Much Needed Rain

by R. G. Oram

  Lewelyn seated with a shadow to his back, profusely wrote in the journal. The cup of coffee on the table in front ceased to flare; it greyed over the surface, protesting the lack of attention it had been given.

  Knowing not how long it had been precisely, but from experience knew the beverage would be starched and cold, the writer went on. Lewelyn sometimes preferred it cold, conventionally drunk hot, but still it had a different flavour that appealed to him. The warm bitterness of the stale drink made it difficult at times to consume and the hot steam let you know it was there. When neglected for a time it became a cooling refreshment.

  He stopped to gaze outside of Parkers, passed Sunset Junction, at the overshadowed Los Angeles. Lost the motivation to write more. He looked to the black mass outside, seeing his face in the glass, listening to the wordless music loosen him and let the pen in his hand continue to wander across the pages.

  Hesitant at first to put any words down, wondering if he broke any confidentiality laws documenting his interview with Paul. He didn’t think so, as long as it didn’t appear on any news feeds or printed in a publication of some kind, he’d still be a law-abiding citizen.

  ‘Remember his face?!’ a haughty joyous voice blared.

  A group of high-school students in varsity sports jackets laughed at the memory they all shared. Inhabiting a booth opposite the centred counter, the four of them went on with their loud freedom of speech. Lewelyn had chosen a squared booth right at one end to ward off any disturbing entities. The lighting was poor in comparison to the counter’s mass festoon of lights. Lewelyn deliberated on whether they were out, ready for Christmas (which was six months away).

  ‘I thought it was free!’ the apparent leader of the group shouted, his friends laughed.

  Lewelyn saw the waiter, whose badge said ‘Javier,’ standing by the mob of teenagers’ at their table. He saw the kid, with a blue striped apron and emerald green shirt under it, waiting for the chorus of laughing to stop; his head was leaning a few inches forward. The smart-assed leader said something else to the diner’s employee. Lewelyn couldn’t hear, but guessed it to be something demoralising because a roar of hilarity followed.

  David Lewelyn’s hand squeezed the defenceless cup of coffee. Ripples formed over the black surface when it was being compressed by an antagonised force. He wanted to get up and help the kid – Lewelyn moving out slowly between the table and alcove – stopping at the edge – realisation interfering.

  Lewelyn couldn’t involve himself, knowing it would make things worse for the waiter. If he told the bullies to take a hike then they’d just come back another day, when Lewelyn wasn’t here, and give the Parkers employee even more trouble. The waiter, Javier, could lose his job if one of them complained.

  When the gang of underage sports stars skimmed out of the booth, the waiter cleared their table, took the money – almost guaranteed there’d be no tip. After disappearing and re-appearing from the kitchen, the kid came over to Lewelyn. A half smile came and went.

  ‘How was the coffee?’ Javier asked.

  ‘It was good.’

  ‘Want a refill?’

  ‘No thanks, that’s me done,’ Lewelyn watched as Javier took his cup.

  He left, not forgetting to take his journal. On the table he placed money for the one cup of coffee and a tip, vastly exceeding the 25 per cent recommended remuneration. The exceptionally handsome sum was for the kid – something to reward him for his patient resilience while listening to the toxic spilling out of the mouths of that group who were acting all tough, trying to prove they could do whatever they wanted because they had the numbers advantage.

  Another reason for what some would call ‘an outrageous amount,’ was the superficial crack Lewelyn had made, scarring the inner and outer shell of the porcelain cup.

  Chapter 2

  The metallic wooden cupping sound snatched him from sleep. Habitually he reached across the bed covers, grabbing his phone from the bedside table. With his head still rested on the pillow he brought it a nose’s distance away from his eyes.

  His eyes still adjusting to their awakened state, all that could be seen was the brightness of the device’s screen and the cryptic blurring. He forced his eyes to go beyond the silhouette of the phone, to reach the notification. Surprisingly it was not the alarm which he had set himself to wake up, but a missed call message.

  He switched his attention to the time displayed at the top of the screen – just past midnight!

  He cursed at who woke him, considering what to do next. Even though he was on call this weekend he could easily say his phone wasn’t functioning properly. A believable excuse, you couldn’t exactly argue or prove the lie.

  Screw it, he thought. Sleep was a necessity. You needed it and plenty of it, so you could stay healthy and function properly. That decided, he returned the cell-phone back to its original position and forgot everything else.

  Unfortunately, the caller was stubborn. The phone continuously rang now, the constant ringing as if it had feet and stomped on the table. Impossible to sustain ignorance he pulled it to him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’ The voice on the other end said.

  ‘Home,’ he said to his partner.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ the last two words pronounced with an under layered message – implying that an explanation was wanted.

  He didn’t feel the need to open, ‘Phone’s been giving me a hard time lately. The battery’s going down a lot faster. Been meaning to get it fixed.’

  A brief pause came to the conversation.

  ‘You’re needed here. We’ve got a young female. Mid to late twenties. Found by her landlord inside her apartment.’

  ‘Where?’ Mark Baker asked.

  ‘Santa Rosalia.’

