Friday the Thirteenth

Friday, April 13, 1990, 4:30 PM

I arrive at my apartment building on the northern outskirts of Seattle after walking home from school with my best friend Mike Bailey. We are just in time to see a small moving van pull away. I was aware of a vacant apartment in the building, so I assume I have new neighbors.

Mike and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Virtually all the trouble I get into involves Mike. It isn't his fault any more or less than it is mine. It's just that we spend so much time together that, if there's trouble, both of us are likely to be involved.

We both believe that the minimum wouldn't be the minimum if it wasn't good enough, and our grades reflect that attitude. With a little luck, we will graduate in a few weeks. College scholarships are out of the question and our parents are working class folks who provide all we need but don't have the funds to invest in our continued education. Lacking other prospects, I enlisted in the Army under a delayed entry program that allows me to graduate and then attend basic training a couple of weeks later. Mike doesn't want to go in the military. He has a summer job with an uncle in Spokane who sells farm machinery. If he likes the work, he plans to stay on. Meanwhile, we have time for a little more mischief before our departure. Mike heads for his apartment and then returns a few minutes later.

My family lives in a basement unit of a building that is built on a slope so my bedroom window is very close to ground level. Mike meets me just outside and waves to my younger sister who has the bedroom next to mine. She waves back with one finger. Mike laughs, returns the gesture, and she disappears inside with a grin.

"Look what I have," he announces as he pulls a large string of firecrackers out of the paper sack he's brought with him.

"Cool!" I exclaim. Firecrackers are impossible for us to resist. Mike's are small ones that provide lots of gratifying noise but pose little danger unless one detonates prematurely in your hand.

Mike produces a box of matches from the pocket of his jacket as I begin to separate the little explosives from the fuse material that strings them together so we can light them one at a time.

Bang!

"All right!" exclaims Mike as the first one goes off with a bright flash.

Bang!

Bang!

"What are you morons doing?" yells a shrill voice from somewhere up above.

I look upward and see a gorgeous creature leaning part way out the window two floors above us. I have never seen her before. I'm guessing she must be my new neighbor. From the looks of her, things could be a lot worse.

"What does it look like we're doing?" I ask with a grin as I study her more closely. Flaming red hair frames a frowning, but beautiful, face. She has a slim torso with nicely proportioned breasts that add shape to the pullover sweater she is wearing.

"Why don't you imbeciles go somewhere else and do that?" she snarls.

I have no idea why I do what I do next. Lighting another firecracker's fuse, I toss the small explosive device straight up into the air. My timing is perfect. Just as it reaches the level of the third floor, it detonates about ten feet in front of her face.

"You fucking asshole!" she screams, loud enough that I suspect her parents aren't home.

Mike starts laughing and gives me a thumbs-up.

For the second time in about fifteen seconds I do something completely illogical. With my hands on my hips, I lean back a little and look up into a face that is flushed with anger.

"That's no way to talk to your future husband," I say calmly.

"What?" she screeches.

"You heard me," I reply with a grin on my face.

"I wouldn't marry a troglodyte like you if you were the last person on earth!" she yells as she slams the window shut and disappears back into her apartment.

Troglodyte? I'll have to look that one up.

"What's with you Jim?" asks Mike, looking at me like I have three heads.

"I...I'm not sure," I answer, feeling a little bit bewildered by what I have just done. "I think I'd better go up there and mend some fences."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Actually no, I'm not."

"She's pretty good looking, but I'm betting she's gonna rip your face off," he says with a wide grin. "I'm going home. Call me later if you survive."

"If my body is found in the hallway up there, you'll read about it in the papers," I answer with a grin of my own.

"Later Dude," he says with a wave of his hand and then takes off in the direction of his apartment that is a couple of buildings over from mine.

Twenty seconds later I am in the entryway of my building, studying the mail box labels. Her apartment is directly above mine but on the third floor. My apartment number is 103 so I know hers has to be 303. The name on the label says 'Flynn' in hand-printed capital letters. Sounds Irish to me. Goes with the red hair and the nasty temper.

