“Ron Mackey died in a shootout last night. His wife was also killed.”
Dave felt his face turn white as the blood left his head.
“Oh my God. What about their child? Was Theodore hurt?”
“When we arrived on the scene, the child’s only injuries were those he suffered prior to the shooting. He was asleep in his bed while his parents were shot to death in the street outside their house.”
Now Dave was really confused. How could that be? But if what they were saying was true, then Danny wasn’t a suspect. And he shouldn’t be either.
He came around the counter with his coffee and took a seat at the table with the officers.
“I know I just woke up and the caffeine has barely had a chance to work, but I’m completely lost here. Someone killed both of the Mackeys, in the street? And you think it was me?”
“Not at all, Mr. Parsons. We know who the shooters were.”
Shooters? Jesus, could this get any stranger?
“You caught them already?”
“We have one in custody, and the other is deceased. Died in the street, not far from Ron and Gloria.”
Dave rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and shook his head.
“I obviously had a beef with Ron Mackey, but you also know I didn’t shoot him. What does any of this have to do with me and where I was last night?”
The other cop decided to lay it all out. He already knew they weren’t going to get anything out of Dave and he wanted to be done with it.
“Here’s what it looks like. Someone shot into the house of a guy named Juan Rodriguez, a local gangbanger who lived two doors down from Ron and Gloria Mackey. Apparently the same shooter then fired shots into the Mackey house. Rodriguez and one of his boys came outside armed to see who had just done a drive-by on them. What they found instead was Ron Mackey, with a gun. We can’t tell who fired first, but Ron managed to kill one of them and wound the other. Mrs. Mackey apparently came out when she saw her husband go down and the wounded gangbanger shot her in the back of the head as she leaned over her dead husband’s body.”
“That’s terrible. Where’s Theodore?”
“He’s with a relative.
“Is he with his aunt?”
“We can’t say, and it doesn’t matter. Only thing that matters right now is whether you can prove you were at the hospital last night when this little bloodbath went down. And so far, it doesn’t sound like you can. You got no names.”
“You think I fired the shots into the houses?”
“Let’s just say you’ve got the best motive of anyone in town.”
“I’ll get you some names. I’ll find out who was working at the hospital last night. And there’s also the cop I talked to. And there was one guy I bumped right into. I’m sure he’d remember me if there’s any way I can find out who he was. Maybe he’ll be there today. I know I will be.”
“We’ll find out who took the report from your sister. You see if you can get us some other names. Maybe it was just a drive-by.”
The cop stared at him for a moment and Dave felt as though he was being assessed, as if the cop was considering whether Dave was smart enough to have orchestrated the death of his nemesis.
***
That evening while Dave was sitting in Nikki’s hospital room feeling thankful at the news that Nikki would heal completely, and in time, would be good as new except for some minor scars, his phone rang. He cursed himself for forgetting to silence the phone and answered it quickly before it could wake Nikki.
He quietly exited the room and said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Parsons? Detective Burke. Got a minute?
“Yes,” he said, stepping into the hall and quietly shutting the door to his wife’s room.
“I spoke to the officers who came to see you this morning and then I spoke to the officer who took the report from your sister last night. He could not verify that you were at the hospital at the time of the shooting. He spoke to you about a half hour before he went to her house.”
“But I can—“
“Hold on. I ain’t finished. I ended up getting a warrant…”
Dave felt his bowels loosen as fear washed over him. He didn’t know what they could find with a warrant, but this was bad news. They were still focusing on him, and they’d probably find out somehow that Danny was with him.
“I checked with the phone company,” he continued, “and they were able to pinpoint your cell phone’s location last night as being at the hospital well before and after the shooting.”
“That’s great. Now you know I was there the whole time.”
“I can’t say I know anything. Maybe you had a stranger hold it for you. But as far as I’m concerned, the GPS data, combined with the conversation you had with Officer Frazier shortly before the shooting is good enough proof for me. I’m closing the case.”
“That’s great. Thank you, Detective. Thanks for letting me know.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Parsons. And congratulations.”
“For what?” Dave asked.
But the detective had ended the call and the phone was silent.
###
I Didn’t Kill Her
The sound of a chainsaw yanked me from my slumber and when I opened my eyes, I saw a pretty, nude blonde lying next to me with a knife sticking out of her chest and blood running down her sides, pooling in the shallow depth of her abdomen.
Surely I was still dreaming. No one wakes up like this. I closed my eyes and squeezed them shut really hard, then I opened them again. She was still there. So was the blood, and the knife. What the fuck?
I scrambled up and looked around. Where the fuck was I? How did I get here? The house was empty and looked vacant. There was no furniture and nothing hanging from the walls. Just trash scattered around the carpet. Empty beer cans, snack food wrappers and cigarette butts that had been crushed into the carpet. The place smelled like bug spray and urine.
I looked down at myself and saw that I was still dressed, but my hands were stained with blood. That made no sense at all. I would never kill anyone. And if I did, it would be in self-defense. The girl lying on the floor did not look anything remotely like a threat to anyone. She was naked and unarmed. She looked far more like a victim of a crime than a perpetrator of one. Even though I had no memories of how I got here, and I did not recognize this girl from anywhere, I was certain that I didn’t kill her.
