors.

"I'm sorry," the bald detective says, and he looks it. Even the older, silent cop looks sorry as he uncrosses his arms in front of him and looks mournfully down at the faded linoleum floor.

Then the bald guy frowns, looking more troubled. "There are a couple of awkward questions I need to ask. I hope you don't think I'm being rude at your time of loss, but they're loose ends, standard-issue police questions that we ask everyone in this situation. Is that alright?"

Well, it can't be worse than staring at my dead father, I think.

Out loud, I say: "Sure. If it'll help."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I work for a industrial hardware distributor in Milpitas. J & J Supplies. I do local sales."

"And the address?"

I recite it, knowing what will come next. But first there's another long pause. The sound of a vacuum filters in from somewhere else in the building.

"What time did you get off work today?"

"My last stop was at three-thirty, a machine shop in San Leandro. I left there about ten 'til four, and headed straight home."

There is a look in the detective's eye that says Hhhmmm, and I realize I've just answered a question that hasn't been asked yet. Nevertheless, the cop writes the answer down.

"And you got home at ...?"

"Just after four-thirty."

This, too, is written down.

"We saw you walking home just after nine."

"I was at the sports bar down the hill. Monday Night Football. In fact, dad was supposed to be there too."

He doesn't write, but instead contemplates this. "You didn't think that was odd?"

I open my mouth to answer when I remember something.

Sitting at the table, next to Rudy. The Packers had just scored. A commercial break. A local news promo. One man dead in a Santa Clara shooting. A live report tonight at eleven.

There are so many similar stories night after night that I didn't even think about it. Dad's death had been a news bulletin on Channel 7.

I take a deep breath, forgetting for a moment what I'd been asked. "Sometimes he works late. It's a computer place -- Internet software development. They've been working on a new project. He usually calls, but I figured he called after I left for the bar."

"And what time did you leave?"

"Six o'clock straight up."

"You go to the sports bar often?"

"Only on Monday nights during football season."

"And tonight, where were you between four-thirty and six?"

"I did some paperwork at home."

"Alone?"

"Well, yeah. Just me and my dad live there." My stomach does this sinking thing like seasickness just after I say this, and I feel a little nauseous.

The response is noted, then the bald man looks at the paper, as if thinking. "How old are you, Mr. Gideon?"

"Twenty-four."

"And you live with your father?"

I'm not sure where he's going with this, but I can guess.

"Yes," is all I say, without explanation.

The bald man lets this hang in the air, allowing it to imply there's something to this, something more than there is.

"What kind of car do you drive?"

"A Taurus."

"Year?"

"It's new. I got it last month -- company lease."

"What color?"

"White."

A look passes between the older cop and the bald one.

Then bald man takes a deep breath and says: "I think that's all we have for right now. Can I have your work number in case we have to contact you?"

I give it to them, knowing damn well that it isn't all they have for me, but it's all they would try for tonight.

"Thank you, Mr. Gideon, for your time. I'm really sorry about your father. We will do all we can to get to the bottom of this." He tries to appear earnest, but there's an edge to it, a little twinkle in his eye that again implies something unspoken.

I pretend to ignore it. "I appreciate that. You'll keep me informed?"

"Absolutely. We'll have a patrol car take you home."

I stand, leaving the empty cup on the table, wondering why the dynamics have changed. An hour ago, I was a victim, once removed. Now I'm a suspect.

The bald cop stands and leads me to the hallway, pointing in the direction of the front door. I thank him and start down the hall, trying to clear my mind, getting the feeling of eyes on his back.

Probably my imagination. I've got to refocus.

I turn a corner, beginning to wonder why they thought I did something I didn't do. The sick part is that I can only prove what I did -- I can't prove what isn't there.

I step through the front door of the Santa Clara County Morgue and into the cool night air. A man behind the wheel of a huge Cadillac is parked at the curb glances at me for half a second, then looks away, smoking, staring out the windshield. I look to my left, then to the right, wondering where the patrol car is that's supposed to take me home.

A noise comes from behind me.

I turn quickly, startled, to find a handsome white-haired man in a suit approaching. It's as if he came out of the building I just left. Maybe there were eyes on my back.

"Mr. Gideon, may I offer you a lift?" The man is smiling, graciously, like a host at a dinner party. His hair is perfect, his smile charming and I can smell a hint of wintergreen and delicate cologne.

Another noise from behind me, and before I can turn completely around, I feel the prick of a needle at the back of my neck. My hand grabs at it and I simultaneously duck, turning toward the man behind me, seeing his shoes -- extremely large brown hiking boots -- before his arms wrap around me in a huge bear-hug and I'm lifted off the ground. At this point, the world starts to go fuzzy, and I'm fighting to keep my eyes open. A loud buzzing fills my heads as I'm placed into the back of the Cadillac, the back of the driver's head the last thing I see before the darkness swarms in.

* * *

An excerpt from "Vicious Circles" a novel-in-progress by Eric Dalen.
© by Eric Dalen. All rights reserved.

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