Conversations with Clete by Steve Sporleder
I told them I wasn’t certain there was a crime. “Maybe it’s just a circumstance or coincidence. I’m not sure.” I sensed the air of enthusiasm draining from them, but Hoss covered my back. “People, a citizen has notified the police with a concern. Not all dispatches result in a crime. It could be a misunderstanding, or a perceived infraction of the law. No matter what, the citizen requested help and it’s our responsibility to investigate,” Hoskins explained. “Why don’t you tell us the reason for your call, Clete?”
I motioned with my finger for them to follow me to the roll-up door at the garage.
“Hold on just a second,” one of the boys said. “Are we just gonna walk in not knowing what the circumstances are? I don’t think so,” he said answering his own question.
“Good, Jim,” Hoss replied. “There might be some sort of contamination, or a bad guy, maybe a vicious animal. Ask more questions.”
I told them that I suspected somebody had been in my garage and left something behind.
“Was anything taken?” the boy with the rolling eyes asked.
I shook my head, and waited for more questions. No contamination or animals; just a cluttered garage.
“Watch where you step!” the female student admonished.
“Gee, no kidding, Carol,” roller eyes said.
I looked at Hoskins and he cracked a grin. I led the students to the cupboard and started to open the door, when Jim blocked my hand. “We can’t have you contaminate the scene, sir.”
I told him that I’d already opened the cabinet the day before.
“That’s understandable; nevertheless we don’t want to taint anything else.”
“What would you do in this case, Charles?” Hoss asked roller eyes.
“I’d take out my kerchief and open it with that.”
Hoskins had a frustrated look and said, “I am disappointed in all of you. You each have a pouch on your belts with disposable gloves in them, and you didn’t bother to glove-up. Nobody suggested wearing booties over your shoes; you know there is a box of them in the van.”
The students followed Hoskins out of the garage. They stood with hang-dog looks. Hoss picked up his coffee. Charles stepped over to the table with the coffee and cinnamon rolls.
“What do you think you’re doing, Charles?” Hoss asked, impelling Charles back. He pointed to the coffee and rolls, and Hoss cut him off. “You ain’t on coffee break, son. You all have an investigation to do. I suggest you apply what you’ve learned in class and get ‘er done!”
Hoss motioned me to follow him inside. From my office window we watched the students looking at one another. “I’m waiting for one of them to step up and take charge. Jim and Charles will think they’re the ones to do it, but you watch; Carol will be the lead,” Hoskins said in a flat voice.
I heard their voices, but couldn’t understand the words. Finally Carol separated herself from the two boys and started to direct. “Told ya,” Hoss said smugly.
Charles went to the van. Jim took up a post at the garage entrance and Carol came to the back door. “Sir, we have a few questions if you don’t mind.”
I told her about the initial K printed in the dust inside the cabinet, and that I’d placed a jar over it to conserve it. She looked at me with a face that said, “Is that all?”
“The garage was locked. It doesn’t look like anything is missing. I want to know who was in my garage; finger prints and what not.”
The opaque latex gloves on their hands contrasted with the black windbreakers, and the light blue booties over their shoes muffled their footsteps. Jim was taking photos and Charles was scribing the photo info. Carol used a pencil to open the cupboard. Jim photographed the jar in place; then with the jar removed, he took a shot of the K. Hoss had them step back while gave a talk on what had transpired so far and what was to be done next. Jim said it was time to dust for prints. That was all I wanted done, but went along with their routine. After all, I had made the request.
“We’ll give you a call in a week or so, Clete. We need to run the prints, ya see.”
“Hoss, does your data base cover Europe?”
He looked at me oddly and said, “We’re a community college. We can’t tap into Interpol info. Why?”
“No reason. I was just curious.”
Then it hit me. Kruger’s prints would never show up in America. What was I thinking?
“There were several prints that came out real good,” Hoss told me over the phone the following week, “but no identification except for you, pal. Not all the pictures came out. We could re-shoot em.”