I tried to recall where I was last night but I couldn’t remember a thing. I had a better chance of remembering the weird dream I’d been having before I woke, and it was all but evaporated now. I needed to look at the girl, even though the thought of doing so filled me with fear and revulsion, but first, I had to get the blood off my hands. I could imagine someone saying, “We caught him red-handed.” Great. My sense of humor was intact. Maybe I really was crazy. This was no time for joking around.
I went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet. Some rust-colored drops of water sputtered into the sink as the faucet gave a final exhalation. No water. Despite my foggy and rattled brain, I still had enough mental processing left to think of checking the toilet tank. I found the bathroom, and lifted the lid off the tank. I briskly scrubbed my hands in the rusty water, urgently trying to get the blood off of them. I got most of it. It had caked around my cuticles and under my fingernails, but that would have to do for now.
I went back to the living room for the task I dreaded. I needed to really look at this girl and see if I recognized her from sometime before last night, which I had no memory of. When I walked back into the living room, it seemed as if her arm was in a different position than it was when I left. Could she possibly be alive? I bent down and started to reach two fingers toward her carotid artery, but stopped myself, remembering that fingerprints could be left on skin.
I know it looked like I was the one who killed her, but I was still certain that I hadn’t, despite having no memory of the night before. And if I wasn’t the killer, I wasn’t going to
provide evidence to the contrary – beyond that which already existed. I placed my hand in front of her nose instead of feeling for a pulse. While I waited to feel even the tiniest breath, I looked at her chest for any sign that she was breathing. I had the strangest feeling as I looked at her. On one hand, she was very beautiful, but on the other, she was a bloody corpse. She presented a horrible mixture of beauty and violence. I don’t know how anyone could do that to another person. I know I couldn’t.
I felt nothing on my hand, and I saw no movement of her chest. I was pretty sure she was dead. Either someone was in here with me and moved her arm, or I had just imagined that it was in a different position. To be sure, I decided I better check the rest of the house. The real killer could still be here. I started walking down the hall when I heard a car screech to a halt out outside.
Shit! That was probably the cops. What the fuck was I still doing here? I should’ve run away as soon as I woke up. What difference did it make if the house was empty or not? I had no reason to be here at all. Well, I guess I could have looked for clues about what had happened last night, but I don’t even know what I’d look for.
I ran into the first bedroom on the right and went to the window. I unlocked it and pushed it up. I kicked out the screen and crawled through. Now, where to? I didn’t even know where the fuck I was. So, first thing – get far away. Anywhere would do.
I ran across the backyard and hoisted myself up and over the brick wall and into the next backyard. There was a sliding glass door in front of a covered patio but the blinds were closed, as were the ones in front of a small kitchen window. I ran around to the side of the house and reached a wooden fence with a metal latch. I stopped and waited, listening. No one was pursuing me. I lifted the latch, opened the gate and walked alongside the driveway all casual as if I was just heading out for a stroll.
I had to think. How could I have ended up at that house? At the sidewalk, I turned right, still completely unaware of what part of town I was even in. I hoped to get a clue when I reached a corner with a street sign. What was the last thing I could recall? I remembered being at work yesterday. I left work, went home. Wait a second. Yesterday? How did I know if I only lost one day? Maybe today wasn’t even Saturday? I instantly patted my right, back pocket, knowing it would be empty. It was. Where the fuck was my cell phone?
Oh shit. What if it was in the house with the girl? The cops will surely think I was the killer – and a stupid one at that. My other pocket was empty too. No wallet. This was just getting better and better. No keys in my right, front pocket, and no cash or coins in the other front pocket. I realized my car could be parked right out in front of the vacant house; another thing advertising that I’m the primary suspect. Could my life be any more fucked?
***
I passed several street corners without learning where I was, but when I finally hit a boulevard intersection I got partially oriented. As far as I could tell, I was in North Hollywood somewhere. I went south on Lankershim until I came to the Metro. I could take it to within a few blocks of my apartment – if I had any money. I resigned myself to walking the seven miles to where I lived. I was hot, thirsty and hungry. My body was fatigued as if I’d already walked miles, and my mind felt stunned, as if I’d been whacked in the head with a two-by-four.
I told myself to try to think rationally as I walked, blindly stepping into traffic at the next intersection.
“Yo! White boy! You fi’n ta get yo’sef keelt!”
I stepped backwards suddenly as a city bus whooshed by inches from my face. I tripped when I ran into the curb behind me and fell, landing on my ass. The old black man laughed as I added ass pain to my growing list of miseries.
“Yo mama nevah learnt you to look befo’ crossin da street? Dayum!” he said, hooting with laughter. When he regained his composure, he extended an old wrinkled brown hand to help me up.
“Thanks,” I said. “I was lost in thought.”
“Dey be yo’ last thoughts if’n you don’t watch yo’sef!”
“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I certainly couldn’t explain my predicament.
