9. Pondering Pollock

Kevin spent several hours circulating amongst those who came to pay respect.

Found friends and neighbors eager to share a favorite tale of Leslie Marionette.

Occasionally, he slipped into an elegant sitting room for privacy; blue walls, matching chaise loveseats and white, silky drapery; asian-styled ceramics on floating shelves and, catching Kevin’s eye in particular, a dark-framed Piet Mondrian composition, the asymmetry of squared lines filled with reds and blues providing both balance and tension.

Contrasts working together, Kevin thought as he wrote notes into his reporter’s notebook.

It was late afternoon when he left the beautiful, but somber premises.

After such a draining day, Kevin was in no mood to begin writing; instead, he required the rejuvenation of Sara and the girls.

Settled into the GTO and headed for home.

The Dells live in the eastern side of town, the most heavily populated section of Worthboro, older, established neighborhoods arranged around a nucleus formed by the grounds of the high school.

Sara texted to pick up milk on the way home and Kevin stopped at a convenience store less than a mile from the house, a handy spot to pick-up an American family's bare necessities.

Late afternoon on a quiet Monday, no one else was in the store and Kevin grabbed a gallon from the cooler.

Returned to the front and paused, eyeing columns of colored candies along the lower shelving and made the inevitably impermanent decision to eat less sugar and set the milk on the placemat on the counter.

“Hello sir,” Mario said from behind the register.

“Hey Mario, did I see you at the Marionette’s today?”

“Yes sir. Very sad.”

“Tough to wrap your head around.”

Kevin plucked a wallet from a pocket and pinched a bill to hand across the counter.

“Such terrible things aren’t supposed to happen in our town,” Mario said, taking the money. He wore a blue, crew neck sweater with Mario’s in red lettering over the left breast. Keyed in the purchase and the register dinged and the drawer sprung free and coins jingled. Gathered change to hand across the counter, adding, “She was here that day, you know.”

Reaching to take the change, Kevin said, “Leslie, you mean? She stopped here last Wednesday?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you remember the time?”

Manny, stocking shelves in the bread aisle, popped to a standing position and said, “It was around noon. I remember cuz I just had lunch and was stocking the cigarettes.”

“Damn!” Kevin exclaimed, realizing the two of them might have been the last people to see Leslie Marionette alive.

Other than the killer, of course.

Kevin pocketed the change and looked at Mario.

“We called the police,” he said. “You know. After we found out what happened in the newspaper. Your paper.” He offered a complimentary smile.

Kevin tried to smile back and said, “That’s good. What did you tell them?”

“Not much. Just that she was here. That day. Nothing else to say, really.”

Kevin looked at Manny and back to Mario. “So did you … interact?”

“Just the usual, you know.”

“Actually,” Manny said, “We joked with her about a big winner.”

He stepped from the bread aisle to join Kevin at the counter.

Manny wore jeans and a green, Sporting CP soccer shirt with the gold, rearing lion emblem. He had dark hair and hadn’t used a razor since … maybe sometime the previous week.

Kevin asked, “What? You’re saying she might’ve bought a winning lottery ticket?”

“We sold a big winner last week, but not on that day. Another day. Like, two days before. And we still don’t know who it was.”

Kevin looked at Manny and then Mario in a way to show he was confused.

Mario said, “Leslie was a regular. Came by a couple times a week.”

He nodded, waiting for more.

Manny said, “She always bought a Mega-Mega ticket. Same numbers, every time.”

“We’re all creatures with habits,” Mario said quickly, in a way that sounded protective.

Kevin smiled sadly—knowingly—and said, “Leslie was a lovely person.” He dropped his gaze and as though on cue, Mario and Manny did as well.

Three generations of men spent several heartbeats in silence for a person who, like all people, had personal demons, but had been blessed with a big batch of the good stuff to tilt the scales firmly in her favor.

Kevin asked, “What’d she buy that day? Anything besides a lottery ticket?”

“A bottle of Grey Goose,” Mario said.

“Was she alone?”

Mario looked at Kevin uneasily, unsure of what he was asking.

Manny said, “She always came in alone.”

“What I mean is, were there other customers in the store? Who might’ve, I don’t know, been following her?”

Mario pursed his lips in a way that showed only his mustache. Shot a peeved look at Manny and said something in Portuguese about not being able to check the recording for that day because somebody misplaced the VCR tape.

Manny rolled his eyes at his tio avô and answered, “No, there was no one else in the store. Like I said, I remember cuz I was stocking cigarettes. There was a person who came in before her, but she was older, too, and didn’t do the lottery so I didn’t have to get up from what I was doing.”

“He does the lottery,” Mario said, as though that explained something.

Kevin looked at the lottery terminal, similar in shape to the store register, but for the bright blue color and the starlight display marketing the latest jackpot in a scrolling text animation.

Took his eyes off the register and gazed across the rows of tobacco products, different brands and colors.

Allowed his eyes to unfocus and the resulting mind-image made him think of the brilliant madness of Jackson Pollock.

Helical curves to canvas.

Lives, like lines becoming intertwined.

