Trueman Bradley - Aspie Detective

  I opened my eyes and looked out the window. We were parked in front of a massive building. It had a neon sign that read “Sentinel Hotel” and, looking up, I counted forty floors. Sal was breathing heavily. He was holding one of my rolls of cash, staring at it. His eyes were wide open, like a fish.

  “Don’t throw a lot of money at me while I’m driving!” he said. “You almost made me crash, throwing this stuff around!”

  “Why?” I asked. “You don’t like money?”

  “No!” he said. “I like the money! I like it a lot! But it surprised me, that’s all! No one carries so much money around in cash. You’re giving this to me, you said?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But, why?” he asked. “Why are you so nice to me?”

  “Because you said you can’t be my chauffeur because your car will break down,” I said. “If you buy this Lincoln car and fix it, then you can be my chauffeur. So I gave you money to buy the car. I only have 21,000 dollars with me in cash, but I can give you a personal check for the remaining 39,000 dollars.”

  “And I get paid a regular salary, too?” he asked.

  “For being my chauffeur?” I said. “Yes.”

  Sal stared at the cash and smiled. I had never seen such a big smile. I assumed this meant he was even happier than a person with a normal smile. I imagined he was so happy because he could now be my chauffeur.

  “I’m also glad you’re my chauffeur,” I said.

  “Your chauffeur?” he asked. “Listen! If you give me this money and a salary too, then for sure I will be your chauffeur! But, no need to give me the check right now. I will use this cash to make a down payment on the Lincoln car. I will go buy it while you are in the hotel. I’ll be back with the car before you are done with your convention.”

  “Down payment?” I asked.

  “Ah, never you mind, Mr. Bradley!” he said. “You just leave it to me. You go and enjoy your detective convention.”

  Sal opened his door and jumped out of the car. With great energy, he opened my door and bowed. I stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, in front of the hotel. I put on my special sunglasses and put my earphones into my ears. I played Mozart’s Symphony #40 in G minor on my portable music player.

  I felt like I was in a little “bubble,” just like I did when I did math in my room at Reade Street. I felt safe and insulated from the world around me, as if I were wearing armor. I could see pedestrians walking in front of me, but I turned to avoid them and walked to the entrance of the Sentinel Hotel.

  I was almost at the hotel entrance when I realized that Sal might smoke his pipe in the new Lincoln car. I didn’t want my chauffeur car to smell like pipe-smoke. I turned around to go back and tell him not to smoke in it. I could see him in the driver’s seat of his old car, throwing my rolls of cash into the air and laughing spasmodically. I was shocked to see him having so much fun with my money.

  “He’s very happy to be my chauffeur,” I said to myself.

  I suddenly remembered the 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet was an open-topped car. So even if he smoked his pipe in the driver’s seat, the open top would ventilate the car and prevent it from becoming too smelly. I was glad, because I thought it might be impolite to interrupt his money-throwing activities, which he was clearly enjoying so much.

  I walked towards the hotel and entered the massive lobby. I could smell floor polish and could see moving water. There was a fountain in the lobby. The lobby’s marble floor was shiny and polished; it was a huge and luxurious room. I saw a lot of people walking around, but my special sunglasses stopped me from being distracted. I found a sign that said “Professional Detective’s Convention” and I followed the directional arrow beneath it, which pointed to the right.

  I was proud of myself, knowing how thoroughly my various inventions were working. I was finding my way through the crowds with no problems whatsoever. I felt confident that I would go through this entire day without anything going wrong. I took out my notebook and checked off “enter Sentinel Hotel” and “find Professional Detective’s Convention” from my checklist of today’s activities. Next on my list was “meet Dr. Nora Lucca.”

  I walked to the right and soon was in a room that smelled like wine and cheese. The many different perfumes and colognes mingling in the air made me aware the room was full of hundreds of people, before I even entered the room. Looking around, I counted 221 people in the room. Some of them were standing in groups and talking and some were sitting in high-back chairs.

