Without a Whisper

Jenn gave us his credit card receipts so we know exactly where he got gas and refreshments along the way. An hour into the drive we show his picture to the cashier of the gas station who shakes his head. Didn't expect him to remember. We called the state troopers in advance, so an officer met us there to help leverage them into giving us the surveillance video absent a warrant. Chase came about the time his receipt said, bought a coffee, paid for his gas, and drove north without incident.

Yvonne and I continue to I271 and turn off at the same place Chase did. Story is the same. Cashier didn't remember him. State Troopers helped get us the tape. Chase went to the bathroom and paid for coffee. No gas at this stop.

Before we resume the final leg of our drive, I stop to smoke. Yvonne resists this time. Apparently, her boyfriend smelled it on her yesterday, and she left her home with an incomplete argument. I admire she isn't using the chance to smoke more to spite him.

"Looks like he got this far without incident," Yvonne says, standing five feet away, and up wind from me.

"Let's get to ninety, then take the exit," I say, flicking the ash away from myself.

"You think he's dead?" Yvonne asks. Someone needed to ask the question.

"I don't know. Stats tell me yes, but I know the guy. Chase is not a lightweight. If someone did get him, he left a mark somewhere. He's not going down without swinging," I say.

Chase once entered a motel room and was ambushed by two assailants. He was stabbed, but in the fight still managed to kill one and force the other to retreat. I've seen him run down a decathlete and spear tackle him onto the hood of a police car. The last thing he did as a cop was survive a shoot-out with the Russian Mob and lose his leg. He lost the leg because he carried a downed officer to another vehicle after it was already broken in six places. Chase doesn't look like he could, which is why it always catches people off guard.

Now the statistics are telling me Chase is dead. Something in my gut doesn't buy it. I trust my gut more than statistics.

Yvonne is behind the wheel as we cross into the state of Pennsylvania. When the exit is close, I let her know with a mile of foreknowledge. Michael Jackson's 'Bad' starts playing as I direct her to exit 4C.

"Just up ahead," I say pointing at the exit sign. Yvonne is dancing rather than driving. It's a small miracle she makes the turn. "You scare the shit out of me when you drive."

"You know it..." she sings. Whisper is about twenty-three miles off the exit. According to receipts, Chase came off the highway to investigate the stolen car, but blew out his tires before he got there. I read his receipts from the case book, and then I look up at the road and see a motherfucker of a pothole coming up fast. Yvonne is dancing, so I know she doesn't see it, so I yank the steering wheel toward myself. "Fucking Christ!" The car slides onto the shoulder, and Yvonne swerves it back to the road before we hit the guard rail. We fishtail, and the car whips to a screeching halt facing the opposite direction.

Yvonne hands are white knuckling the steering wheel. Her fingers slowly relax their death grip. My angel's icy pale skin is thawing from a red glow.

"What. The. Fuck, was that?" Yvonne asks in slow, bubbling anger.

"Look," I say, pointing to the pothole. Yvonne turns to the road and sees what I see. She drives toward it and pulls to the shoulder. We both remove our seatbelts and exit the car to get a closer look at the hole. It's a good foot deep, two feet long, and extends a full car length wide.

"Good looking out. Trading paint on the guardrail was the better option," Yvonne says. She takes a catcher's squat next to the hole. A car takes the exit, and we direct them around it before continuing our examination.

"This doesn't look like natural erosion," Yvonne says. She points to an observable pattern of digging. Like a pickaxe was used starting in the middle of the road and dragged backward toward the right shoulder. The rest was completed with a shovel.

"I think I know how Chase blew out his tires," I say. Yvonne agrees and stands upright from her squat. "Call a tow."

"What?" she asks. "Why?"

"Just do it. I bet you anything, they take the car to a shop in Whisper."

--

Wednesday - April 8, 2020: Two Days Before

-Chase Kramner-

My seatbelt stops my face from slamming into the steering wheel. Still hurt like a bitch and knocked the wind out of my lungs. I can hear hissing from air leaving my tires. The front right tire feels like the only one that was spared because the car slumps down to the rims at the others.

What the hell just happened? I took the exit to Whisper, looked at my messages for a second, and bam! Three tires down to the rim.

