120 Brinks has a suspicious Sunday Morning

Brinks was having a very bad day. First of all, when he'd called the hospital to find out about his prisoner, they'd told him that the prisoner wasn't his and they couldn't tell him anything without first talking to the San Jose Police. The person on the other side of the line was not interested in understanding that this was Brinks' case, it just so happened that the trap had been set in San Jose.

Secondly, the stupid plumber was supposed to have come by to fix the clog in their bathroom and the fool hadn't shown up even though Brinks had taken the whole morning off to wait for him. Plumbers and cops had to work on Sundays. He was doing his part. Why the heck wasn’t the bone-head plumber?

And thirdly he knew that his wife had just received a letter from her youngest son and wasn't showing it to him. It wasn't that he'd seen the letter, it was just that she always got a letter around her birthday, and she always showed it to him. But this time she hadn't said anything. And that was just very unusual. As far as he knew, Clara knew nothing about what had happened between him and Jimmy. And over above all the other things, this was what really bothered him, if Jimmy had told her anything it would have broken her heart. It already hurt her that she couldn't get in touch with her youngest, but to find out what he'd done would have destroyed her.

He wondered where Jimmy was? He shook his head to shake the memory of that day from his mind. It wasn't a technique that worked very well. The last look in Jimmy's eyes was not one that he'd ever forget. Damn them, damn them, damn them all, and damn himself for not fulfilling and completing his duty as a father and as a role model.

Brinks was indeed depressed. He pulled out the folder they'd created on Mr. Dare’ Varella, what kind of stupid name was Dare' anyway? It certainly wasn’t Italian. It sounded European, but he wasn’t sure if it was. It could have been French, but it wasn’t Spanish, at least he didn’t think it was Spanish. He knew that it was pronounced "Daray", but it was still a stupid name as far as he was concerned. Besides, try saying Dare' Varella fast, and it sounded like you were lisping. "Daway Wawewa." He laughed at his own joke. "Dawey Wawewa." That made him feel a bit better. He turned his attention back to the file. The file had been compiled over the last few days with a lot of painful footwork and lots and lots of phone calls. Dare’ Varella residing at Apt 1167, 777 Underwood Blvd, San Jose, CA, Occupation: Engineering Analyst/Reporter. According to his notes from his conversation with Varella, the man had been an engineer, but how come he got to get so dang rich while hard working cops like himself had to sweat it out all their lives. Driving around in a hot red Porsche and wearing fancy custom tailored suits. Mr. Varella had not been telling the whole story when he'd said he was an investor. As far as Brinks could surmise from the Wassau family, apparently Varella had been a family friend for over a decade and according to them, the man had moved down to the bay area as an engineer after his graduation and had found gold. Mrs. Wassau had explained it as a "startup engineering firm that struck it rich". That bothered him more for some reason. OK, Mr. Dare’ Varella had made his millions by starting his own electronics company and then going public, thus making a fortune on his stock. OK, so that explained the car and the suits, but that didn’t explain the lovey dovey stuff that was going on between Mr. Varella and Mrs. "recently widowed" Carl Wassau. He wondered if the stupid plumber would have the presence of mind to call him at the office when and if he finally showed up at Brink’s house.

Brinks turned to the second file on his desk. This was the Carl Wassau file. As he picked it up a plastic bag with photographs fell out of it onto the floor. Dang it, these things were supposed to be paper clipped in. Brinks bent to pick up the bag and knocked his knee against an open drawer. He was indeed having a bad day. Since he had the bag in his hand, he opened the bag and took a look at the pictures again. They were photographs of the house and the fatally wounded victim. It was not a pretty sight. The next plastic bag had the photographs from the coroner’s office. There was the "ankh" thing. Etched on the man’s chest. But there was also the wounds that the doctors that had tried to stitch up. The cut from throat to throat, the slash across the chest and the slash across the abdomen. That seemed to ring a bell. Where had he seen or heard that before. It reminded him of something. What?

