The Case of the Vanishing Twin

As we walked into the District Attorney's office, a charming Asian woman in her early twenties greeted us.

"Good morning. How may I help you?" asked the receptionist.

"We have a 10 o'clock appointment with Mr. Carter. I'm Nikki Fontaine, Keith Rodman, and this is Morgan Brown," I replied.

"Oh, sure. Mr. Carter is expecting you. Let me tell him you're all here.

"Mr. Carter, your 10 o'clock appointment is here. Would you like me to send them in?

"Okay. I'm sending them in.

"He's expecting you. Just go through that door, please," said the receptionist.

I was surprised to see Detective Wheeler sitting on one of the chairs in DA Carter's office, and I assumed the woman sitting next to her was DEA Agent Monica Delbert.

"Good morning, Detective Wheeler. Fancy meeting you here, I said as we entered the office."

"Well, good morning to you too, Nikki," responded Wheeler. "This is going to be interesting."

"And I assume you must be Agent Delbert?" I asked.

"You are correct, Nikki," responded Delbert.

"And this is Keith Rodman, and this is my associate, Morgan Brown," I said.

Agent Delbert remained seated but smiled and said, "Nice to meet you all. Thank you for being so prompt for our meeting," continued Agent Delbert.

"All right. Why don't we get started?" said DA Nicholas Carter.

"Okay. I'll go ahead and start this off," said Delbert. "As you all know, I am an agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency, and I need to talk to you about your case, Mr. Rodman.

"Mr. Carter has informed me that, because of the extraordinary circumstances involved in this case, he has decided to drop all charges related to the felony manslaughter as a result of hitting a pedestrian with his car after he had been drinking. We all know by now that the person Mr. Rodman struck wasn't a pedestrian after all, but someone who had been thrown from an airplane in flight overhead at the same time Mr. Rodman's Mustang was driving by.

"The additional charges are driving under the influence of alcohol. Mr. Rodman, you were legally drunk--only barely--with a blood alcohol count of.09. To make a long story short, because of certain operations of ours involving the Nortenos gang, we are asking DA Carter to drop the outstanding DUI charge, leaving you, Mr. Rodman, with a clear record from anything having to do with this case.

"We cannot afford to have anything come up in your DUI case about bodies falling from planes, the Nortenos, or anything to do with the Hayward Executive Airport. Any testimony along those lines could jeopardize our operation, and we have too much time, money, and human resources invested in this operation to risk anything happening."

The DA knew in advance what Agent Delbert would be discussing and had already signed off on it, but everyone else in the room sat there in stunned silence.

"Well, it looks like today is your lucky day, Mr. Rodman," I said, trying not to let my smile take over my entire face.

"I'll say," replied Keith. "Where do I have to sign to make this final?"

"All the paperwork has been taken care of, and you don't have to do anything, Mr. Rodman," said Mr. Carter. "I want to thank you all for coming in today, and I want to thank all of you for your cooperation in advance. You're all free to go now."

I, for one, wanted to get our asses out of that office before someone changed their mind or minds. This deal is a gift of the largest fucking order for Keith and should cause him to pay my bill as expeditiously as possible. Good for me.

"Score one for you, Nikki," said Wheeler. "Way to go."

"And I'd like to think a lot of this is due to your excellent work and thinking outside of the box, Morgan," I said.

"Well, thank you, boss," responded Morgan.

"Talk to you later, Detective," I said. "Come on, guys, let's get while the gettin's good."

NIKKI FONTAINE INVESTIGATIONS

GRAND AVENUE, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

July 13, 10:35 a.m.

As was typical, I was doing my daily mail check. It was five to ten minutes of quiet time as I either contemplated a piece of mail or sent it at express speed to the circular file.

What is this?

This is a letter from the Oakland Museum. It's an invitation for me to give the museum money.

I love how they do this. Institutions like this make you feel important by inviting you to one of their functions and then charge you an arm and a leg for the privilege of attending their event. A thousand dollars for one ticket? Jesus.

It was quiet in the office, so I used the manual intercom--my voice.

"Hey, Max. You got a sec?"

"Sure. Be right there, hon."

"Have a seat," I said as Max walked into my office. "I got an invitation to an event at the Oakland Museum. It's called Ziggurat. It's their annual fundraiser. We're always saying we'd like to get involved in community events. This event looks like a good place to start. But I'm not going alone. How would you like to be my date?"

