"Hello, Frank! Rise and shine! It’s morning. Anyway, I just called to ask for help! Yup! It’s your dear friend’s birthday soon! And…"

Frank picked up the phone and answered it, preferring that to hearing Chet’s joyous voice blaring over the answering machine. He hated to be disturbed when he was poring through his notes, trying to sift up some gems that he could build an argument upon. Picking up the call would shut Chet up faster. "Yes, Chet."

"Oh, why didn’t you pick up your damn phone in the first place? Don’t you know how distressing it is to speak to a machine?"

"You seemed to have no trouble with it." Frank replaced the set of notes in his hand with another and felt a strange excitement coursing through his veins again, carried by his blood to his brains. The thrill of new knowledge was his best defense against the aching tiredness caused by his insomnia. The fragrance of coffee- the stimulant that would shock his system awake- was the ammunition which would see to the success of his tired body complementing his restless mind.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing…just reading something on Descartes…"

"Discard who?"

"Descartes. Cognito, ergo sum."

"Whatever. Your thesis?"

"No. Just some readings. I got sick of my thesis and so I thought I’d peruse something lighter."

"Oh well…" Chet paused and Frank sensed some disappointment in his friend’s cheery voice. "Since you’re busy… anyway, I just called to ask for some advice…"

Party. He must be thinking of a birthday party.

"Too close to her anniversary."

"Are you a psychic? Anyway, I know that. But I can’t help it. I’m born on the 18^th of October. I know it’s selfish but I really hope we can move on… just…" Chet’s voice withered off, hesitant for fear of harboring the intention of something wrong; disrespectful.

Frank put down his notes and grew quiet.

Moving on. How well we have all moved on. Depression; suicide; out-of-wedlock pregnancy; rejection.

Oh yes, we’ve moved on very well.

"I think he’ll mind but you’re right. We have to move on. I’ll talk to him about it. Need help?"

"Of course!" Chet sounded happy again, now that he had Frank’s approval. It was a mystery that Frank could not comprehend. He was nowhere the "designated" leader of the gang. Normally, they took turns, depending on the situation. Most of the time, they were all equals.

Yet, whenever there was a problem; whenever a dilemma needed sorting out, they turned to Frank. Frank’s suggestion was usually the answer and although he could be wrong, the fact that he endorsed their actions seemed to give them a warranty of sorts.

He was about to pick up the print outs on one of his philosophical "heroes" Descartes, when he spotted the brown file that he had perused through the night before, or rather, the early morning. Did he have the time?

Will it make a difference?

Now? Or bring new wounds to the surface?

"Chet, you free today? Any class?" He asked, still eying the file. Truth. Philosophers sought the truth to the existence of a God; to the meaning of life.

He, a mere mortal- hardly a philosopher with the capacity to understand the minds of the masters, - only wanted answers to the mysteries presented before him.

Only wanted an answer that would bring his brother back, complete with a soul that could finally taste freedom and sanity once again.

With his doubt stronger than before, his mind could not rest. Not that it ever did.

"No…why?" Chet responded tentatively.

"Care to go back the tree house?"

And then he heard Chet gulp loudly.

***

The two friends gathered in the small clearing bordered by several alcoves of trees. The circular, grassy area was warmed by the hot afternoon sun. Light spiraled down conically from its point of origin way up in the heavens and the leaves glistened with the reflection of the sun’s rays; sparkling with a childlike brilliance.

Bright as it was, their souls’ wells were overflowing with dread. The sun could not take away the mark of death; a mark more in the minds of those who saw the aftermath of what had transpired.

A bad place. The clearing had became a bad place- its dark aura was shaded even blacker by the gut-wrenching memories of almost a year ago.

Frank swallowed several times to calm himself down so he could settle his mind and think. When he thought he was ready to face the retelling of the crime, he looked up the tree house and back down onto the ground. Picking up a stick, he drew an oval onto the soft soil.

"That’s where I found Ness with Joe…" he spoke out aloud for the benefit of his sole, reluctant audience- present beside him for no reason other than loyalty of friendship.

"This place still gives me the creeps, even at noon…" Chet shuddered and sub-consciously moved closer to Frank while surveying the area- his eyes were wide with trepidation.

"Tell me, Chet. If you’re dead after you shot yourself and you fell from there," Frank interrupted Chet and pointed up to the tree house which was nothing more than just a few planks of wood hammered side-by side, pulling down his Nike shades at the same time. Thinking and occupying his mind with work pushed the fear out of his system effectively. Moreover, he had this burning need for the unearthing of truth, a truth which doubt could not shatter; a truth to bring back his brother.

