Circular Reasoning
by John P. Nordin

Chapter 1

“Anyone can draw a circle.”

It took forever to float downward from standing to squatting.  Standing, he had been investigating a case; kneeling he was surrounded by the details of sensations.  Standing, the circle drawn in blood appeared a uniform dull red.   Descending, the light from the far window reflected off the blood and into his eyes, making the circle glossy and sleek.  Kneeling, he saw variations of color, an irregular surface and specks of dirt trapped in the coagulating liquid.

            It was just a circle.  An almost closed curve, uneven, probably drawn with a stick, or a finger, just a circle.  A circle, just to one side of a body.

            “Why kill this one,” he asked.

            “Why not.” 

            He turned his head to regard the woman standing there, and he was back in the world of humans.  Why say that?  She was compassionate only with women.  Otherwise she was linear, hard.  She didn’t listen.  She was young, but the young could hear, if they had suffered in the right way.

            But she wasn’t his problem.  “Did the minister tell you anything?”

            “Just religious shit.  A great loss, a great tragedy.  I think he was figuring out how many media outlets would interview him at the funeral.”

            How should he respond?  A dozen approaches flashed through his brain, each with some potential problem.  So many assumptions to detect and resolve, including the off chance that referring to the media was yet another crack at him for not owning a TV.  He found all this confusing.  Now, solving the murder, that was simple.  Or at least a game with rules that stayed put.

            He stood, continuing to look at the circle of blood.  “There are no living victims here.  Should make your report simple.”

She bristled, “Trying to get rid of me?”

“I’d have no idea how to do that.”

She was field coordinator for victim advocacy.  She should hand him the standard 56-point checklist and be on her way.  She didn’t wear boots and a red checked flannel shirt, but whenever she spoke that’s what he saw.

“Is forensics on its way?”

            “Five minutes, not that it’s my job to know.  But there isn’t anything here.”

            “There is a dead body.”

            She said nothing.  He left the living room of the doublewide mobile home, pushed open the screen door and went out onto the wooden landing outside.  Around the edge of the landing was a small grill, some charcoal in a bag that looked like it had been outside during the last rain, and a very dirty basketball.  None appeared to have been disturbed recently. 

            She pushed past him and clumped down the three creaky wooden steps to the cracked concrete walk.  She called back to him.  “So, I think he must have been a member of the Circle gang.  Had a falling out with them, or something.  Maybe he got cold feet about all the violence.  So they did him in.  Left the circle to make a point.”

            Not that it’s your job to know.  “No one convicted for a Circle gang murder has ever been shown to have actually been a member of the gang,” he said slowly, but not slowly enough to sound like a rebuke.

            “They cover their tracks well.  But they’ll make a mistake eventually.”

            “Much of their leadership is female.”

            She looked at him sharply.  But she was always looking sharply.  All men are pigs, so to make it in a man’s world, you must be the biggest pig of all.  This is progress, and freedom and brings the revolution. 

            He shook his head.  Focus, Robert, focus.  Who killed the guy?  He kept thinking of the blood, it had been so beautiful, such a striking unusual shade of color.  And the texture, the surface sinking just the smallest amount as it seeped into the crack in the floor.  But why was there a crack in the floor in a relatively new, prefabricated home?  Not that it mattered.

            As for details that did matter, why kill him in the living room?  Why kill this person, a middle-aged male, living here?  There had been a lot of books and papers in the living room.  Not much food in the refrigerator.  And the man’s glasses.  They had been on the floor, a foot to one side of the body, where they had fallen as he’d fallen, falling backwards from the knife pushed between his ribs.  The glasses were fine, almost delicate, and fashionable.  Not the sort of thing to find on a man living in a double-wide in a trailer park literally on the wrong side of the tracks.

            He used to like these puzzles, like them more than he ever admitted publicly.  Which fact would prove important, and which not.  But now, he had too many facts to deal with that were not part of the crime.  He saw another fact making its way towards him. 

