by Nikki Sex
As I’ve been talking, a trail of people have been wandering through my house. They’re going back and forth out to parked cars, carrying my laptop and various other items. As I end the call, the detective puts his hand out.
I place my phone onto his palm. Then I notice an officer bringing out an iPad as he walks past by me.
“Wait,” I tell the detective. “That's not mine. I don’t own an iPad.”
“Oh?”
“That must belong to my babysitter,” I object. “She needs it for her contacts. The woman has already been through enough. You can’t take that!”
The detective shrugs. “Sorry. I understand, but it still has to go. I’ll ask our tech people to finish with it first and get it back to her as soon as possible. I feel bad about frightening the poor woman—we scared her half to death. I sure didn’t expect that reaction.”
“No, I imagine it was pretty extreme for her to still be in the state she's in now,” I agree.
“She wouldn’t let us call an ambulance,” he adds.
I nod.
“And that cat!” The detective shakes his head. “Not yours, I take it?”
“No, Renata brought her cat along with her. It was part of the deal. They pretty much go everywhere together.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that creature,” he says with a wry smirk. “No one could get anywhere near it, or her.”
Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. “That cat loves her,” I say in explanation. “Look, may I go change my clothes? I'm soaked.”
He looks down at my sopping outfit that's dripping and leaving a puddle beneath me. He nods. “I’ll come with you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
As I run up the stairs, a little shock of fear runs through me. I suddenly realize they must have evidence if they plan to arrest me. What evidence could they possibly have since I didn’t do it?
I dry myself with a towel and get dressed. The detective remains at my side watching me the whole time. Making sure I don’t hide any evidence, I guess. He informs me they have a search warrant in effect for my home and place of business. He reads me my Miranda rights and pulls out some handcuffs.
I lock eyes with the man. “Let me say goodbye and check on my nanny first,” I ask.
He nods.
Renata is still in the corner, but her color has improved. Mitten looks calmer, too. I sit on the floor beside them both.
“Hey.” I give her a half-smile.
“I’m OK,” she murmurs. “It’s getting better.”
“Good,” I say in a low voice. “Look, I have to go with these men now, but all these people will soon be gone. I have a friend coming over to stay with you. Her name is Sally Ann Berdeaux. She’s a very sweet woman—you’ll like her. I’ve left a key out for her, so she’ll let herself in. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
“I’m so sorry about this.”
Renata gives me a faint smile. “Me too. Will you be back soon?”
I shrug. “I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll call when I can.” I stroke Mitten, stand up and walk out of her line of sight.
I take a key to the house from my key ring and give it to the detective to place under the front doormat. An officer cuffs my hands together in front of me. The metal is cold and hard. It’s a novel experience, to say the least.
As I walk out, I see a couple of neighbors looking out their windows. My humiliation is complete as an officer puts his hand on my head, and guides me into the back of the police car.
And to think, my day started out so well.
Chapter 29.
“Motive: In Law, this is why one committed the crime, the inducement, reason, or willful desire and purpose behind the commission of an offense.”
— Black's Law Dictionary
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
A police officer holds my upper arm as I exit from the back seat of the police cruiser. Still in handcuffs, I do the perpetrator walk of shame—the kind I’ve watched countless times on TV.
Pedestrians gawk as I stride into the police station. Thank God no reporters have yet gotten wind of this. That's something to be happy about, at least. Tough to find the silver lining in this particular cloud.
I’d probably be humiliated if I wasn’t so worried about Renata. I hope she’s OK, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. At least I sent someone to look after her.
I’ve known Sally Ann all of my life. She’s sweet, nurturing and kind. She also has a degree in child psychology, so she’s the perfect person to help with Briley. More than that, I trust her, which is rare for me.
As I sit in the interrogation room, it’s like being on an episode of “True Crime." I'm sitting on a hard, uncomfortable chair. There's cheap linoleum flooring, no windows and the faint smell of unwashed bodies and stale air.
“So,” Detective Bronowski says, as he studies me. “We have a witness who says you killed your father.”
What the hell?
I purposely maintain my blank stare, so I don’t display any noticeable reaction, but this is certainly news to me.
What witness? How could there possibly be a witness when it never happened? Who would commit perjury just to make my life miserable?
My sister suddenly comes to mind.
Betty Jo is the one person I know who truly hates me. Still, the Wilkinson façade must stand at all costs. Childhood brainwashing would prevent my sister from tainting the public image of the Wilkinson dynasty. Who cares that we’re screwed up and dysfunctional? Keeping up appearances and playing ‘the perfect family’ was the first and most important rule of the Wilkinson clan.
“With his testimony, plus the evidence of drugs we found in your father’s body,” the detective pauses and looks straight into my eyes, “we have enough evidence to go to trial. This is your chance to explain. Did he deserve it? Or was it a misunderstanding? Maybe it was an accident.”
I don’t move. He said, 'HIS testimony.' That rules out my sister.
Nope. I'm at a total loss. I have no idea who he is.
