Unlike the boring monotony of the hospital on a Friday night, the police station was quite the opposite. Lights were strewn across every corner; several news vans were parked everywhere anxiously waiting for a story. Reporters were checking the frequency of their microphones, and the sea of curious onlookers were cheering and whistling. I could see smiles radiating, and fists pumping high in the air from the back of the police car.
Why are they here? My face wrinkled in confusion. A thought zipped through my mind, and my eyes lit up. Holy shit, are they here for me? Word must’ve traveled fast. The officer who had helped escort me out of the emergency room finally found a space to park, however, we weren’t able to avoid the hyped-up crowd. Before the officer could open the car door for me, they swarmed like bees all over to us. Hands with blurred faces helped me out the car. There was so many of them. It was like stepping onto the red carpet at the Golden Globes or something. The cameras were ruthless with their flashes, blinding me with every step.
Countless mics were shoved in my face, and what seemed like thousands of reporters were shouting at me, asking me questions I tried hard to ignore. “We love you!” I heard one woman scream. Who would’ve thought this madness of hoopla and hysteria would be just for me? I kept thinking that Mrs. Fox would absolutely eat this up! But I sobered fast, shaking my head, thinking of her. I needed to find out how she and my mom were doing. I hoped they weren’t too worried.
Applause swelled around me. A voice from the crowd shouted, “Thank you for saving all those innocent people—YOU ROCK!” It was impossible to take it all in. I decided to keep my mouth shut and my head down. I couldn’t risk saying anything I wouldn’t want anyone to hear.
As I squeezed through the station doors, it felt as if I had entered another dimension. The decibel level was significantly lower inside the building, but there was still a palpable buzz throughout the station. The officers didn’t skip a beat. They did their due process, which consisted of fingerprinting, snapping mugshots, and recording pertinent details. I noticed everyone was still treating me with kid gloves, like I had been the victim and not Lync. The officers were beyond courteous. They even went as far as putting me in some type of small room versus a cell. I thought only people with money got that type of privilege. Could it be due to all the recent political unrest, and the “sue-happy” mentality that had spread like wildfire across the country, that law enforcement agencies were actually exercising extreme caution in situations like mine? Whatever the reason, I was grateful for it.
I sat down in a battered wooden chair and waited for twenty minutes, give or take. Then I heard the echo of footsteps approaching. An officer appeared at the door and proceeded to escort me to another room with a sign that read “HOMICIDE INTERVIEWS” on the door. Before we stepped in, I imagined a squalid, dank, and dark room filled with a few chairs, a battered table with countless stains and marks, and a fluorescent light overhead. I imagined myself at the mercy of detectives as they tried to beat a confession out of me; me sitting helplessly across the table as beads of sweat trickled down my forehead.
Instead, the door opened to a small, clean, well-lit room. I had to stop watching so much NCIS. There was a peculiar-looking man in his late forties sitting in one of the chairs. He had short dark hair and wore a gray, rumpled suit and a dark blue tie with gray, triangular designs. He had to be Italian, or maybe Greek. The other man, who was my escort, was much younger. He was in his mid-thirties and had a very fair complexion. His background had to be Swedish or some country from the Scandinavian area. He was as tall as any basketball player I’d seen, and skinny as a rail. Aud would kill for his cheekbones.
“Marc. Detective Savino.” He stood up and firmly shook my hand. He turned and introduced the younger guy as Detective Larsson, who gave me a curt nod. Detective Savino gestured with his eyes for me to sit. He and the bronze Swede followed suit. “You seem to be quite the celebrity,” he said with a little smile, trying to put me at ease. “I’m going to put the audio/video recorder on, which is standard procedure during interviews. Do you understand?”
I answered yes and he continued, “The hospital says you should be up to an interview and questioning, but if at any time you feel tired or not up to continuing, we can stop. You also don’t have to answer any questions you don’t wish to, and request to have an attorney present. Understood?”
