Trueman Bradley - Aspie Detective (3 page)

“Don’t bother trying to understand!” he said. “You’re an idiot and I can’t sit around all day waiting for you to understand. You’re going to give me that coat, you moron!”

He spun me around and started to forcibly remove my trench coat. I tried to resist, but he was stronger than me.

“Freeze! Don’t move!”

The voice caused me to see the cab driver in my mind’s eye.

“Step away from him!” said the cab driver.

The cab driver was running towards us, holding a gun in his hand. Seth instantly started running, and he was gone before the cab driver got close. I wasn’t sure if I should run too. Was the cab driver trying to rob me again? He was running at me with a gun and I was terrified. I fell to the ground and closed my eyes, trying to forget the disturbing situation I was in.

“120, 136, 153…” I said.

“Trueman!” said the cab driver.

I opened my eyes, and saw the cab driver, without his sunglasses, looking at me. I could recognize worry on his face. He had holstered his gun and was leaning over me.

“Trueman, are you okay?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I need to relax. I’m tense.”

“No wonder!” he said. “You just got robbed!”

“I did?” I asked.

“Sure, you did!” said the cab driver. “That guy was trying to take all that cash in your coat. Lucky I was following you.”

“Why were you following me?” I asked.

The cab driver pulled out a badge and showed it to me.

“Detective Sam Buckley, NYPD,” he said.

“You mean New York Police Department?” I asked. “You’re a police officer?”

“You could say that,” he said. “I’m a detective. Chief of detectives, actually. I was in the middle of setting up an undercover operation when I picked you up. I followed you ’cause I figured someone would try to rob you, walking around with all that cash. And what do you know? I was right! But it looks like he didn’t have the sense to take this with him.”

He picked up the trench coat full of cash.

“I guess I spooked him, huh?” he asked.

He handed me the trench coat and helped me put it on.

“I’m still missing 5,940 dollars,” I said. “Someone stole it from my pocket while I was in the teller’s queue.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “Okay, well that must’ve been this same guy that just tried to rob you. I watched him walking with you into the bank. He must have picked your pocket while you were walking with him. Thieves like him are good at what they do. They can reach into your pocket and take your money so gently that you don’t even notice.”

“Seth stole my money?” I asked.

“So that’s his name?” he asked. “Well, that helps. Listen, come with me. We’ll write up a quick theft report and then I got to get back to the station. Come on, Trueman, let’s go. This place stinks like hell and my cab’s double-parked.”

Reade Street was busy. Pedestrians and disturbing sounds were everywhere. But we were safe inside a cab. Detective Sam Buckley and I were parked on the street, outside my office.

“So, you’re not really a cab driver?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “This is just part of an undercover job I was working on. I get to pretend to be a cabbie. Lucky me, huh? Now let’s finish filling this report, alright?”

He was writing the details of the robbery in his notebook. I watched him as he wrote. His brow was furrowed from concentration and his jaw was clenched. He was handsome, with black hair. He had a powerful physique and a square jaw. He looked a lot like Superman, from the original comic book series.

“Did you know the Slam Bradley comic books were published before the first Superman comics?” I asked. “They say Slam was used as the model for Superman. That’s why they look so similar. You look a lot like Slam.”

“Slam?” he asked. “Is this about the robbery, here? No, I don’t think so. I asked you about details. Let’s stick to the subject, Trueman. I don’t exactly have a lot of time on my hands, you know? Can you describe the guy that robbed you?”

“Yes,” I said.

He had his pen positioned on the paper, ready to write.

“He was wearing a blue hat,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

“He was wearing navy blue jeans and a brown suede jacket,” I said. “And his hair was brown. His eyes were gray.”

“Okay, Trueman,” he said, “I think that’s all we need.”

“He had six holes in his jeans,” I said. “None of the holes were more than two inches in diameter. His shampoo smelled like coconuts. I recognized the smell of his wet hair. It smelled like someone who had just showered, maybe ten minutes earlier.”

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He had slight brown discoloration on the middle and index fingers of his left hand. From my experience, that means he smokes cigarettes with his left hand. I know it was cigarettes because I recognized the smell. It was the smell of a Marlborough Lite brand cigarette.”

“Seth’s a left-handed smoker?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I also noticed he had spray paint residue on his hands. I knew it was spray paint and not another kind of paint because it was a color called ‘axe-handle’ brown. That color is owned and copyrighted by the Hammer-Olgen spray paint company. I’ve seen their color sample books in the hardware store. He also had strange shoes with duct tape covering them. Maybe he repaired his shoes with duct tape because he can’t afford new shoes.”

“Well, he can afford a lot of new shoes now that he has your money,” he said. “But listen, Trueman, are you seriously telling me the truth here? You really noticed all this?”

“Yes!” I said. “Of course! I’m not a liar.”

