Kirkoff’s Friend by Michael W. Clark

Kirkoff’s Friend by Michael W. Clark

Kirkoff was always disappointed in Cleveland. It was 1990 and Lake Erie was still the shitty mess it had been twenty years ago. He always wanted to enjoy the lake as a boy, but he couldn’t. For a justification, everyone said the same thing. “It used to be better.” It was the same thing they said about Cleveland, in general. “It used to be better.”

“Most things fit that description.” Kirkoff said to the green water of one of the Great Lakes. Lake Erie was just one of a set. The apartment had a good view for Cleveland. It had a porch facing this not-so-great lake. As long as the wind was blowing toward the water, it was nice here. It was a middle-income dwelling. It had a porch on the second floor. Kirkoff looked down at the photographs spread across the porch wooden floor. He had laid the pictures out in order. The individual images formed an almost life size male body. It was where his childhood friend, Bill Hagen, was found dead. The cause of death was obvious, a pearl handled fishing knife had penetrative his left eye. The murder picts didn’t do justice to the horror of the event. Just another Cleveland disappointment.

“The cops said it was a drug related killing.” Agnice Hagen stood next to Kirkoff away from the photo montage. She appeared so small beside him. He had known her his entire life. She was Bill’s mother. “Bill didn’t do drugs. His music was too important to him. I just wanted you to know. I know you do detective things. The cops didn’t seem hopeful. Random drug killings. The happen all the time the cop kept saying. Not very hopeful. I thought you might, well, have some thoughts. You know, on this.”

Kirkoff looked up at the porch ceiling. It was made of wooden planks just as was the floor. Kirkoff reached up and touched the cut marks in the ceiling above the disjointed photo body. Kirkoff shook his head. “His music wasn’t going very well.”

Agnice shook her head and moaned, “He was always so creative, but not popular. He didn’t like most people. None like he liked you. Drugs could be a remedy.”

Kirkoff sighed. “It was inverse Mumbley peg.” Kirkoff pointed at the ceiling gashes. “We used to play it when we were really bored during the summer. Cleveland summers, so disappointing. We would lay on our backs and throw the fishing knife up just enough so it stick it in the ceiling, but not too deep. The excitement comes from waiting for the knife to fall back on you. Then you had to scramble. Looks like Bill fell asleep waiting. He would do that when we were kids.”

“At the summer cabin?” She looked up at Kirkoff. “I didn’t know about that.”

“Not something moms should know about.” Kirkoff shrugged. “When it was a hot day, a very hot day, he would fall asleep while waiting. I  had to move him out of the way more then a few times. He had scars. So do i.” Kirkoff showed her scars on his forearms. “He must have been very bored for this to happen. It hasn’t been that hot.”

Agnice stared down at the collage of her dead son. “Music wasn’t enough.” She whispered.

Kirkoff sighed. “Not in my experience. Music is never enough.”

“Nothing to investigate then.” She whispered again.

“Maybe sadness and melancholy, but those are subjects for poets.” Kirkoff sighed. “I’m no poet.”

* * * * The End * * * *
Copyright Michael W. Clark 2024