FAKE RESUME

by Jon L. Breen

“Breen has a gentle literary personality, and is especially good at picking up on likable characters,” said writer and critic Ed Gorman in his blog review of Jon L. Breen’s fiction (on Gormania). The likable—and witty—characters Mr. Breen has been chronicling in this series of stories for EQMM are Detectives Berwanger and Foley, cops who’ve become highly sought speakers and public relations people for their department. The author is, of course, our longtime, award-winning book reviewer for The Jury Box.

Detective Berwanger was house hunting. For several weekends he and his wife had been exploring the suburbs with various realtors, looking at what was on offer in what they were assured was a buyer’s market. They had seen some houses they loved enough to move into. They had seen some houses in their price range. Unfortunately, they had seen no houses that fit both categories.

Across the desk from Berwanger, Detective Foley was in an ideal position to hear all about the house hunt. For what seemed like months, it had dominated his garrulous partner’s conversation.

“From the flyer the realtor showed us, it sounded perfect. Three bedrooms, nice amount of yard space, newly remodeled kitchen, located in a quiet cul-de-sac. And the price was a little past what we wanted to pay, but I thought we could make it happen, you know what I mean? Margie’s getting frustrated. I got other things to do with my days off. I’m ready, Foley. I’m ready to be a homeowner. So we jump in the car with the real-estate lady, full of enthusiasm and anticipation, and she takes us to see the house.”

Berwanger paused in his account, a disgusted expression on his face. Foley, who usually didn’t say much and didn’t have to, was enough of an actor to know his cue. “The house wasn’t as good as advertised?”

“The house was fine. Kitchen was great. Everything was terrific. Just one thing. Right over the wall is a freeway on-ramp. A busy one. Constant roaring sound, like pounding surf but not as pleasant. So I say to the realtor, ‘This is supposed to be a quiet cul-de-sac?’ And she says to me, ‘Sure. The cul-de-sac is very quiet. It’s the freeway that’s making all the noise.’ Then she says, ‘When we say “quiet cul-de-sac,” we mean there’s not much car traffic. Your kids can play in the street and you don’t have to worry.’ And I say, ‘Last I heard, quiet was a measure of noise level, and this isn’t what I call quiet.’ But what’s the point of arguing with her?”

“She know you’re a cop?”

“Naw, I don’t advertise it.”

“Are they breaking a law with a misleading flyer?”

“Who knows? Anyway, anybody who sees the house before they buy it is going to find out about the roar, and maybe it wouldn’t bother some people. This weekend we’re trying another realtor.”

“Kind of reminds me of the Martha Dewitt murder.”

“The Martha Dewitt murder? How—? Oh, yeah, I get it.”

“When’s our next dog-and-pony show?” They had become so popular in the community, speaking engagements occupied nearly half their time these days.

“Uh, let’s see, three days from now. Thursday.”

“Oh, yeah. At the community college. Creative-writing class, right?”

“Yeah. Day class, though. They’re never as serious as the night classes.”

“What are we going to tell them about?”

“I don’t know. Play it by ear. See what kind of questions they have.”

“It’d be fun to do the Dewitt case.”

Berwanger shook his head. “You know I don’t like that one. I’m trying to serve the community, Foley. You just want to exercise your acting chops.”

Foley shrugged. “Your call, partner.”

* * * *

As Berwanger began his presentation the following Thursday, with the usual comical kibitzing from his partner, he was conscious of a sour-looking kid in the front row who wasn’t laughing at any of the jokes and obviously had something else on his mind. When Berwanger invited questions, about fifteen minutes in, the kid shot his hand into the air, a challenging, almost belligerent look on his face.

“You look disgruntled,” Berwanger said.

“Yeah, I am,” the kid said.

“Well, we’ll do our best to gruntle you.”

“Shouldn’t that be regruntle him?” Detective Foley suggested.

“Whatever. What’s up?”

“I got a problem with the police in this city.”

“Oh. What did we do to you, exactly?”

“It’s not you. You and Detective Foley seem like nice guys. It’s your personnel department. I always wanted to be a cop, and I applied to the department, see if I could go to the Police Academy, so I could protect and serve and stuff like you guys.”

“It’s a good career. But what happened?”