  I didn’t see anyone coming to meet me, so I sat in a nearby chair. Mrs. Levi had told me Nora Lucca would meet me here. I was alarmed that Nora hadn’t met me immediately. Mrs. Levi hadn’t informed me that I needed to wait for Nora. I began to get nervous that things weren’t going according to my plan.

  I was soon distracted from my worries by a very welcome sight. I took off my sunglasses to see better.

  “Are you Slam and Shorty?” I asked.

  A tall man with a square jaw sat in the seat next to me. Beside him sat a short, fat man with a big nose. They both turned to look at me, but said nothing.

  “You look like Slam Bradley,” I said to the tall man. “And you! You look like Slam’s assistant, ‘Shorty’ Morgan! Shorty was short, fat and bald, with a big nose. Just like you!”

  The two men looked at each other and then at me. I could recognize by the look on their faces that they were annoyed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Did I annoy you?”

  The short, bald man got up from his chair, put on a hat and walked away.

  “Where is Shorty going?” I asked.

  “Don’t call him that!” said the tall man. “Don’t you know who he is?”

  “I thought he was Shorty,” I said.

  “He’s the chief of the NYPD!” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Then he’s not Shorty. Does that mean you aren’t Slam Bradley?”

  “I’m Malcolm Vrie,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. I have no idea who Slam Bradley is. You’ve made a mistake.”

  He stared at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, but I could not interpret what it meant or what he was feeling.

  “Slam Bradley,” I said. “He was a comic book detective whose adventures were published by the ‘Detective Comics’ company. He was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster…”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t care, okay.”

  “You don’t care?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Now, would you please go away? That seat you’re sitting in belongs to someone else.”

  “Doesn’t it belong to the hotel?” I asked.

  Malcolm laughed loudly. “What are you, some kind of moron?” he asked.

  I could now recognize the emotions on his face. His eyes expressed hatred and aggression. I tried to think of what I might have done to offend him, but I couldn’t think of a reason.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he asked. “I said get lost!”

  His eyes expressed even greater hatred and they were starting to scare me. I thought about running from the hotel.

  “Are you Trueman Bradley?” asked a female voice.

  A tall, young woman with long black hair and wearing a violet suit had come towards us and extended her hand to me. My granddad taught me people do this when they want to shake my hand. I grabbed her hand and shook it.

  “I’m Trueman Bradley,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Nora Lucca,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner. In a room full of detectives wearing trench coats and fedoras, finding you is like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “How is it like finding a needle in a haystack?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “That’s an expression that means it’s hard to find something. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Levi, told me you have Asperger’s Syndrome. Don’t worry about it. I had a cousin with Asperger’s so I know a lot about it. I’ll speak clearly and try not to use any more expressions.”

 
“Thank you,” I said.

  “You know this clown?” asked Malcolm.

  “I’m not a clown,” I said. “I’m a detective.”

  Malcolm gave me another hate-filled look. His aggression was starting to make me nervous and upset. I couldn’t understand why he had become suddenly aggressive.

  “Why do you hate me?” I asked. “What did I do?”

  “Hello, Malcolm,” said Nora. “I haven’t seen you for a while. Are you having some kind of problem with Trueman?”

  “Yeah!” he said. “He just called the chief of police short, fat and bald. Then he was bugging me with questions.”

  Nora seemed to know Malcolm. But I could see from the look on her face that she didn’t like him much. I interpreted that she was looking at him with eyes that expressed disgust.

  “For one thing,” she said, “did he lie? The chief of police is short, fat and bald. Are you denying that?”

  “Well, no!” he said. “But you don’t say stuff like that to people. It’s rude! This guy has no manners. He’s a jerk!”

  “Malcolm,” she said, “he has Asperger’s Syndrome. He can’t always tell what’s rude and what’s not. I’m sure you didn’t know you were offending anybody, right Trueman?”

  “Right,” I said. “I didn’t know I was being offensive!”