My car screeches like metal grinding as I pull it to the shoulder with the momentum I have left to move. I take a moment to get my heartrate down, because that scared the shit out of me. Once calm, I stop the motor and open the car door. Before I step out, I check the straps of my prosthetic.

I take a slow lap around my car and see that three of my tires are shredded. With one gone I could limp to a station on a donut, but three tires are totaled. What the hell did I hit? I turn toward the way I came from and start walking.

"You gotta be shitting me," I say out loud to myself. There is an unnaturally large pothole in the road. I take a knee on my real leg and pull at the road with my bare hand. It's so loose I pull a piece off. I growl in frustration and throw the piece into the hole. "Goddammit."

AAA tells me only one shop is within the radius of my wreck, and it just so happens to be in Whisper just down the road. I sit on the hood of my car with my foot on the bumper while I wait. I call Jenn as well to update her and hang up when I see the tow arrive. Good Knight Towing and Repair is decaled on the side of the flatbed truck. That's the same shop that fixed the Buick Skylark ten years ago. Blanchard couldn't get me everything, but he got me enough.

"That's some serious damage," the driver says as he climbs out of his truck. He's in mechanic coveralls he likely bought before significant weight gain. Long greasy black hair with uneven stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. Letters stitched onto his shirt say his name is Mort. The last person I want near my car.

"Just didn't see it," I say. He looks at the pothole and laughs at me. A blind man could have seen that pothole. I deserve to be mocked for this.

"That's what you get for being on your phone," he says while walking around my car to assess the damage. "Least you still got one. Only problem is, newer models, the tires get more and more custom. We probably don't have it on hand. Need to order it."

Now I must call Katie's father and let him know I won't make our meeting. I had him scheduled for later today. I would have crashed at a hotel in New York, and spent the next day driving back home but that plan hit a pothole.

Mort puts my car on the truck, and I drive in the cab with him after securing my gun in my concealed holster. It's twenty minutes of single lane roads flanked by trees and foliage. Every so often there is a driveway to a rural residence. Dirt driveways and wire fences to keep the livestock in.

A sign on the side of the road is larger than the others, and it catches my attention. In cursive font, it says Welcome to Whisper. Population 317 and established in 1715.

Within five minutes, we're downtown. A two-way road wedged between two rows of single and two-story structures. Some buildings have maintained the façade of colonial red brick. Some buildings take a more colonial French aesthetic. I believe in 1715 this part of Pennsylvania would have been French territory. I count eleven on one side, so I'll guess twenty-two separate structures. A quarter of the buildings are shuttered businesses. Pulled into the parking spots are an odd collage of old trucks, dented cars, with new models sprinkled here or there. Not too different from where I live. The generational rural population augmented by city dwellers who retire or are fed up with high taxes. The city dwellers often don't leave their politics behind, lacking any sense of self-awareness as they wonder why the rural folks don't have the political sensibilities of the city they left because of the politics.

"Town has seen some rough times?" I ask.

"Booming actually. Just a few years ago this entire side of the street was gone," Mort says, pointing to the right of us. I see a bakery/coffee shop. The name of the bakery makes me laugh. Careless Whisker. Their logo is a cup of coffee with a cat in a chef hat with a paw over its mouth.

"Garage is just up ahead," Mort says. I turn to where he is directing me. A short drive from downtown is an auto repair garage. The sign above the building has the same logo as the truck. Good Knight Towing and Repair. There is a fenced-off lot to the right with a dozen cars. Mort puts the truck into park and jumps out to open the fence. I jump out as well, and as I'm climbing out, part of my prosthetic comes loose, and I'm completely off balance when I reach the ground. I stumble forward into the fence, barely managing to not fall on my face.

"You good?" Mort says as he works the key into the lock. "I didn't want to say anything, but you a vet or something? Lose the leg in Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Former police officer. Lost it in a shootout," I say.

"Service is service. Thank you," Mort says. He opens the gate by dragging it back, parts of the fence scratching against the asphalt. It's been pulled open so many times over so many years, there are valleys underneath the gate that match the swing. "You can head in. I'll see you in a minute."

A bell above the door rings loudly as I open the door. It's an old building with a long counter made with the skill of a first-year trade school student. Behind the counter are shelves advertising small components for cars like bulbs, gas caps, oil filters, tire caps, etc. The wall next to the doors is lined with photos from an instant polaroid camera, showing customers with their cars.

