by C.P. Kemabia
“Why? My daughter had recently been dating that … that scoundrel. And when she wouldn’t let him touch her, he tried to force it. How perfectly disgusting! A man like that to behave like an animal. She just meant to defend herself. She didn’t mean to kill him. It’s his goddamned fault. He had better control his urges around her, that’s all.”
She reheard the broken voice of her daughter over the phone then, two nights ago, as she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her teeth were clattering with shock over the life she had accidently cut short with the strength of desperation.
Her daughter had called from his place where he lay dead in his living room, a knife stuck into his chest. She had succumbed to panic and nearly let her remorseful heart, her Christian conscience, dictate her next course of action, which would undoubtedly have set her body in jail but kept her soul out of the eternal fire of Gehenna.
Thank God she had quickly talked her daughter out of that silly thinking, saying what was done was done, and that, no matter what, you could count on the Lord to always lead His children by the hand to salvation. Always…
She then told her daughter what to do. She told her how to do it. And once every trace of her presence at the time of death had been carefully wiped off, she told her to load the dead man in her car and drive down over there. It was a long and chilly night. And the idea had been to just dump the corpse somewhere. But then she thought on it. Her daughter was everything to her. And this initial idea of hers suddenly looked flimsy. It offered no real certitude that her daughter would escape suspicions by the police when the body was found. A corpse always found a way to turn up. No matter how well you got rid of it. You just had to be prepared for that. Indeed, what she truly needed was a red herring. And so she devised a better plan.
It was four o’clock in the morning when she sent her daughter home after they both carried the dead man up to her apartment, a grueling exercise that left her devoid of strength. It was all right though, for the work ahead only required mental strength, something she’d stacked over the years.
All her life, she, Agatha Nafius Brummer, had attended on picture-perfect upper-crust families. She’d put up with narcissistic housewives, tolerated insufferable offspring, endured the abuses of sick family men, and she took it all with dignity; because she was paid to take it; because there was nothing else she could do to pay the bills. But this was now all bygone. Her current job at Flystone had balanced it all out, with health insurance and a nice roof over her head. For once, she was in a position where she gave orders. And that was good. But the pain that had been a knife edge inside her all those years ago was still very much there. So when she cut up that bastard in her apartment, she didn’t feel a thing, except the tremors of impact travelling up her arm. And after the work was accomplished, she was amazed with herself, in a semi-conscious way, for it resembled the work of a seriously deranged mind, enough to throw the police off the trail of her daughter should they ever stumble upon the body parts.
Mrs. Brummer cast from her mind the recap of the events of that night, which now felt strangely surreal and distant, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
In awe, Tara was still looking at her.
“Then it was self-defense,” she whispered. “Your daughter could’ve gotten away with it.”
“Aw, she’s a nobody,” the old landlady said. “And he was a big fish in a system that’s mainly made by the big fish and for the big fish. What do you think was going to happen, huh? I had to protect her. I wasn’t going to let that imbecile ruin the life she had worked so hard to have and that she’s finally having. I wasn’t going to take that chance.” She glared over at the cardboard box. “I did what I had to do. And even when his clunky head veered off and ended up in here—and that must have been some kind of intervention of his from the beyond to screw my plan—I still had to stick to it.”
“So you just figured that we’d take the fall,” Charlie said, her face a little stormy. “You think that’s right—huh—do you?”
Mrs. Brummer’s face twisted abruptly. She was wrathful, fuming red like ember.
“You bunch of spoiled degenerate kids!” she said. “What do you know about right or wrong? You’re just as screwy as that filthy man was, so don’t talk to me about what’s right or what’s wrong. What, because you have a pricey education you think you know better? You think you can talk me down like that, trampling over the value of due respect? You think your fancy college degree gives you license to stand there on your high horse and look down upon me? You know nothing, my dear! Nothing! But then who am I to lecture you, huh? I’m not big. I don’t have your superior knowledge, right? I only run this building and my income is closely tied to the rent you never miss to pay. So in a way I should thank you for that. Well, let me tell you something, I’m really glad you got to see all this. And I hope the disgusting bloody head of that man brings you nightmares in your sleep. Because then, maybe, you’ll learn one or two things about the facts of life that you clearly don’t get because of your status or privileged circumstances.”
Charlie looked at Mrs. Brummer and said nothing. The rest of the group was equally mortified by her irate speech. They stared in awe, hardly breathing, scarcely moving…
A pounding echoed from the front door. Every head in the living room swung like one in that direction. A raspy male voice rose from outside:
“This is the police. Open up!”
X
Staring toward the front door, the old lady smiled wickedly.
She said, “For a surprise…”
“Mrs. Brummer,” Charlie said in a pleading tone. “You can’t seriously pin this on us.”
Ignoring Charlie’s plea, Mrs. Brummer quickly shifted to the door and opened it up.
Two police officers in uniform entered. Both packed a fair amount of weight. Their features were overall bland but alert to the slightest sign of change in the air.
As soon as they strode in, Mrs. Brummer pulled a frightened face and clung on to the forearm of one of the officers.
“Please officer, help me!” she cried. “Those kids … they’re crazy! They killed someone!”
“That’s not true,” Charlie said.