I stood there numbly looking at the traffic, willing the pain in my tailbone to subside. Walking was going to be a lot more painful now. Seven fucking miles of pain until I could take some aspirin, lie down, and try to figure out what was going on.
“Jeet today?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, turning to look at the man.
“Here, take dis,” he said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket and handing me a Twix.
At the sight of the candy bar, my stomach kicked into gear and growled ferociously. I didn’t know when I’d last eaten. I gladly took the candy from the stranger and tore into the wrapper with my teeth. It was warm and the chocolate clung to the inside of the wrapper. After eating the twin bars, I licked the chocolate off the paper, then walked over to the wire-basket trashcan next to the streetlight post.
“Now I knows you din’t eat today.”
“Thank you very much, sir. If I had any money, I’d pay you, but I—“
“You jis pay it fo’ward when you can,” he said, dismissing my explanation.
The light turned green and I thanked him for the fourth time in two minutes before complying with the sign that now said WALK. When I reached the other side, my mind went back on autopilot as far as navigating the obstacles on the sidewalk. I weaved in and out around pedestrians, newspaper vending boxes, and the occasional street beggar partially blocking the way with their outstretched legs, sitting on the sidewalk holding their cardboard signs with God Bless written on them.
I put the sugar from the candy bar to work, forcing myself to think back to the last thing I recalled. I had left work and gone home. I checked my email, watched the news on TV for a while, and then when I got hungry, I decided to eat out somewhere. I drove to a nearby bar that makes great burgers. But I didn’t eat. Someone bought me a beer and I think we talked for a while. I remember that I didn’t want a beer, but I was being polite and trying to get out of the conversation with the overly friendly guy who seemed really intent on talking to me and buying me drinks. Not in a gay way – just an obliging, clueless way, like someone who wants a friend and doesn’t realize they’re imposing.
That’s the last thing I remember. How is that possible? I crossed another intersection and strained to recall more of what happened in the bar. The fact that there was nothing at all in my mind to be discovered made me wonder if the guy had spiked my drink. It made perfect sense. He was determined to talk to me despite my short answers and the fact that I kept returning my gaze to the menu rather than engage him in conversation. I could imagine him putting something in my beer, then when I got groggy, he could’ve walked me out as if he was helping a friend who was too drunk to drive. Then he could’ve driven me to the house in North Hollywood. Then what? He went out, found a girl, brought her back, stripped her and killed her, then laid her out on the floor next to me?
What the fuck sense did that make? Whoever the guy was, I had never seen him before. I’d never seen the girl before either. Maybe the guy just needed someone to be a patsy and I was dumb enough to sit there accepting his drinks instead of doing what I wanted to do, which was just eat, and see if any attractive females showed up while I was eating.
A horn honked, which is not unusual, so I ignored it. Then it honked again, right beside me from a car that was moving at the same rate of speed that I was walking. I looked over and saw the driving leaning over so he could see me through the passenger window.
“Need a lift?”
It was the guy from the bar! Considering what he’d apparently done to me, he was the last person I should be accepting a ride from.
“Sure,” I said, walking over to his car and getting in.
***
I know it seems stupid that I got in a car with the person who was most likely responsible for the hell I found myself in, but he was also the only person in the world who might be able to s
hed light on what was happening to my life, and why.
He pulled forward as soon as I had gotten in, before I’d even shut the door. The car behind us was honking its horn and the light in front of us was green. I blurted out everything on my mind without thinking of what I was going to say.
“Who are you? What did you do to me? Why did you kill that girl? Are you fucking insane? What the hell is going on?”
“Slow down, Tommy boy! One thing at a time. You sure woke up full of questions, didn’t you?”
“I woke up next to a dead girl! And the last thing I remember was drinking beer with you, so this is all your doing. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?”
“Listen, Tommy. If we’re—“
“Stop calling me Tommy!”
“Okay, Tom. Listen up. To have a conversation, you’re gonna have to slow down. First things first. What’s the first thing you’d like to know before you go to prison for murder?”
We stopped at a red light and I couldn’t decide if I should get out and run, reach over and strangle him, or try to engage in a conversation that might result in some answers. I also wanted to ask him where we were going, but that seemed like the least important matter at the time.
“I didn’t kill her!”
“Sure you didn’t. But you can save it for the judge. I already know what you’re guilty of. And I know you’re going to be punished. Justice is being served, as we speak.”
My head was spinning again. Nothing made sense. He agreed that I didn’t kill her, but he was certain that I’d go to prison for her murder.
“Why are you framing me for this? I don’t even know you!”
“You may not know me, Tommy boy–sorry, Tom, but you know of me.”
He got in the left hand turn lane and tapped the turn signal control down. The air conditioner was on, but I could clearly hear every tick as the left arrow blinked on the instrument panel.
“How do I know of you?” I managed to ask a sane question when I felt like I was losing my mind completely. As far as I knew, that Twix bar was the first thing I’d eaten in twenty-four hours and my blood-sugar was as fucked up as my life was now.
Undermind: Nine Stories Page 6