“I met all the qualifications, but they turned me down. Said I falsified my resume. Can you imagine that?”

“Well, there’s a lot of that going around,” said Berwanger. “Some people in pretty important jobs been caught at it, and some have gotten away with it.”

“Corporate CEOs,” Foley said. “Politicians. College professors.”

“But police work isn’t like those other professions,” Berwanger said. “We expect police to be honest.”

“At least to begin with,” Foley said.

Berwanger shot him a look, and the class tittered a little. They were getting their laughs, but the kid still looked disgruntled. “Maybe we should talk about this after class,” Berwanger said. “We may be able to make some suggestions—”

“Can’t you deal with it now? I want to know if I did anything wrong.”

“Okay, then, if you don’t mind discussing this in front of your classmates. What exactly did you fake?”

“I didn’t fake anything.”

“You don’t think you did, but they obviously thought you did. Maybe you included something that was technically true but in the personnel department’s opinion still deliberately misleading. What exactly did you say in your resume?”

“I said I was a campus policeman at Dana High.” That drew a snort from a student seated behind him.

“And were you?” Berwanger said.

“Well, yeah, I think I was.”

The snorting student said, “Come on, George, you were a student security intern, a glorified hall monitor.”

George turned on his classmate. “I got a certificate that said I was a junior campus policeman.”

“And I belonged to the chess club, but I don’t put on my resume that I’m Bobby Fischer!”

“Hey, I was in better shape than those potbellied sixty-year-olds who were the official campus cops. Any real problem, they’d have needed me.”

Sensing a loss of control, Berwanger had two choices: draw his weapon or direct the class’s attention in another direction. He chose the latter, and made his partner very happy.

“Foley and I had a case that involved alleged faked resumes. Remember that one, Foley?”

“Are you referring to the Martha Dewitt case, partner?” Foley said with a broad smile. “That was a good one. A genuine whodunit, and they’re rare.”

Berwanger told the class, “Martha Dewitt was a talent agent, represented a number of professional actors in the city. Now as you all realize, we’re not exactly living in a media capital.” Snickers from the class. “But there are a couple of theaters in town that use professional talent. There’s local commercial work in radio and TV. And a few who stay in the city because it’s such a nice place to live” —the class looked unconvinced—”even get occasional work in New York and Hollywood. Is this a tough town to be an actor in, Foley? You should know.”

“I’m strictly a community-theater guy myself,” said Foley. “Police work is my life. Of course, if I’d chosen to act professionally—”

“You’d be the new Robert De Niro. Yeah, we know. Anyway, Martha Dewitt was the leading, if not quite only, actors’ agent in the city, and when she took on somebody as a client, they stood a better chance of getting work. The day before she died—”

“Hey, we’re not sitting around a campfire toasting marshmallows here,” Foley protested. “Let’s act this out.”

“I don’t know, man. There are so many parts. I thought I could just confront you as the murderer.”

“Sure, I’ll do the murderer, but I want to do all the suspects and witnesses, too.”

Berwanger shrugged. “Okay, if you think you’re up for it. Martha Dewitt’s housekeeper found her dead in her living room when she came to report for work one morning. She’d been shot to death. No obvious clues to the perpetrator. We immediately had people canvassing the neighbors, looking for the weapon, picking up evidence at the crime scene, but in the meantime we had just one solid lead at a possible motive. Now use your imagination. We’re in Martha Dewitt’s house, the kitchen, very shiny and state-of-the-art but looks unused, like its owner ate out a lot.” He gestured at Foley, who had sat slumped wearily in a chair, doing his best to appear feminine, elderly, and distressed. “This is Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper. Very upset after finding the body, but we were able to ask her a few questions. Mrs. Johnson, had anything been particularly bothering Martha Dewitt lately?”

“Well, uh, not that I know about.”

“Did she seem afraid, as if someone intended her harm?”

“Ms. Dewitt? Oh, no, nothing like that.”

“Did she ever talk to you about her work?”

“No. She talked about my work.” A slight wistful smile. “I don’t mean she was critical, nothing like that. She was a very friendly person. Sometimes we’d talk about stuff in the news we heard about on the radio.” A pause for intense thought. “Now what was it we talked about yesterday? Oh, I know, it was the story about that college dean who claimed he had degrees it turned out he never had. And yes, maybe Ms. Dewitt did say something that may have had to do with her work. She said she saw too much of the same thing that college dean did, said there was an epidemic of people claiming qualifications they didn’t have, and she was fed up and was going to do something about it.”

