SYLVIA
I don't understand.
BILL
You phrase things in a way that can only make the answers sound like lies, so when I tell the truth, it feels false.
SYLVIA
You've come to that conclusion already? I don't think I've even phrased more than a handful of sentences the whole time that you have known me.
BILL
It's something that I can just sense, I guess.
Sylvia looks back down at her food, longing for the taste of it. She had not eaten much for quite some time. She is not so much turned off by this man across from her, as she is falling in love with the food on the table. She picks up her fork and resumes eating.
SYLVIA
(mouth full, manners forgotten)
I think that we should maybe change the subject.
BILL
Oh? Am I making you feel uncomfortable? This sauce is delicious. Try some if you like.
SYLVIA
No thanks, and a little, yeah. You are making me feel like tits with an agenda, and I don't think we have known each other long enough for you to draw that conclusion.
BILL
True. I haven't known you very long, but I have known women for twenty-nine years.
SYLVIA
So you believe that every woman you've met in your life has been a carbon copy?
BILL
With the occasional minor surprise, yes. Every woman wants a man to say what she wants to hear, do what she wants to do, and obey all of the commands that she gives. In fact, they even want us to obey the commands that they don't give, and just think to themselves. A woman is an impossible puzzle. There is no gratifying ending.
Sylvia drops her fork for the second time since dinner started. She wanted the last few morsels remaining on her plate, but this man's last statement has caused her pause. She could not quite tell if he was cocky (and therefore unappealing) or if he had taken his fake attitude just a little too far.
SYLVIA
Well then, holy fuck, why are you even here?
It is too good. She begins to eat again.
BILL
Because like most human beings, I haven't even gotten close to figuring out how to break the cycle.
SYLVIA
Well if you can't win, why play?
BILL
That's what I mean! You can't win women, but you can win sex.
SYLVIA
Oh, Jesus.
She finishes the last bit, and drops her fork for the final time.
BILL
Hold on. If I manage to say all the right things, I get to have sex with you. You can say to me that I have no chance, but the fact of the matter is, there is always a sequence of words and actions that will lead to a fuck with anyone.
SYLVIA
Well if you're right, you certainly haven't used any of those correct words on me. And, just for clarification, you have no chance.
Now the man drops his fork. His face is one of seriousness. His food is less than half finished, and Sylvia makes a mental note of this.
BILL
Would you rather be lied to?
SYLVIA
What? No. What do you mean?
BILL
Would that I say everything just right, truth be damned, be preferable?
SYLVIA
Of course not, but there is a
wide line between truth and tact.
BILL
I disagree. Tact is nothing more than pretty fiction, and fiction is just one big fat lie.
SYLVIA
I think you may be the kind of person that can twist anything. Confusion is your weapon of choice.
BILL
So would you say that confusion is my tactic? If so, we have just come full circle.
This man was smarter than she had credited him. She was beginning to think that it was possible that he was not playing a game of egos, but instead just trying to figure her out. Of course, he still could be just cocky. But either way, she couldn't help but wonder if he would have gotten the upper hand if she were not craving dessert. Perhaps pecan pie. Yes, that would be lovely.
SYLVIA
Touché. So, what do you do when you aren't breaking a woman's spirit?
BILL
A boring paper-pushing job. I'd say more, but it would not stimulating you. How about you?
The question. Why had she been so stupid to ask him what he did? They always asked the same question in return, and she knew this. Was he really catching her off guard? Surely, pie had not thrown her off her game this badly.
SYLVIA
I work on airplanes.
BILL
What? You build them? Service them?
SYLVIA
No.
BILL
What then?
Pause
SYLVIA
Flight attendant.
She knew that he could see the ambivalence on her face.
BILL
You say that as if you're already planning your retort to my inevitable judgment.
SYLVIA
It pays well, and I get to see the whole world a few moments at a time. So it plays to my sense of adventure and commitment issues.
BILL
Well then, judgment withheld until further details are given.
And now for the inevitable lie.
SYLVIA
There isn't much else to tell.
BILL
Somehow I doubt that.
SYLVIA
Doubt away.
BILL
Do you enjoy your job?
SYLVIA
Depends on the day.
Sylvia was beginning to think that she should skip dessert. This guy still hadn't touched anymore of his food, and therefore has backed her into a social corner. If she ordered dessert, she was afraid she might be committing an act that would make her appear fat. A fat pig. That's it, no dessert. Damn him, and damn her silly, girly inferiority complex.
BILL
Did you enjoy it today?
SYLVIA
Not in the slightest. It was a terrible day.
BILL
Do you want some more wine?