I answered yes again. Before they started in with questions, they confirmed my mom and Mrs. Fox had been contacted and told that I had been taken to the hospital for observance but was fine and would be with the police for a bit to help answer questions about the shooting. Both women had seemed fine and relieved to hear I was okay. Detective Savino had even given them the station number, as well as his own cell number, if they needed anything.
He smiled when Mrs. Fox’s name came up. “Your neighbor is quite a gal,” he remarked. I smiled in agreement. Mrs. Fox got that a lot.
They began the questioning. I did my best to answer as honestly as possible, without going into too much detail. There was no telling what Paul, or Mrs. Fox, or any of the other partygoers had said. There was only one thing that I knew to be true: I was definitely innocent. I had acted instinctively, terrified that Lync would shoot at everyone in the room, especially Mrs. Fox. Lync was fucking crazy. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. I had put myself on the line for other people. I honestly hadn’t known I had it in me.
Finally, after a couple of hours and a lot of repetitive questions, I felt my body start to shut down as the adrenaline that had kept me going all this time finally crashed. Now I knew why people say they “hit a wall,” because that’s exactly how it felt. My head was pounding and I couldn’t focus on the questions. The detectives gave up, because I guess there was nothing left to gain. After thanking me, they informed me that a statement would be prepared for me to sign before I left, but that they would appreciate me hanging around for a bit longer, in case any more questions came up. By this time, it was already early Saturday morning.
The female officer I had spoken to earlier escorted me back to the holding room. There was only that uncomfortable chair to sit on—no couch or cot—but since my legs felt like jelly at this point, it was better than nothing. I tried closing my eyes to rest, but my mind couldn’t help but review the facts.
First, my head, brain, and body were hurting all over. But until I grabbed some Tylenol, there wasn’t much I could do about that. Second, regardless of what the police had told me, I was still worried about my mom. I would make sure to call her as soon as they’d let me. Knowing her, she’d do anything to get to me, including breaking sound and speed barriers in the process. At this very moment, she and Mrs. Fox were probably already concocting an exit plan for me. That image allowed me the first real smile and sense of happiness I’d had since before this whole nightmare with Lync and Paul had begun. And third, well, there was no third, because the next thing I knew, I was nudged awake by another officer, with my head lolled forward on my chest, with a little drool on my mouth, which I quickly wiped away.
I was brought back into the interview room to sign my statement. Someone had kindly provided me with a sandwich, chips, and a bottle of water. At that moment, I realized how ravenous I was and started in. Detectives Savino and Larsson were sitting across the table with cups of coffee in their hands, watching me. I thought I was the one who’d had a bad night, but they looked like shit. A detective's job is never done, I guess.
I read through the statement, signed at all the ‘X’s’ and was told I was free to go. Detective Savino smiled, mentioning “my ride” was there. That had to mean Mrs. Fox had come to get me. I followed a police officer into the main lobby and there she was, adorned in a Juicy Couture cotton candy-colored velour tracksuit. I could tell from her body language that she was flirting with the officer at the front desk. He was young enough to be her nephew’s age, but why the heck would she care? The poor fellow was turning beet red, as she must’ve been telling him one racy joke after a
nother. The cops were getting a huge kick out of her and treating her like a celebrity. Of course, Aud loved the attention.
I was glad to see her happy, considering the circumstances. I felt ashamed. If I hadn’t brought her to that stupid party, none of this would’ve happened. I came around the corner and her face lit up when she saw me. As she rushed over to hug me, I saw a few tears spring from her eyes. “Thank God, you’re okay!” she exclaimed. I made sure to emphasize that I had been treated extremely well by everyone and told her how much I appreciated her coming to pick me up.
She eyed me up and down, probably not liking what she saw. She tugged at my sleeve and began walking towards the door. “Let’s blow this popsicle joint, kid,” she ordered. Arm in arm, we walked out the exit doors.
Even the next day, there was a crowd milling about outside, but it was much smaller and quieter than it had been the night before. I stuck to my routine, keeping my head down and my mouth shut until, at last, we were safely ensconced in Mrs. Fox’s silver Toyota Camry, with its bumper sticker that read: “Good Girls Go to Heaven, Bad Girls Go Everywhere.” Seriously, how could you not love this woman?
