Black Iris: Chapter Eighteen
See Updated Chapter List Go to Previous Chapter
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I consider going down to the museum and accidentally running into Gia again. Then I remember about restraining orders and think better of it. The fact that it even crossed my mind makes me wonder if she and my dad are right about therapy. If nothing else it will look like I’m making an effort, which could go a long way in disputing a restraining order.
I’m in the middle of researching local therapists when my buzzer rings. I’m not expecting anyone.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“Uh… I’m hoping to speak with Snowball the cat detective. Is he available?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“My name is Cindy Dolans, and I’m a reporter with the Daily Squawk. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
The Phantom had a personal beef with this woman, but he also had her business card on him when he died. I should probably check her out.
“Come on up.” I buzz her in.
Seconds later, she’s at my door.
“Hi. It’s great to meet you.” She offers a soft hand with manicured nails.
“Nice to meet you, too. Come on in.”
Lincoln bounds out of the kitchen/bathroom to greet her. She drops to her knees and pets him.
“Well, hello there, fella,” she says with a smile.
“That’s Lincoln.”
“Nice to meet you, Lincoln.”
A dog person. I already don’t like her.
“Sorry about the mess.” I gesture towards my desk. “Please. Come sit.”
She walks right past the chair to the wall with the flower drawings. “Huh.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I interviewed this guy recently who had a living room full of flower drawings he’d done.”
“Really? Was he an artist?”
“Not professionally. He’s an engineering professor at Kibble University.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah.” She takes out a pen and notebook from her messenger bag and sits. Lincoln comes and lies at her feet.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss Dolans?”
“A little birdie told me you witnessed a traffic accident recently.”
“A birdie, huh?”
“I have a friend in the coroner’s office. He said a John Doe came in the other day who had been hit by a car and that you were the one who called 911. Is that true?”
“Yeah. The guy got hit right across the street. I didn’t actually see it happen, but I heard it from here, and when I saw him lying on the ground, I ran down to check on him. He wasn’t responsive, so I gave him CPR and called for help.”
“Did you know the man?”
“Know him? No.”
She smiles patiently. “My friend let me look at the body. Turns out it was the Kibble Phantom.”
“Who?”
“The blogger who wrote all those embarrassing articles about you. I saw you talking to him at the Museum Gala back in June. Right before you and your girlfriend — ”
“Oh, that Kibble Phantom. I guess I didn’t recognize him lying dead on the street like that. I’d only met him a couple of times.”
“So, it’s just a coincidence that he was in your neighborhood that day?”
“He stalked me for years. The guy was obsessed.”
“But he hadn’t done a story about you in over a year.”
“For all I know, he lived around here.”
She leans forward in her chair. “Here’s the thing. I’m finding it almost impossible to track down anyone who knew him. Even the people he’s interviewed can’t describe what he looks like other than to say he’s ugly. I, on the other hand, can’t get that frog face out of my head.”
“That’s because he wanted you to see him. He had a thing for you.”
“He harassed me at the Gala, and when I told him to get lost, he called me a fucking whore. He attacked me on his blog, and we fought on social media for weeks. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a thing for me.”
“I read his article. He didn’t write with that much disdain about someone unless they really got under his skin.”
“So, did he have a thing for you, too?”
“In my case, it was more like envy. He wanted to be me. Why are you even asking about him? It sucks he was hit by a car, but what’s there to say about it?”
She sighs. “Ever since our little feud, I’ve been trying to figure out what he’s all about. I went through two full years of his blog, and during that time, he published something every single day. Then last month, he seemed to suddenly fall off the grid. Friday, July 23 was his last post. I’m surprised nobody else is talking about it. Don’t his fans miss him?”
“Thanks to you, he had a lot fewer of those.”
“Really? I had that much of an impact?”
“It wasn’t just you. The culture was changing, and a lot of his shtick was starting to become problematic. You were just the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Well, for a while he was the most prominent blogger in town, and now he’s dead. If nothing else, the man deserves a proper obituary.”
The Phantom once commented on the short attention span of his readers. It didn’t bother him; in fact, that was his rationale for being loosey-goosey with the truth. By the time anyone had a chance to dispute something he said, the rest of the world would have already forgotten about it and moved on to the next story. And now that there won’t be any new stories, people will forget he ever existed at all. Part of me thinks that’s a good thing, but I understand where Cindy is coming from. He was a pain in the ass, and he should be remembered for that.
“If you’re writing his obit, I might be able to help fill in some background.”
She smiles. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I didn’t. Not personally. But I happen to know some things about him. Most importantly, his father is the Egyptian god Amon, and his mother was a Vegas prostitute.”
“Wait, so the Phantom’s like you, then?”
“That’s kind of a stretch. He’s never even been to Aaru. His conception was an accident, and it was a big scandal. Amon used his powers to erase the whole thing from the public consciousness and has never acknowledged his son’s existence. Even my mom didn’t remember.”
“Did the Phantom have powers, too?”
“He could turn invisible. Sort of. It’s more like he was good at making people forget he was there.”
“That makes sense, actually.” She turns the page in her notebook. “What else ya got?”
“Isn’t that enough? The guy wasn’t William Randolph Hearst. It’s not like the world is clamoring for his life story.”
“Ok, ok. But there is one more thing I wanted to ask you about.”
She pulls out a weathered business card from her bag. “I found this in his pocket. I know you seem to think he had a crush on me, but he never contacted me. We haven’t had any interaction at all since our Twitter exchange, and that was two months ago. Why do you think he had this on him when he didn’t even have a wallet or phone?”
“I have no idea. Though, full disclosure: I saw it, too. I went through his pockets while I was waiting for help to arrive. Before you ask — no, I didn’t take his phone or wallet. All he had was that card and some cash, which I did not take.”
“Did you happen to see it before the ink got smeared? I can’t for the life of me figure out what this says.”
“No, I couldn’t read it, either.”
She skims through her notes. “Ok, then. I guess that’s it for now. Would it be alright to contact you if I have any follow-up questions?”
“I guess so.”
She packs up her things, then Lincoln and I walk her to the door.
“Thanks again for meeting with me. And can I give you a bit of perspective from a journalist’s point of view?”
“Sure.”
“When you’re trying to make sense of all that crap the Phantom wrote, remember this: the stories don’t have to be true for them to be consequential.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
“You, too.”
I know firsthand the power of an exaggerated truth or an unsubstantiated rumor or an outright lie. The Phantom turned the entire city against me with allegations that I had murdered a woman in cold blood, and the facts barely mattered even after I cleared my name. So how does this apply to my current situation? It means whether or not he was full of shit, he made real enemies. It means there’s no point in trying to filter his stories through a spaghetti strainer to separate what’s absurd and what isn’t. I have to take it all seriously, just in case.