“Thanks for all your help, Hoss. I was most interested in the fingerprints. I hope your students got something out of the field trip,” I told him. “Thank them for me, please.”
For the time being I’d decided to just keep recording. I didn’t think anything else would come through, though. Kruger was happy that his pouch was safe and taken care of and that I didn’t have his pay book. I decided not to move it again.
CHAPTER IV
I didn’t have another conversation with Kruger or anybody else for quite sometime, months actually. Then one afternoon I pushed the play button on the recorder and heard a woman sniffling and the hairs prickled on the back of my neck. Here we go again.
“Why are you crying?” my voice asked.
“I’m so sad.” The lady’s voice answered with a soft southern accent. I played the recorder back to see if I recognized her voice, or possibly the accent. This was stupid; how in the hell would I pick up somebody’s accent? I pushed play again.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Zerelda, but most folk call me Zee.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“It don’t matter.”
“My name is Clete.”
“I know.” She knew my name! I wondered if she’d visited me before.
“Why are you so sad, Zee?”
“When my husband died in 1882 I got the melancholia real bad. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t left in a good circumstance and I had to auction off some family heirlooms to pay creditors and feed my little ones, Jesse and Mary, the poor dears. I wasn’t a very good mother to them, I’m afraid. But, you have something of mine, Mr. Clete. Ludwig told me you take care of his things; I just wanted to see.”
“I don’t know Ludwig.”
“Oh, I think you know him. He’s been here a few times. He’s a soldier, wears a funny suit. Ain’t like any army suit I ever saw, north or south.”
My mind was going a mile a minute. I knew Zee was talking about Kruger, but the sleeping me didn’t seem to have a clue. What in Christ’s name does she mean north and south?
“What do I have of yours?”
“A beautiful jade elephant figurine that my husband gave me. It’s about six inches high.”
I heard a huge intake of air, and sheets rustling. Then the toilet flushed. The conversation had ended.
A jade elephant? She couldn’t mean the one my mother bought at an estate sale over fifty years ago, could she? Of course she did. I went to the curio cabinet and removed the green elephant from a lower shelf and held it tightly, then smoothed it like I was dusting it. I placed it next to Kruger’s leather pouch. I looked at the other memorabilia on the shelves and said aloud, “This could get interesting.”
The more I thought about it, the more I became afraid to mention this new encounter to anyone; they’d think I was a certifiable freak. Hell, I must be, I’m talking to dead people, for crying out loud, just like the kid in the movie a few years ago. To tell somebody, “Hey, come on over. I talk to dead people. No, I can’t see them, but I got a recording. Who? None other than a Nazi soldier and a widow from the 1880s.” They’d slap a straight jacket on me in a heartbeat, and I wouldn’t blame them.
The night conversations consumed me. Part of me wanted to be rid of them and another part of me couldn’t wait to see who showed up next. I kept recording and listening intently each morning. I heard myself
The jade elephant was moved away from Kruger’s pack and placed on the lower shelf where it had been originally; Zee had been here. This was getting too weird. I knew I needed help. Meg asked me if there’d been any new episodes, and when I told her about the widow, Zee, she got a look on her face that startled me.
“Zerelda? Did you say Zerelda?”
“Yeah, that’s what she called herself. That and Zee.”
I played the recording for her and she constantly shook her head. “This is weird, Clete.”
“Tell me about it,” I replied.
“Jesse James’ widow was Zerelda,” she whispered. “And she said her son’s name was Jesse? That’s just too coincidental for me. You had a conversation with Zerelda James.” This was bordering on bizarre! No, that’s not right; this was bizarre to the highest power.
“Just think, Clete,” Meg said excitedly. “If she shows up again and you record her, maybe you can ask her questions. You know? Historical questions.”