Kevin said, “So that day that Leslie came in, the day that she was murdered, was just like any other time that she came in. She was alone and bought a bottle of Grey Goose and a Mega-Mega ticket?”

“Yes sir,” Mario said.

His voice low, more like he was talking to himself, Kevin said, “Only this day, an unknown person shows up at her home, appearing, seemingly out of thin air.”

“Only God knows,” Mario said.

“I just hope they catch the fucker,” Manny added.

Now Kevin was thinking about how, when he dabbled as a developer, building a random number generator was useful for establishing the element of chance.

For example, adding increased uncertainty, as when progressing through a video game.

Or, providing odds where the probability distribution is known, like rolling dice or playing the lottery.

Or, something completely random, like a deadly encounter amidst the ho-hum of everyday life.

Kevin didn’t believe that anything was truly random.

He asked, “Do you have the receipts? From the days that Leslie was here last week?”

“I could find you the receipt for the vodka,” Mario said. “I keep everything by the month for the current year. Just take me a few minutes.”

Kevin shook his head. “What I mean is, would it show the lottery tickets? Would it show the numbers on the receipt?”

Manny answered, “Not how it works. Lottery is cash only. Your ticket is your receipt.”

“But you said you sold a big winner here? Last Monday? A week ago?”

Mario said, “For the Tuesday night draw. Yes.”

“And you thought it might’ve been Leslie?”

Manny said, “We were just joking, you know, telling her that we’d sold a million-dollar winner on the previous day that she was here.”

Looking at Manny, Kevin asked, “You do the lottery?”

“Yes.”

“Leslie played the same numbers every time?”

“I think so.”

“Do you remember her numbers?”

Manny couldn’t help a chuckle. “I do like hundreds of tickets a week, man. But she always said it like a rhyme, you know.”

“Like she had it memorized?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah.”

“And if by chance she did win? She’d still be in possession of that ticket? Or should be?”

Mario said, “If you think there’s a connection? You could try contacting the lottery, to see if the prize was claimed.”

Kevin grabbed the milk off the counter and headed for the door, saying, “I’ll see you guys.”

***

From Mario’s, Kevin was barely a minute from home, but he instead took the Goat back down Second Street, hooked a right onto Clancy Lane and headed for the center of town.

Stopped at the Chronicle because he couldn’t stop thinking of random numbers and intersecting lives.

Hurried into the newsroom and dug up a copy of last week’s Wednesday paper and returned to the private community on the south side of Worthboro.

The orange and white parade barricades had been moved to the curb, but two cruisers remained, forcing drivers to enter the street between them. There were two news vans nearby, cameras recording the entrance as a reporter spoke into a microphone.

An officer, seeing it was Kevin, waved him through.

Arriving back at the Marionette’s, only a few cars remained, in the driveway or parked along the front curb, probably belonging to Leslie’s children and closest friends.

Kevin parked and trotted across the lawn and went under the archway and through the front door that had remained open all afternoon.

Found Jonny, arms crossed, butt against the marble-topped kitchen island, talking with Jackie, who stood a few feet away, head bowed, arms wrapped tightly across her bosom.

Between them, unknowingly, was the section of floor where their mother died.

As soon as Kevin appeared, Jackie, her face swollen by sobbing, threw a wave at him and hurried out of the kitchen into the breezeway.

Feeling awkward, Kevin said, “Sorry Jonny. Didn’t mean to barge in.”

“No bud. Not you. Never.”

Kevin shook his head and appeared frustrated. “Something just came up. Something screwy and I’m probably wasting time but … I just wanted to ask you a couple things.”

Eager to please, even under the circumstance, Jonny said, “Shoot.”

“You’ve been thinking of your Mom all day, of course. So I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

Jonny nodded.

Kevin said, “The number three?”

Jonny appeared pensive. “Only thing I can think of is the last time I pitched, if Dave gave me three fingers it was a slider.”

Then, like a bit of sunshine peeked through his clouded features, Jonny managed a smile. “But Mom? That would be Maggie’s birthday. April 3rd.”

“Your youngest,” Kevin said. He was looking at the paper that he’d brought, folded to show where the Chronicle always listed the latest winning lottery numbers below the front page banner.

There were two sets of numbers: five for Lotsa Lotto and seven for Mega-Mega.

Jonny added, “Maggie’s the baby, yeah.”

Kevin said, “Would you mind telling me the birth dates of your other kids?”

Jonny, perhaps because of grief, didn’t think the question was odd.

He answered: “Marc was born in ‘98 on January 23rd and Madison will be five this summer. She was born in 2000, on January 16th. She’s about the same as Zee, right?”

Kevin nodded. “Your nieces and nephews. What are their birthdays?”

Jonny finally gave him a questioning look.

“Just bear with me,” Kevin said.

Jonny told him and by the time he was finished, Kevin was staring at the banner of last Wednesday’s paper with a look of amazement.

Five out of the six winning Mega-Mega numbers matched the birthday days of Leslie Marionette’s grandchildren.

Not a freaking chance in the universe that was a coincidence.

Kevin said. “Six birthdays.”

Jonny nodded, but Kevin didn’t see it because he couldn’t stop staring at the numbers listed in the paper.

