#Wattys2015 The Ghost of James Fitzpatrick

Chapter 32

King's Gym sat alone in a free-standing building in a parking lot in downtown Arden. The lot was filled with the snow of the day, now slushing up on the tires of cars pulling in and out of spaces.

Inside, the sound of weights and bars filled the space where men and women ran on treadmills and stationary bikes. Their faces were moist with satisfaction, despite the weather outside. Several of the patrons lift free weights in front of the mirror-lined walls, and scrutinize their technique.

John Zwicki was watching his deltoids carefully and slowly expand and contract with each lift of the weight clutched in his left fist, then repeated again with his right.

His posture was impeccable tonight, and at first glance not imposing, but his muscles showed strength and years of discipline. At 55, he knew hewas in better shape than most of the younger men prowling King's Gym tonight.

A blonde woman in her 40s meandered through the equipment and other people in the gym, glaring at them as if they were in her way. She was wearing tight, black running pants and a neon pink sports bra. She had her sights set on John Zwicki who stood at the far side of the room.

She took a seat at the weight bench nearest Zwicki, with obviously no intention of working out.

She watched Zwicki and waited for him to finish his repetitions and give her the attention she sought at the moment.

Zwicki spotted her in the mirror, but did not turn around and continued his counting.

"Hello Miranda," he said into the mirror.

"Hellooo John," she warbled back like a pheasant in a bush.

"What can I do for you Miranda?" he asked.

She was waving a piece of paper up and down behind him, but Zwicki was still not taking the bait. He kept counting into the mirror watching his muscles obey. Miranda rolled her eyes.

"You know I work for the Central St. Louie PoPo, right?" she asked.

"You may find this difficult to believe Miranda," replied Zwicki "but I actually don't keep up with your comings and goings." He continued to lift and breathlessly counted down, "five, four, three, two,"

"Well," replied Miranda pouting, "sometimes I wish you would."

Zwicki was not interested in the trashy woman behind him.

She stood and walked up behind him while he faced the mirror.

"Don't say I never gave you nothing," Miranda smiled and held the paper out in front of his face while Zwicki attempted to focus on the typed sheet in front of him.

"What is it?" he asks "Jesus, Miranda."

"Some teenager and her mom came to the station today, and I heard your name," she began: "Z-W-I-C-K-I. Zwicki!"

He slowly took the sheet of paper from her hand and sat down on the weight bench to read.

"What is this?" he asked again. "What were they talking about?"

"The girl, she was a goofy little thing - coulda used a make-over," laughed Miranda, "she had long, sorta blondish hair...um glasses, and she did most of the talking."

"What did she say?" asked Zwicki.

"Well, I couldn't hear much, she was really nervous, and I will say they sounded like a couple of weirdos. I heard her say 'I know it's hard to believe' and I could tell by the way the two cops looked at each other that they didn't believe her."

Zwicki was trying to make sense of the paper in front of him, he flipped it over but it was blank on the back.

"I heard her say the word 'suicide' which I thought was kinda weird," continued Miranda, "oh, and something about Army medals."

"Well who in the hell were they, Miranda?" he asked again, "and what do you mean by 'acting like weirdos?"

"I don't know who they are, but their last name is at the bottom of the form." She pointed to it with her red, French manicured nails.

"Right there," she said, "Did you maybe know someone a long time ago who did a swan dive off The Bridge?" Miranda stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes back in her head like a dead person, but Zwicki did not notice.

He found the name 'Netherby' at the bottom of the form. His face was in full concentration, trying to connect a dot, or a face with a name. He searched his mind, quickly opening the little file cabinets inside his brain one by one until Miranda broke his concentration.

"I wouldn't worry about it John," she said as she began to walk away. He looked up at her.

"Oh yeah, and why do you say that?" he asked.

"They didn't believe her," she responded.

"Who?" asked Zwicki irritably.

"The cops, like I said! For cryin' out loud, call me some time John Zwicki!" Miranda turned to walk away.

Zwicki did not answer her. He did not even hear her. His eyes went back to the sheet of paper in front of him. He was actually smiling a little, though he was perplexed and it was a nervous smile. He shook his head as if to throw out a thought he did not wish to recall.

It was not a pretty thought. It was his special secret. It was something he had never shared with anyone. It was something no one else should ever have known.

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