Butler Wren and the Wandering Finger
by Anthony Lukas
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
“A finger, Mr. Wren?”
“Yes, your Honor. “
“Most unusual,” said the venerable Judge Von Bonnet.
“Quite true, your Honor.”
“Where does this finger currently reside if indeed that is what severed fingers do?”
Wit of the puckish variety today, thought Wren, and Steve Sage rose to say, “In a container in the freezer in my office, your Honor.”
“Well,” said her Honor, “given the circumstances of the case an examination is not an unreasonable request. You do not oppose the motion, do you, Mr. Sage? “
“Oh no, you Honor. In the interests of full disclosure and justice,” smiled Sleaze, “I would be happy to give Mr. Wren the finger.”
Silence.
Oh, careful, young fellow, thought Wren. That was a sleaze too far. Judge Von B. is of the old school that expects decorum in court. Sage fidgeted under her Honor’s cool stare and stammered on, “Assuming certain safeguards are in place so that the finger is not damaged by examination. “
“The Court has complete confidence that Mr. Wren will conduct matters to the highest standards, Mr. Sage.”
Judge spank, thought Wren.
* * *
“Well, let ‘s just see what we have here,” said Nigel, unscrewing the lid of an insulated cup and extracting a small plastic baggy.
They were standing around the lab table of Dr. Nigel Hardcourt in the offices of Western Forensics not far from the Hall of Justice, a private company often used by attorneys for scientific examinations and testimony. Wren, Crystal and a young paralegal from Sage’s office — Todd, Tim, Tom? — Wren couldn’t remember what his name was. He seemed a nice sort, don't know how he came to be working for the Sleaze. Pity about our little deception, thought Wren.
Nigel had unsealed the baggy and slid forceps in, emerging with a frozen something. “Hmm,” said Nigel as he placed the something under a large magnifying glass. “Bit too many ice crystals for a good peek.” He brought out a small flashlight-looking device. “Infrared heat,” he explained. “I’m going to defrost just the surface areas to see more detail,” slowly passing the device over the finger. “And a little pat or two with an absorbent cloth to wick away the moisture. Then under the magnifying glass again. Hmmm...”
Wren noted the younger folk fidgeting slightly. He stood patiently, long used to Hardcourt’s oh-so methodical methods.
“Human flange, obviously, severed just below the first knuckle. Not a surgical removal, but something pretty sharp,” said Nigel. “See, Butler, a bit of tearing of the tissues you certainly would not see with a surgical amputation.”
Butler peered through the magnifying glass. “Bone seems pretty cleanly sheared,” he said.
Nigel nodded. “Quite right, but we shall have to take a closer look at that.” He took the digit and swung around to another table with sundry devices. The digit now appeared on a video screen, greatly magnified. “Hmmm...” said Nigel.
Hardcourt and group studied the screen for a bit while Nigel turned the finger this way and that with a “Hmm” here and an “Ah” there.
“You know, Butler, this reminds me of a case I had in Florida once. Had to prove that an orange juice heir was dead based solely on a big toe found in a rather large alligator. Well, you can imagine—”
Wren looked over at Crystal and Tim/Tom/Todd. “There’s some coffee,” nodding toward the other end of the lab.
“And some pastries that my wife baked this morning,” said Nigel, interrupting himself. “Please help yourselves. This is going to take quite some time.”
Crystal raised an inquiring eyebrow at Tim/Tom/Todd. “Ted,” she said — that was it! — “join me?” Surprising neither Butler or Nigel, Ted nodded and followed.
“Really, Butler,” murmured Nigel, quickly picking up the finger and placing it nail down on a cradle under another device and watching a red line of light scan across it. “You are shameless in your use of dear Crystal as a decoy.”
“All’s fair,” said Wren. “Don’t want Sage to know everything we learn. Now, what have you, Hardy?”
“Male, probably Hispanic from the pigmentation and structure. Maybe laborer, see the calluses? And looks like soil under the nail, I’ll scrape and test it. But for now let’s get a print.”
“You’re going to roll ink on that?” asked Wren.
“Ink? Oh, Butler, how quaint.” He studied the screen, pressed a button, and then pulled out a flash drive from the side of the device. “Digital scan of its fingerprint,” handing it to Wren. “Good hunting.”
Wren hurried over to the Hall of Justice, rode the elevator to the fifth floor and headed down the hallway and through the door marked Fraud Unit. A detective looked up at Wren’s “Herb here?” and pointed to a glassed-in office in the back corner of the squad room. He could see Herb alone in there, waving his arms and seemingly talking to himself. Wren raised an eyebrow at the detective who said, “Lieutenant’s in another community play down the peninsula. Shakespeare, I think, or something Victorian. So...”
