by David Beers
Alan made his way back across the house and walked outside, the fresh air making him feel like he had been sitting at the bottom of a pool for the past ten minutes. He sucked it in, but kept walking forward, wanting to get rid of the bleach smell.
More people stood at the curb, some looking at him now that he walked out, others talking amongst themselves.
He needed Susan to look at this, to help him make sense of it. He was too close to this, too far into his own head not to miss something. Alan wanted to call her now and ask her to get up here, but he didn’t reach into his pocket. Instead he looked at his watch, and saw the time neared six.
Head home, he thought.
While others stay here and do the work you should be doing?
He couldn’t go home, not if people were still working. None of them knew Teresa, and if they were still out here dissecting the crime scene, then Alan needed to do the same. Marie would understand.
She would have to.
32
Present Day
John looked at Harry, almost unable to believe what he just heard.
Harry stood in front of John’s desk, wearing a suit today. John didn’t know if he’d ever seen Harry in a suit; he usually stuck to t-shirts and shorts. Things resembling what he wore that day on the beach. Today, though, he had a white button down and gray pinstripe pants.
“You listening?” Harry said.
“I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Ha! You think I’m joking, sir?”
“You have to be. Otherwise, you’re going mad,” John said.
“Madness has nothing to do with this. What we’re looking at here is the death penalty if we don’t do this.”
John shook his head and looked down at his hands. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go on, no matter what Harry said. Exhaustion didn’t begin to describe the feelings moving through his mind and body. He hadn’t slept longer than a few hours in weeks. The last person, Larry—John hadn’t shaken him off as easily as Paul. Guilt still weighed on him, feeling like a safe sat on his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.
“I can’t,” he said, looking up. “I can’t do anymore.”
“Jooohhhhnnn, you don’t have a choice. In for a penny, in for a pound. You stop now, little Ms. Starbucks is going to sink this whole damn ship.”
John shook his head. “I don’t care. I can’t do it again, not this soon. You don’t get what it feels like, Harry.”
“Get what it feels like? Who are you talking to? I’m not your wife. I get exactly what it feels like, but that doesn’t matter. Do you want Diane finding out? That’s what you need to be thinking about, not how you feel, but how she’s going to feel when she finds out?”
John looked away.
“Goddamnit,” he said.
A knock came through the door, silencing the conversation. Both Harry and John looked to the door.
“You don’t have anything on the calendar,” Harry said.
“Calm down. Someone knocking on my door isn’t out of the ordinary. You seem to forget that the rest of the world goes on when you’re here.”
John stood up from his desk and walked to the door, opening it. His assistant stood in front of him, her face telling John everything he needed to know. Her eyes were wide and red, puffy from the crying that she must have just stopped. Her hands held onto a tissue, both of them folded in front of her.
“John, someone in marketing was murdered.”
John didn’t say anything, was too stunned to speak.
“The police are here and they’re interviewing people a few floors down.”
“What…,” John started, but his mouth suddenly felt drier than the desert. “Who was it?” he said finally.
“The news says his name was Larry Kolzet. Did you know him?” she said.
“No, I don’t think so.” John felt his leadership coming back slowly, remembering his duty and appearances. “Are you okay? Did you know him?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just jarring, I think.”
“Do you need to take the day off? It’s fine if you do.”
“No, no,” she said. “I think I’ll be okay; I just wanted to come tell you.”
John nodded. “Well, hey, if you do need to go home, just let me know. It’s no big deal at all.”
“Thanks, John,” she said.
“No problem.”
His assistant walked away and he closed the door as she did.
“So that’s great, huh?” he said, turning around to look at Harry. “The cops in the building now. Odds that they find out Larry from Marketing works at the same company I do? That probably won’t look great, Harry, not with me also attending the same meetings as Paul Stinson.”
Fire bloomed in John’s stomach. The spark had been fear, but now anger poured on that fear like gasoline. Anger at the motherfucker still standing in front of his desk, looking at him with a slightly blue face and flabby, fleshy cheeks. Anger because things were spiraling out of control quicker than John could keep up. Anger because—
“The cops are downstairs, Harry. Got a plan for that, or are we just going to kill them too?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Harry said. “It doesn’t change the fact that something has to be done about Ms. Starbucks. Regardless if the cops are interviewing downstairs, someone is asking her about you. Maybe right now.”
“DAMN IT!” John shouted unable to control himself, unable to keep the fire from engulfing him. “Fine, Harry. Fine. We’ll just kill everybody we meet. That work for you?”
Kaitlin Rickiment sat in the passenger seat of the car; she looked out the window at the police station.
“I really don’t want to go in,” she said.
“Why not?” Eve said from the driver’s seat.
“I just don’t like cops,” Kaitlin said.
“No one does. Do you really have to go in?”