“That was all?”

“Yes, sir. That’s all I can remember.”

“How long have you been working for Ms. Dewitt?”

“More than a year now.”

“When you interviewed for the job, were you completely truthful about your experience?”

A little laugh, cut off abruptly in deference to the sad occasion. “Oh, no, sir. She wasn’t talking about me. I came with very good and true references. I think she’d’ve fired me on the spot if she’d thought I was lying to her. She was talking about somebody else.”

“But you don’t know who.”

“Well, no.”

“Next,” said Berwanger, “we went to Martha Dewitt’s office. Theatrical posters on the wall, stacks of show-business trade papers, scripts, and glossy photos piled on every available surface, with no apparent rhyme or reason. The outer office where her secretary worked was much tidier, with only a few file folders lying on the desk. The secretary, Winona Gladstone, was an attractive young woman. She seemed nearly as upset as the housekeeper had been at her employer’s death.”

Foley, standing again, remained feminine but became much younger and tearful. “Like, who could do that to Martha? She was like a second mother to me, you know?”

“Had she been especially worried about anything?”

“No more than usual. This is, like, a stressful business, you know? But she loved it.”

“She didn’t seem fearful?”

“Like somebody was out to kill her? No, not at all.”

“We heard she was concerned about a fake resume or something. You know anything about that?”

Light dawning. “Ohhh, that. Yeah, sure. There was like this epidemic, she called it, and Martha was like totally pissed. There were three actors she said faked their resumes. She hated that. She wouldn’t represent anybody who did that. Anybody who did that would never work in theater or commercials or anything in this town. Wow! Do you mean like, maybe one of them got mad because she rejected them as clients, and like, maybe one of them killed her? Wow!”

“It’s something to look into. Can you give me the names and contact information for those actors, Winona?”

“Like, sure. I got ‘em right here on my desk. These three files. Find out who killed Martha, Detective Berwanger. She was a great boss.” A brave smile through her tears.

“You’ve been really helpful, thanks.” Berwanger turned back to the class. “As it turned out, none of the three actors had left for greener pastures, so we had to consider them all. One of them I was especially interested in, because he’d been in Martha Dewitt’s office the day before, so we went to look for him first. His name was Gordon Wesley. His apartment was small and seemed smaller still because it was full of weightlifting equipment. His walls were covered with photos of Muscle Beach types. Not surprisingly, he was a young guy, physically buff, ridiculously good-looking, belonged on the cover of a romance novel. You sure you can handle this, Foley?” Foley flexed his muscles in a bodybuilding pose and registered hunky conceit. Berwanger said to the class, “It’s a stretch, but he’ll do his best. So you admit you visited Martha Dewitt the day before she died?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Was it a friendly meeting?”

“What have you heard, Detective?”

“Did I say I’d heard something? I want to hear from you. Was it a friendly meeting?”

“Not entirely, no. It got a little heated, you wanna know the truth. She yelled at me. I yelled at her. A little. Not that much. Nothing to do with her death.”

“Nevertheless, I need to hear about it. What was the source of your disagreement?”

“Well, I’d come to her hoping she’d represent me. Get me some commercial work or something. I thought she liked me, and when we talked the first time, about a week ago, she was real encouraging. When I came back the second time, though, she was a lot less friendly.” A look of injured innocence.

“And did she say why?”

“She accused me of faking my resume.” Outraged amazement.

“And had you?”

“No. Everything in my resume was God’s truth, I swear it.”

Berwanger mimed passing over a sheet of paper. “And is this your resume?”

He glanced at it. “Yeah, this is it. Where’d you find it?”

“It was in her files. Which parts of your resume did Ms. Dewitt have a problem with?”

“Detective, this has got nothing to do with your investigation.”

“Mr. Wesley, do I come to the theater and tell you how to play your part? Do I criticize your line readings? Do I send you a canned ham on opening night?”

“I just think you’re wasting your time, that’s all.”

“What wastes my time is citizens not cooperating. Maybe it’ll be easier if I ask you some questions about your resume. You said you studied drama at Yale University.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Ms. Dewitt attached a little note that Yale says you were never enrolled as a student there.”