            The office manager stepped out of his car, retrieved his suit jacket hanging over the rear left hand window, adjusted his cuff links and smoothed his hair.  He strode over to meet the two of them.  They didn’t have precincts any more, they had offices.  More ‘accessible’ or something.  Frank was a major, but that was too militaristic, so they had titles like ‘office manager’ now.  Except that they had still kept the ranks as well.  Frank clipped his badge to his coat pocket.  He looked at them as if they were the criminals.  “What have you got?”

            Book’em Dan-o.  Need to raise the chin a bit, looks better on TV.  “A dead male, perhaps 35, 40.  Knife killed him, weapon isn’t here.  Circle drawn in blood next to the body.  No evidence of others living in the trailer.  Neighbors saw nothing.  The minister of the church at the end of the block saw nothing.  Neighbors say he was a strange man.”

            “How strange?  Stood up to the Circle gang?  This dump would be prime organizing territory for them.”  He squinted at the neighboring mobile homes, daring them to terrorize him.

            “Minerna’s theory is that he was in the gang, had a falling out.  Retaliation killing.”

            “That would work.”

            Work for what?  “The evidence of his strangeness is that he stayed up late, didn’t talk about the weather, and has no known affinity with any sports team.” Shut up, Robert, shut up!

            Frank and Minerva looked blankly at him.  He smiled.  “We really don’t know what happened yet.”  He tried to sound cool, ironic, unaffected, normal.  “Sam and Mindy are still canvassing the neighbors.  Forensics isn’t here yet.” So, please, don’t make up your mind yet.  Wait an hour before you do; it makes it so much easier on us if you go with a story that fits at least some of the facts.  Minerva asked for “a word” with the office manger and they walked out of earshot.

            Philman wondered what would have happened if he had walked with them.  He looked down the street in time to see a black SUV pulling a black trailer approach.  It was forensics.  Their massive unit barely fit between the parked cars on the narrow street.  They drove up over the curb, but there wasn’t enough room for the 20-ft trailer.  It sat at an angle, half on the scraggly grass, half on the street.  Six technicians wearing black jump suits got out of the SUV and began to put on their helmets.  He could hear them muttering into their helmet mikes.  They stood in a circle nodding at each other, synchronizing their monitoring equipment by filming each other.  They dispersed, two entering the trailer as three others unloaded equipment from an access panel on the side of the trailer.  Their leader approached him.

            “Jackson.  Technical lead.  Fourth division, third team.”

            “Philman.  Detective lieutenant.  Officer in charge.  Third division.”  Single white depressed male.  Doesn’t own a TV.

            “Right.  Understand it’s a Circle case.”

            “There is a circle of blood by the body.”  It’s so beautiful, a shade of color I’ve never noticed before.  And the glasses.  Don’t forget to wonder about the glasses, they are so interesting you shouldn’t call them something ordinary like ‘glasses,’ let’s call them ‘spectacles’.

            “We’ll run our Circle gang protocols.  Get a full analysis.”

            “Yes, but it could be a diversion.  Better do everything.”

The leader nodded eagerly, spun on his heels, and went up the three wooden steps and in the front door.  Two of his crew were dragging thick cables from the trailer towards the house.  Forensics brought their own power.   

            He thought the cables meant something, but he couldn’t name it.  He turned and saw another car approaching.  It must be associated with the investigation, as it was far too gleaming and stylish for this neighborhood.  Who could it be, the shift captain?  No, he drove some armored tank of a car.  The driver parked on the grass next to the trailer.  One technician flashed the car a dirty look, or so Philman supposed.  The technician had on a helmet and a full visor, lightly smoked.  But it was still a dirty look.

            She got out.  Or, he supposed, what he should think is “She” with quotes around it, italicized and capitalized.  Tall and firm.  Every day to the gym for that one.  Black hair cascading around a face that knew it could get its way by a glance.  A skirt some distance above the knee, exposing long legs.  Not that one should say her legs were exposed, no, she was one that gained power the more skin she showed.  If she’d walked toward them naked, she could have commanded them to do anything, as they crumpled to the ground.  He wanted her, despite all the evidence he’d had that this was not what he should want.  She strode up to him, extending a hand.  How could an offer of a handshake be an aggressive act?

            “Katarina Johnson, media relations, and you are?”

            He shook her hand.  “Robert Philman, officer in charge.  There is no media here.”

