“Well, ‘launched’ would
probably be a better word.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Describe what?”
“Her body. The crime
scene.”
“Why?”
“So I know you’re
telling me the truth.”
“You know, I can’t say
I don’t find this lack of trust offensive.”
“The crime scene,
Pendragon. Now.”
“Shit, okay. I’m
outside, between our houses. She’s on the ground…blue tank top. Pink
boyshorts…white stripes, probably cotton. Um, she’s barefoot. Hair up in a
ponytail.” Trust me when I say it hurt to mention that last part. “And she’s
got a bullet wound in her chest.”
His silence lasted so
long, I had to make sure he was still there.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. Anything else?”
“About the body? Or do
you mean, like, what I found inside? She’d been eating french fries.”
“You went in her
house?”
“Was that bad?”
“Are you nuts? Wait,
don’t answer that. Why?”
“I wanted to
find—somebody murdered her! I was trying to catch the guy. And I almost had
him, too, but he knocked me out.”
“Did you see him? Can
you give a description?”
“No. I took a knock to
the temple and blacked out.”
“And what were you
planning to do if you caught him?
Annoy
him into handcuffs?”
“Hey, that was uncalled
for.”
“Stay right where you
are. Do
not
move. Do
not
touch anything. Don’t touch
her
,
don’t even make another footprint in the grass, and for the love of God, do
not, and I repeat,
do not
go back inside her house. Are we clear?”
“I should probably tell
you what I found, right?”
“Save it for the
suits. Give me your address. I’m coming over.”
As I gave him
directions, which included a brief aside about how he should take the route
that Mailman Jeffrey uses because that seems to be the most efficient way,
(beyond doubt, the United States Postal Service and their model of efficiency
should be considered one of the World Wonders, and I say that without a hint of
sarcasm, regardless of what the media will tell you about their troubles) I
felt a fleeting, flickering trace of panic.
Officer Planck had
reacted with so much concern over me entering Kerry’s home that I began to
consider the possibility that I might be implicated in the crime.
Finding my stuff in her
home would lead to questions I didn’t have the ability to answer. It might
indicate that I’d been spending time there. It might indicate that a
relationship was involved. I hadn’t completely examined every inch of her
house, so who knew what else they might find that belonged to me?
Now, let me tell you this:
I am absolutely, one hundred percent aware that tampering with evidence at a
crime scene is against the law. I’m well-informed in legal matters, having
spent so much time defending myself against baseless allegations from Shayna
and others, who shall remain nameless, mostly because I don’t feel like going
into such detailed personal matters, but there comes a time when you just can’t
afford any more trouble.
I couldn’t risk being
pulled into an investigation with the inability to provide answers. The
guttural shoulder shrug, the word “Uh” does not preclude guilt in any way. In
fact, I’d be willing to say that, in certain situations, it’s often perceived
as more of an admission than a hesitation.
I looked down at Kerry,
shook my head, and said, “I still don’t understand.”
I ignored Officer
Planck’s advice to stay put and walked, briskly (no need to make the meddlesome
Mrs. Epstein wary), back into Kerry’s house, counting the seconds. Given the
response time, and given that it might’ve taken him a couple extra minutes to
make a call, I figured I had, at the very least, five or six minutes to remove
my things before they arrived.
I don’t care what
anyone says about me, truth or lies—and more often the latter—my heart is
always,
always
in the right place. You want to know what I did?
Call me a hero, call me
an idiot for wasting precious ticks of the clock, but I took the time to feed
Kerry’s fish.
There. Are you happy?
Call me a wretch, but
you can’t say that I don’t make sacrifices once in a while.
I tried to wipe down
anything I may have touched. Fish food container included. Both downstairs
and up. Kitchen drawers. Hand railing of the stairs. The Louboutins.
With approximately
three minutes remaining, I went back into Kerry’s bedroom and gathered up my
things.
Including a tempting
diary I found underneath the shoebox full of photos.
If you’ve never been
questioned by an irate detective that’s not too pleased with your desire to “
help
,”
(his acidic emphasis, not mine), let me assure you, it’s not the most pleasant
experience.
The word “reaming”
comes to mind. And it wasn’t gentle. He didn’t bother with lube, that was for
sure. For whatever reason, he took severe offense to my suggestions on how to
improve their effectiveness. I could tell from the start that they were going
about it all wrong—they don’t do it like that on television
at all
.
It’s most definitely not the way I would’ve done it. Give me a badge and a
gun, I’ll show you.
Things went south in a
hurry, both my mental state and their perception of me when they initially
suggested, “self-inflicted gunshot wound,” and I redlined just shy of going
primeval. He quickly turned on me with the phrase, “prime suspect,” at least
until Officer Planck stepped in and diffused the situation. It took a while,
but an older detective with a level head, the partner, managed to wrap his mind
around the concept of my innocence and things died down.
I have no qualms about
admitting I cried when they took Kerry’s body away.