  ‘Then how’s it ours?’ Baker said sceptically, ‘Shouldn’t it be South Bureau’s job?’

  ‘They gave it to us. You’ll understand once you get down here.’

  Baker didn’t like it when his partner, Thomas Forsythe, did that. Talk to him like he was a child, assuming he’d do what he’s told. There wasn’t even a big age difference between them.

  ‘Listen Tom, it doesn’t sound like I need to be there. I know we’re both on call this weekend but from what you’ve just said, it sounds like you can handle it yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t given you the specifics yet. And it’s better if you come down and see it for yourself.’

  Breathing in roughly, Baker could see it was going to be a busy Sunday.

  ‘Could you please tell me what’s so special about this one. Like what it is?’

  ‘Detective on the scene says he’s not sure. I only just got here so I’m still getting to know the place. Too early to tell if it’s a smoking gun or a whodunit. All I know so far is the landlord found her. Apparently nobody’s seen her since Friday. Curtains were drawn all that time so eventually the owner got curious. The door to the apartment was unlocked. Air conditioning on low. Landlord goes in late Saturday afternoon, finds the body right in front of the doorway. Placed on its back. Bound by the wrists and ankles. Her own panties are placed over her face. Marks all over her. My guess is she was whipped with something. The bruising around the neck and red around the eyes says she was strangled, but the cause of death the ME ruled as a cervical fracture – a broken neck. And she looks like….’ Thomas trailed off.

  ‘What else?’ Baker, curious as to what else there could be.

  ‘The bruising.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The amount of bruising she has. Whoever did this, they enjoyed it. Made sure to target every exposed area. She’s bruised and torn. I can see a few places where the bruising broke through. A few layers of her skin have ripped through and cracked. You can barely see her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Baker wanted to shout it.

  Forsyth
e emphasised, ‘She has more dark stripes than a zebra.’

  Chapter 3

  In the backseat of a laboriously driven LA taxi, the driver worshipping the speed limit. There was never a violent stamping on the accelerator, not even an attempt to beat the middle light at a colour synchronised intersection. Perhaps the driver had a sound reason for doing this – the passenger had noticed some indentations to the vehicle’s exterior when he first saw it pull up.

  Wanting to detour his thoughts, the passenger looked out of the taxi’s side window where reflecting office buildings and tall hanging lights slipped by. Better than the front view with its endless supply of tarmac. He could see downtown losing its distant transparency; the main financial district of the city became clearer as the car got closer.

  The rising sun creeping up to reach its skyline, draining the shade’s deep, fading streak as the source of light climbed, claiming more territory as time went by. The passenger watched this solar process until he felt the cab’s journeying motion slowly decline.

  When the vehicle came to an idle stop in Figueroa Street, right opposite where the passenger needed to be, money changed ownership and gratitude was expressed by both men.

  Making his way to the building’s main door, inserting the key for entry. Dealing with the ear deafening alarm that sounded like a seagull doing karaoke, he passed a vacant secretary’s desk and strode into his office. The light came on automatically, illuminating an oak panelled desk, office stationery, an Angle-poise lamp, and burnished brass nameplate which stood on the desk’s very edge. Boldly inscribed on the trapezium shaped object was the name: DAVID LEWELYN.

  As he waited for the computer to power up, Lewelyn drew his thoughts to the empty desk outside. It made him wonder what could have happened and what did happen. Last time he saw her was Friday – Monday now.

  I shouldn’t have just left her like that. The way she was. I should have checked to make sure everything was okay, thinking in hindsight.

  Then the phone on his desk rang, affording him a recess from his constant worrying. He looked at his watch. An hour before he opened.

  Could be a client who needed him to sit in on a business deal, or an obsessively paranoid spouse who wanted him to interview their partner to see whether they’ve been taking their wedding vows seriously. He hoped it wasn’t the latter – they were sometimes impossible to get off the phone.

  Lewelyn picked up the receiver, ‘Morning, DL Nonverbal. David Lewelyn speaking.’

  The caller replied, ‘Good morning Mr Lewelyn, this is Detective Thomas Forsythe of the LAPD. Sorry to call you at such an early hour but I was wondering if you had some time to come down to West First Street this morning. We would like you to answer some questions.’

  Chapter 4

  The sounds of phones ringing and people talking dominated the entire floor of Robbery Homicide. Lewelyn found himself waiting to meet whoever called him earlier. Having some time, he reflected on his journey here.

  Exiting the cab, his first thought had been: ‘This is the wrong place.’ When first laying eyes on the glass cube nestled in the thick-based concrete building he was sceptical about its occupation. Spotting the towering obelisk of City Hall a few streets down he’d still found it difficult to accept what he saw. What stopped him from questioning the driver’s capacity was the emergence of an LAPD squad car from the building’s parking area. The red and blue lights on its roof distinguished it from other moving cars.

  Submitting to evidential logic he’d made his way to the main entrance, passing the USA, California, and Los Angeles flags, scaling high on their beams.