She didn’t get it; I don’t control the visits. I have the conversations on their terms, not mine. I’m in deep sleep and not capable of asking questions. I’m not consciously present. When these episodes started I thought it was unique and kind of eerie. Now I felt it was just too creepy and that I was cursed.
Strange occurrences continued to take place from time to time. Not just Kruger’s initial in the dust, or his pack put back in the curio, or Zerelda’s jade elephant being moved. Pictures hanging on the walls were tipped, more than once. There was a constant sense that my home had become a club house for spirits! I stayed awake all night at least two nights a week. I even recorded on the nights I was awake, but all I heard, other than household noises, was my anxiety-filled deep sighing.
“Will you please go and see someone?” Meg begged. “You look terrible, and I’m worried.”
“I’m just not getting enough sleep, Doll. That’s all it is.”
She raised her arms and flapped them, “You have to stop recording the ghosts, Clete.”
That seemed like the logical thing to do; stop recording. But I couldn’t.
“What or who are you waiting to hear from?” she asked annoyed. “Your parents?”
I’d never consciously thought about my parents and whether they would visit in my sleep. Then and there I added nostalgia into the mix of emotions that I felt when I talked to Kruger and Zee. Some kind of longing for something. But, Meg was right, of course; she was always right. I needed to put the recorder back in the desk drawer.
When I phoned my doctor for an appointment the receptionist asked the reason for the visit. “I’m having difficulty sleeping and I feel depressed,” which was bogus, but I guess “depression” is some sort of signal for, “Let’s get this guy in today.”
I sat in the waiting room for just a couple minutes after my 3:30 pm appointment time.
“Your weight is steady and your blood pressure is normal, Clete,” the doctor told me. “You’ve got some dark circles around the eyes. Tell me what’s going on?”
I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I talked to dead people. He’d spiff me off to a therapist and I wanted no part of that. “I want to go to a sleep disorder clinic. Can you refer me?”
“In my opinion those tests are designed for failure. If you’re worried about sleep apnea, loose more weight and drink less booze.” Seeing that I wasn’t convinced, he asked, “What have you heard about the masks?” I told him I had two friends who used the positive air pressure masks every night and swore by them. “One guy told me he never slept better in his life and he wakes up refreshed and doesn’t fade by four in the afternoon. That’s what I want.”
“I’ll send a referral to your insurance company. In the meantime why don’t you go somewhere, Clete. A change of scenery might help. Doctor’s orders.”
I telephoned my children and asked them to accompany me on a weekend trip to Disneyland. They were happy to go and we had a blast; no spirits, nothing peculiar. At night I slept the best I’d slept in months. I’m sure that trying to keep up with my grandchildren as they ran from ride to ride for six hours each day contributed to the restful slumber. I had a ball.
Meg met me at the luggage area at the airport. “You look better,” she said as she kissed me. “Was it wonderful?”
“Better than I could hope for.”
But when I entered my house, I became edgy, nervous and anxious. I passed the desk and my recorder was sitting on top of it! The same recorder I’d put in the drawer before going away for the weekend. I dropped my suitcase at my feet and opened the drawer. A slip of paper had a “Z” on it. “Jesus-jumped-up-Christ! I didn’t ask for this! I yelled. “Can’t you leave me the hell alone?” My mind was racing; get rid of Kruger’s pack and Zerelda’s elephant; do it now! Move out of this place, it’s haunted.
I picked up my suitcase and turned down the hallway toward my bedroom and a feeling of serenity, that I was hard-pressed to explain, enveloped me. I stopped and turned back into the living room and I still felt calm. The family pictures on the hallway wall were all straight, except for the photograph of my father sitting in an easy chair; it was tipped slightly. I reached out to tilt it back, but stopped and started several times. It was like the photo might be hot to the touch. Finally I aligned it and continued to my bedroom. My feeling of calm continued until I thought about the Z. Should I keep recording? Does she have something to tell me?