“I never said I was enrolled as a student. I said I studied. I used the library. I sat in the stacks for days reading Stanislavski and Uta Hagen and all the books I could find on acting.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Wesley?”

“At the gym, working out till about eight.”

“You go to a gym? You seem to have all the equipment you need here.”

“I work out there. Then I come home here and work out some more. These days an actor’s gotta be physically fit.”

“You live alone?”

“Yeah, most of the time.”

“Can anybody account for your movements last night?”

“I saw a few people I know at the gym, don’t know all their names, though. After that, no, zilch. Now hold on a minute. You think I killed her? Over that? I didn’t need her, Detective. I can get work any time I want.”

“Just not in commercials?”

“She had that sewed up, but hell, I’m no pitchman. I have to believe in something before I can sell it.”

Berwanger turned back to the class. “And he really believed in that great face and great body.” He looked Foley up and down. “Use your imagination. The next guy I interviewed hadn’t been in Dewitt’s office for more than a month. His name was Philip Bunce, and he was as far from Wesley as you could imagine. Not exactly a leading man type, more of a little nebbishy character, make a good Felix in The Odd Couple. And he was like that, too. Fussily neat. I’d had a look at his resume, so I could ask him about some of the things he claimed. Most of it looked legitimate, but one thing struck even me as false, and I don’t watch much TV.”

“That’s a laugh!” Foley said.

“Will you just get in character, partner?” Berwanger gave the class his look-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look while Foley assumed a meek and mousy persona. “Now, Mr. Bunce, I see you moved here from the West Coast not long ago, is that right?”

“Yes, Detective. I grew up here. My parents are getting older and need some help. I understood an actor with some credits could make a living in this city.” Sheepish grin. “It’s proving harder than I thought.”

“It would have been easier if Martha Dewitt had taken you on as a client, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, sure. Some friends have claimed she blacklisted me, but I don’t really believe that. I’ll get work. They like my type in commercials, you know. Henpecked husband, friendly neighborhood druggist, that kind of thing. I’m sure I can get some stage work. And of course, they know me on the Coast. I have representation there, and they’ll call me back short-term when something comes up that’s right for me.”

“Uh-huh. Why did Martha Dewitt choose not to represent you?”

“I don’t really know, Detective. Honestly.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No. It’s a complete mystery to me.”

“In your resume, it says you had a recurring role on Everybody Tolerates Jerry.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“I used to watch that show regularly, and I don’t remember you. What part did you play?”

“Do you remember the episode where Jerry and Suzy are in this fancy restaurant and he discovers he forgot his wallet and she gets mad?”

“Yeah, I think so. Funny show.”

“Thanks. I was in that scene.”

“You weren’t the waiter—”

“No.”

“The busboy?”

“No.”

“But who else was there?”

“I was having dinner at the next table. I was with the blonde with the big hair.” Sheepish grin again. “Sometimes they like to pair me with young beauties. Funny contrast, you know? Early in Marilyn Monroe’s career—”

“We’re getting off the subject, Mr. Bunce. In that part, you didn’t have any lines, did you?”

“Not exactly, no. I mean we talked all the time, but it was all ad-libbed and didn’t get on the sound track.”

“You were an extra?”

“Call it what you like. I was on the show.”

“But you said it was a recurring role.”

“It was a recurring role. Don’t you remember? It had a cliffhanger ending. One week’s episode ended with Jerry standing there with his mouth open and Suzy winding up to throw her chocolate mousse at him, and the next episode started with them still in the restaurant, that same shot. I was in that one, too.”

“So that made it a recurring role.”

“Absolutely.”

“And did Martha Dewitt ask you about that?”

“Sure, and I explained it to her, just as I have to you. It was after that I started getting a bad vibe from her, now that I think about it.”

“Yeah, now that you think about it.” Berwanger turned back to the class. “We asked him the usual questions about his movements the previous day. His alibi wasn’t any better than Wesley’s. The third guy was named Jasper Looper. Terrible name, huh? Of the three actors I talked to, he was the most pretentious. He also lived in the crummiest quarters, suffering for his art.” He turned to Foley, who was looking down his nose, haughtily disdainful. “So you are a Shakespearean actor, Mr. Looper?”