I take the steps two at a time until I reach the third floor. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I stand directly in front of the peephole and rap softly on the door to apartment 303.

Nothing.

I knock a little harder.

Still nothing, so I knock louder.

"Fuck off!" comes a shriek from the other side of the door.

"Aw come on!" I explain. "I'm sorry about the firecracker thing."

"I'm calling the cops!" she yells.

That gets my attention. With few exceptions, fireworks are illegal in the state of Washington. Retreat seems like a wise move under the circumstances so I turn and head down the stairs with as much dignity as I can muster.

When I arrive at my apartment, I pull a dictionary off the desk in my bedroom and look up the word 'troglodyte.' Mister Webster provides several definitions, none of them flattering. The most likely one she was applying to me is 'a person of degraded, primitive, or brutal character.' While I don't agree with her characterization, I am impressed by her vocabulary.

I spend the rest of the weekend trying, without success, to catch another glimpse of the red haired beauty. A couple of times I spot a man and woman I believe to be her parents but she is nowhere to be seen.

On Monday morning, I position myself in the entryway of the building across from ours where I am reasonably well hidden and can observe any comings and goings from my own building. I don't know anything about Ms. Flynn but she seems to be close to my age. If she is still in school, she should make an appearance soon.

I don't have long to wait. In less than five minutes a late model black Nissan pulls up In front of the building and she emerges onto the porch with a couple of books in her arms. She is more stunning than I thought. Shapely legs emerge from a knee-length skirt and carefully tended hair flows down to the middle of her back. She is breathtaking.

Seconds later she jumps into the passenger seat. I note with relief that the driver is a girl. It doesn't mean there is no boyfriend, but it gives me hope. And then they are gone.

I don't have a car. My parents can't afford to buy one for me and I've never been able to accumulate enough cash from various summer jobs to buy one for myself. I walk to school unless the weather is miserable and I am forced to take the bus.

When I arrive at school, I detour through the student parking lot. There are two black Nissans, either of which could be the car of interest. On the other hand, maybe they don't go to my school at all. There are a couple of private schools in the area. Kicking myself for not making note of the license plate number, I enter the building and go to my locker.

At the lunch break, I head down the hallway toward the administrative offices where honor roll lists for the current year are posted on the wall outside. My name won't be on them but I am hoping that Ms. Flynn is a good student. If her name doesn't appear, I will have to find a way to get a roster of students for the whole school. For a variety of reasons, such lists are closely guarded by the staff.

I hit the jackpot. 'Jenna' Flynn is a straight-A student.

"Yes!" I blurt out as I pump the air with my fist; drawing the attention of one of my teachers who knows damned well I am not reacting to the appearance of my name on the list.

"You're kidding, right?" asks Mr. Fellows, my history teacher, with a wide grin. We like each other well enough but I am lucky to maintain a C-minus in his class.

"Just checking on a friend," I answer with a smile of my own and then head down the hall toward the lunchroom so I won't have to answer any more questions.

Our school is huge. There are more than four hundred kids in my senior class so I am not surprised that I have not encountered Jenna Flynn before. Plus I take the easiest classes I can get away with and I'm certain she takes only advanced placement courses. I also don't know how long she has been at the school. For all I know, she could be a recent transfer student.

Lunch consists of sliders and fries; my personal favorite. Mike's too. We have the same lunch period so I join him at a table near the door. The school needs three periods to accommodate more than twelve hundred students in three grades. I am pretty sure that Jenna isn't assigned to my lunch period or I would have noticed her before. Either that or she eats lunch somewhere else.

"I don't see any bandages," Mike quips. "How did it go?"

"She wouldn't answer the door and she threatened to call the cops."

"Stay away from her then. She's bad news," Mike advises.

"I can't do that," I reply. "I'm smitten."

"Oh for Christ's sake," exclaims Mike, shaking his head in disbelief. "So now what?"

"I'm going to stalk her," I answer with a grin.

"Great. Add a felony into the mix."

"I don't mean stalk her in that way, but I need to find out more about her."

"Why?"

"She's gorgeous and she intrigues me."