I stood in the soothing serenity of my hallway and was comforted. “I can’t stay here forever,” I whispered. “I gotta get myself to the sleep doctor, pronto.”
The sleep doctor gave me a half-assed physical; thump the chest, stick out your tongue, I’m-gonna-look-in-your-ears type of thing. It seemed bogus, but if he helped me sleep and kept me from talking to dead people, I was in.
I showed up at the clinic at eight in the evening. The nurse showed me to a room, much like a hotel room. She said, “Do whatever your regular routine is. There’s cable television and I see you brought a book, that’s good. When you’re ready to go to sleep, push the button.”
I pushed the button and her voice came over the bedside speaker, “Are you in your sleeping attire?” My sleeping attire is no attire, normally. Tonight I had gym shorts and a tee shirt. It took her twenty minutes to get all the probes and wires hooked to my head, torso, and legs. The main lead would be plugged into a computer that would track my sleep. As sure as my name is Clete, after I was hooked up, I had to use the toilet. She gave me a sleeping pill, which I started to think was all I really needed.
“If you need to use the bathroom, push the button and I’ll get you unplugged.” She said she was going to send some signals remotely from her desk to the computer. “I will talk to you over the speaker to get the frequency level correct.”
Before I knew it, the nurse’s voice came over the speaker. “Good morning,
Mr. Rossiter. I’ll be in to unhook you in a second. Are you ready for that?”
Two days later the sleep doctor sat behind his desk and I sat in a chair in front of him. “Look at this,” he said. He showed me a chart that made no sense to me. It could have been a profit and loss statement from a Fortune 500 company. “See here, these spikes? You stopped breathing over one hundred times during the test, once for forty-five seconds. You clearly have sleep apnea.” This scared me; forty-five seconds, that’s a long time. I could die. He gave me a referral to a medical supply outfit to get a sleeping mask. “Because you sleep eighty-five percent of the time on your back, I’m…”
“Hold on, doctor. I’m a side sleeper; I don’t sleep on my back.”
“No, Mr. Rossiter, you sleep on your back.”
“I did that night because I couldn’t turn over.” He stared me down with the “I’m the doctor” look. There and then I remembered
I honestly tried, but I couldn’t get used to the mask, even though it was the latest design: nasal pillows. Tubing ran from an air machine to the nasal mask. It was constantly in my way. Some nights I’d wake up and the mask was dislodged and blowing air into my eye. For several months I used the machine every night, only to disconnect it around one in the morning. But the forty-five second lapse in breathing was still a concern. At a follow up session with the sleep doctor, I told him it just wasn’t working. Guess what? He prescribed sleeping pills. After another month I returned the mask and told my primary doctor about my experience. He wasn’t surprised.
Things seemed normal for a few weeks. My sleeping pattern became regular and there were no visits from the other side. Then one morning I turned the recorder on and heard the words, “Hey, pally. You awake?”
“Yeah. What’s up?” I asked.
“Lookin for my gloves.”
“Gloves? What gloves?”
“My boxing gloves. You got em? Don’t lie to me, or I’ll knock ya into the middle of next week.”
“There are some gloves hanging on a picture of an Ingemar Johannsen and Floyd Patterson bout in my office. How do I know they belong to you?” I wanted to know.
The guy sighed and said, “Why else would I be here? Of course the gloves are mine.”
We must have been in my office because the boxer exclaimed, “Those were fantastic fights between those two. They fought twice, ya know, pally. In ’59 Ingemar TKO’d Floyd in the third. Ingemar knocked Floyd down seven times.” He said the rematch was in ’60, and Patterson knocked him out in the fifth to regain the championship. He told me his name was Petie “Kid” Pierpont. “I was a shmoe, just a club boxer always waiting for my shot. Well, pally, one night I got my shot. Or should I say I got shot.”
I asked him, “You got shot? Who shot you?”
“My old lady. I smacked her once too often,” he whispered. “Her fights were the only ones I won.”