"Your date? Well, don't you know how to charm a girl from the bayou," purred Max.

"Great. You're going to be my plus-one. This looks like a formal event, so I guess we'll have to play dress-up," I said.

"What's it cost to go to this thing?" asked Max. "There's always a charge. The fact that you got an invitation just means they charge more."

"It's a thousand bucks a ticket. Don't worry. I'll take care of it. Attending this is a chance to make some local connections. All it will take is getting one job out of this to cover the cost of admission."

"A thousand dollars? Damn. It looks like we'll be drinking some champagne. Sounds good to me," said Max.

"Great. It's next Saturday, the 22nd, starting at six."

ST. ALBERT THE GREAT CEMETERY

BAY FARM ISLAND, ALAMEDA

July 13, 11:15 a.m.

Frank Peterson had worked at the St. Albert The Great Cemetery for the past 35 years. He had developed an order of doing things over the years. This morning he was busy raking up leaves and bagging them. Fall was a distant memory, so there wasn't an overwhelming number of leaves to deal with. He had paused to sip some water from the water container lashed to his belt when he noticed what appeared to be a kid's bicycle standing up with its kickstand down in the middle of one of the paths that crisscrossed the cemetery.

"Well, if that don't beat all," said Frank out loud.

He looked around to see if there was anyone else around that might own the bike. He didn't see anyone, so he walked over to the bike to check it out.

Damn. This bike looks relatively old. Guess I'd better call the police department and have them come and pick it up.

12:30 p.m.

Officer Mike Perry parked his cruiser in the cemetery parking lot and walked out onto the grounds to locate Frank about the bike.

"Good afternoon, officer," said Frank when Officer Perry got within talking distance. "I'm Frank. I'm the groundskeeper. Here's the bike over here. It looks like a nice bike. It also looks like it's pretty old, but nice condition."

"Let's have a look," said the officer. "We're in luck. It has a registration decal on the frame. We can look up the registration number and see if we can locate the owner. Okay. I'll take it with me and start the ball rolling when I get back to the station. Thanks for giving us a call, Frank. Have a good one," said Officer Perry as he walked back to his car, rolling the bike alongside him.

ALAMEDA POLICE STATION

ALAMEDA, CALIFORNIA

July 13, 1:35 p.m.

Officer Perry placed the bicycle in with all of the recovered stolen bikes in the police department's garage and made his way to his office to look up the registration number of the 20-inch BMX bicycle he brought back with him from the cemetery.

Once at his desk, the officer logged into the State of California Bicycle Registration Database and looked up the number he found on the bike's registration decal.

"Well, that's kinda weird," whispered Perry as he focused on his computer monitor. "The last time someone registered this bike was back in 1992. Here's a name. Let's see if I can find a phone number to go with the name, and I'll give them a call."

Officer Perry found a phone number in the database and dialed the number.

"Hello," said the woman's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello. I'm Officer Mike Perry from the Alameda Police Department. Am I speaking to Jessica Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, that's me. How can I help you?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but here goes. I just retrieved a boy's 20-inch BMX bicycle from the St. Albert The Great Cemetery over on Holly Street, Bay Farm Island. Are you missing a BMX bike, ma'am?" asked the officer.

"Ma'am, are you still there?" asked Perry after a long pause.

"What color is the bike, Officer?" asked Jessica.

"It' red, ma'am."

This time the pause was longer.

"I'm sorry to keep asking, but are you still on the line?"

"Yes, I'm still here. I'm sorry. That was my son's bike."

"Oh, great," replied Perry. "Would you like me to return it to you? I'll bet your son is missing his bike."

"Yes, please return it. I want to have it. My son is no longer here, though. He disappeared without a trace on November 12, 1992. I haven't seen him or heard from him since."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Please accept my apologies and my condolences, ma'am. What was your boy's name?"

"His name was Bobby," replied Jessica in a tone of voice filled with love and heartbreak.

"When would you like me to deliver this bike back to you?"

"I'm here all the time, so whenever it is convenient for you, Officer. I appreciate it."

I can get it back to you sometime this afternoon if that's okay," said Perry.

"That would be fine, Officer. I'll see you sometime today, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

NIKKI FONTAINE INVESTIGATIONS

GRAND AVENUE, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

July 14, 1:45 p.m.