I’d only been at the police station for a night, but even that was enough to make me appreciate the space and real freedom of the outside world. The morning sun was peachy and bright, the blue sky beautiful. On the drive back home, we made a stop at my favorite coffee house and bought a few cups to go. The aroma and taste of my favorite pumpkin spice coffee soothed me to no end. The French Crullers we’d bought on an impulse melted in my mouth. Heaven.
As we headed to our apartments, Mrs. Fox decided to share what she’d received from the officers at the station. Apparently, there was enough visual evidence from the hidden surveillance equipment at The Nest to back up my recollection of events. And my fellow crew members had come to my defense too. They had not only signed affidavits that Lync was the obvious aggressor who threatened Paul and me with a gun, but they also painted a very ugly picture of Lync’s character in general, exposing his steroid abuse, hostile behavior, and paranoia.
“Enough of that slimy pig,” she dismissed with a wave. Her expression changed in an instant as she went on to tell me that in just a few short hours, I had become the “talk of the town.” Like it or not, I was smack-dab in the middle of yet another—third, to be exact—reality TV star’s death. It hurled me straight into the spotlight. “You’re a star now,” she glowed. “Do you know how many calls your mom and I have gotten asking all of us to do interviews?”
She tried to sound offended, but as always, she ate it up. Mom! I had to call her right then or facing a jail sentence would be the least of my worries. Mrs. Fox noticed my sudden alarm at the talk of my mom. “Don’t stress, sweetie. Your mom and I have been in constant touch. She’s okay. Worried, but okay. She’s flying in to see you. She’ll be here later today or tomorrow, as soon as she can ditch that stubborn press. I let her know you’d call as soon as I got you home.”
At that, I let out an audible sigh. As I approached the top of the stairs, two thoughts came to me. One, I was a free man again, and hopefully for the rest of my life. And two, was it true? Had I become a reality star of sorts? Great. Just great.
11 Swimming with the Sharks
Boy, oh boy. I couldn’t believe it. What the hell was going on in the world? I started getting emails and calls from what seemed like every major talk show in the game. From Fallon and Kimmel to Ellen DeGeneres, you name it. They wanted me—if you could believe it—to be their special guest.
As flattered as I was, I politely turned down all their requests. Honestly, I just wanted them to leave me the hell alone. I didn’t want any spotlight on me. I tried to rationalize everything that had happened to me in those last few hectic months. I couldn’t wrap my head around what I might have become. My now very vocal entourage, which included my mom and Mrs. Fox, had a different opinion. They were thrilled by all this commotion in my life. But if they’d actually known the whole story, I knew they’d be ashamed and hope I’d crawl behind a rock and hide. But, as much as I tried to shun away from all the hoopla, if I hid too long, people might wonder why.
I expressed this concern to Aud, and she was adamant that I needed to do at least one interview so people could hear from me. That way, I could tell the masses that I have absolutely no interest in being any kind of hero, and most importantly, I would like to be left alone. As Aud put it, “You know, just to get your side of the story out there. It will pacify the press and you’ll be done with it. In five minutes, they’ll move on to the next big thing.” I shrugged at the thought. It made sense, so why not?
I carefully mulled over the numerous offers, but since I refused to appear on TV, that knocked out about seventy-five percent of the offers. As I looked over the remaining offers, one in particular jumped out.
The major radio personality and self-dubbed “King of all Media” Howard Stern had reached out, asking me to be on his show! How had I missed that one? I couldn’t believe it. Howard Stern’s show had grown to over 20 million listeners. Not to mention, he was a major player in the game, and I’d be an absolute fool not to take him up on his offer. When I was growing up, me and some of my high school buddies would sneak over the hill behind the school just about every day and smoke cigarettes while listening to his show. Boy, those had been good times.
But, being that his studio was in New York City, and I was bound by release limitations to stay in L.A. until the police told me otherwise. I obviously couldn’t do a sit-down interview. So, Howard’s “people” proposed a phone interview instead. There was no way I’d turn this offer down. I was ecstatic that I was about to be interviewed by my hero, Howard Stern. If only my high school buds could’ve see me now.