There were a few more things. There was an answering machine tape and a transcript of the messages on it. Brinks had gone over this before, but he dutifully went over it again. In case he’d missed something.

Beep.

Male voice: Hello Mr. Wassau, this is Mark Pietro, Wonderland Travel. Your flight is confirmed and we’ve received your visa’s. I’ll Fed Ex your Passport and Tickets to you immediately. You should have them by Tuesday.

Electronic Voice: Saturday, 10 am.

Beep.

Male voice: Carl? Josh. Something came up with Linda, can’t make it at 5, how is 7?

Electronic voice: Sunday, 2 pm.

And that was it. They’d had officers contact Wonderland Travel. "Yes they did have a Mark Pietro and No, they did not have a Passport for a Mr. Wassau, but they did have a receipt showing that it had been Fed Ex’ed to the before named Mr. Wassau that Saturday at noon. Yes, Mr. Wassau had booked a ticket to Taiwan." The officers had not gone into the detail of why they were doing the investigation.

Taiwan? How the heck did Taiwan fit into all this? Did it have anything to do with anything?

Fed Ex had not been very keen on giving them the undeliverable package for Mr. Wassau. It was registered and only Mr. Wassau could pick it up. Did the police have a search warrant, or a court order. No, you idiot, he didn’t have a court order but if they didn’t cough up the package he’d slap them in jail for with holding evidence in a murder case. They’d become much more amiable after that and a few forms later, the passport now sat it it’s own plastic bag with the tickets in a separate plastic bag.

They still hadn’t located anyone called Josh, the registry at the funeral hadn’t listed any Joshuas or Joshs and none of the family seemed to remember a Josh either. At least none that was a friend of Carl's.

The phone rang. It was the San Jose Police. Very sorry, have straightened the mess out at the hospital. They’ll let you see the suspect as soon as he is coherent. The day was looking better. Where the heck was the stupid plumber. Brinks liked his showers and if he didn’t get one tomorrow he’d be mad. Sure he could take one at the station but it just wasn’t the same.

The next piece of paper was a transcript of what they thought Mr. Wassau had said before he died.

a) Josh, Josh...

b) Not....

c) ankh.....

d) free my son…. my son.........

e) gramkeyelseeba.......

f) further in tour hands.......

a) Who the heck was Josh?

b) & c) The "not ankh" came close enough together that perhaps Carl had been saying that the ankh thing had been a ruse. A red herring. On the other hand, it could have been "not something, ankh". Meaning it wasn’t something or someone else (whatever that could be) but it was the ankh. Brinks tried the statement out. "Not Josh, ankh." That would mean that Josh didn’t do it, but it had something to do with the ankh. That was frustrating.

He went on to the next statement. This was just as puzzling.

d) free my son... According to Varella and the rest of the Wassau/Perlman family, Carl had no son. So why would he ask anyone to "free his son"? What if (and Brinks had to admit this was sort of far fetched), what if, Wassau did have a son, and somebody had kidnapped the son? But it would have to be a long lost or hidden son. Otherwise why would no one, not even his own family know about a son. Maybe he had an illegitimate son that the family was ashamed of. Maybe he had a mentally retarded son that the family was embarassed about. Yeah right, and they probably had the son locked up in some tall tower in the Castle of Aaargh. Get a grip Brinks, you’ve been reading too many novels.

So why the heck would a dying man be worried about his inexistant son?

He had a son. He used to have three. Now he only had 2. Why is it in America it was so easy to lose track of family. No where else in the world was it like that.

e) gramkeielseeba... This didn’t sound like anything. gramkeielseeba? What the heck could that be? gram kei? gram key? What’s a gram key? gramkel see? grapple? Sheeba. Dang it, he didn’t want a stupid murder in his town. He wasn’t a detective anymore. Sheeba was the queen of Ethiopia or something. Where the heck was that stupid plumber?

He wondered why she hadn’t shown him the letter from his son.