It was a quiet Friday, and everyone was doing end of the week tidying up and killing time waiting to launch out of the office and plunge into the beautiful weekend awaiting them.

"I just want to remind everyone about my barbecue tomorrow. You can show up any time after 1 o'clock. I'm providing everything as far as food and drink. If there's something specific you want to drink, feel free to bring it. I got ahold of Danny and Dooley, and they'll both be there.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you all tomorrow. It will be fun--or else. Just kidding.

"And just to show you that I do have a heart, unless something major comes up this afternoon, you can all take off at four to get a head start on your Friday night."

"Thank you, Nikki," said Jessie.

"You rock, boss," added Nora.

A few minutes later, Nora's phone rang.

"Nikki Fontaine Investigations. Can I help you?"

"Yes, this is Detective Wheeler from OPD. Is Miss Fontaine available?"

"Nikki, Detective Wheeler on line one."

"Thank you, Nora.

"Hey, Fran, what's up?"

"Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Donald Dayton's attorney made a motion to dismiss based on no real evidence that he committed a crime. The judge granted it. Donald's already out on bail, but this doesn't mean we're giving up. Our investigation will continue. We're either going to get proof that he's guilty or his psycho sister Donna is guilty. At least we haven't had any new bodies show up for a few days. Fingers crossed."

"Well, shit. I guess it is what it is. I'm going to keep digging on my side. I'll keep you posted on anything I find out. Thanks for the heads-up, Fran."

"You bet. Talk to you soon."

"Hey, Nora," I yelled from my office. "Would you see if you can get Donald to come in to see me this afternoon? Tell him it's important."

"Will do, Boss," replied Nora.

This Donald/Donna case is just one surprise after another. They're like the main attraction in a three-ring circus.

2:30 p.m.

Everyone had pretty much finished their busy work for the day and were now doing necessary tasks that keep being put off, like rearranging the clutter in their drawers and making sure that things like staplers and In/Out boxes on their desks were placed and centered just right.

When the door opened and a woman who appeared to be in her early to mid-fifties walked in, everyone held their breath as they watched the woman walk up to Nora's desk.

Oh, shit, I thought. Could this be the something major that I mentioned? My staff won't be happy one bit if I have to make them stay till five today.

"Good afternoon," said Nora. "What can I do for you today?"

"Hi. My name is Jessica Fitzpatrick. I think I need to speak to someone about a bike," said the woman, who appeared to be somewhat stunned or under the influence of Valium.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. A bike?" asked Nora.

"Of course. You wouldn't have any way of knowing what I'm talking about, would you? It's a long story about my missing son. I am in the middle of a mystery that has emerged after 30 years, and I need some help figuring it out. That's what you guys do, right?" asked Jessica Fitzpatrick.

"Well, maybe," replied Nora. "Let me get Miss Fontaine for you. Give me one second."

Nora walked over to my office and stuck her head inside.

"I think we have a possible case that just walked in the door. You might want to talk to this woman."

"All right. What's her name?"

"Jessica Fitzpatrick. It has something to do with her son, who has been missing for 30 years, and a bike. Don't ask. Or at least don't ask me. Ask her."

"Okay. Show Jessica in. Thanks, Nora."

"You bet."

"Please close the door behind you," I said as Jessica walked into my office, "and have a seat.

"So what can I do for you, Miss Fitzpatrick?"

"Oh, you can call me Jessica, my dear."

"Okay. What can I do for you, Jessica?"

"I'll try to give you the Reader's Digest condensed version.

"My son disappeared 31 years ago when he was seven years old. He was out riding his bike. He asked if he could ride his bike over to the cemetery where we buried his favorite grandma, my mom. It's the St. Albert The Great Cemetery, which is only two blocks from our house. I thought it would be all right. He never came home. I haven't seen or heard from him since, or his bike.

"I received a phone call this morning from a policeman with the Alameda Police Department. They found my son's long-lost bike at the same cemetery. A policeman returned the bike to me yesterday. I say me because I live alone. My husband passed away ten years ago.

"The bike was for sure my son's. It looked just like it, and it also had the registration decal on the frame. The bike still looks brand new. Someone has kept it stored inside somewhere. The policeman said that the cemetery's groundskeeper saw a man walk into the cemetery with the bike, and he put the kickstand down, left the bike standing up, and walked over to my mom's grave. The weird thing--well, actually, everything about this is weird--is that this man left the bike in a path right next to where my mom's headstone was. The groundskeeper said the man who left the bike sat down in front of her grave for a few minutes before leaving."