“Well, I’ll put it in the report,” he said. “But I gotta tell you, Trueman, it’s kind of hard to believe. I’m a trained detective and I have no idea how to tell when someone got out of the shower ten minutes ago. You’re seriously on the level?”

“Am I on the level?” I asked. “On what level?”

“On the level!” he said. “You don’t know what that means? If you’re on the level, then it means you’re telling the truth.”

“Oh, it’s an expression,” I said. “I’d prefer if you speak to me in clear language. I sometimes have trouble with idioms.”

He closed his notebook and put it in his pocket. I could recognize confusion on his face.

“Yeah,” he said, “you also didn’t know what ‘a grand’ was.”

“I knew!” I said. “I just didn’t immediately remember. Like I said, I sometimes have problems with expressions.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “So how come?”

“I have Asperger’s Syndrome,” I said.

“So, you got Asperger’s Syndrome,” he said. “What’s that?”

“It’s a condition,” I said. “It just means I might think a little differently from most people. Differently from you.”

The detective stared at me and said nothing. It seemed to me I was confusing him even more. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t say anything. Did he still not understand?

I couldn’t think of a clearer way to explain it to him.

“Okay, Trueman,” he said, “I don’t understand that, but it’s okay with me. Take it easy, and if you think of anything else about the robbery just call the number on my card, okay?”

He handed me a card and started the car. The card he gave me had the NYPD logo on it and Buckley’s name and phone number.

“Wait!” I said. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What, Trueman?” he asked. “I’m already late here.”

“Does the NYPD need any help?” I asked. “Because I’m a private detective and I still need to get my first case.”

He turned off the car and stared at me again.

“You’re joking,” he said. “You? A private detective? Do you have any idea how much work that requires?”

“Yes!” I said. “I’ve studied detective work! I’ve studied the magazines too. The Slam Bradley magazines, I mean.”

“Slam Bradley?” he asked. “That comic book detective from the forties?”

“Not just the forties,” I said. “It began in March of 1937 and ended in October of 1949.”

“It doesn’t matter!” he said. “The point is, being a detective isn’t like a comic book, kid! You’re telling me you don’t know what ‘a grand’ is, but you’re gonna be a detective?”

“I’m not a kid!” I said. “And I know what ‘a grand’ is.”

“Yeah, but I had to tell you!” he said.

He made a groaning noise.

“Look, Trueman,” he said, “in order to succeed at being a detective, you need what is known as ‘street smarts.’ Now, if you don’t know what that is, it means you already know what ‘a grand’ is and you can tell all about what someone’s gonna do before they do it, just from reading their faces. You get me?”

“Get you?” I asked. “I don’t understand, Mr. Buckley.”

“Well, I’ll spell it out for you,” he said. “If this thing you’ve got, this syndrome, if it keeps you from being able to know what people are feeling and things like that, then you’ll never make it as a detective. You need to be able to see that stuff! You’re too naive, kid. New York will eat you alive!”

“Eat me?” I asked. “Are you saying there are cannibals in New York City? Cannibalism is illegal in the United States!”

“No, Trueman!” said Buckley. “I don’t mean that literally. I mean you can’t succeed as a detective! Not with your condition! You gotta be able to read between the lines and be cagey as a cat, and you can’t if you take everyone literally.”

I didn’t understand what a cat or a cage had to do with any of this, but I could understand enough of what he was saying.

“You’re wrong!” I said. “I noticed things you didn’t notice about Seth. You saw him too, but you didn’t notice all the details I noticed. I saw even more details than I told you about. Also, I knew it was you in the bank, because of the birthmarks on your right cheek that resemble the constellation of Orion and your lavender, anise and vanilla cologne!”

“So, you did know it was me,” he said. “I kinda thought you did. You say I got the constellation of Orion on my cheek?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wasn’t fooled by the disguise of a professional detective. So, that means I’m a good detective, too. Correct? I recognize patterns and visual information better than anyone I know. I know I can use these skills to solve cases and detect criminals. Isn’t it important for a detective to notice and analyze small details like I can?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I admit I’m impressed by how well you can see and remember these things. And if there was an equation for finding criminals, you’d be the perfect man for the job, Trueman. Because it’s clear you’re a genius with math and logic and stuff. But the fact of the matter is, detective work is mostly running after people, not math or noticing patterns. Now, I ask you, if you’re scared to even go in a crowd, then how you gonna chase a criminal down a busy Manhattan street, huh?

If you take my advice, you’ll go straight back to where you came from and forget all about this, okay? Now, I gotta ask you to leave my cab, Trueman, ’cause they’re expecting me back at the station. You take it easy, kid, and call me about those other details you talked about. I’m a busy guy, you know, but I’ll get back to you some time.”

I got out of the cab and stood there, unaware of my surroundings. I was concentrating on Buckley’s cab, which drove slowly away from me and disappeared into the thick traffic.

Because Buckley looked a lot like Slam, I felt as if Slam Bradley himself had just told me I couldn’t be a good detective. I was desperate to prove to him that I could be.