"Yeah, and she has the personality of a pit viper. Plus you'll be gone in a few weeks," Mike points out.

"You're right, but until then..."

"You're going to follow her around like a drooling puppy," he interrupts.

"...I'm going to try to spend some time with her."

"Well, good luck. I still have a snake bite kit left over from Boy Scouts if you need it," Mike responds with a laugh. "C'mon. It's time for shop class."

It takes a few days, but I finally get a handle on her class schedule by arriving at school early to see where she goes for her first class. By skipping a couple of classes after that, I am able to see where she goes each time the bell rings. Finally, I gather my courage and take up a position across the hall from one of her classrooms after telling my teacher I needed a bathroom break.

When the bell rings, she is the fourth or fifth student to exit the room. She spots me immediately.

"About that firecracker thing..."

"Beat it dickhead."

"But..."

"I mean it asshole! Leave me alone!"

I just stare at her. With one last withering look, she turns on her heel and marches down the hall toward her next class. I admire her splendid legs and decide to try again the next day.

Selecting a different classroom, once again I position myself across the hall and wait for the bell to ring. She almost doesn't notice me this time but realizes I am waiting for her just before she turns toward her next class. Changing course, she walks right up to me.

"Are you stalking me?" she inquires, clearly annoyed.

"Sort of," I answer.

"Why?" she demands.

"Have you looked into a mirror recently?" I ask with a smile.

"How shallow," she sneers. "I think I'll report you to the principal."

"For being shallow?" I ask, grinning broadly now.

"Oh, for God's sake," she mutters and stalks off.

I don't give up easily. The next day I cut study hall, my last class of the day, and go home early so I can be seated on the front stoop of the apartment building when Jenna arrives. She can't get to her place without going past me.

My butt is going to sleep from sitting on concrete for an hour when the black Nissan pulls up in front and Jenna emerges from the car with a backpack in one hand. As her friend drives off, she looks up at me with a severe frown on her face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she snaps as I rise to my feet.

"I live here," I respond. Suddenly it dawns on me that she doesn't know I live two floors below hers.

"Apartment 103," I add.

"Wonderful," she replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What's your name? I assume you already know mine."

"Troglodyte. James Troglodyte," I answer with a straight face.

Her mouth twitches as she tries to fight back a smile and I know I'm on a roll.

"Well Mr. Troglodyte, I suppose you were waiting to apologize for throwing a firecracker at me..."

"I didn't throw it at you," I interrupt.

"...in which case I accept."

I can't help but grin and then she smiles back at me.

"May I join you?" she asks, gesturing at the step I had been sitting on.

"By all means," I respond, waving a hand at the porch with a flourish.

Jenna is something of a chatterbox and I am content to let her do most of the talking while I try to study her without being too obvious about it. Without a frown she is even more beautiful than I thought. She has a square face with a wide mouth and full lips. Her large eyes are a startling shade of green. A faint dusting of freckles crosses the bridge of her small nose. Her face is framed by luxurious red hair that falls loosely down her back and over her nicely proportioned breasts. Her elegant bare legs are long, slim, and smooth. She is an absolute knockout in every way and I start fantasizing about getting into her pants.

In the half hour we sit together I learn that she is an only child, transferred to our school part way through the eleventh grade, and moved into the upstairs apartment from the other side of our school district. I also learn that she has been offered a free ride - room, board, tuition, books, and fees at Washington State University. She has just found a job in a nearby mall that will last through the summer. In return, I inform her that I am leaving in a few weeks for Fort Benning.

"Why not college?" she asks.

"C-student," I reply.

"Should have done your homework," she says with a smile. "What will you do in the Army?"

"I have no idea. The recruiter told me the decision will be made based on some tests I'll take during basic training."

"Well, I hope you don't get shot," she says as she gets to her feet. "Gotta go. I have a lot of homework. See you later."

As it turns out, we don't see much of each other. Jenna's job takes up most of her spare time so I begin to suspect that my fantasy about her will not become reality.

We do talk on the front porch from time to time. Eventually I try to kiss her but she puts her hand on my chest and gently pushes me away.