“Marc! Hey man,” Howard started off, “I’m glad you could come on the show.”
I took a deep breath, “Thanks Howard. I appreciate the invite. It’s great to be speaking with you.”
Howard let out a small laugh and continued, “I don’t think you guys need any intro for the man of the hour, but for those who’ve been living in a dark cave over these past couple of days, Marc Henderson’s face has been plastered all over the media. He’s been described as an everyday guy who courageously took out that pill-popping, steroid-abusing, reality asshole, Lync Prime.”
Howard let out an overwhelming sigh. “The first thing I want to say Marc is, thank you, man! Okay? I mean, if you were here in this studio, I’d kiss you.”
I could hear Howard’s co-host Robin laughing at his joke. “Think about it man. You did what all of us with no balls couldn’t—you killed that lowlife!”
“Howard, what are you talking about? You killed in ‘Nam, remember?” Robin chimed in, letting out another chuckle.
There was a short pause as I heard Howard take a sip of his coffee. Since the interview had been set up so quickly, I wasn’t really prepared for how this whole shtick was to play out. What should I say? What shouldn’t I say? Crap, I wish I’d taken Aud up on her offer to set me up with her former PR person. This kind of thinking would get me nowhere fast, so before I got too nervous, I shrugged it off and figured, what the hell? I’d come this far. I was pretty sure I could handle anything that came along with it.
“Ok, Marc, take us through it. In your own words,” Howard prodded me.
“Well Howard,” I said matter-of-factly, “unfortunately, Lync had a lot of serious problems. Most of us on the crew of Getting Primed tried our best to avoid him whenever possible. But as time went on, he became more and more...what’s the word? Aggressive. Confrontational. Paranoid. We were fed up, Howard.” I spoke honestly. “Of course, I still did everything I could to avoid a confrontation with him. It was tragic what happened, you know? But Lync was a walking time bomb. And it was total self-defense on my part. I’m just grateful and relieved that the surveillance cameras got the incident on tape. Plus, the other crew-members backed me up.”
“That’s the truth, man,” Stern said. “Believe me. I’
ve met so many so-called ‘celebrities.’ It pisses me off. I mean, I worked my ass off for thirty years just to get to where I am, and these slime balls do nothing and expect to be rich and famous!” His voice suddenly shifted, “So tell me, Marc. How many times have you gotten laid since you’ve been out of jail?”
Robin giggled as they cut to an abrupt commercial. I couldn’t remember much else from after we came back on the air, it was mostly a blur. I was just so thrilled to be talking to one of my childhood idols. Plus, I didn’t think I did that bad.
After the interview, I barely stepped foot out of my apartment. The high I felt from being on The Howard Stern Show didn’t last long. I crashed—hard. I started to get depressed, and it felt like I couldn’t get out of my own way. The troubles I had caused started to weigh heavily on my mind.
That fateful night when I’d killed Petra felt like it had been years ago. And Andrea’s death felt like a hallucinogenic dream. It was all too surreal. My mind was swirling non-stop. I was having nightmares and images that wouldn’t get out of my head. When I would finally fall asleep, it was like pressing “REPLAY” on a DVD player, with a reenactment of Lync’s death. But each time it played out, it would end differently. Was I on the verge of a nervous breakdown? How much more could I handle without losing it completely?
And to make matters worse, whoever Primed Minister had hired as their PR reps were working overtime to squeeze every bit of publicity they could out of the situation before Lync’s death fell off the public’s radar. It had gotten so bad that the press was literally camping out on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. They reminded me of a pack of wild animals, just skulking around, waiting for their prey to show.
What really bothered me were the onlookers taking countless selfies in front of my complex. Really? Get a life, people. I shook off my depression long enough to realize I had another problem: I was running out of food. I didn’t know what to do so I called on one of the most reliable people I knew, Aud. Like a ninja, she snuck through my back patio door, triumphantly holding a plastic bag filled with what she excitedly called, “the goods.”
Killing Reality Page 8