Kaitlin didn’t turn from the station. The car window was dirty, desperately needing a wash. She focused, for a second, on the dirt plastering the outside of it, somewhat obscuring her view of the building.
Did she have to go in?
Kaitlin wasn’t a lawyer; indeed, the chance for school was quickly passing her by. Not completely gone yet, but how many more years did she have before she would be ‘too old’ to enroll?
And, right there, that’s why you’re not going, huh? Mind keeps getting sidetracked.
“You listening?” Eve said.
“Yeah, just thinking.”
Did she have to go in? No, she didn’t. She didn’t really have to do anything. Didn’t have to go into this police station, didn’t have to go to college, didn’t have to go into work. She did some and didn’t do others, though—and this one? What were the consequences if she didn’t? She never asked because she hadn’t cared. She didn’t know Paul Stinson, not personally, but she’d served him more times than she could count.
She felt some loyalty to him. Some pity. Kaitlin didn’t know a thing about justice, but she knew she didn’t like that someone murdered Paul Stinson.
No, she didn’t have to go in. Maybe that meant she’d end up in court for obstruction of justice or some other charge. She didn’t know. And that didn’t matter. She’d been to jail before, for reasons much less noble than refusing to help cops.
“Nah, I probably don’t have to, but I’m going anyways.”
“What time do you want me to pick you up?” Eve said.
“Probably three hours. Describing everything to the sketch guy takes a while.”
“You have to come back after this?”
“According to the guy, this is it,” Kaitlin said.
“Alright, I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Kaitlin turned to Eve. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Want to smoke when you get done?”
Kaitlin laughed. “I hope they’re not eavesdropping. Yeah, sure. See ya in a little while.”
She
opened the door and stepped from the car. She walked up the few stairs and then stood there for a few seconds, her hand resting on the guard rail.
She really didn’t want to go in. The guy that did the drawings, Thomas, wasn’t bad. An older guy who spoke fairly soft and took a good many number of breaks—which Kaitlin liked because it gave her time to smoke. She didn’t want to go in because cops, from her experience, were—in short—fucking bastards.
Hell, they hadn’t been there for Paul Stinson, had they? No, they looked into the problem after everything happened.
It doesn’t matter if you like them, she thought. You’re here for the guy that used to drink coffee at your store.
She needed to keep reminding herself that. This wasn’t about her.
Kaitlin realized she was standing outside of a police station, staring at doors that were one way glass; the people inside could definitely see her standing out here and she hadn’t even lit a cigarette to give the pretense of a reason to not come in. She probably looked suspicious, that, or ridiculous.
Go on.
Kaitlin grabbed the door handle and went in. Back to the little glass window with the cop sitting behind it.
“I’m here for Thomas,” she said.
“Have a seat please.”
Kaitlin went to her chair, glancing at the other people in the room. She immediately started concocting stories for the people she saw. The young kid on her left? Most likely seeing his parole officer for a car-theft ring. Low level manager. Probably never killed someone but definitely hurt a good number of people. The old lady to her left? Well, her grandson was arrested last night for dealing some pot. Grandma was here because the boy got the pot from her and still owed her money for it.
What else was Kaitlin to do while she waited for Thomas to make his way out? He didn’t look like the type that would rush.
“Kaitlin Rickiment?”
She looked up, breaking her trance of what the grandma would do when her grandson got home—specifically, she saw the grandma really bitching him out good.
The sketch artist wasn’t in the doorway, but the man that first showed up at her apartment.
What was his name?
“Hi,” she said, standing up and walking to him.
“Detective Tremock,” he said and the name bloomed in her mind almost at the same time.
“Would you mind talking to me for a few minutes before you get started with the drawing?”
“Sure,” she said.
They walked down the hallway, took a right, and then found a small office with a table in the middle. Tremock walked in first, waited for her to enter, and then shut the door.
“This looks like an interrogation room but you’re not going to be interrogated, okay?”
Kaitlin nodded.
“Want to have a seat?” the detective said.
Kaitlin sat and the detective followed.
“I just wanted to talk to you a bit about the man you saw. Not what he looked like, just what you might have noticed. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but I’m not sure how much I can give you. I served … Paul? I don’t know, I never really called him by his first name. He sat down. I don’t even remember serving the other guy; I only remember seeing him after, because it was just odd for Paul to be sitting with someone.”
“That’s perfectly okay. Anything you remember might help, even if you don’t think it will. Were the two arguing, were they friendly? Did it look like they knew each other.”
Kaitlin looked slightly to the detective’s right as she went back in her mind.
“Nothing about them stood out besides what I already said, so I guess that means they were friendly enough.”
“Did you hear any of what they spoke about?” he said.
“I really didn’t. I was behind the counter and they were a good ten or twenty feet away.”
The detective nodded. “Okay, I just wanted to check. Will you let me know if anything else comes to mind?”