The owner appears to be an accomplished hunter if the pictures of him posing with a dead buck is any indication. He's kneeling with the rifle butt on the ground, the barrel pointed straight up. It was dragged to a hunting shack with naked trees in the background.

Another man emerges from an office. Looks like Mort, only older with a powerful moustache. I'd like the man to fix my car before I piss him off with questions about Katie.

"You the guy Junior went to pick up?" he asks. His name tag also says Mort.

"I'm the guy," I say. He sees my leg, and tilts across the counter for a better look.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" he asks.

"Ohio," I say. "It's looking like three tires. 2018 Ford Focus."

"The SE model?" he asks. I'm surprised he knows to ask.

"Titanium. Four-door hatchback," I reply.

Mort types into a computer to look up the car. I'm surprised he has a computer... I don't know why I just assume a small town is full of country bumpkins who don't know what computers are. Born an elitist prick, always an elitist prick.

"Ohio a city in Iraq or something?" he jokes.

"Feels like that sometimes," I say, and he chuckles.

"We'll need to order the tires. We got nothing in stock." For a Ford Fucking Focus? "We don't even have a loaner right now," he says.

"How soon could I get back on the road?" I ask.

"A day. Two tops. I'll put in a rush order to Pittsburg," Mort says.

"Fuck," I say and step away from the counter to make some calls. I update Jenn and call Roger Grossman. After I make the calls, I start looking up any hotels I can stay in for the next few nights. Looking like only one is nearby, and Uber doesn't exist out here.

"You hit a bike or something?" Senior askes. Junior walks in from the door leading to the garage.

"He hit that pothole right off exit four."

"The state needs to do something about that. That's government for you. Liberals keep arguing, 'without the government, who'd build roads?'. Gotta wonder if they've ever seen a road let alone drove on one. We get at least two people a month who don't see that hole. Been there for years."

I wonder if the reason the hole has been there for years, is because someone keeps it there. Great way to keep business coming if you're a small-town repair shop. Probably helps the one bed & breakfast I need to stay at, too.

"I'll put on a police and military discount. They got a few models, ranging from about $190 to $250 a tire before discount. Junior said the tires you had were the Blizzak WS90. Might be why they went so easy because those are winter tires, so I'd recommend a complete set." I never would have noticed. Cars are not my thing. "I'd recommend the Potenza. All season, and relatively cheap compared to some of the others. $190 apiece, times four, work and taxes, run you about $800 after the computer does the math for the discount." Not like I have a choice.

"You need a deposit?" I ask.

"You can check out when the work is done. Just give me your number, I'll give you a call when the tires arrive," Senior says. I leave him my number and wait for him to print out the estimate. While he's doing that, I look around the shop again, and decide to give the wall of customers a gander. Senior looks like a creepy old man. His son must have taken the pictures because it's only himself with female customers in front of their cars.

"Satisfied customers," Senior says over the printer. Sure thing.

I was coming to this shop regardless because I know the Buick Skylark was here. Katie was here. My eyes scan the pictures left and right, up and down. I slow my search, spending a few seconds on each picture. I hide my smile when I find it.

Katie Grossman is posing in front of a metallic mint-green 1964 Buick Skylark with a white convertible top. I pull off the picture held onto the wall by a piece of tape folded onto itself. "Careful..."

"...when was this?" I ask.

"When was what?"

"This girl," I say, pointing at Katie. "When did she come in?"

"Hmm," he says, giving it a good look. "Can't say for sure. Honestly, I remember the car more than the girl. Buick Skylark," he says with whistle. "She came by during hunting season some time ago."

"I'd hope you'd remember because the car was reported stolen," I say. He is instantly defensive, crossing his arms over his chest. He's also suspicious that I know about the car.

"Yeah, and a cop with two legs showed up asking. I gave him what I had, and he left. Why do you care? You're not a cop," Senior says.

"I don't remember nothing either..." Junior begins but is cut off by his father.

"No one was asking you. Go work on some cars boy."

"Can I keep this?" I ask.

"No," Senior says flatly.

"Ten bucks."

"Not for sale," he says. He extends his hand out for the photo. Before I give it back, I use my phone to take a picture of the picture. "Really?" I hand it back to him. "That's the same as keeping it."

