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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Hypotenuse
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It’s supposed to be my night off. I can’t tell if I’m asleep and dreaming of sweating in my apartment, or if the neighbors’ loud sex/fighting has pulled me out of my stupor. But I must be awake, because there’s a pounding at the door nearly as heavy as the pounding in my head (or the pounding next door), and I’m staggering towards it.
It’s a uniform, a little nervous and a little pissed that he’s my wake-up call. “It’s my night off,” I tell him. “Yeah. But we’ve caught a few other bodies tonight. So it’s not your night off anymore.” I squint at him. “I’m drunk.” He squints back at me. “No, just hung over. Besides, it’s not like you have to drive anywhere. Body’s downstairs.” I mutter something about pants and try to slam his hand in the door, but he’s more awake and sober than I am and moves it out of the way. My clothes, which I’m pretty sure I remember passing out in, are splayed out like a body at the foot of the bed, as if I died in them and then evaporated out. I’m not sure what I spilled on them, but it’s formed a solid blob of cloth connecting my shirt to my pants. My slacks are dark enough that nobody’s going to notice unless I have to peel them apart. I slip my head through the shirt and look at my red tie, just a little too disheveled to tighten, and I’m in no mood to retie it, so I ball it up and throw it at the trash can, but it floats peacefully onto an old Big Mac wrapper smeared with what I hope used to be mayonnaise. I strap on my shoulder holster and reach for my jacket, then the knocking comes back at the door, and before I even consider why I squeeze the grip on my gun. I open the door, and it’s just the uniform, shifting nervously in his too-polished shoes. “You shouldn’t pester a man when he’s armed.” “I thought maybe you’d passed back out.” Oh, if only. I stepped out into the hall and pat my jacket to make sure my keys are in it, then look at the uniform. “Tell me you brought me coffee.” His hand’s empty, but shaking. He’s probably just had a whole Red Bull. Kids these days. “On the corner there’s an owner-operated café, Lucinda’s. Lousy coffee. This time of morning she’s probably pissed in it. That should wake me up.” He walks me down the steps to the apartment at the end of the hall. I knew the girl who lived there- knew her in the sense that I’d seen her around and knew her name, and kept intending to ask her down to the piss-coffee café but never had. “Who found the body?” I asked. “Neighbor from upstairs, the floor above yours. They had plans to go to the gym, I guess they were work-out buddies. The door was open when she got here, and that’s when she found the body. Another uniform is upstairs with her in her apartment; she’ll be ready for questioning when you need her.” “No hurry,” I told him. “If she really only saw the body then there isn’t much the scene won’t tell us. If she knows anything else, the more tired she is the more likely she’ll be forthright.” I paused at the threshold of the apartment. The uniform noticed my reticence. “I’ll be back with your coffee in a moment.” “And not a second longer,” I said, thankful for the small psychological push, and walked in. Claire was leaned up against her bed in the main room. No blood, no gore, no rape; thank God for small favors. “Has the ME been and gone?” I asked the uniform who’d been watching the scene. “Naw. He’s with Mahoney across town. Murder-suicide by GSW with a possible sexual assault. So he’s running late.” “Beautiful.” I walked through the apartment. I’d imagined being here, being invited here; everything was like I’d expected, like the floral patterns in the kitchenette, except where it wasn’t (but still seemed to fit), like the rabbit motif in the bathroom. Then the uniform got back with my coffee. “If it’s black, I’ll kill you.” His eyes widened, but he pulled a mound of creamers and various sweeteners from his jacket, and piled them on the kitchen counter in front of me. “You,” I eyed him, “shall live. For now.” I huddled over the gooey black beverage, pouring in various creamers and shaking in sweeteners until it had turned caramel and took a sip. “Mmm. Can barely taste the piss anymore. Next time, spot me some Starbucks, or at least a McDonald’s coffee.” He shot me a look, nonverbal equivalent of wondering if there’d be a next time, and I returned a half-nod in reply. Now normally I wouldn’t be as big a pain in the ass, but with just the two of them here it seemed a golden opportunity for both school and theater. “Now, presumably, the two of you would someday like to be real police. Don’t take that the wrong way. We all start off as dumbass unis, but the difference between an old man walking a beat and real police is knowing things. So gather around, children, it’s time to learn.” “It wasn’t a robbery; killer knew the vic. There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing rifled through, even her wallet and car keys are still in her purse on the counter. And that scarf, that scarf around her neck was brought here to be the murder weapon. She’s very particular. Look at this room; there’s a very specific design scheme at play. Look at her in all of those pictures, it’s the same. Bright red scarf with those clothes? No.” My coffee mule perked up. “How can you be sure nothing’s been taken? Place is a mess.” “You can never be sure, but the mess, that’s from the struggle. Burglary: drawers would be open, contents spilled