Wren nodded knowingly and headed back to the office and the gesturing lieutenant. The lieutenant spotted Wren in mid-gesture and, smiling broadly, he threw open his office door and grabbed Wren in a bear hug and boomed, “Butler, my old friend! Come in, come in!” and ushered Wren into his office.
Herbert always became a bit melodramatic and grandiose when he was in a play, reflected Wren, but he was built for theatrical performance. Shorter than Wren, a bit rounder, with a more noticeable nose, broad smile and dancing eyes, Lieutenant Herbert Press just looked like he should be on a stage.
The lieutenant quizzed Wren for a bit about how his life was going and then, “And what brings you to me this fine day?”
Wren told him of the civil case, the claim of a finger found in Milli’s chili by a Mrs. Newcomb.
“Liar!” shouted Herbert. “If there is a finer establishment of consumables in this city than Millie’s Diner, I certainly do not know of it! Who is this succubus Newcomb?”
“Wife of a Mr. Jerome Newcomb, a wealthy real-estate developer and self-styled socialite.”
“Well-dressed posers,” muttered Herbert, picking up a pipe that he had never actually been seen to smoke and leaning back in his chair. “And what can I do to assist you? “
“Well,” said Wren, “the finger had to come from somewhere...”
“Of course! You wish me to run its print, just to see if we can find its owner?”
“Well, yes, if you could.”
“Can and will. You have the digit in question?”
Wren held up the flash drive. “A digital picture of it.”
“Even better! We can submit it directly to the database. But you know, Butler, I must go beyond that little task.”
“You must?”
“Of course! Even though this spurious claim is wrapped in the gossamer of civil action, it is nothing more than a fraud! We must surreptitiously join forces. How much have they demanded to skulk away?”
“Low six figures.” said Wren
“Felony! Felonious chicanery! I shall open a file and assist!”
There was a flurry of activity for an hour or so as a formal fraud case file was opened, the digit’s electronic image was run through various databases.
“Hmm,” said Herbert, after a bit. “No record of the digit. So not a known criminal or member of a profession that requires fingerprinting, like teachers. So, no help for you there, Butler, I’m afraid.”
Wren shrugged. “It was a long shot, Herb. We’ll think of some other way.”
“Well,” said the Lieutenant, “in the mean time, I must interview the victim.”
“Newcomb?”
“Millie!”
* * *
Wren and the Lieutenant reversed the walk that Wren had taken not so long ago, past the trendy apartment and condominium buildings, through the screen door and into Millie’s.
Herbert greeted Millie as he had Wren earlier, startling Millie and almost toppling her. “So sorry, my dear,” said Herbert. They went into the kitchen where a finger was supposed to have gotten into the savory ancho chili. Carlos the cook’s pronouncement was definitive: “Impossible!” Beside him, Millie nodded vigorously .
“We make everything from scratch here. I go to the meat company, select the sides I want, they deliver it here and we butcher it ourselves. I use sirloin for the chili pie, grind it myself right there,” pointing to a meat grinder, “And as you can see I have all my fingers!” wiggling them so that they could see. The rest of the ingredients were similarly hand-prepared by a staff member who similarly had a complete set of digits.
Some more questions and, when they were leaving, the Lieutenant reassured Millie: “I shall not let this dark deception stand!” And he flowed from the restaurant.
Millie looked quizzically at Wren. “In another play?” Wren nodded and hurried off to catch Herbert.
Back at his office, Wren sat at his desk, reviewing again all the materials that Crystal had accumulated on Phyllis Newcomb. He leaned back and shook his head. This case simply did not make any sense.
Firstly, motive, or lack of. Normally money was the desired result in civil lawsuits, but Newcomb hadn’t seemed to need any more of that. Crystal’s googling, Facebooking and other snooping had revealed a plaintiff who was well-heeled indeed. Married to a wealthy businessman for over a decade. Very large house in Seacliff, a very posh section of the City. Fancy cars, servants, frequent outings to upper-crust restaurants and day spas. Regular appearances in the society sites at high-society social functions and charitable events.
Clearly no need for money. What was the point of the fraud? Something personal against Millie? Crystal had found no connection.
So clearly no need to fabricate this absurd case of the wandering digit. And that damned finger, where the hell had it come from? A loose finger was not something a member of the upper crust would be expected to run across.
And the small detail of her retaining Steve the Sleaze to represent her. Why him? Any of the legal clans in the financial district would have fallen all over themselves to represent the Newcombs. Why choose Sage?
Wren’s lip curled as he recalled his conversation with Sage after the hearing on his Motion to Produce. Sage had come slithering up to Wren in the hallway outside the courtroom: “Now, Butler, thus far I have managed to keep a lid on this case.”
“Very decent of you.” Wren had said.
“Yes, but you know my client’s very hot about this. Well, understandably, I mean a finger, for God’s sake. I don't know how much longer I can convince her not to well, you know, point the finger at Millie,” he had chortled.