  “There, you see?” asked Nora. “Now, Trueman, I think you and I should go somewhere else to talk.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Nora was quiet for a while and looked at Malcolm.

  “Because I don’t like Malcolm,” she said. “He’s a jerk. Let’s leave him alone with his hate and go talk somewhere else.”

  Malcolm laughed. I could interpret from his face that he also hated Nora. She seemed like a kind, understanding woman and so I became even more emotional. This man seemed to hate innocent people for no reason, and it made me angry.

  “You’re just jealous, Nora,” said Malcolm.

  “Oh, am I?” she asked. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because the Chief was talking to me,” he said. “Do you know why he was talking to me? I think you do. He was talking to me because he was giving me a job. You’ve been trying to get a job from the Chief, but he didn’t give it to you. Isn’t that right? You’re jealous, Nora, admit it! It’s too obvious!”

  I didn’t entirely understand what Malcolm was talking about, but I could recognize the aggression in his voice. He was talking in a rude and threatening way to my new friend, Nora, and it enraged me. I jumped up from my chair.

  “Shut up!” I said. “Just shut up, you bully! Stop threatening people! All you do is hate people for no reason! Don’t threaten Nora! If you threaten us, I’ll call the police!”

  I had yelled so loudly that everyone in the room heard me. The room was silent and everyone was staring at us. Malcolm’s face turned red and I recognized that he was embarrassed.

  “Shut up!” he whispered. “Everyone’s listening!”

  “No, you shut up!” I said.

  “Please, you two!” Nora said. “I mean, I think we should keep it quiet, okay Trueman? Could you sit down, please?”

  She grabbed my shoulder and led me to my chair. Her voice was gentle and soothing and I started to feel calmer.

  “Trueman,” she said, “I know Malcolm aggravates you, but I’d like it if you could keep calm, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Malcolm,” she said, “you have a lot to learn about good manners. I told you Trueman has Asperger’s. You have to be careful what you say around him, because he doesn’t always…”

  “So, he’s stupid,” Malcolm said. “Who cares?”

  “I’m not stupid!” I said.

  “Malcolm,” Nora said, “he’s not stupid. He may not get all the subtleties of small talk or body language, but I’ll tell you this: he’s a lot more polite than you are. I don’t imagine he’d intentionally insult anyone the way you just insulted him!”

  “That’s right!” I said. “And besides that, I’m not stupid! Maybe I’m smarter than you! Did you ever invent a crime-fighting equation?”

  “I’m sorry?” he asked. “A crime-fighting equation?”

  “Aha!” I said. “You don’t even know what it means. Maybe you’re the stupid one! I’m smarter than you! Buckley asked me to invent a mathematical equation to fight crime and I did.”

  “Sam Buckley?” he asked. “Yeah, right. I know him. I doubt Buckley would ask for help from someone like you.”

  “He did!” I said. “My equation can predict the cause and outcome of any crime. So, now you can see I’m not stupid.”

  Malcolm laughed and looked at me as if I was insane.

  “You’re seriously saying a mathematical equation can solve a crime?” he asked. “And just how does it manage to do that?”

  “It’s easy!” I said. “I just need the time and place of the crime, and what type of crime it was. Then I can use my equation to determine many things. Such as, where the criminal went, what neighborhood he lives in and many other things.”

  “There’s no possible way a mathematical equation can do that,” he said. “You really are stupid if you believe that.”

  “I’m not!” I said. “Maybe you’re the stupid one!”

  “If you’re so smart, buddy…” he said.

  “I’m Trueman Bradley!” I said.

  “Fine…” he said. “If you’re so smart, Mr. Trueman Bradley, then maybe you can use your miracle equation to solve the murder case that Chief Stokowski just gave me to solve.”

  “Sure I can!” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now, we’ll see if your equation really works! Here are the facts. A man named Eric Lendalainen was found dead outside 620 East 13th Street, last night. He was bludgeoned over the head. He had 50 bucks in his pocket, so it wasn’t robbery. Is that all you need to know?”