If you’re still with
me, because I know it’s a lot to take in, here’s how we got there:
By the time I’d stashed
the items Kerry stole underneath my bed (I’m unclear as to why I hid them
instead of putting them back in their rightful spots—maybe it simply felt like
the appropriate thing to do since I was slightly rushed and slightly panicked),
the first responding officers had arrived and begun cordoning off the area
around her body with yellow tape. They told me repeatedly to stay back, and it
took a generous amount of shoving before I relented. I wanted to see. I had
to know. I needed to help, because I was absolutely certain they were going to
screw something up. They would miss a clue that I could find if only they’d
allow me the chance to take a closer look.
Yes, I’m aware I’d
already been through the house. No, I hadn’t examined everything closely
enough.
Officer Planck pulled
up five minutes later—okay, you know what, I’m just going to call him Thomas
from here on out. I’ve been given permission—in a sense—and it’s easier that
way.
Okay, so Thomas shows
up, grabs me by the arm, and pulls me to the side, hard.
Suggesting that he
should cut his fingernails more often led to deeper gouges in my bicep, but
really, his claws could’ve rivaled a gargoyle’s. How anyone could ignore a
minor detail of personal hygiene so badly is beyond me—he’s forgiven, however,
because that’s what friends do. Still, it’s gross. Cut your fingernails.
Three minutes of your time. That’s all I’m asking.
He said, “Leave them
alone, you hear me? You’re a witness, nothing more.”
“But they’re doing it
all wrong.”
“Damn it, are you—is
this your house?” He pointed toward my porch.
“Yeah.”
“Come with me.” (The
fingernails again.) Once we’d climbed up the steps, he picked up the chair I’d
knocked over earlier and sat me down like a toddler in timeout. “Stay here.
Do not get up. Wait. Schott and Berger will probably want to ask you some
questions when they’re done inside the house. Pay attention—I’m serious here,
do not piss off Berger. He’s a hothead with a chip on his shoulder. You push
him in the wrong direction, you might find yourself with a court date. Answer
whatever he asks, but don’t you dare pretend like you know something he
doesn’t. Got me?”
“What if I—”
“Not another word. Be
careful around him, that’s an order. Just don’t be—Jesus, just don’t be you,
okay?”
“Don’t be
me
?
What’s that supposed to mean?”
He bent down and put
his face close to mine. I could smell a sweet bitterness, like maybe a mixture
of toothpaste and coffee. “You know damn well what I mean.
Sit
,
Steve. Do not move. They’ll come for you when they’re ready.”
“Fine—
fine
,
okay? But will you please listen to me for a second?”
He shook his head,
flared his nostrils, and shot out a blast of air.
Imagine flames flying
from a dragon’s nose. That’s what it felt like on my cheeks.
“What?”
“I found some stuff
inside her house—stuff I don’t want them to know about. I mean, like, things
that could get me in trouble.”
“What kind of things?”
“Are you on my side?”
“Should I be?”
His non-answer was
frustrating. “Yes! If you were ever my friend—”
With a finger in my
face, nearly jabbing my nose, he said, “Let’s get one thing straight, champ. I
don’t have the slightest clue what goes on inside that head of yours, but we
were never friends, and never will be. Look at me. Look!” He pointed to his
right. “There’s a dead woman over there. Do you have any idea how serious
this is?”
Wounded, yet again.
Will it ever stop, this assault on the Pendragon Castle? I had to press
forward, however, because he was my only option for an ally. “She’d stolen
some of
my
things. I found them in her bedroom.”
He stood up and moved
back to the porch railing. It was the first time I’d gotten a good look at him
since he arrived. With the help of numerous spotlights and the alternating
reds and blues of several police cars, I saw jeans, a Giants t-shirt (represent!),
a blue windbreaker, and sneakers. Signs of a hasty exit, or at least what I
assumed to be a hasty exit, because I’d been under the impression that he and I
had the same taste in clothes and I would never debase myself by wearing white
running shoes with a dark pair of Levi’s. In all fairness, I’d begged for
immediate help, so I’ll allow room for his haphazard ensemble. He said, “She’d
been
stealing
from you? Is that true or what you
think
is true?”
Thomas had a point. If
perception is nine-tenths of reality, then I’d venture to guess that we don’t
all live inside one unified existence. Seven billion people on the planet
means seven billion different realities all coexisting under the roof of
Potential Truth. What I think an apple tastes like may not be the same as what
you
think an apple tastes like, because flavor is defined by human
perception as an intrinsic quality.
It’s a little
maddening, isn’t it? The not knowing.
If you remove
perception, what does the color red
actually
look like, what does a
robin
actually
sound like, what did the women in my life
actually
smell like?
Under the blanket of
perception, Shayna smelled like Parmesan cheese in her later years. Kerry’s
scent could only be described as an aged Bordeaux. Complex with a multitude of
exotic aromas. Not including that holy terror, cherry.
I said, “Stealing might
be too harsh. Maybe she was borrowing them. I can’t think of any reason why,
but whatever it was, she took things out of
my
house without permission,
when I wasn’t aware of it. That’s theft, isn’t it?”
He crossed his arms,
glanced over at the crime scene. “And why’s this important?”