I say nothing and count my heartbeats—fifty-five, less than one beat a second. Despite the pressure I’m under, I’m relaxed and remote. After a lifetime of being disconnected, it’s second nature to jump back into that headspace.
My interrogator sits back in his chair as though he has all the time in the world. The smell of mints drifts through the air. Maybe the detective is giving up smoking.
“Did you hate your father?” he asks.
Sure. But I loved him too.
Despite what my father did to me and my numerous fantasies of ways to make him sorry, patricide was never something I considered. Images of him on his knees, apologizing and begging for forgiveness was more my imaginary style.
I resolve to keep my mouth shut. I'm familiar enough with the concept of 'anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.' I have the right to remain silent, and I choose to exercise it.
Meanwhile, I pay attention to Detective Bronowski. The man has cop’s eyes, penetrating and acute. I doubt he misses much. He’s clearly a professional who’s done this kind of thing many times before.
I want to get an idea of what the police think they know. Even though I plan to take the heat for my brother, I don’t want to—if I don’t absolutely have to. I'll save any responses for later, when my lawyer is present.
“Was it an accident?” he suggests.
Apparently not. Damn it, Alex, what were you thinking? Who else did you tell? And why are they coming after me? At least no one blames him.
If I'd only stepped in, if I’d saved him from my father then this would never have happened. André says I was not to blame, but I was the older child. I was supposed to look out for Alex.
There’s no way I’ll let my little brother go to jail.
“Do yourself a favor,” the detective says, sitting forward. “As the prime suspect, you're in a seriously bad situ
ation, here. It's not looking good for you. If you cooperate, we can probably plead your charges down to manslaughter. No one wants to put a war hero on trial.”
Oh goody—I guess that's something I can hang onto.
“This is your chance to avoid the death penalty. Think about it.”
Appealing… but, no.
The thick silence lengthens and becomes oppressive, as we both stare at each other.
I can sit here as unmoving as a statue all day. I’ve done it many, many times before while waiting for to take the perfect shot. This kind of questioning goes on for some time. I have to give Detective Bronowski points for his patience.
What am I waiting for? I’m not completely sure. The police arrested me, but I bet they can’t hold me. They’re eager to find something with that search warrant. How strong can the evidence be to tie me to a crime I didn't commit?
The detective’s eyes soften and I curb my instant desire to smile. He’s good. It’s just him and me, two men who understand each other—at least that’s the attitude he projects.
“We just want to understand why you did it,” he says in a fatherly tone.
My heart kicks up a beat or two as I experience an ‘ah-ha!’ moment. Something suddenly gels in my mind. My eyes narrow before I have the presence of mind to school my facial expressions.
Bronowski is looking for a motive. I don’t think he has enough evidence to convince the D.A. to actually go to trial, but if he discovers I had a good reason to kill?
That it would be a different story.
Shit. No matter what, I can’t let the police find out I was sexually abused by my father. Shit, shit, shit! That means now I can’t tell Renata who my abuser was, either.
I feel as though I’m standing under a freezing waterfall, as cold consciousness of my past washes over me,
Monster! Pervert!
For one long moment, my lifelong fear returns. I’m not a monster, I’m not a pervert—I know this now. Yet I still have a long way to go before I truly believe it. I have to keep reminding myself.
The details of what my father and I did are a secret I no longer want to keep. I want to share everything with Renata, but how else can I guard her from this ugliness? I’ll have to continue to hide the truth. I simply cannot allow her to be dragged into my mess.
Speaking about my past will be excruciating, so delaying that pain is an attractive option. A part of me is glad to use this as an excuse.
Yet, a greater part of me is saddened by it. Intimacy is such a difficult challenge. I must learn how to be open and honest in order to heal.
I need Renata.
Seeing the police today was enough to drive Renata into a state of panic. How can I add to her stress by getting her involved in a murder investigation? The poor woman has already lived through hell on earth.
If I talk to her about my father, anything I tell her might be used against me. She could become an unwilling witness for the prosecution.
Fuck. My life just became much more complicated.
I’m not prone to nerves, mainly because I’ve had a stranglehold on my emotions for far too long. I will get through this. I’ll manage as I always have, by taking one step at a time.
My mind wanders as the detective continues to question me. I’m thinking about the missed calls I saw on my phone. Bobbie my AA sponsor, left a message, I know. That’s probably because I haven’t been attending meetings lately.
I’ll also have to call Trey and Zachary, the two managers of my indoor/outdoor shooting range. They’re both smart guys. When the computers were seized by law enforcement, I’m sure they immediately began to record any financial transactions on paper.
An army of police invading my shooting range during business hours would’ve been a huge pain in the ass.
Still, a love of guns often attracts an anti-government segment of the population, so I have no doubt our customers will remain loyal. If anything, with the speed at which gossip travels, the execution of a search warrant will probably have increased business.
I’ll bet that every Tom, Dick and Harriett will be trying to get more information or will just come out for a peek to see what's going on.
“Am I boring you, Wilkinson?” Bronowski asks in a mocking, irritated tone.