“They’re mad… Mad! You’ve got to get me out of here, officer.”
Officer T. Brown (as it read on its nametag), whose big forearm was being held hostage by Mrs. Brummer, said patiently:
“Alright … alright, ma’am. Calm down, will you?”
His partner, Officer Cooper, stuck both his thumbs into his utility belt and said under his mustache:
“Who called 911?”
Max’s face went blank with terror. His heart was beating a little faster. And everything in his mouth had gone dry, even the little statement he had prepared beforehand. Seeing the degradation get the better of Max, Simon stepped forward.
He said, “We had a situation here but it has changed since…”
“Don’t listen to them,” cried Mrs. Brummer, almost hysterical. “Arrest them––they all did it … they all did it!”
“Please, ma’am,” Officer Brown said, feeling the hands of the old lady squeeze tight. “Just calm down.”
“It’s in the box,” she shouted, jabbing a finger toward the cardboard box. “There’s someone’s head inside that box.”
Officer Brown motioned his partner to inspect the cardboard box which lay ajar on a side table and didn’t look dubious at all. Officer Cooper approached it cautiously. Charlie wanted to protest, say something before Mrs. Brummer spun the situation in her favor, but how could she prove they had nothing to do with it? A wine cork… A USB cork… Those weren’t convincing proof to base an accusation on or stand up in court.
Indeed there was the meat cleaver. But Charlie doubted that the old lady had left any fingerprints on it. Come to think of it, she even doubted that the cardboard box had her fingerprints on it either. Only those of Carol and Alvin would probably show up since they
had carried it at different times. Charlie pursed her lips. Maybe it was going to be their word against Mrs. Brummer’s.
As soon as Officer Cooper peeked inside the cardboard box, he recoiled immediately. His wariness vanished from his face. Saliva built in his mouth in reaction to his sheer disgust. Turning to face Officer Brown, he said, losing a little bit of his composure, “Jesus Christ, it’s a head.”
Then, mechanically, he radioed the dispatch center.
“All right, I want everyone to move over to this side of the room,” ordered Officer Brown. The young people complied. Officer Brown gently shook Mrs. Brummer off his forearm. “Please, you too, ma’am.”
“—They all did it, officer! Take them… Get them all out of here!”
“She’s the one who did it!” Charlie said.
“She’s trying to frame us,” Carol supplied.
“Liar! Liar!”
A heated row exploded between the two opposing sides, everyone was yapping at the same time, yet Mrs. Brummer topped the others with the level of eagerness in her voice. It wasn’t long before the din escalated and shook the ceiling.
“Quiet!” demanded Officer Brown. “All of you!” Silence fell like a bombshell. He said, “Now we’re going to sit tight and wait for the crime unit, is that clear? In the meantime, I want you all to—”
He did not finish his sentence for a voice suddenly came and soared into the room.
A taped voice:
“I did what I had to do. And even when his clunky head veered off and ended up in here—and that must have been some kind of intervention of his from the beyond to screw my plan—I still had to stick to it––”
Peter thumbed a button on his cell phone and the playback stopped. He handed the phone to Officer Brown.
“Her confession,” he said. “It’s all in there.”
Mrs. Brummer swallowed hard and hatefully looked from Peter to Charlie. While keeping a close watch on the old lady, Officer Brown replayed the recording, slightly nodding to himself at interesting passages, or casually directing a quiet glance at the woman who was definitely looking like a prime suspect, judging by the audio recording he was listening to. As soon as it rounded off, Officer Brown read Mrs. Brummer her Miranda Rights.
Only then, Charlie inhaled and let out, with a sweet relief, the pressured air which had run her body since the beginning of this affair. Then she mouthed a big ‘thank you’ to Peter and, in reaction, he simply nodded.
At last her eyes searched for Max and found him in the company of Officer Cooper. The latter was looking at Max as if he might recognize him, then he said:
“Hey––you’re that kid we saw on the crash site last night. Why’d you run away?”
Max froze up. A feeling of panic mixed with confusion moved his face. And it was noticeable.
“Excuse me,” Charlie said. “A crash?”
“Yeah––a hit-and-run on a deer. Right off Lexington Avenue. The driver was wheeling a pickup truck. So you can imagine the mess.” He looked at Max. “So why’d you flee the scene? You were there when it happened, right?”
“No, I wasn’t,” Max said. “I mean, I was there but… I don’t think I saw it happen. Or maybe I saw a tailgate or something. Honest.”
“Is that right?” officer Cooper said.
“I’m sorry I split; I wasn’t really myself last night.” Max smiled nervously. “To be honest, I was pretty much wasted.”
Officer Cooper shook his head; he said:
“And my partner and I thought you’d been hit too… Anyway, we’ll get the driver. He dropped a couple of boxes behind on the scene. It’s just a matter of time. He also damaged some city properties pretty good.”
Officer Cooper rubbed his hands together and addressed the group of young people:
“All right, who wants to tell me what happened in here? And please, not all at once.”
At that, Charlie and Max exchanged optimistic looks, feeling the same gladness over this unexpected yet welcome resolution to their ordeal of the last hour.
A minute or two later, while the others were having their deposition taken, she took a shy look at Simon and saw that, in his own way, he was sharing her gladness.