“Motive, I guess.”
“Motive?”
“I don’t want them to
think I might’ve killed her. I mean, my things were in her house.”
“Well, they’re gonna
have some questions if they find it and you don’t exactly have the strongest
alibi. Watching Russell strike out doesn’t necessarily mean you didn’t have
time to do it.”
“Russell struck out? I
knew he’d choke. What was Walters thinking, putting him in to pinch? I’ve
been preaching for months that they need to fire that guy. I’d bet he can’t
manage his own checkbook.”
Here you may be
concerned over my failure to stay on task, especially since my beloved Kerry
lay no more than thirty feet away. I’ll grant you that. You have to
understand, though, how I feel about the Giants—if my heart pumped to the
rhythm of Kerry’s, that very same heart forced orange and black blood through
my veins.
“Steve?”
“What?”
“Focus.”
“Right, sorry. It’s
just—they’re blowing the season with all these stupid mistakes. Anyway, they
won’t find the stuff because I got everything out.”
Thomas sprang from the
railing. (Is “sprang” the right word? Bounced? Leapt? Bounded? Whatever
the motion, cannonballs don’t move that fast.) “You what?”
“I took it. I got it
out.”
“You fucked with the
evidence?”
I’m not sure if it was
out of anger or from the glow of the ambulance lights, but his face had taken
on a red hue. “I told you, I didn’t want them to think I was a suspect.”
“I can’t—I don’t—do you
even understand how stupid that was? Jesus H. Christ. Are you that much of an
idiot? You don’t even understand what you’ve done, do you?”
“I’m not stupid.”
We Pendragons test at
some amazing IQ levels. I’m waiting to hear back from MENSA. It’s been a
while. My guess is they’re behind on paperwork.
“Think for a second.
Think!” He slammed the tip of his index finger into the side of his head.
“You
removed evidence
, man. Of course they’re going to think you’re a
suspect
now
, you moron.”
“Not if they don’t find
out.” I think I might’ve come across as pleading, but Pendragons don’t plead.
We
suggest with intent
.
“They will! They have
to! I have to tell them, don’t you get that?”
“You don’t
have
to. Not really.”
“Uh-uh. No way. Not
now, not ever. I’m not losing my job—I’m not going to
jail
for you.”
Okay, maybe we don’t
plead, but there’s no harm in a genuine ‘please.’
“Please keep it between
us. I’m asking you for help, because I need to know
why
. I would do
this on my own—and I don’t have any doubt that I could—but you’ve got resources
that I need.”
“Are you kidding me?
No.
No
.”
“So is this going to be
like the time you didn’t help Jason Carter?”
***
I left something out
earlier. Something about his past. Not exactly on purpose—mostly because it
wasn’t important to the story right then and I figured you’d get a better
understanding of the depth—or maybe the
weight
—of this information if I
offered it when it was the most relevant.
Whenever I make a new
friend—Thomas, Mailman Jeffrey, Darlene at the liquor store, Michelle at the laundry
place—I like to create what I call a character profile. It helps me understand
them better as a person. Their likes, dislikes. What they eat for lunch.
Whether or not they exercise regularly.
Armed with information
like that, it enables me to become a better companion. And if I can’t get
everything I need from the person in question, I’ll do some background
research. Typing “Darlene Hanks” into Google is harmless. If you want something
kept private, don’t put it on Facebook. Darlene, by the way, enjoys posting
pictures of what she’s having for lunch.
When I showed Shayna
the profile I’d created for her—and this is no lie—she balled it up and threw
it in my face. Hours and hours of research dismissed with the words, “You have
to stop this.”
Bear with me, because I
might wax poetic a little bit here.
Four years ago, Officer
Jason Carter arrived on scene at a bakery downtown, which resulted in a robbery
devolving into a hostage situation. Two unidentified white males. Armed.
Dangerous. Holding the baker, his wife, and two employees at gunpoint.
Subsequent reports would indicate that the police found nothing more than one
hundred dollars and some loose change in the cash register.
Officer Carter had
approached with heroic intentions and found himself pinned down just outside
the bakery, hiding underneath the window, ducking at the occasional shot fired
in his direction whenever he’d attempted to retreat. For whatever reason,
backup had been delayed, and he’d held the same position for ten minutes.
(This information comes
secondhand from eyewitness/hostage testimonials. How reliable their accounts
are, those memories created during extreme distress are open to conjecture. Perception,
reality, you know what I mean.)
Next to arrive had been
Officer Thomas Planck. A rookie.
More shots were fired,
and in short, he panicked. He found himself unable to come out from behind his
cruiser and assist Officer Carter, eventually resulting in Carter’s death when
he grew impatient and attempted an escape for better cover.
Officer Thomas Planck’s
lack of action, or refusal to help, earned him a one-month suspension—which was
deemed “time to reconsider his chosen profession.”
How do I know all of
this? Most of it came from digging through back issues of local newspapers.
Some of it I made up as part of the character profile. Everyone has a story,
whether it’s his own truth or the one you create.