  After announcing himself to one of the uniforms at a desk, another came and asked him to follow. Asked first to empty his pockets and then walk through a metal detector. When he’d passed the metal test, Lewelyn reclaimed his belongings and continued with his guide. As they walked, Lewelyn casually asked how long this headquarters of the LAPD had been here. Only since 2009, the reply, replacing the former Parker Centre which still stands in North Los Angeles Street. P.C. had been nicknamed the ‘Glasshouse’. Lewelyn shook his head in a casual humorous pace after hearing that. Seeing the glass cube in the centre in this building told him they’d found a transparently sufficient replacement to P.C.

  Penetrating further into the building’s vast, modern interior, it expressed to Lewelyn the words corporate and executive, with the wood panelling on the walls and glassed balconies. Being told to stand outside a room filled with office cubicles and moving people, he waited for what came next.

  On returning, the uniform brought with him a middle-aged man, past the fifty mark, wearing a neat dark-chocolate suit that completely overshadowed Lewelyn’s light grey linen. A white head of hair with grey highlights. The man had an over-stocky build, though it didn’t stop him from beating Lewelyn to the offering of a handshake.

  ‘Mr Lewelyn? Thank you for coming down. I’m Thomas Forsythe, the guy you spoke to on the phone. I apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused you,’ the man’s eyes seemed neutral but they didn’t seem to want to leave Lewelyn.

  ‘It’s fine. I made sure to lock my doors on the way out.’

  The spiced undertone produced some twitching around the detective’s mouth.

  ‘Why am I here, may I ask?’ Lewelyn continued.

  ‘Follow me. See if we can find a place with less noise.’

  Phone’s still played their demanding tones and LAPD personnel sat dedicated to their desks. A classic office environment – cubicles ranked alongside each other, mainly conservative wear, steel filing cabinets, uncomplicated and unbiased décor, a few patriotically miniature USA flags mounted too.

  Behind Detective Forsythe, while walking past multiple desk cubicles, Lewelyn thought he saw heads turn in his direction, observing it from the corner of his eye. The employees of the Robbery Homicide Division appeared to want to direct their attention to Lewelyn.

  Just ignore it, he told himself.

  Their journey finished at a door which had the title: Interview Room 2: Occupied.

  ‘Too loud out here. Impossible to keep a conversation going with all this going on,’ Forsythe rotated his finger to the ceiling.

  Allowing Lewelyn to enter first, Forsythe’s hand held the door open which caused the detective’s jacket to open. Clipped to the belt, an embroidered City Hall mounted above the words: ‘to protect and to serve,” a detective’s badge shone powerfully under the interview room’s naked lighting. Almost in line with the hip and not far from the badge, holstered in that position was a sleek handgun.

  Entering IR2, a man was already seated inside. Not getting up to introduce himself to Lewelyn, the only form of acknowledgement given was the disinterested look hanging from his face. This new man was also dressed in a suit, black and sporting a dotted tie. The dark black attire, an expression of power, a nonverbal communication of the man’s appearance, Lewelyn noted.

  He sat down, as motioned, on the single chair beside the table, facing two opposing chairs placed with a deceptive casualness on the other side. Scanning his new surroundings, it gave him the impression of being in a modern day cop show, with the traditional two-way mirror to one side and white walled all around.

  When Detective Forsythe was seated, he started by introducing the man who sat alongside him.

  ‘This is my partner, Detective Mark Baker. He’ll be sitting in on this.’

  Casting his eyes on Mark Baker, Lewelyn could see the man was a decade short of his partner. A full head of hair, like Forsythe, though Mark Baker’s looked darker and unwashed. His face told the story of not interested. Every feature of the face seemed to be hanging on, nothing entirely secure – dropping further as the years go by.

  Forsythe started off.

  ‘Just so you know, we’re recording this. We do this to review our findings. Sometimes when we look back at the tape we find out we forgot something
, so it saves us having to try and remember what was and what wasn’t said.’

  ‘Fine by me. In some cases I’ve got to record things too – in my line of work.’

  ‘Then why don’t we start there. Can you tell us what you do for a living, Mr Lewelyn?’

  ‘I’m a body language expert.’

  ‘Could you elaborate on that? Make it easier for us to understand.’

  Lewelyn elaborated, ‘I analyze gestures of the human body. I teach it to people who want to learn. Each gesture has its own distinct meaning. We physically express these movements out of habit or when we’re feeling uncomfortable. They’re a kind of pacifier to deal with situations – an action that signifies behaviour. An example would be when you cross your arms over your chest. The arms are like a shield to protect the person from whatever is bothering them. A kind of defensive behaviour.’

  ‘Does that include the face?’

  ‘Yes. Except the face is different to the body. In the face you look more at what each feature is doing and then decide what emotion it is showing. The operating features on the face provide a symbolism of what emotion that person is feeling. There are seven current documented emotions. They are anger, sadness, surprise, fear, disgust, happiness and contempt.’

  ‘So you read people for a living?’ Forsythe guessed.

  ‘Yeah, pretty much. I also observe other non-verbal signs too. Like what people wear, how they speak, basically – anything that expresses someone’s personal characteristics.’

  ‘So you’re fully trained to discern the signs of a truthful person from a non-truthful person? You know the signs that display a truthful person,’ the tone delivering these words made the question seem more like a probing. Another question followed.