"Not going to happen Jim," she informs me. "You'll be leaving soon and I'll probably never see you again."

That pretty much drives a stake through the heart of my fantasy. I feel a sharp sense of loss because I am convinced that something good would develop between us under other circumstances.

Mike and I squeak through final exams and learn that we will, in fact, get our diplomas. Graduation week arrives with its endless rehearsals, award ceremonies, and finally graduation itself. The Class of 1990 is now one for the history books. Mike and I kill time for a couple of weeks, then I board a plane for Fort Benning and he takes off for Spokane.

Friday, August 13, 2010, 7:00 PM

I learned to hate Fridays several years ago. Whoever coined the TGIF phrase clearly had a normal job. In my work the term is OFIF. Oh Fuck It's Friday.

I have been a homicide detective with the Seattle police department for the past five years. In nearly every major metropolitan area, almost half the murders in any given week occur during the forty-eight hours between six o'clock Friday evening and six o'clock Sunday evening. Lots of people blow off a little steam on the weekends. Unfortunately, a small percentage of them do it by killing each other.

But unlike most Fridays, this one shows promise. Today is my last day as a regular homicide detective. Effective Monday morning, I'll be promoted to Lieutenant and will take command of the Open-Unsolved unit in the detective division. My focus will be on those cases, some unsolved for years, that the department wants to aggressively pursue. Solving old cases gives a tremendous public relations boost to the police force. I am honored to have the promotion and the assignment.

On this Friday night I pull into a parking garage about a block from the Essex Hotel in downtown Seattle. As soon as my car is parked on the second level, I glance around to see if anyone is nearby. I have the area all to myself so I strip off my shoulder holster with its duty weapon and toss the rig into the trunk on top of the twelve gauge pump shotgun in its cradle. Unclipping the detective's shield from my belt, I slip it into the inside pocket of my sport coat.

After adjusting my clothing and satisfying myself that I don't look too much like a cop, I take the stairs down to street level for the short walk to the hotel.

A sign near the entrance informs me that Shoreline High School's twentieth reunion reception is in the Grand Ballroom. The sign includes an arrow to point me in the right direction.

The buzz of conversation grows louder as I approach the room. Peals of laughter punctuate the chatter. After pausing at a table near the entrance to pick up my name tag, I stop in the doorway to study the crowd for a moment.

There are probably two hundred people milling about. Everyone has a drink in hand. From the looks of many of them, it is not the first of the evening. I am arriving an hour after the official start of the kickoff reception so the party is in full swing. Crossing over to one of several cash bars in the ballroom, I order a single malt over ice.

Over the years I have kept in touch with Mike and a handful of other friends from school. I have not seen the rest of the class since graduation, so I spend an enjoyable hour getting reacquainted with a dozen or so people that I remember from various classes we took together.

Deciding on a refill of my drink, I return to the same cash bar. With my scotch in hand, I turn away and suddenly stop short. Jenna Flynn is standing off to one side with a couple of attractive women I don't recognize. She is not looking in my direction so I ease my way to the edge of the room and lean against one of the large pillars that supports the ballroom ceiling.

She is wearing a mid-thigh length dress with lots of green to complement what I know to be compelling eyes of the same color. Shapely legs emerge from the dress to terminate in open-toed high heels. Flowing red hair, lightly curled and worn long, frames her beautiful face just as it did when she was a teenager. I have not forgotten. Her image has been etched in my memory for twenty years. My heart beats faster at the sight of her.

Some people have a sixth sense that causes them to be subliminally aware that they are being observed. Within a few minutes, Jenna begins to glance around, clearly trying to identify who is tickling her subconscious. I continue to look directly at her, waiting to see if she will zero in on me.

In less than a minute, her eyes lock onto mine and recognition registers on her face. I grin and receive a brilliant smile in return. Taking that as permission to approach, I start across the room toward her. Jenna says something to her companions and then heads in my direction.

"Well, well, well," she says, "Mr. Troglodyte I presume?"

"At your service ma'am," I respond with a bow, my voice breaking slightly from the adrenaline surge. Her name tag identifies her as Jenna Flynn and I see no sign of wedding rings.