“An equation for finding criminals…” I said to myself.

I hadn’t realized that no one had invented such an equation. I had assumed that some detective had invented it a long time ago. Everything in existence can be expressed by an equation. If there was such an equation, crime-fighting would be easy for me, because mathematical patterns are my greatest skill. I walked to my office door, oblivious to the crowds.

“An equation for finding criminals…” I repeated, as I walked into my building and climbed the stairs up to my room.

One single light bulb hung from the ceiling of my room and there was barely enough light to read what I was writing. I was using a piece of chalk to write numbers on a blackboard. I was playing music on my portable music player. I was listening to Symphony #41 in C major by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Listening to this symphony always helped me to concentrate and so I played it repeatedly. The song’s consistent pattern of musical notes inspired my mind to think logically and made me feel safe and secure.

The blackboard in my room was large. It was inherited from my granddad. They used it at the police station in Chicago, where he had worked. They used it to give lessons to new police officers. And now, I was using it to solve an important problem which could help to fight crime. I was inventing a mathematical equation that could find criminals and prevent their crimes.

In the dark, music-filled room, with the windows shut and the blinds lowered, I felt like I was in a different world; a comforting world of numbers and logical equations. It felt like I was in a bubble of safety, protected from the chaos of New York City. Nothing unpredictable could happen in this bubble.

“Trueman!”

The voice was loud and made me drop my chalk. I saw an image of Mrs. Levi in my mind. She was calling through the door. There was a loud knock. I hadn’t expected anything unpredictable to happen in my “bubble” and so I panicked. I hid behind my blackboard, hoping she’d go away.

Suddenly, I could smell raspberries. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the math I had been working on. I could smell raspberries and Earl Grey tea. I could also smell baloney.

“Mrs. Levi?” I asked, from behind the blackboard. “Could you come back another time, please?”

“What’s that?” she asked. “I can’t hear you, dear. Please open up. I’ve brought you some tea and cake.”

It seemed Mrs. Levi wouldn’t be going away, so I opened my eyes and came out from behind the blackboard. I liked Mrs. Levi and raspberries are one of my favorite foods. But I had planned to spend all evening inventing my crime-fighting equation and Mrs. Levi’s interruption was upsetting and unwelcome.

I grabbed my notebook from a nearby table and added “have tea and cake with Mrs. Levi” onto my checklist of activities for today. Now that it was part of my plan, I felt better about the interruption. I opened the door and Mrs. Levi came into my room. She was carrying a tray, which held a blue and white striped teapot and a small, pink cake.

The raspberry scent of the cake made my mouth water.

“I just realized I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” I said.

“You haven’t?” she asked. “My goodness, dear, it’s nine at night! You have to eat! Here, take the whole cake. I shouldn’t be eating it anyways. I’m trying to watch my figure.”

“Watch what?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Trueman,” she said. “I’m trying to speak clearly to you, dear. What I meant is I’m trying to lose weight, so I shouldn’t eat cake. It’s fattening, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “this looks like a raspberry lemon cake. It’s small. I guess its weight at about 200 grams. So it would be about 600 calories. A pound of fat is 3,500 calories. So it is the equivalent of more than one seventh of a pound of fat.”

“Really?” she asked. “How do you know all that?”

“I memorized nutritional information for over 200 different kinds of food,” I said. “This cake has 168 calories per 50 grams.”

“I’ve got to tell you,” she said. “You’ve got a real talent for details, Trueman. I’m sorry I ever doubted that you’re smart enough to be a detective.”

“I forgive you,” I said. “And I’m sorry I embarrassed you by mentioning the baloney. You were embarrassed, right?”

Mrs. Levi let out a deep sigh and said nothing. I assumed she had no answer and so I started eating the cake.

“I was just surprised, is all,” she said. “We’ve all got our little private lives. You know, the things we do when we think no one’s watching? It’s one of my comforts to sit in front of the TV at night and eat baloney with mustard.”

“Why is that embarrassing?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not really embarrassing,” she said. “Just surprising. If you know that, it’s like you can see my private life. Who knows what else you might know about me? How you figured out about the baloney, I don’t know! You were right, of course. I’m surprised you didn’t know about the mustard.”

“I did,” I said. “I would have mentioned it if you didn’t leave the room. I could recognize 121 small mustard stains.”

Her face turned red and she averted her eyes from me.

“You’re embarrassed again?” I asked.

“Well, maybe a little embarrassed,” she said. “You must think I’m a slob, dropping food all over my dress. I assure you, I’m usually more lady-like.”

“Aha. Good,” I said.

I was not paying attention to her words. The cake was so delicious, I couldn’t stop eating it. In a few minutes, there was only one small piece of cake left. I enjoyed the scent of raspberries so much, I didn’t want to eat the last piece. I wanted to keep it, so I could smell it while I worked. My positive association with this smell would help inspire me.