Because the last number, the bonus ball, which would make a match of five out of the first six a million dollar winner was a six.

Six for six grandkids.

Kevin knew why Leslie Marionette was murdered: for a lottery ticket that won a million dollars.

***

Kevin left the Marionette’s and called Chip’s cell as he once again drove back to the center of town.

Chip answered immediately and Kevin told him to meet him at the paper.

“Now?” Chip asked.

“Now,” Kevin said.

Ten minutes later, standing in the center of the newsroom, Kevin finished telling Chip all that he had learned at Mario’s convenience store, plus what Jonny had told him about the numbers.

Chip, already hurrying away, said loudly over his shoulder, “Come on man, we gotta fuckin tell Brillo.”

***

Across the street at the station, once Kevin finished explaining all of what he had learned, Sergeant Brillo had a detective go through Leslie Marionette’s purse, which conveniently, was already in the evidence locker.

There were no lottery tickets in the purse.

Brillo sent detectives to the Marionette’s property, already suspecting that no lottery tickets would be found. At least not any winners.

Kevin and Chip followed Brillo into his office and the conversation went like this:

Chip: (Overly excited) “It’s fuckin simple man. The fuckin thief was doin’ her place, right? He found the fuckin ticket and saw it was a winner and stuck around because he knew that if he was gonna claim it he had to fuckin whack her.”

Brillo: “You’re assuming it was our so-called thief. Why?”

Chip: “The fuck you say’s been pilfering our town!”

Brillo: “What if it was someone else?”

Chip: “Well … fuck.”

Kevin: “You think?”

Brillo: “It was the middle of the day. Broad daylight.”

Chip: “An acquaintance? Come on, man. We fuckin talked about that. What’re the odds?”

Brillo: “Chip, anyone who could lift that trophy could have killed her, if they snuck up behind her. If she didn’t see them coming. And then we got some kind of staged robbery with the purse crap? The guy I’m after is meticulous. Plans ahead and doesn’t leave a mess. Prides himself on that. I guarantee you.”

Chip: (Stubbornly) “That’s what I fuckin mean. She stumbled into something in progress and he probably checked the purse for the fuckin ticket.”

Brillo: “It’s broad daylight, Chip. Broad fuckin daylight! Our guy works in darkness.”

Kevin: “So you do think it was someone else?”

(After a long pause)

Brillo: “No. Actually, I’ve been wondering about our guy since I walked into that crime scene. But! I am not seeing that in the paper gentlemen, understand?”

The Sergeant verified a nod from both Chip and Kevin and the conversation continued.

Brillo: “Yeah, I do think it could be our guy for a few reasons, but mostly because there’s no sign of forced entry. But too many other things don’t fit. And that’s what worries me, because if he’s expanded his repertoire, it means we’re not done with him.”

Chip: “So we get the fucker when he tries to claim the ticket.”

Brillo said nothing, his forehead creased with worry.

Kevin: “Why was he there?”

Brillo: “Exactly.”

Kevin: “Someone else is involved.”

Brillo: “Would explain some of the gaps.”

Chip: “So you’re thinking Leslie told someone else and that fuckin person told someone else and they end up telling this fuck who kills her?”

Brillo: “Something like that.”

Kevin: “Chip’s right. He or she is going to have to try and claim that ticket.”

Chip: “Fuckin-eh man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Brillo remained silent, concerned for two reasons.

First, he didn’t need to talk to the DA to know that they had to physically tie Leslie Marionette to the winning ticket, regardless of the numbers.

Birthdays wouldn’t budge a judge.

Chip said, “We have to find out who knew she played, right? And so who might’ve known that she’d won. Had to be someone close to her?”

Brillo nodded and then shook his head, knowing that none of this was going to be easy.

His first step would be to get over to Mario’s in the hope the store had a video recording—or any kind of evidence—to show Leslie Marionette actually bought a lottery ticket on the day the winner was sold at his store.

The second reason Brillo remained concerned was a more ominous reason: the exact manner of Leslie Marionette’s death.

This was not a spontaneous crime of passion, as in a greedy family member or jealous friend.

Leslie Marionette was executed.

Seeing the wounds to Leslie’s scalp, Brillo demanded an autopsy, pronto.

The medical examiner came back definitively: a single blow to the side of the head put her on the ground and likely rendered her unconscious for what came shortly after: three, successive blows to the top of the skull to kill her.

Leslie would likely have survived the initial blow with no more effect from that of a severe concussion.

The perp deliberately killed her as she lay helpless; because—like Chip said—there was no other way to safely claim the ticket.

The work of a savage and ruthless killer.

A killer still present in the town he had sworn to protect.

Brillo gave Kevin a look that expressed admiration.

Chip, recognizing the look, said, “We don’t ask how anymore.”

“I am impressed. Thank you, gentleman. But for now, please keep this quiet. I mean it. Not a word gets out. Let me and my guys get after this.”

“I know, don’t wanna spook the fucker,” Chip said. “You think you can arrest him when he claims the ticket?”

Brillo, with a grim look said, “I’ll see what we come up with.”