“That is correct.” A deeper voice, more pointedly careful enunciation. “Indeed, that is what brought me here. The local Shakespeare festival has a high reputation in national theatrical circles. It was my belief that Ms. Dewitt could get me some work there. Unfortunately, she proved a poor judge of talent.”

“Did you read for her?”

“I did not have the chance. She virtually threw me out of her office after one look at my resume.”

“When did you last see Martha Dewitt alive?”

A sardonic smirk. “I only saw her alive, Detective. Are you by any chance trying to trap me? It was embarrassing the way I kept running into her at events. She never seemed to miss a first night in the theater or a gallery opening or anything else that passes for culture in this city. Apart from the Shakespeare festival, your city is an artistic wasteland. Martha Dewitt must have known that. Come to think of it, every event where I saw her offered free food and drink. I suspect that was her motivation for attending.”

“And was it yours?”

“No, Detective. At most of these events, even the wine and cheese were beneath contempt. Still, I try to encourage genuine efforts in the arts even if they fall short. And they do. Usually. Far short.”

“Getting back to your resume—”

“You’ve seen it?”

“I have it right here, yes. It says you did Hamlet in Venice, California.”

“Quite true. Early in my career. I have done a great deal more since.”

“And you played the part of Hamlet himself?”

“Certainly. If I had played Polonius, I would say I did Polonius, and if all I did was play Guildenstern, I certainly would not use the phrase ‘I did Hamlet.’ I have a respect for language, Detective, which is what drew me to the classics.”

“So this was a professional production?”

“Look at the document more carefully, Detective. Did I claim it was a professional production?”

“No, I don’t guess you did. What kind of a production was it?”

“I was a student at Venice High School at the time.”

“So it was a high-school production?”

“To be perfectly accurate, which I attempt to be in all my endeavors, it was not precisely a production. More of a classroom exercise.”

“A classroom exercise?”

“We read it in class. Miss Fukayama’s English class.”

“And that’s doing Hamlet?”

“Certainly it is. Miss Fukayama picked me to read Hamlet’s part because I was the best cold reader in the class. It was a signal honor. I was proud of it. I still am. And it was an experience that molded my future aspirations in the theater. That is why I included it in my resume.”

“Let me get this straight. You think an English-class reading belongs in a professional resume?”

“Not always, perhaps. But career turning points, those events that launch one on one’s lifelong course, deserve to be identified, celebrated, set apart. Had it not been for Miss Fukayama’s class, I would not be where I am today.”

“And where are you exactly?”

“Detective, I do not care for your tone! What exactly is your purpose in badger-ing me in this fashion? Am I under arrest? Am I to be detained?” Almost eagerly, “Should I call a lawyer?”

Berwanger turned back to the class. “As you can see, Looper almost seemed to want to be arrested. He reminded me of one of those guys who walk into the station and confess to crimes just for attention. Not so much self-aggrandizing as self-Mirandizing.” No laugh. Was this really a creative-writing class? “I asked him the usual questions, and no, he didn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder, either. So there we are.” Dramatic pause. “There was nothing left to do but confront the murderer.”

A female student in the second row gave the hoped-for amazed response: “You mean you knew who did it?”

“Certainly. So should you after hearing everything, shouldn’t they, Foley?”

“They have all the clues,” Foley agreed.

The class discussion indicated that at least half of them had been paying close attention. They tended to throw out Jasper Looper as comic relief. Some were suspicious of Gordon Wesley, but a young woman in the back row pooh-poohed the notion. “He was too busy toning his abs to have time to murder anybody. I’ve known too many guys like that.”

The favorite candidate was Philip Bunce.

“I know why they like Bunce,” Foley said.

“Why?”

“Little mousy guy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Classic least-suspected person.”

“Only this was real life, not a story, and you wouldn’t want to make it that obvious if you were writing it, would you?”

George, the disgruntled one, had his hand up. “Detective, I don’t think you’ve really told us all the clues.”

Berwanger looked at Foley. “Well, maybe not all the clues. But plenty to spot the murderer.”

“Oh, sure,” the would-be cop said casually. “I figured out who did it early on. But I need to know a little more. Can I talk to one of the people you questioned?”