out. Obvious valuables in plain sight would be missing. But the drawers are all closed. All of this mess,” I motioned to clothes, blankets, books and pillows scattered around the floor, “is from two people fighting. Look at the rest of the house, closet, bathroom, all pristine.” “Killer was someone she trusted enough to let in the door, trusted enough to turn her back on- and that’s when the killer wrapped the scarf around her throat. And she fought like mad to get loose. She was a small woman, but she put up a good fight, and that tells us something. Killer’s either a man, smaller in stature, or a woman. If the scarf was worn here, then that points to a woman, but I’d be surprised if it was that sloppy. Everything else is considered and careful. No hair, no blood. The killer took their time, cleaned up just what they needed to without leaving anything telling. The door was left open on purpose. Somebody wanted us to find the body sooner rather than later.” I paused. “What do we know about the witness? She have an alibi?” “Said she was warming up for the gym, alone, in her apartment.” “So effectively no. It’s probably time to talk to her. At least one of you has to stay and secure the scene until the ME drags his sorry ass here. Flip a coin for all I care.” The last uniform is standing in the hallway upstairs. He’s young, and green enough that he looks nervous being here, and hasn’t shed the baby fat from his face. He’s had her keep the apartment door open, but didn’t want to stay inside. I walk into her apartment and immediately understand why. Witness is a looker, even dressed-down in an old sweatsuit with bands on her wrists that remind me of the 80s. She looks up at me, and her eyes flick nervously from me to the uniform, and I realize I’m not in dress blues and just barged into her place like I live here. “Homicide detective,” I say, and reach for my badge. “Oh,” she says, flat affect. “You and your friend always exercise late at night like this?” “I got talked into a membership at a 24 hour gym, and- no. We’ve only gone twice. It was going to be our routine.” “Mind if I see your driver’s license?” “So long as you don’t look at my weight. Or birth date.” I chuckled as she handed it to me; I like clever women. It’s a little odd to have a potential murder suspect flirt with you, but it beats outright hostility any day. “What if it’s pertinent to the investigation?” She raised an eyebrow. “How could it be?” “Well, you said you’ve only started using your gym membership. This ID isn’t that old, so the weight should still be about right- unless you embellished the truth. Knowing whether you embroider facts is important to know, Lisbeth.” “Actually, I said Claire and I had only started going nights. I’ve been working out on and off for a couple months.” She shot me a knowing look, though I couldn’t tell if she knew she looked good, or knew most men would be afraid to say anything to the contrary. “Hmm.” I said, and stared at her ID, putting it so close to my eye that the image went blurry. Then I walked slowly closer to her, staring at her. “Are you trying to tell if I’m lying?” “No; microexpressions are too quick to detect with the human eye. I’m just trying to make you nervous.” “Doesn’t telling me that defeat the purpose?” “No. Just keeps you on your toes.” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you been drinking?” “Hours ago. I passed out in the interim. I think I slept it off. Why? Am I swaying?” “No, I just smelled it.” I stopped and sniffed my shoulder. “Ah. Apparently my jacket has also been drinking- but I assure you he is sober enough for detective work.” I noticed she was beginning to droop noticeably. “It must be three, four in the morning. Even for a night owl that’s getting to be late.” “I could use a cup of coffee.” I looked to the uniform still in the hall. “You can head out. I don’t think she’s going to make a break for it.” He nodded and trotted off down the hall. “Grab a coat.” We walked down the steps. I took her purposely down past Claire’s; it had less effect than I’d hoped, since she was chattering about something, and it wasn’t until I stopped in nodded at the ME who’d finally arrived that she realized where we were, and went silent and white. Since she was distracted it didn’t tell me much; she was trying not to think about it, yeah, but both a murderer and somebody who discovers a dead body want to avoid the topic. Lucinda’s was open of course; Lucinda’s is always open, and Lucinda herself was propping up a wall by the register- though she barely registered it when we pushed open the door. We sat in a booth far enough away we could have some privacy (though Lucinda, like a lizard sunbathing on a rock, rarely registered anything approaching consciousness). She pawed nervously at a menu, until I spoke. “I’d stay away from the coffee. Try one of the flavored Cokes, if you need the caffeine.” “Flavored Cokes?” “They just squirt a little of the Italian soda mix into a Coke, but since the Coke machine and the mix are all out here at the bar, you know she isn’t putting anything horrible or personal into it- barring her doctoring the glasses beforehand. I don’t even want to think about that level of premeditation.” “You’re a strange guy.” “I’m a creature of habit, and unfortunately a student of human nature. You see the way she looked at me when we walked in? It’s rare to see that kind of unmitigated hate in a civilized society- especially in a service industry. But she doesn’t hate me, personally. She hates everyone. She hates the night shift, but she’s been