I jerk out of my reverie, astonished to find that I’ve tuned-out. “I beg your pardon,” I reply with a faintly embarrassed smile. We both know I haven’t been listening. “I think I’d better talk to my lawyer now, don’t you?” I ask the detective.
“Fine,” he says, as he stands up and storms out.
When my lawyer finally arrives, he’s furious. He bustles, he glares and makes every possible attempt to intimidate the police.
“Mr. Wilkinson, are you OK? Have you been denied counsel?” he asks in a melodramatic way, as if he’s appalled by what has transpired. I suspect he was on stage as a child. I think he would’ve been a huge success if given half a chance.
I smile.
They say you get what you pay for. This is particularly true when you buy the services of a lawyer. My guy’s costing me a fortune, but he’s worth every penny. I spend the whole day in custody, but in the end, they can’t hold me.
The police release me in time for dinner. Unless they can find a motive or more evidence of my guilt, I’ll remain a free man.
Chapter 30.
“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.”
— Nelson Mandela
~~~
Renata Koreman
Alrighty then—let’s take an inventory of my morning so far.
It’s storming outside, a decent reflection of the tempest that is overwhelming my mind, my heart and my life. Grant has been arrested for murder. I have no clue when or even if he's going to return.
Meanwhile, I’m still reeling from one of the worst panic attacks I’ve had in years. When I saw all those police, all in one place at my door, the past roared back to the surface of my mind. My brother, my mother, Jamie.
I’ve deluded myself into believing I was past that level of dysfunction. I'm so disillusioned and disappointed in myself. I've been doing so well for so long. I’ve come ten steps forward only to go eleven steps back.
So, here I am now, alone, freaked-out and solely responsible for the care of a six-month-old child. To top it all off, a few minutes ago, my period started.
Now my day is complete.
Can anything else possibly go wrong? Famous last words. I should know better than to tempt fate with that thought, especially on a day like today.
I’d give three night’s sleep to crawl into the Zen-like comfort and safety of the small black box André made for me. My anxiety level would immediately drop. Unfortunately, no-can-do. If I run away to my retreat, who would look after the baby?
Thank God, Briley entertains himself. I only have to occasionally shift a different toy within reaching distance, or move the Noah’s Ark mobile that hangs above him.
Mitten brushes against my legs, demanding attention. Absently, I stroke him. From time to time, he almost makes me smile by batting at one of the dangling toy animals hanging from Briley’s Ark mobile. He’s trying to snap me out of it, bless his furry sox.
Mitten is attentive and protective. He’s seen me like this before and was my rock during my little meltdown. I love him so dearly.
I’m physically exhausted and an emotional wreck. In hopes of distracting myself, I pick up the remote control to Grant’s wide-screen TV and aimlessly flip through the channels, unable to settle on anything. My mood keeps vacillating from numbness and depression to abject fear and anxiety.
It often can take three to four hours for me to fully come down from one of my panic attacks. Until then, I simply can’t think clearly.
Oh, yeah, I’ve climbed back on board the crazy train. Until the engine runs out of fuel and the locomotive slows down, it still seems as though I’m speeding along at a million miles per hour. There’s no easy way to disembark.
/>
I can only wait and suck it up. Getting off the train takes time.
“Hello?” I hear the call of an unfamiliar female voice.
“We’re in here,” I reply. My stomach tightens as a fresh spike of anxiety shoots through me. Grant sent her, Grant sent her, I tell myself. I trust Grant.
I hear the front door close and the sound of an umbrella being set down. I look up to see a petite woman peeking around the corner and then tentatively come toward me.
“Hi, Renata, I’m Sally Ann,” she says quietly, walking into the room. She brings a soft floral scent and the fresh smell of rain with her. Her light blue eyes are hesitant, but kind. It’s obvious she doesn’t mean to impose, yet she appears to be well aware I’m in trouble.
“Grant asked me to come,” she says. “Those policemen should be ashamed of themselves! I don’t know what they thought they were doing coming here, going through his home and scaring you half to death. Grant is a hero. He wouldn’t ever do anything wrong!”
“Yes,” I agree, glad to find I’m not stuttering.
Strangers make me uneasy. I feel awkward, mute and stupid around them. A client is different because they need my help. Luckily, I’ve learned to be a good actress for short periods.
Sally Ann is excusing my irrational hysteria by blaming the police, and her loyalty toward Grant is nice too. A flash of curiosity piques my interest. I’m surprised into assessing her objectively, despite my fractured mental state. This woman is either a counselor, or she’s naturally empathetic.
“What can I do to help?” she asks with sweet sincerity.
My God, it’s such a relief to have her support. Sally Ann is an attractive young woman, perhaps my age or a little older, with a very pretty, symmetrical face. She’s wearing a light blue cashmere sweater and blue jeans. Her figure is curvy, and her thick, wavy locks are shoulder length. Her brunette hair contrasts with her striking light blue eyes. It’s a powerful combination.
No barriers, no hidden agenda—her kind-heartedness isn’t an act. This genuinely sweet and wholesome woman has arrived in order to help. I almost cry with relief.