  “What time was it?” I asked.

  “I told you it was last night,” he said.

  “I need the exact time!” I said. “Or the equation won’t give an accurate result.”

  “We believe he was murdered at 11:15 pm,” he said. “Go ahead, buddy. Use your magic equation and solve the crime!”

  I was enraged by his taunting tone of voice. I was determined to show this aggressive bully that I was smarter than him. I had all the data I needed to use my crime-fighting equation and solve this crime. I put my earphones into my ears and closed my eyes, so I would not be distracted. I forgot about Malcolm and Nora and concentrated on my equation. I began to talk to myself.

  “Man, murdered, 620 East 13th Street, 11:15 pm…”

  I used the power of my mind to envision my crime-fighting equation, which had 357 variables. Although it was easy for me to do the math, it took me a few minutes to solve the equation, because there were so many variables and a lot of complex operations. Apart from the data he had given me, I had to determine the values of several hundred more variables, based on a variety of statistics I had memorized about New York City. The process was exceedingly complex and required all my formidable powers of concentration. After a few minutes of organizing the numbers in my head, I executed the equation and calculated an answer.

  “I solved it!” I said. “The murderer is a man and lives near 545 East 13th Street and is currently at home. He is probably a plumber or a carpenter with a criminal history. He has a wife and family. He is an alcoholic who abuses his wife.”

  I opened my eyes, but Malcolm was gone. I had been savoring the thought of proving my intelligence to him. I was disappointed to realize he had not heard my successful solution. Nora was sitting in Malcolm’s chair and staring at me.

  “Where’s Malcolm?” I asked.

  “He left,” she said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, he gave you the details of the crime,” she said. “Then he asked you to solve it with your equation.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” I said.

  “Then you closed your eyes,” she said,
“put in your earphones and started making a strange noise.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You made a noise like ‘ung… ung,’” she said. “You went on making that sound for a few minutes. Malcolm started laughing, called you an idiot and then left.”

  “I make that noise sometimes when I’m concentrating very hard,” I said. “I don’t realize when I’m doing it. Why did he leave? I was using my equation to solve his murder case!”

  Nora was quiet. I felt frustrated and looked around the room. I wanted to find Malcolm and tell him I solved his case.

  “Did you really solve the case?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I told you that already. It was a man near 545 East 13th Street, like I said. I want to go there with Malcolm to prove to him that my crime-fighting equation works!”

  “So, you really invented an equation that can solve crimes?” she asked. “That sounds too good to be true.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course it’s true! Do you think I’m a liar? I never lie!”

  Nora stared at me silently. She looked calm and peaceful, but I thought I recognized confusion on her face. I guessed that she was not sure if she believed in my equation.

  “I’m sure my equation works,” I said.

  “Really?” she asked. “Have you tested it yet?”

  “No,” I said. “But I tested it on old cases that are already solved. It was correct 98 percent of the time.”

  “Really?” she asked. “That equation of yours intrigues me. I’m still not sure I believe an equation can solve crime. But there’s no harm in testing it. Would you mind coming with me to 545 East 13th Street to see if you’re right?”

  “But, I know I’m right!” I said. “I want to go with Malcolm. I want to make him realize he’s wrong.”

  “Trueman,” she said, “do you know what Malcolm meant when he said I was jealous of him?”

  “No,” I said. “But I knew he was being aggressive to you.”

  “Yes, he was,” she said. “Thank you for trying to defend me, by the way. I appreciate your kindness, Trueman.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I don’t like cruel people.”

  “Me neither,” she said. “Well, I’ll explain to you what he meant when he said I was jealous. I’ll tell you in clear language, since I know you like people to talk to you clearly. If the NYPD are too busy to solve a case, they sometimes give it to a private detective to solve. If you succeed in solving a case for them, the NYPD will be grateful to you. They will like you and give you more cases in the future. You understand?”