Good, he seemed to be changing the subject.
SYLVIA
Absolutely. Social lubricant.
BILL
K-Y for the shy guy.
SYLVIA
You don't have that problem do you? Being shy, I mean.
BILL
And I doubt that you actually have much need for personal lubricant, but you actually might be surprised about my shyness.
She shivered and crossed her arms.
SYLVIA
It is very cold in here. I've got goose bumps all over. Anyway, you've done nothing tonight that leads me to think that you're the slightest bit shy.
BILL
They always keep it cold in restaurants so that nobody will want to stay long after they have eaten. These places aren't much more that a feeding trough, all be it with a pretty facade. And, I don't think that being a shy person precludes one from occasionally playing the part of one with confidence.
SYLVIA
I did eat rather quickly, but I don't know if that's due to the temperature, or you.
She smiles.
BILL
Are you anxious to get away from both?
SYLVIA
(still smiling)
Maybe.
BILL
Ah, another game.
SYLVIA
That is why they call it scoring, is it not?
Oh damn it, what was she doing?
BILL
I guess that once the waiter brings the check, we'll see which way you walk when we get outside. Will it be with me on a leisurely stroll to my car, or will it be a bolt to the nearest cab?
No. Was she really going to do this? This man couldn't have gotten to her could he? He was handsome enough, sure, but was she really going to go with him?
SYLVIA
I guess you're a
bout to find out, here he is.
The lanky waiter waited patiently while her date took his wallet from his back pocket. She took this opportunity to grab a couple of pills from her bag and sneakily down them with the last of her wine.
BILL
(to the waiter)
Thank you, Sir.
SYLVIA
(ditto)
Thank you, it was delicious.
The man placed a small stack of cash into the little portfolio that the check came in. Sylvia made a mental note that this man still carried cash. She didn't know many people who didn't just have plastic. She only used cash herself and she tended to notice when others did as well. They got up and walked to the entrance. He did that thing where the man almost puts his hand on a woman's back, but just hovers there instead. The air was brisk as they stepped outside.
EXT. SIDEWALK - NIGHT
BILL
It's a nice clear night. Moment of truth I guess.
Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the lack of pecan pie, but her feet turned in the same direction as his.
SYLVIA
I suppose it is a nice enough night for a short stroll.
BILL
Right. This way then.
The walk to his car was a short one. He drove a newer model Honda, and this was enough to satisfy her. They drove mostly in silence, but their eyes kept meeting. Sylvia had one more question on her mind.
SYLVIA
So how often do you think you can tell if your pseudo-charm is working on a girl, or if she just wants to get laid?
BILL
It would be ridiculous to care.
* * *
His feet were touching hers. She hated that. What was his name again? She felt like such a slut not knowing. Funny how she could fuck as many anonymous people as she wanted at work, but felt bad for not being able to immediately recall a name in her personal life.
Phil. His name was Phil. Crisis averted.
She kicked his feet away from hers, sat halfway up in the bed and scanned her surroundings. She pinpointed her bra on the floor near the wall, and her panties over near the bathroom. Her pants were also close to the facilities, but her blouse was M. I. A. Phil still had a t-shirt on. She wondered if he kept it on because he knew something more about the bug content of his bed than she did.
She got up and dressed quickly, everything but the blouse. It was time to decide, his shirt, or no shirt? The walk to a cab would not be all that far, and it was early enough not to be seen by too many people. While she was thinking it over, she noticed that Phil was looking at her. His eyes were wide, and he had a little stupid grin on his face.
“Why don't you come over here and we can film a sequel.”
“As nice as that seems Phil, I really need to get going. Lots to do today.”
“I'm sorry?”
“What?”
“My name is Bill.”
Her decision was made for her. No shirt. She gave Bill a hearty salute, and without a word, left him unsatisfied in his bug-infested bed.
NINE
Filleted.
That was the only word he could think of to describe what he saw when he entered the room.
There was a man, or at least most likely a man, hanging from the wall above the bed. A rope was tied around his neck and nailed to the wall. The body had been cut from head to groin, and then from the chest to the tips of both middle fingers. Two more cuts went from the groin to the ends of both feet. The skin had been peeled back from the incisions and stapled to the wall. What was left was just muscle tissue and bone. The organs had fallen from the body and lay in a heap on the bed. The corpse looked much like a psychotic rendition of the Vitruvian Man.
Of course, there was blood, and a lot of it. It coated the walls, the bed, the floor, and the ceiling. Small pieces of flesh and bone were scattered all around, giving the scene both a sense of erratic, unabashed killing and meticulous artistry. Harry had to put his hand up to his nose to lessen the stench of congealed blood and rot.
