Chapter 13
Wednesday, April 28, 1999
School was different for Ethan Lee that day. A sad hush had fallen over everyone. Police had arrived in droves and interrogated everyone as to the coffee pot exploits of Atwood Nash (of course, only Ethan Lee and Atwood Nash actually knew the creator of the coffee pot exploits).
In Honors English, Ethan received a pass indicating that his presence was required for police questioning. He left before Mr. Brown began another thundering, semi-challenging lecture on the classics of the Victorian. Ethan wondered if he was the only student at LSD High who was never happy to have a pass excuse him from class.
When Ethan met the two police officers, he was a little surprised. The seven squad cars out front had led him to believe that most of the interrogations were led by uniform police officers. He sat across a little table in what had been a counselor's office (all employees of the counseling loft were on medical leave).
"Mr. Lee," said a Tall, gray-haired, lanky gentleman whose suit jacket hung off him as if he were simply two arms and a pair of shoulders. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
He extended a bony hand.
"Likewise," said Ethan, extending his rather large hand.
"I'm detective McDowell and this is Detective Bass," he said as a small, African-American, bearded, muscular man in a brown sweater, khaki pants and horn-rimmed glasses rose and shook Ethan's hand.
"I want to begin by extending my condolences. I understand you lost a few close friends and were wounded yourself." He said this with pride, as if he were commending a war hero.
"Thank you, Detective McDowell."
Detective Bass dropped a manila folder he had removed from his briefcase on the floor, onto the tabletop.
"Mr. Lee," began Detective McDowell. "We work for the DEA and as such, our interest in this case is more similar to consultant work than police work. We are here simply to assist the Narcotics department of St. Louis County. I want you to know that you are not a suspect in this case. We do not think a person of your intelligence would consider yesterday's work to be, shall we say, profitable.
"When reviewing this case with the local authorities, Detective Bass and I stumbled upon a picture of you playing baseball."
Dr. Bass removed a large eight by ten-inch picture from the manila folder and pushed it across the table to Ethan. Ethan was surprised to see himself eyeing first base from the set position. He remembered the picture from the yearbook. The caption below had read: Intensity!
"Great," said Ethan.
"Well, we both noticed a striking similarity between this picture and this one," said Detective Bass in a surprisingly high-pitched and Caucasian voice.
Detective Bass removed a picture of Ethan Lee, taken about a week ago, right before he retrieved his money from that street-urchin, Squid.
"I mean, look at this guy," said Detective Bass. "Look how intense and focused he is. I was real impressed with how you got your money back so quickly. You'd probably make a helluva cop."
"Where was that picture taken?" asked Ethan. "I don't remember ever being there."
Ethan's heart raced furiously as he fought to appear calm and ignorant. You're just a high school student, he told himself. These guys have no reason to suspect you.
"Well," said Detective McDowell. "Do you remember being here?"
Detective Bass dropped a photo of Ethan with Mario in the parking garage on Washington Street.
"Can't say that I do," Ethan spoke slowly.
"That man is Mario Lamarette, he works for Mr. Jack Bennidissi. Do you know who that is?"
"I don't even know who Mario is. All I can say is the guy in your pictures looks a lot like me."
"Mr. Bennidissi is a notorious killer, drug dealer and Mafia kingpin. We've been trying to shut down his operation for six months. Are you sure you're not the guy in these pictures?"
"Positive."
It was Detective McDowell's turn again.
"Does the name Jonathon Lowmire mean anything to you?"
"No, should it?"
"Well, he's an interesting character. He's twenty-four years old. According to his records, his address is currently a library. He has no credit cards, bank accounts, arrest record or birth certificate. Records of him exist only in the DMV computer."
"That's weird."
"Indeed, because it means that Jonathan Lowmire does not exist. His name is an alias. Jonathan Lowmire, like Mario Lamarette, ran drugs for Mr. Bennidissi and took care of other small problems. Jonathan Lowmire is wanted for questioning involving the murder of one Leroy Governs, as well as for the distribution of cocaine, LSD, crystal methamphetamine and my personal favorite, MDMA, the drug they call ecstasy."
"Well, I hope you catch him, but I don't see what this has to do with me. I'm just a high school student. I'm no drug running murderer."
"Of course not," said Detective McDowell. "But we're looking around anyway, trying to find little clues and snippets of clues that might lead us to find this man who looks so much like you that it's unbelievable. I mean, two men with looks like this. What's your heritage, German?"
"I don't know; I was an orphan."
"Well, perhaps this is a long lost brother of yours, Mr. Lee. If we find him, we'll see what he knows about your origin. But I suspect we'll never find this man until we learn his true identity. Anyway, this isn't your concern. Thank you for your time."
"Good luck with your investigation," said Ethan, shaking their hands in turn.
He grabbed his book bag and went to Principal Adell's office.
It was time to get his approval to study at Easlon, even if he had to whore himself out to get there.
Principal Adell approved a three-week leave for Ethan. He would take all the tests and turn in all his missed assignments upon his return. She moved the paperwork very quickly after he promised her multiple orgasms.
They had sex for five straight hours (Mrs. Adell sent her secretary home). Ethan was rubbed raw, worn out and sweating as he dressed in her office.
Mrs. Adell glowed like a bright red, Christmas light as she put on her clothes.
"Get the hell out of here," she said. "I'll see you in three weeks at the latest."
Damn, thought Ethan, if there ever was a time to get the hell out…
By Midnight, Ethan had packed and was ready to go. He told Deborah he could not make love because his leg simply hurt too much.
"That's okay," she said. "Just lay there and let Nurse Deborah do all the work. I promise she'll take good care of you."
After Deborah had fallen asleep, Ethan whispered, "Forgive me, baby. I need you to."
As Ethan slept that night, he had absolutely no dreams in his head, but was nevertheless content, because his dream slept soundly on his chest.