"Where will the gun be?"

"I dunno…" Chet pressed his lips into a straight line and Frank saw his friend’s discomfiture but he did not relent.

"Do you think you will still be able to hold on to the gun?"

"How would I know? I’m dead!" Chet hissed with some agitation. Frank sighed and passed Chet a water pistol which he dug out from the old toy box in his attic before meeting up with Chet.

"Take this, climb up, pretend to shoot yourself and fall down."

"I’ll break my neck!"

"Does it matter? You’re dead. You can’t feel pain, your nerves are gone. It’s unlikely that you will be able to feel anything." Frank concluded, imagining the scene in his mind. Chet looked at the pistol in his hand and up at the tree house.

"What are you getting at?"

Frank cleared his throat and started to climb up the tree to the tree house. Chet followed behind him, lagging by a while body length, unable to keep pace with his urgency.

"Joe told me everything… what really happened, what he saw. If only he told me sooner… and…" He stopped elaborating as he neared the planks. Remorse at not trying harder to extract the truth from Joe a year ago - for not trying hard enough to get Joe to let go of the horrifying sight that he saw- sunk Frank’s heart. If Joe knew how wrong his own conclusion was, would hell break loose?

If everything happens for a reason, what’s the reason for this fallacy? This horrible fallacy?

After he and Chet gathered in the tree house, Frank took the pistol from Chet and simulated what everyone thought after Frank laid the seeds of doubt in their hearts with his plan B. Standing at the edge of the tree house, he faced the sky and pointed the pistol straight at his forehead.

"Vanessa’s a couple of inches shorter than me. If she had stood here and shot herself, where would the bullet embed in?"

Chet traced a line in the air with his index finger from his line of vision of Frank’s skull to the back of the tree house which was the thick, sturdy trunk. Frank noticed that Chet was not as fidgety as before, perhaps the old excitement of helping his old friend in a case was slowly being stoked underneath all the layers of fat and muscle, bringing warmth to calm the nerves.

"Of course…"

Frank spun around and gingerly walked to the back, examining the tree trunk. "No signs of any splintering or a bullet hole."

"Ahmm… what are you getting yet?" Chet inquired, his brows arched. Frank already knew the answer but he wanted the conclusion to come from Chet. He did not want his influence to mar Chet’s opinions. If it did, then Chet would be doing nothing than to retell what Frank would have unintentionally led him to say.

"What do you think? From the facts I just presented to you, what’s your deduction?" Frank challenged.

Chet raked his hair and pursed his lips. Looking at Frank helplessly, he shrugged. "I don’t want to sound offensive."

Offensive?

Of course. Joe’s statement. If Joe had shot Vanessa like he said, the gun would still end up in his hand and there would be no splintering of wood on the trunk; no bullet hole. It fits, no wonder the police believed his lie.

I need to make another observation. Let it be there.

"Think, Chet. If it’s not Joe, and not the suicide scenario…" Frank persisted, wondering what was taking Chet so long.

"Maybe she turned the other way and shot herself, then there would be no bullet hole as well…"

"But the gun! It’s in her hands before my stupid brother took it!" Frank was practically screaming at Chet. Repressed thoughts surfaced again and Chet heard them.

"Joe’s not stupid…"

"Even if he thought she killed herself, he’s not to be blamed for her decision! You don’t know what…" Frank almost croaked. Remembering Joe’s ordeal as told in vague terms to him by Fenton, he thought how in vain everything was, how screwed Joe’s life had become just because of a mistake on Joe’s part.

How he had failed his brother. He should have been more careful. But it was chaotic-the whole trial; the disbelief at Joe’s statements. He should have investigated further.

"One more observation." Frank muttered, calming down. He picked up a dried leaf from the floor of the tree house and wrapped the pistol in it. "With the force from my hand, I am able to will the leaf to ‘grip’ on to the pistol with my strength. Strength I will have if I’m alive."

"But if I’m dead, the leaf will no longer feel the pressure to hold on to the gun." He released the leaf with the pistol at the same time and watched as the pistol plummeted onto the ground way down below with the thud while the leaf was still drifting along with the slight breeze.

"Vanessa’s hand is like the leaf. Devoid of the strength life gives it, it could not hold on to the gun. So, when Joe told me he extracted the gun from Vanessa’s hand, what’s he really revealing?"