Lunatic, Butler had thought.
“Now, I certainly do not wish any harm to Ms. Fine and her fine establishment, but she must bear the responsibility for this most unfortunate event. You know as well as I that a jury, when presented with my poor client’s testimony about almost putting that thing in her mouth — or perhaps actually in her mouth — well, they’ll just gag,” and another chortle.
Nitwit.
“I am sure that for a reasonable amount of compensation I can persuade Ms. Newcomb to settle and agree to a permanent confidentiality provision so that this incident need never come to light and endanger poor Ms. Fine’s livelihood,” he had smarmed.
Putz.
“And what do you and your aggrieved client think is reasonable ?”
“Ah,” Sage had said and handed a folded piece of paper to Wren.
Wren wished for a pair of rubber gloves but took it anyway, unfolded it and saw an amount with too many zeroes.
“Now, surely your client will find that agreeable. Otherwise...” Sage had shrugged.
* * *
Wren shook his head and sighed.
“You okay, Boss?”
Crystal stood in the doorway, coat and bag in hand, ready to head out.
“Yes, yes, just thinking about Steve the Sleaze,” and he recounted his conversation with Sage.
“What a putz,” said Crystal. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turned and then turned back. “By the way, did you see your buddy Corinne Baxter in that stuff?” Crystal nodded at the Millie case files on Butler’s desk.
“Baxter?” said Wren. “What’s she got to do with...”
Crystal had put her stuff down and was now shuffling through the papers in the file. “Here you go, at some birthday party or other, there are Corinne and Phyllis looking very buddy-buddy.”
Wren stared at the picture and the caption. “BFFs”.
“Well, now,” said Wren, “Crystal could you—”
“Arrange for your new BFF Corinne Baxter to come in? Sure, Boss.”
* * *
That evening, Wren and Rose were sitting at the their dining room table at Casa Wren, sharing a bottle of a rather delicious zinfandel. Rose was examining the materials about Mrs. Newcomb that had been gathered by Crystal. Butler had been sipping, watching her. Just a year or so younger than he, her blue eyes as blue as ever, her round face still reflecting her Irish heritage, a face that could quickly show Irish fire. Married some thirty years — thirty years! — and still his best friend in the world.
He sighed contentedly and looked out the window across the couple of miles of houses and small business that made up the western part of the City. He could see the ocean beyond and recalled that it had been that view that had sold him on the house many years ago. It was nothing fancy, he thought, glancing around the room and the rooms beyond. A nice comfortable, middle-class stucco home, common to the neighborhoods in this area of the City. This one was a few blocks up one of the City’s famous hills which provided that view of the distant ocean.
A comfort now, the house had been a source of much anxiety for a while, or the paying for it had been, remembered Wren. Bought at about the same time Linda had led him out of the big downtown law firm and the big salary thereof, he recalled the sleepless nights spent worrying if had he made the right decision.
But Rose had been both supportive and reassuring, as she always had been, he remembered gratefully, looking back at her lovely, but now frowning face. She’s found something, thought Wren. “Something, Rose?”
“Look at these,” she said, turning her laptop to Butler so that he could see what appeared to be copies from the society columns and sundry social media pages featuring pictures of the happy couple Newcomb. Butler had seen them before and seen nothing significant, except for the surprise appearance of Corinne Baxter in some of them.
“See,” said Rose, pointing at several of the pictures. “Here’s a picture of the engagement party; here’s about a year after they’d married; another a couple of years later; more a little after that; and here a few taken about a year ago; and birthday parties and such.” She sat back. Butler looked at the pictures, at Rose, at the pictures.
“What?”
“Oh, you men see nothing. Engagement picture all lovey dovey of course. Next couple of pictures hugs and touching. But here and here, in the last couple of years, they’re not touching, her eyes are averted from him. Fewer mentions in the papers, they appear alone at sundry charity affairs. I think the marriage is in trouble. Maybe he’s losing interest in his younger wife, or maybe she’s grown weary of him for some reason.” Rose sat back and sipped some wine, nodding to herself.
Butler stared at the information. “Geez.”
“Not buying it?”
“Oh no, I do. I just don’t know how it helps.” He sat back and stared out the window for a bit. “Even if they are on the outs, she’s been married plenty long to accumulate mucho mas community property rights to his millions. Why this bogus nonsense for a hundred thou or so? And Sage, why retain him?”
“Aren’t you meeting with that Mrs. Baxter? She’s a friend of Mrs. Newcomb, or what passes for one in the upper classes.”
“Oh my, I thought I was the cynical one.”
“Find a way to ask her,” said Rose. “She’ll be reluctantly delighted to gossip.”
“You’re a bitter woman, Rose.” But she, of course, as usual, had been quite right.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Anthony Lukas