“Yeah, I will,” Kaitlin said. She wanted this conversation to be done. Something about this guy didn’t sit well with her. Thomas, he was calm. This guy seemed on edge, like he could snap any second. She didn’t think he would hurt her, necessarily, but he would hurt someone. Kaitlin felt sure of that.
“Okay, let’s go back to Thomas’ office.”
He stood and opened the door for her; Kaitlin walked out first, feeling more than a little relief. Kaitlin didn’t know this guy at all, not besides the few words they’d spoken to one another—but she thought he was as capable of murder as whoever killed Paul Stinson.
“Hi,” the sketch artist said as Kaitlin entered his doorway.
“You ready to go, Thomas?” the detective said from behind her.
“Yes, let’s get started. Come on in, Kaitlin.”
Scott hadn’t looked at the notebook in days. Not since he read that first entry and threw it in the trash. It didn’t take long for him to pull it back out, though, as he knew he would. Placing it on the coffee table, Scott pushed it from his mind, going through his days as he had for the past few years.
Perhaps if he wasn’t retired, he could have left it on the coffee table, or maybe even taken it back to the attic. Retirement, though—especially one without a wife—led to boredom from time to time. Not all the time, of course; Scott had things to do and tried to stay busy. He knew death awaited for anyone that stopped keeping life interesting, and he wanted more days on this world yet.
Still, bingo nights were only three times a week and pool twice. He went to some movies. He worked on a wandering novel that he’d been writing for five or six years—a story he didn’t think he’d ever finish and certainly never publish.
Yet, with all the things he did, John stayed on his mind. John, the calls from Alicia, the worries from Diane, and Lori’s notebook. He couldn’t completely discard it all, no matter how hard he tried.
And so, he found himself staring at the notebook again.
The television was off and the curtains drawn. The light above was off and the room held darkness despite the sun shining bright outside.
Scott reached over and flipped the switch on the table lamp.
Enough light to read with.
He reached forward and brought the journal to him.
Scott didn’t want to do this. Whatever lay on those pages wasn’t something that needed to see daylight ever again. Except … maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe it needed to see daylight, but he didn’t want to be the one to open the pages and let the sun touch them. Let that fall to someone else.
But there wasn’t anyone else. Not anymore. Not after Lori died leaving this journal for him.
Read the journal, Scott. Read it, she said during one of her last days. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. He hadn’t even thought she knew he was in the room, but he heard the words clear.
He flipped it open to the first page, seeing the letter he already finished.
He swallowed and flipped the page over.
I started seeing a psychiatrist this week. Or is it a psychologist? I don’t know. One gives pills, the other gives advice, I suppose.
He’s the one that suggested I start this. He said it would be good to get my feelings out on a more regular basis, that once a week wasn’t always enough.
Feelings is an interesting term.
I haven’t really begun to tell him everything—Dr. Vondi, but I guess this week was my first visit, so it’s not like I had tons of time to delve into everything. I kind of wonder how much I should tell him? There are things I haven’t told anyone, not even Scott, and yet I’m supposed to tell some stranger?
It’s an interesting dynamic, I suppose. I tell this person everything and learn virtually nothing about them, then they give me advice. Makes me want to laugh when I write it out like that. There are things, though, that I need to talk about; things I have to understand better if I’m ever going to understand my own life.
I always wanted to tell
Scott these things, like what happened to my father. What happened to Clara. I’m not sure he even knows that I hate calling her mother or mom—I’ve always used those words in front of him because it was easier than explaining.
Easier than explaining.
That seems like an adequate phrase to describe much of my life.
But now, I’m paying money to explain. We’ll see how this goes.
Scott stared at the page once he finished the last word. He paused for a second and then reread it all.
Her mother and father?
He knew what happened to both of them. Her father was murdered and her mother died when Lori was in her mid twenties. What else was there to it?
Scott looked up at the black television screen.
He really didn’t want to go on now. Not a single ember of curiosity burned anywhere in his mind. Had Lori kept things from him their entire marriage? He felt like he had been sleeping and someone just pulled the blankets off him, then shoved a bright, white light right into his face. Disorienting and frightening.
What the hell was in here?
And are you going to dig in? You don’t know what she’s talking about and you don’t want to know either. So why turn the page. Burn the whole damn notebook.
He sat there for a few minutes, trying to reason his way through it.
Throw the notebook out or go forward. He couldn’t have it in his house anymore if he wasn’t going to read it. Throw out the last of his wife or learn about her. The choice came to that.
And, in the end, Scott loved Lori with all his heart; indeed, he spent her whole life trying to continually learn about her—her changing likes, dislikes, and desires.
So he decided that he’d learn the last pieces that he apparently didn’t know.
Kaitlin walked out of the police station.
She was done with it and glad to be. The whole thing had been like a nightmare that she didn’t expect, thrust on her by some subconscious concern she had no idea existed. No more, though.