through a half dozen shift workers who robbed her stupid, so she has to work the night shift on her own.” “Why not just stay closed at night?” “Money’s too good- not that the money’s that great. She couldn’t afford to keep the café open without it. But because of that she’s resentful. Which is why most of the food on the nightshift is questionable.” “So why did you bring me here, then?” “You’re a witness. I can explain getting you coffee, but not going out for a pizza. If this were a date we’d have hopped in a cab and tried to find another place that’s open as a pretense, so at least when we ended up here it was a last resort. But I’ve worked enough nights to tell you Lucinda’s is the only place only. That’s the only reason her nights are profitable; cops, mill workers, anybody on graveyard ends up here, eating her rancid rhubarb pie. Don’t make that face, it wasn’t a euphemism. That shriveled up husk of domestic terrorism in the glass dish at the end of the bar, that’s rhubarb pie, exactly as Satan taught her to bake it.” “But… it’s black.” “Exactly.” As if for the first time Lucinda realized we’d come in and sat down, and waddled over to us. “This one’s a lousy tipper, sweetheart,” she said around a cigarette I hadn’t seen on our way in. “She’s a lousy server,” I said; I still wasn’t sure if Luce enjoyed our banter or not. “I think I’ll just have a cherry Coke for now.” “Coffee.” Lucinda glared at me, and I thought maybe she’d somehow taken my order as a personal insult, before turning and walking away. “I thought you said stay away from the coffee.” “I grew up with brothers; it afforded me all sorts of urine-related immunities.” She smiled, then realized it and blushed; things were getting too personal. “Your driver’s license says ‘Lisbeth.’” “My mom used to call my ‘Libby’ and it stuck until college when a couple of frat asses started calling me ‘Lesby.’ I’m not a lesbian; I dated a few girls in college- but men, too. Anyway, nobody calls me Lisbeth anymore. You can call me Betty.” “Well, Betty, when you call me you can call me Al.” She smiled at that, which was nice, because given how much younger she was I wasn’t sure she’d have ever heard that song. “I like that. I’ve always liked ‘Al,’ since at least seeing Aladdin when I was really little- the animated Disney film. I used to run home from school instead of take the bus so I could catch the show.” “Wait, they made a TV show?” Now I really felt old. “Yeah, it was part of the Disney Afternoon block. I watched entirely too many cartoons as a kid.” She sighed, and for the first time her guard slipped. She didn’t look back at me, just stared out the window behind me. Luce smacked Betty’s cherry Coke down on the table hard enough I’m surprised the glass didn’t break. “Coffee’ll be a while,” she sneered, and sauntered back off in the direction of the register before I could tell her I wasn’t in any particular hurry. Betty tried to ignore the hostility in the air as she sipped at her Coke. “What kind of relationship did you have with Claire?” She almost sucked Coke into her lungs. “See, you being bisexual, you volunteered that; I think you wanted to tell me. Were the two of you lovers?” She swallowed. “Not exactly. I think it was complicated. There was certainly some attraction, but we hadn’t really decided how to proceed with it. I’m not sure if it’s more honest to say we were just friends, or not yet.” “How’d you feel about that ambiguity?” “I don’t dislike ambiguity. I think lovers are friends, and friends can just be lovers we haven’t decided to love yet. I think the bum rush into romance can spoil a friendship that never should have been love, but then again,” she leaned across the table and stared at me, and for a moment I felt like a steak on a platter in front of a starving woman, “there are just some people you never wanted to just be friends with.” I swallowed, trying not to pay attention to the way her leaning pressed her cleavage out of her gym clothes. “In my experience that decision is never entirely mutual. So who was holding back- you, or her?” “I suppose she was, more than me. I wasn’t in any hurry into her bed, but there was a night last week. We’d just seen that Gyllenhal movie at the second run theater, and I walked her to her door and tried to kiss her goodnight. She pulled away.” “How’d you feel about that?” “Well, I thought maybe I’d poisoned the well, but the next time I saw her everything was fine. She even hugged me goodbye. In retrospect, maybe she was pulling away, distancing with the hug rather than let me try to kiss her again, but at the time I was just happy that she still wanted to be friends.” “That’s good- not the snub, obviously. That confession. Not because it’s good for the soul, but because admitting what could make you sound like a suspect- a suspect wouldn’t do that. You’d be circumspect about it. Play coy or dumb or just make up something. Tell me you hadn’t really been attracted to women since Sex and the City turned you into a misogynist.” “Did Sex and the City turn you into a misogynist, Detective?” “It’s pull among women is unsettling, but compare it to my gender’s sports fixation and it’s hard to really cast any stones. How long had you and Claire been friends?” “A couple of months. Ran into her getting the mail one day, and we just bonded. There was a stray cat outside, gray with white flecks, like dirty snow, and she went out to pet it and I went with her. We ended up getting coffee and sitting outside with the cat, talking.” “Describe finding her body.” “We’d tried going to the gym in the