"Wow. You're right. This is one of the weirdest things I've heard in a long time, maybe ever," I said.

I didn't want to tell her that this is nowhere near as weird as our Donald/Donna case, so I'll just keep that little tidbit to myself.

"I'm not even sure there is anything you can do, but I'd like to hire you anyway, to see if you can find out something about my missing son or his bike. This bike is the only clue we've ever had. Maybe there are fingerprints on the bike or something. I've never totally given up that I'd ever see my son again, but I wasn't holding out high hopes either. Please examine the bike and maybe talk to the groundskeeper and see if you can find any clues that may lead to other clues."

"I'll do that. Hopefully, I can turn up something. I'll come by Monday late morning to take a look at the bike if that's okay with you," I said.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you so much. I'll look for you sometime Monday morning. Have a wonderful weekend, Miss Fontaine."

"You too. Oh, Miss Fitzpatrick? Unfortunately, you need to speak to our receptionist right there about our fee schedule to make sure you want to continue having us work for you."

"Of course, my dear. Thank you."

4:15 p.m.

"Donald, thank you for coming back in. I'm sorry that things ended on such a sour note the last time you were here. Do you remember Max? I'm going to have her sit in with us."

"Of course. That's no problem," replied Donald.

"Now, not to be rude and get us all wound up like the last time we met, can you please cut the act and fill in some of the massive gaps that have crept into your whole story," I interjected.

"What are you talking about, Miss Fontaine. I do not understand you at all."

"Are you trying to tell us that you don't know that you and Donna are the same person?" I replied.

"I have recently come to understand that that might be true. I have always thought that Donna was real. You have to realize that I've been on heavy medication and under the care of a psychiatrist my whole life. It's not always easy for me to distinguish reality from whatever is going through my mind at any given time.

"But Donna has been becoming more and more aggressive towards me. She used to take over me when I was in a weakened state from stress and medication. I have discovered that Donna has become so strong now that she is the dominant personality in my mind, and she can take control whenever she wants.

"And whenever she takes over, I'm unaware of what she is doing. Sometimes I have some kind of cognitive recollection of her doing something bad, but I can't recall any details. Sometimes I discover wounds on different parts of my body that I'm convinced she did to me when in reality they are a result of something happening to her when she's in charge and out doing horrible things."

"Let me cut in here for a second," said Max. "What has changed or happened that made you realize that you and Donna are the same person?"

"That's just it. We are not the same person. We are in the same body and share the same mind, but she is a different personality cohabitating my body and mind. All I can say is that this is some weird shit.

"But something happened some weeks ago that jolted me out of the make-believe world I had been living in and threw me screaming and yelling into my real life."

"What happened that caused this breakthrough, Donald?" I asked.

"This is something that requires a visual. You wouldn't believe me otherwise," said Donald.

"A visual?" asked Max. "What, did you bring a movie projector and a screen or what?"

Donald started to unbutton his shirt.

"Excuse me, Donald," I said. "What are you doing?"

Donald stood up, walked over to the blinds, and closed them. Keeping his back to Nikki and Max, he appeared to be adjusting whatever was under his now unbuttoned shirt. And then he turned around.

"Jesus Christ, Donald. What the fuck is that?" I yelled.

"Is this some kind of a joke, Donald?" exclaimed Max.

"I assure you these are no joke. I know because I've been living with these things for three weeks. I'm told that it will take two or three more weeks until I fully recover from the surgery," said Donald.

"They look pretty nice," said Max.

"I have fucking tits," said Donald. "What am I supposed to do with these? Do you have any idea how it feels walking around with boobs on top and my manhood down below?"

Nikki and Max looked at each other and weren't sure whether to get down and roll on the floor laughing or nod in agreement to Donald's statement.

"I didn't think so," he said.

"Well, shit, Donald. What do you think is going on here?" I asked.

"I have a theory, believe it or not," said Donald.

"I can't wait to hear this," said Max. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

"As I said, Donna--or the Donna personality has been getting stronger and stronger. She's been booting me out and taking over my goddamn body and soul at will, making me feel like I'm just a passenger along for the ride. I think that she plans to make it permanent. Somehow, she's going to kick me out of my own body for good. I don't how she plans on doing it, but I know that's what she's up to.