            “There will be.  Do you know what happened?”

            Another soul left this earth too soon and we are raping his house.  “We’ve been here less than an hour.  Forensics hasn’t even put their batteries in yet.”  It sounded defensive.  Making fun of forensics wasn’t the point.  “So I guess we’re still in the stage of pursuing every lead, firmly committed to bringing the dangerous to justice, etc., etc.”

            She gave him a smile that could freeze flame.  “I didn’t know you had experience in media relations.” 

            “I’ve only watched the professionals from a distance.”  Then, he added, more slowly, “There is a circle of blood next to the body, but many aspects of this don’t fit a Circle murder.”  So, please, don’t fence us in.  Give us a chance.

            “But you’ve only been here an hour.  You must be very observant.”

            “Ambiguity is easy to see.”  That was pompous.  Why are we fighting?  You don’t even want to talk to the media, she does, it’s a perfect solution.

            “Hello, Katarina, I’m office manager Cassidy, I’ve seen your work.  You were very helpful on the last Circle case.” 

            The “last” Circle case, which would imply that this is the next one.  Or is the office manager not capable of such grammatical intimation?

            She gave the same smile to Cassidy.  How can you smile in a way that conveys superiority?  But he used your first name and didn’t volunteer his, and she’d know she was in a war.  She fired the first salvo, insulting him by implying he wouldn’t do without prompting something he should do on his own.  “I would find a full briefing so helpful before I told the media what you were doing.”

            Cassidy put his arm around her shoulder and they walked off.  Of course, the man who knew nothing but had concluded everything would explain it all to the person whose job it was to stop the media from learning all the things the media should not be told.  And this would be done out of hearing of anyone who might know anything.  But the media would never ask the questions Philman would be afraid to answer out loud.  Another perfect solution.

            He was aware of a movement to his right.  It was Sam and Mindy.  He looked at Sam.  Sam was old school, disdainful of all that wasn’t shoe leather and intimidating witnesses.  Did he know that he was a cliché?  Black hair oiled into place, always a white shirt and narrow dark tie and every shiny gray suit looked the same.

His partner of two years was Mindy, who would be Sam in another twenty years.  For now she was well-scrubbed, neat and tidy, a sensible brown bob of hair, and a friendly expression.

            Sam began.  “Talked to nine neighbors.  The deceased has lived here a couple of years.  Quiet.  Kept to himself.  Worked as a security guard, and as a store clerk before that.  Said he was a writer.  Never showed what he’d written.  Too liberal for some.  Went to that church occasionally.  Never dated anyone, or at least anyone around here.”

            “In other words, we have no obvious motive.”

            “No, which you probably like.”

            “Oh, give me a simple case, let me be bored.”  A pause.  “Any indication of political activity?  He was a writer.  That used to be political.”

            “No, once he got in an argument with someone on gun control.  But if he did any political organizing, no one mentioned it.”

            “Anyone mention the Circle gang specifically?”

            “No one brought it up.  We didn’t either.”

            “Mindy, would the junior officer like to avail herself of the dissent channel to voice any of the valuable opinions that might be suppressed by an well-meaning, but inadvertently intimidating senior officer?”

            “Oh my goodness no. Sam gave a good summary of what we both found.  Anyway, he says I intimidate him.”  Sam turned his head, shrugged dramatically, and spat on the ground.  That particular memo, training session and reporting requirement had been less popular than usual.

            “We all know this doesn’t fit the Circle MO, assuming there actually is one.  This guy is no corporate executive, no politician.  Are we starting to get copy-cat killings now?”

            “Why not,” Sam grunted, “already been two TV movies using the idea.”

            “I had no idea you stayed up on popular culture, Sam.”

            Mindy laughed.  “You forgot Robert; that was the training session when you had the flu.”  She straightened her shoulders and began to recite.  “An exchange of opinions on a neutral subject may develop the atmosphere of trust necessary for officers of different social backgrounds or genders to work effectively together.”

            “What a fortunate illness.  Anyone notice any recent change in the deceased’s routine?”

            “No they didn’t.” Sam said.

“Any girlfriends?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Boyfriends?”

“No.”

“Any friends?”