mornings, in the daytime, even evenings, and always it was full of pervy men who didn’t even push weights around as a pretense, just stared. So we decided to go at night. We went last Wednesday, and there was this creepy old leathery woman with biceps bigger than her breasts who would not stop hitting on Claire, so tonight was going to be our last try.” “I’ve got joint issues, so it takes me a while to warm up. I usually stretch before we go to the gym, so we can warm up together. I came down the stairs, and Claire’s door was open- no, ajar, just open enough you could see a little sliver inside the room. Lights were off, and Letterman was on the TV with no sound on. That’s when I saw Claire, leaned against the foot of her bed. She was dressed in that svelte little jogging suit I hated because it made me feel less pretty when I was with her.” “My first thought wasn’t that she was dead, but that she’d fallen down, or been drinking, or maybe passed out or something. I tried to shake her, but her head snapped back and I knew right then that she should have woke up, should have screamed because that should have hurt her neck. I felt for a pulse before I called the police, but I knew I wouldn’t find one.” “Then what did you do?” “The 911 dispatcher told me to close and lock the doors and windows and wait for a squad car. That’s what I did. And I cried. I didn’t want to touch the body any more, or the scene, so I just stood where I was and cried.” “What was the first thought you had, after you realized that Claire was dead, and saw the red scarf around her neck, maybe even saw some of the bruising?” “I remember thinking dying that way, scared, she didn’t deserve that. It was awful for me to lose her like that, but for her- she was my friend, and now she’s dead.” She started to cry. Without thinking, I put my hand over hers, and she looked up, spooked. She tried to put away the emotion. “Don’t police have conflicts of interest? I’m surprised they let you handle this case.” I gave her a puzzled look. “Wait. You didn’t actually know Claire, did you?” “I’ve seen her around a few times, but we’ve never talked. I kept meaning to.” “I know what you mean,” she swallowed, and smiled, but the smile was sad. “She was a pretty girl.” We didn’t talk much after that. I walked her back to her room, and that’s where I made a mistake. She kissed me, and I didn’t take a page out of the dead girl’s book and duck and weave; then again Claire ended up dead and unkissed- seems like a lousy story to crib from. Betty pulled me inside. I won’t blow 9½ Weeks worth of smoke at you, but it was intense; it had been an emotional night, and we were both pent up. I would have fallen asleep right after, but a cat started nuzzling my face. “The cat. This is the stray you first bonded over, gray with white flecks. You loved Claire, didn’t you?” “I think I wanted to.” She fell asleep in my arms, and I fell asleep a bit later. I woke up, feeling the tickle of hair on my face. I thought it had to be coming from the cat, but it was Betty’s hair on my face. I looked around the room for the cat, and realized I could hear the sounds of cars. The window was open. Had I gotten hot in the night and opened it? Or maybe more importantly, had her cat gotten out? I looked around the apartment, trying not to make too much noise and wake her. But there wasn’t any cat food, no litter box. I had a hunch, so I put my pants on and walked down a few floors. Claire’s apartment was empty. Nobody’d been back since the uniform left, leaving yellow tape across the frame. I thought I’d seen it earlier, but now I didn’t have to go looking, I could smell it. The cat’s little box was in a little closet with the washer-dryer combo unit. And in the kitchen, there was food and a water bowl. I tried shaking the food, saying, “Here, kitty.” No cat. I went back into the bedroom. The window was shut; I wondered. Sure enough, as soon as I’d opened the window, that gray and white cat hopped up on the sill with a chirpy little meow. “So this is where you live,” I said, as the cat rubbed against my chin. One of the floorboards behind me creaked, and I knew before she spoke, and before I turned to see here there, holding a knife. But her voice betrayed her, and even as the words dribbled out gravity tugged at the knife. “You didn’t have to care… you’d never have known if you didn’t care. Why couldn’t you just care about me? Why was she so special?” “I do care. But you killed her. And that’s really a bad circumstance to begin a relationship in.” “Oh; I hadn’t really thought about that.” She set the knife down on a dresser. “She liked you, you know? You noticed her, and she noticed. I think she was waiting for you to talk to her.” I felt like an idiot for not having seen it sooner. “You thought we were involved in some kind of a love triangle, so you decided to murder the other side. That is romantic in the most fucked up way possible.” “I’m sorry. I felt bad, hiding things from you.” “I’m murder police. Nobody tells me the truth. Not even me. You’re an excellent liar, by the way, avoid all the usual tells. You’re pretty, too, which helps. I think I have to put you in prison.” I took her hand, and very gently put my cuffs around her wrist. “I never would have figured it out if it weren’t for the cat. You couldn’t stand leaving the cat there, with the body. That cat meant something to you, because it was from when you first met Claire. You really loved her, didn’t you?” “I think I wanted to. I wanted to love you, too.” |
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