"Should have taken the ten bucks then. What do you remember about the girl?"

"Like I said, I remember the car more than the girl. We fixed her up, and she drove off."

"You got records? A copy of a driver's license? Insurance? Registration..."

"You got a warrant? Or a badge, Mr. Used to Be a Cop."

"Look man..."

"...we don't remember..." Junior tries to chime in again.

"...shut your fucking mouth Junior!" Senior snaps, and turns to me, placing a finger directly into my chest. "I get you got things you need to do. Where this girl comes in ain't my business, don't know, don't care. But this business, is my business if you catch my drift. You want to start going through my receipts, you better come with at me with a judge's blessing."

Senior won't back down, so I show him my hands in momentary surrender. I need to get my ducks in a row and regroup before I come at him again. The first thing to do is talk to the local law.

--

Tuesday -- April 14, 2020: Four Days Gone

~Midge Appletree~

A man in a mechanics suit two sizes too small and greasy hair arrives to give us a tow. I flick the cherry off my cigarette and slide the butt into an empty pack filled with other butts. His name is stitched onto the coveralls and says Mort. We let him take a walk around the car until he realizes there isn't anything wrong with it. He is too confused to ask why we called.

"We just wanted to see who'd show up," I say. He sees we're both armed and takes a cautious step back. "Relax, this isn't a shakedown. I'm Detective Appletree, my compatriot is FBI Special Agent Grimsdotter. Just want to ask a few questions."

We take a moment to show our badges. "What about?" he asks.

"A few days ago, did you see this guy?" I ask. I prepared some pictures before he got here and show him one of Chase. "Chase Kramner. Likely hit that pothole and called you on the eighth."

"Don't recognize him," he says. He's a bad liar. His eyes bulged, and his voice dropped sharply. He doesn't even want to look at me or the picture.

"2018 Ford Focus sound familiar?" Yvonne asks.

"Common car."

"You telling me you don't remember a guy hobbling around on a fake leg less than a week ago?" I ask. "Small towns, everyone knows everyone. Everyone also knows when someone is not from round here," I say with exaggeration. He looks somewhat insulted by my drawl.

"I was off last week. Wasn't working. Tows were done by the other guy," Mort stammers out.

"What's the other guy's name?"

"Mort," he says.

"Your name is Mort."

"So is the other guy. I work the shop with my father, he's also Mort. He's Senior, I'm Junior." Who refers to their own father, as the other guy? Someone who didn't expect someone to come sniffing so soon.

"Well Mort, we need to talk to the other guy then," Yvonne says, and walks past him to the car. She retakes the driver's seat, and I slide into the passenger side.

"We have to press him more. He remembered Chase. That guy is lying through his teeth," I say.

"I know, but let's get him nice and scared," Yvonne says.

"Why? He'll call the other guy so he has time to prepare his answers," I say.

"You have to know which questions I'm going to ask to prepare the answers for them," Yvonne says and pulls away from the tow truck. I watch Mort stare at us from the rear view. He's already pulling out his phone.

--

Good Knight Towing and Repair is just past the main street of Whisper. A structure with two garage bays and a fenced in lot I will assume is for the people who get towed within twenty-five miles of the town. The same logo that was on Mort's truck is above the door. It's a knight in grease-stained armor repairing a car that looks like an armored horse.

"Cute sign," Yvonne says before she shuts the car door.

"What's the strategy? Good cop?"

"Nah. I'm thinking hot cop, obvious lesbian," she says and walks toward the door.

"I don't know what that means," I say, scrambling to follow her. The door chimes loudly from a bell above the door.

"Be right there," a voice says from an office. "I gotta go. I think they're here," he says, but I imagine he thinks he was quieter. "Sorry about that. Taking a call." He's older, looks a lot like the other guy, and sure enough, his name tag says Mort.

"From Junior I take it, giving you a heads up two cops are looking for the guy you claim you don't remember." Yvonne digs right in. I'd be a little more subtle, but that's just me.

"I don't remember him."

"You haven't even looked at a picture. Please, get the continuity of the lie prepared first. Ready?" Yvonne says, and slides the picture across the counter. "Remember him now. Nice hair, tall, personality as comforting as a Brillo pad tampon?" I need to write that one down.