“No one noticed any visitors.  No one heard anything.  No one didn’t see nothing about nothing.”

            “So we are at the tender mercy of forensics once again.”

            “God help us all,” Sam said.

            Media relations and office manager returned.  Cassidy spoke, but Philman had the impression it was only because Johnson allowed him too.  “Gentlemen.  And ladies.  This could be sensitive.”  He deepened his voice and leaned in towards them. “We’ve got a working class neighborhood.  Probably a lot of resentments stacked up here looking for an excuse to explode, a hotbed of underground Circle activity.  We’ve got Circle involvement.  We’ve got no immediate identification of the killer.  We’ve got to show progress quickly before this gets messy and sucks up our resources.  For all we know, someone wants us to spend time here to keep us from seeing the real situation.”  He glanced back and forth, raising an eyebrow, extending his index finger, to see if they’d all been carefully listening.

            Sam and Mindy, nodded sagely and said, “yessir.”  How I wish I knew how to tug on my forelock and pledge my obedience.  Sam and Mindy, you are so much wiser than I.

            “We think forensics will be key.”  Golly, I can shuck and jive once in a while, if I practice.

            “I think that is very insightful.  We will leave the details to you.  Keep us informed.  Katarina will handle the media.”  And they were off, Frank looking at Katarina, reaching his hand for her elbow, she looking straight ahead.

Minervia dropped off her disk with her report and collected Robert’s signature.  Sam and Mindy took off as well, leaving Robert to await for forensics to finish.

            For the moment he was alone.  He looked around at the neighborhood.  The victim’s trailer backed onto the edge of the trailer park.  Across the street were a row of small homes.  At one time they would have radiated hope, starter homes for hard-working families on their way to the American Dream.  Now, they looked weather-beaten and sullen, adorned with rusting cars out front, lop-sided grills on the front lawn, one house with a bunch of signs in the front yard, one with beer cans.

He noticed that no one was standing around watching them.  He couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t appear that there was anyone even looking at them from behind the curtains.  Usually there were onlookers, gawking, offering advice, informing everyone that they had predicted the whole thing.  And children, usually a few children, often with a forensics-style helmet or toy evidence camera playing at being an adult.

            He found the emptiness chilling, as chilling as if there had been a funeral for the man and no one had come.  Weren’t they curious about this murder?  And did no one grieve the dead man?  And then there was the curious phone call alerting them.  Made from some payphone where, he already knew, there was no surveillance camera.  If the deceased lived by himself, and never interacted with the neighborhood, why would anyone think that two days without seeing him was worth a call to the police?  He’d bet that they’d never trace the voice either.

            Eventually, forensics exited the trailer.  Their leader trotted over to Philman and almost saluted. “We’ve completed our Preliminary Crime Scene Survey with a standard scan and special protocols for suspected homicide and suicide as well as the terrorism checklist with Circle Gang specificity.  We’ve collected 417 samples, 4,921 images and 147 minutes of video.”  He offered Philman a computer disk.

            So what did you see?  Who do you think killed him?  But it was not forensics’ job to conclude, just to collect.  Collecting involved no risks; a conclusion, now that meant making a decision.

            “I have received your Preliminary Crime Scene Survey on the suspicious death at 4572 E. 216^th at 1621.”  He announced formally for the still running video camera next to the team leader’s head.  A black-gloved hand slapped a button on the front of his chest, turning off the camera.  The team ebbed back to their trailer and departed.  A few minutes later the coroner’s team arrived in a large truck and removed the body, also passing a disk of their report to Philman on the way out.  Still later a car with two beat cops showed up to monitor the crime scene overnight.  They’d leave tomorrow unless Philman told them to stay.

            Gradually the voices faded and he was wrapped in silence.  He slowly scanned each part of the exterior of the mobile home.  No sign of forced entry, no fresh exterior dings, no messy residue of violence.  He still held the disks from Forensics and Victim Advocacy.  The department kept the tradition of a disk hand-over even though he’d get the same reports via email by the time he got back to the office.  He held the disks like small jewels rubbing his hands over the smooth surface.  The exterior of the disks gave no more information than the exterior of the trailer.

            He went back to the office.