Berwanger looked at Foley, who said, “Sure, why not? Which of the three?”

“None of the three. I want to clarify something with the secretary, Winona Gladstone. Can I do that?”

Foley returned to his young-woman persona.

“Winona,” George said, “my name is Detective Grimaldi. I know you already talked to Detectives Berwanger and Foley, but I need to ask you a few more questions. When my colleagues interviewed you, how did it happen you had those three files on the actors with suspect resumes all ready to show them?”

“Well, they said they heard Martha was worried about fake resumes, so I provided them. I mean, I’m like, just trying to help, you know?”

“Yes, but at first you didn’t volunteer the information that Martha Dewitt was concerned about that. When it was mentioned, you acted as if you’d forgotten all about it. And yet you had those three files on the actors, including their resumes, all ready in a neat little stack on your desk.”

Scornful laugh. “Oh, come on now. I put them together ‘cause Martha said to. She was, like, all drama-queen over her so-called epidemic of phony resumes. It was no biggie to me. I just forgot about it in the shock of hearing about her death. You can’t accuse me of murder on that, Detective. That’s totally lame.”

“I don’t recall accusing you of anything, Winona.”

“Well, like, I mean, why else would you be asking these questions, you know?”

“There is, however, one missing piece of evidence that Detectives Berwanger and Foley did not provide.” George gave the detectives a humorously reproachful look. “What was in your resume, Winona?”

“My resume?”

“I think you heard me. When you applied for the job here, didn’t you fake your own qualifications?”

“No, I didn’t. I mean, like, it was different. Not the same thing at all.”

“What was different?”

“Look, I’m, like, an ex-con, okay? But I’m going straight. And when you get out of jail and look for work, you don’t put that in your resume, you know? I mean, they tell you that, people that counsel you on going straight. I said in my resume I did clerical work for the state, and when she asked me about it, I told her right out I was in prison. I made a mistake, and I paid for it, and now I’m making a new life. And she was, like, okay with it, you know?”

“And what were you in jail for, Winona?”

“Does that matter?”

“It might, if you didn’t tell Martha Dewitt what the charge was and she found out it was more serious than she thought. So what was it? Murder, maybe?”

“It wasn’t murder. Not really. I wouldn’t kill anybody. My boyfriend shot this convenience-store clerk, and ‘cause I was with him, they charged me with what they called felony murder.”

“And Ms. Dewitt knew that?”

“I told her I did wrong but they got me on a technicality. And that’s what it is, isn’t it? A technicality?”

“She was going to fire you, wasn’t she? You killed her, didn’t you?”

Shocked outrage. “How could you think that?”

“It was easy!”

Though not confessing on the spot, Foley as Winona looked defeated and guilty.

Berwanger nodded approval. “Pretty good, George.” He turned back to the class. “Of course, it wasn’t just that. No case was ever solved on evidence that flimsy. We found the gun and traced it to her. A neighbor saw her and was able to identify her. When we looked into what she’d been convicted of, there was considerable doubt that the boyfriend actually held the gun that killed the convenience-store clerk. He may have taken the fall for her. Noble, huh? Anyway, don’t you all think my partner and his nephew deserve a hand for their great performance today?”

After bowing to the appreciative applause, Foley said with a smirk, “What do you mean, my nephew?”

“Your sister’s boy, right? I hadn’t seen him since he was little, and at first I didn’t recognize him. But when he said his name was Grimaldi, I remembered that’s your brother-in-law’s last name. But I thought the boy’s name was Kevin.”

“Didn’t like Kevin,” George said, “so I use my middle name now.”

“Anyway, I was already suspicious. You wanted to do the Dewitt case, Foley, and I didn’t. But you knew your nephew was in the class we’d be talking to, and you didn’t figure I’d remember him, so you two set this up between you. Did you expect me to believe you’d mention this old case and then just a few days later there’d be a perfect lead-in to it by pure coincidence? I’m not that dumb, partner!”

Foley shrugged. “Coincidences happen.”

“But not in fiction, so don’t expect these aspiring fiction writers to swallow it. Do you really want to be a cop, George?”

“No. All those years as a student security intern burned me out as a law-enforcement professional. I want to be an actor. Or maybe a real-estate agent.”

“There’s a difference?”