Chet smacked his forehead. "I get it! That someone planted it in her hand to make it look like a suicide! And Joe, probably out of his wits at the sight of her…dead… took it and…"

"Implicated himself. Willingly." Frank twisted his lips and narrowed his eyes. The leaf had fallen quite a distance away from the water pistol.

"You can’t feel anything if you’re dead and you cannot control your muscles. Let’s go down again." Frank began his descent, and a while later, he was back where he started- the circle that he had drawn.

"Remember the scene? We could not tear Joe away from Vanessa until Con snapped the handcuffs on him. Act with me Chet. I’ll be Joe and you’ll be Vanessa."

"No way… you ain’t going to hold me the way he held her…" Chet protested but Frank bored down deep into his eyes. He would not take ‘no’ for an answer. Chet sighed and resigned to his eventual fate.

Frank directed Chet where he thought Vanessa would have lain and knelt down next to Chet. Chet giggled a little, nervous, not only because he was going to be embraced by his best friend but, Frank suspected, more out of superstitious fear in acting as the dead girl.

Death. Something we will all experience, the equalizing factor for humanity at all spectrums. The only absolute.

And we’re so afraid of it.

He knelt down next to Chet and lifted Chet’s torso up. Chet was heavy, definitely much heavier than Vanessa but he knew dead people weigh more than when they were alive. Chet giggled again and Frank pinched his arms.

"Ow! What’s that for?" Chet protested with a grimace that pleated his chubby face into a mess of wrinkles.

"Play dead! The dead don’t laugh!" Frank hissed sharply.

"You’re crazier than your brother… what are you? An alien?" Chet groused but he obeyed.

If Joe found Vanessa in this position, it’s logical that the killer found her roughly in this pose too as the police had concluded that Vanessa had not been moved from somewhere further. The killer probably did what I’ve done- lifted Vanessa up like this and with one hand supporting her, he or she shot her with the other and left her in about the same position for Joe to find.

Frank dropped Chet down, igniting another ‘yowl’ from Chet.

"Hey!"

He did not listen. He knew what he had to find.

Following an imagined trajectory in his mind, he reached an alcove of trees- tall trees which were all huddled up together, straining and stretching themselves to receive as much sunlight as they could. Frank picked the tree that he estimated to be where the path of the bullet would perforate through.

He would find what he was looking for.

Kneeling down, he brushed aside the long grass that had grown wild at the foot of the tree and his observation dampened his spirits but he was not discouraged. Moving on to the tree on the left of him, he sucked in a deep breath and knelt down again.

Nothing.

Don’t let me be wrong.

Anxiety wrought his heart but he reminded himself that it had been a year so his recollection of Vanessa’s position at death could be slightly off. Moving to the right this time, he frantically tore at the growth of grass and prayed hard.

But I’m certain the back of her head faced this alcove. I am. I remember.

I can’t forget that one scene, even if I squashed all my brain cells into one mushy muddle.

Running his hands on the rough surface of the bark, his movements stopped when he felt something out of the ordinary.

I’ve found you!

"Look at this Chet." Frank drew a hand behind and waved at his best friend. "See this?"

There was silence between the two friends. The investigation was over and the deadness of the place- robbing the atmosphere of life-giving oxygen- returned to smother them. Memories of how all who had rushed to the crime scene at various intervals were rendered speechless by the gruesome, terrible sight of his brother, desperately trying to hold on to what remained of his love, screened before Frank’s eyes in phantom flashes.

The deafening silence that the violence of the crime fed and bloated, remained. It mocked at time and refused to erode. Hanging thickly in the air, when truth was confirmed, it ridiculed Frank mercilessly.

You mean it took you so long to find out? Nothing was touched all this time and you just dragged it out, looking at all the wrong angles.

The silence that resonated the ripping of Joe’s sanity.

On the trunk on the innocuous tree, bore the witness to Vanessa’s and Joe’s innocence.

A .22 bullet hole, at the right height, facing Frank almost squarely when he knelt down.

Behind him, he heard Chet sob with tears of injustice. So, Chet had reached the same conclusion he had determined the night before after reading the report- ascertaining it for him.

He swallowed the bitter lump that rose in his throat. Knowledge like this was like a double-edged sword. It brought him no adrenaline; no sensation of victory over an enigma.

It only reminded him of how wasted the last year had been.

I’ll get the evil. I’ll swallow it and let it corrode in my anger.

It killed Vanessa.

And ruined my brother.

It will pay.

"Hello Chet; Frank. What are you two doing here?"