This was neither a typical nor atypical crime scene in the Strawberries case, but it was the worst that Harry had seen in person. It was much easier to look at photos of gore than it was to see and smell it up close and personal. Even though Harry had not touched a thing, it was as if he could feel the blood on his own skin.
Harry thought back to the old days, when a person would kill out of passion, and he would catch them with a similar passion. Back when the evidence seemed so clear to him and the motive was obvious as soon as he knew where to look for it. And, Harry always used to know where to look.
You aren't ever going to solve this case, Fella.
Harry tried to get that thought out of his mind. He needed to pay attention. What could have driven the killer to want the front desk clerk dead? What was he trying to say with the way he displayed the body? Was he trying to say anything at all, or did he just happen to have a staple gun and got an idea?
Nobody ever just 'has' a staple gun on them, Harry.
He was deep in thought when fingertips drumming against the door startled him. A man in a blue plastic leisure suit was standing in the doorway holding a large duffle bag, and smiling. He was a young man by the name of Slick, and Harry stepped aside to let him in. His real name probably wasn't Slick, but Harry had never heard him called anything else. Following him in was another young man in the same style suit. He wore large black-framed glasses and carried a case the size of a lunchbox. This was Nicky, and he pointed at Harry and winked as he walked by.
Harry's heart jumped with anticipation for who would enter next. Her name was Love, and she was dressed in the same outfit, though she wore a pleated plastic skirt rather than the slacks of her companions. Harry had been enamored with Love since he met her a year ago. Her black hair and heavy eye shadow really did it for him. She was always chewing gum, and time slowed for Harry as he watched her front teeth bite down, her tongue lightly flipping it over before her lips came together again. Her suit top hugged her tight, and Harry had to force himself not to gawk.
God, Harry, you don't have a chance in hell.
The three of them, collectively known as the Blue Bloods, were the finest forensic analysts that the bureau had. The Blues were the diamonds in the agency's cock ring. They could do no wrong, and were therefore afforded the freedom to work whatever cases they pleased. The Blues never really seemed to care about the bureau, or even about solving cases, they just had a passion for the crime scene. Those in charge knew that they needed the Blues much more than the Blues cared about them, so they never pushed. When they were called in, it was a crap shoot as to whether the Blues would show or not. They didn't respect protocol, so much as they respected interesting. If a case was fascinating enough, they would come, and when they did, it was best to get out of their way.
Rumors swirled around them like horse flies, but Harry didn't know the facts from the fiction. He had heard that they were all lovers, that they were siblings, and that they were both. It was also widely rumored that the Blues were hanging up their plastic hats. Harry had heard that they already put in their notice. The Strawberries murders were going to be their swan song. The last great case before they jitterbugged into the sunset.
None of them was over the age of twenty-eight.
“Harry,” Nicky said, making a gesture with his hand as if he was tipping a hat, “Nice day for it.”
Slick and Nicky quickly got to work investigating the poor schmuck stapled to the wall. Love came and stood next to Harry. She had the same camera around her neck that Harry had seen her with at each scene.
“What does that even mean?” asked Love.
“Hell, I don't know. I was only attempting to be cordial,” replied Nicky.
Harry didn't say anything in return, and he doubted that Nicky would have heard him anyway. He was too busy crouching by the bed where the killer had drawn his trademark.
Harry caught himself with his eyes on Love. She was close enough to him that her smell reache
d his nostrils. She didn't smell like perfume, or any kind of soap, but had a natural, sweet smell that intoxicated him. If he just concentrated on her, he could almost forget the blood stench. Realizing that he was staring, yet again, he quickly averted his eyes. This time, he was sure that she had noticed his gaze.
She had her camera ready now and began snapping shots from all angles. The other two Bloods were quickly marking various pieces of evidence with numbers and speaking all of their findings into smartphones. The quickness at which they worked astounded Harry. They were like blue plastic ants darting this way and that. Some of the things that they took note of didn't seem relevant to Harry. Why was it important to note the approximate thread count of the blood stained sheets? What did the paint color of the walls matter?
With the Blue Bloods and police officers, the room was already packed to its breaking point, and now the coroner was just walking in. Harry could not see the scene as he wanted. His mind could not wrap around the information with so much distraction. The Blues would be at this all night, and tomorrow there would be a very thick and thorough report to peruse. It was time for him to head home and have a drink, or three. He would come back and look at the scene again tomorrow. He was tired, and everything would be right where it was now in the morning.
Strawberries Page 5
