by R. G. Oram
‘Do you run a successful business Mr Lewelyn?’ using ‘Mr Lewelyn’ again, he noticed. Lewelyn’s mind momentarily drifted to thoughts about his ancestors who had travelled across the Atlantic in a wooden hulled sailing ship in 1793 from Aberaeron, a village port on the rugged west coast of Wales. They would have used the respectful title as a mark of their servility. His name was Welsh after the last Prince of Wales – Llywelyn the Great – who had led his country in an unsuccessful, bloody revolt against the English rule. But, Lewelyn’s family had dropped the double ‘L’s’ when people found it difficult to pronounce the ‘Ll’ sound effectively. His mind engaged gear again.
‘I have a few clients and I travel a lot.’
‘How many employees do you have?’
‘Just one, my secretary.’
‘What’s your secretary’s name?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘ANSWER the question,’ this command belonged to Detective Baker, arms crossed and leaning away from the table. The man’s cheeks pushing upward and eyebrows pressing down.
‘All right, her name is Hannah Miller.’
Mark Baker’s head went gently backwards and his body closed the former gap between him and the table. Lewelyn felt he was ignorant of a hidden message that Baker and Forsythe just shared.
Forsythe revitalised speaking, ‘Tell me, Mr Lewelyn, do you have a relationship with your secretary, the kind that would go beyond employer and employee?’
Not expecting this new route of questioning, even though he was oblivious as to what would come out of their mouths anyway, that question undoubtedly advertised his inability to see clairvoyantly. Lewelyn surveyed the countenance of both men, hoping it would shed some light on any further lines of questioning. The two remained impassive, though a change did come over Detective Baker – an overstretched mischievous smirk on one side of his face.
‘No, I’m her boss and she’s my employee. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Okay, when was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘Earlier this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Thomas Forsythe’s eyes slightly squint, ‘Could you tell us what it was about?’
‘I told her I would be out of the office this morning, for this ‘meeting,’ so she’d have to use the spare key to get in.’
‘A spare key? To your business premises?’
‘Yeah, my work requires a lot of travel. So I’m rarely in my office. I need someone to answer the phones and talk to any walk-ins while I’m away.’
‘Is she a good employee?’
‘Definitely. She’s good with clients, on and off the phone. Manages everything well. Does more than she’s expected to. Very conscientious.’
‘Pretty too, right?’ Baker unexpectedly jumped in. David saw Forsythe’s breathing pattern change, exhaling and inhaling more frequently. Detective Baker’s comment seemed to be the cause of it.
‘I won’t lie. She’s got a nice face. And a gentle personality that goes with it.’
Lewelyn could see the long outlined smirk remained with Baker. Not allowing Detective Forsythe to speak, Lewelyn asked, ‘Has something happened?’ Another brief break in the conversation erupted. It was extinguished by Mark Baker.
‘We ask the questions, not you.’
‘What my partner means by that is, it’s better if we ask the questions and you answer them, so we don’t lose any traction on the questioning,’ Forsythe diplomatically apologising.
The questioning, replaced with an inquisition. Now Lewelyn wanted to know why he was here, the reason why they needed answers from him. He began to feel uneasy and decided to go on the offensive, forgetting common courtesy.
‘Tell me why I’m here,’ he demanded.
‘Why don’t we –’ Thomas Forsythe couldn’t finish the sentence when a thick manila file crashed onto the table, with Detective Baker’s hand planted on top.
‘You’re here because you’re a sick bastard who gets off by torturing and killing a defenceless woman.’
Opening the large collection of paper, Baker took from it, what Lewelyn could see to be a photograph.
‘Remember this?’ Baker put the photograph in front of him.
The photo’s projection made Lewelyn forget to breathe. His body locked in tension, drained of blood, pale white. He stared at it, unable to takes his eyes away.
The photo displayed the shape a person, lying on their back on a wooden floor. A body of a woman he guessed, by the way it was shaped. Golden hair, darkened at the roots, lay tangled on the wood floor. Bound by the wrists and ankles by a kind of rope. A towel covered her mouth. Dark stripe marks leprously dyed the woman’s naked skin. Some parts of the body looked to be shedding. A closer intensified stare cleared it for him, as flesh had been broken. The only article of clothing was a piece of underwear, which Lewelyn guessed to be panties. But the underwear wasn’t where it should be, it covered the victim’s face.
It looked almost like a decaying Egyptian mummy where the once neatly wrapped bandages started to dry and the binds holding the body tore.
Then feeling the rest of his body go limp, above the discolouration that crept from under the binds, on the left wrist, the word ‘Mom,’ printed in butterfly style.
It was her. It was Hannah.
‘Feel like confessing?’ a voice spoke in the room.
Lewelyn didn’t hear, it was muted by the screaming inside his head. A dragging whisper ensued: ‘No.’
Chapter 5
‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
You have the right to an attorney.
If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.’
The legal scripture from Miranda v Arizona 1966, now referred to as the ‘Miranda Rights’, barely caught Lewelyn’s attention. When asked if he understood them he replied with an automated ‘Yes.’
Before being read these ‘Rights’ some guy with a metal briefcase came in. He sat down next to Lewelyn and rubbed sticks of cotton on various areas of his body. When the man was done he left with Lewelyn’s DNA, Forsythe left too, leaving him and Baker alone in Interview Room 2.
Detached from his current reality, like he was somewhere else in the room, watching his physical self answer any questions it was given. Lewelyn had just been accused of murder. The accusation alone made it difficult to maintain a straight sitting position. A mixture of cold and metal formed around his wrists, when he finally came to a pair of handcuffs were attached to him.
‘Feel like confessing?’
He didn’t look up to see where the words came from, but there were now only two people in the room (him included), he knew he hadn’t asked it. Lewelyn vaguely remembered it being uttered earlier. Looking around the room, ignoring the two eyes in front of him, the white washed walls of the room seemed to be closer now, as if they were slowly closing in on him.
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Lewelyn said.
‘Lying to the police is not a good idea,’ Baker put his finger on the recording device to support his departmental philosophy.
‘I’m not lying.’
Detective Baker got up from his chair and leaned over the table, his face only inches from Lewelyn’s.
‘“Not lying,”’ Baker quoted, letting the words linger in the room. The standing detective went on, ‘You know what mistake every killer makes? They lie and do a shitty job of it. You said earlier that you spoke to your secretary this morning. Tell me, how is that possible when she was already dead?’ he asked in a factual tone.
‘I said I spoke to her. You didn’t ask in what way I communicated with her. I sent a message to her cell-phone. To tell her I’d be out of the office this morning. Check it if you don’t believe me.’
Pulling away, now hanging over the chair, Baker re
plied, ‘I don’t need to check because I know when someone’s feeding me bullshit. It’s my job. Liars always look nervous because they know what they’ve done is wrong and it hurts them on the inside whenever they try to forget it. When they try to deny it ever happened they make mistakes.’
Is this guy serious? Lewelyn asked whoever heard his thoughts.
‘Have you considered the possibility that some people get nervous just by being in a room like this?’
Lewelyn saw Baker grip the top of the chair harder.
‘Trying to prove you’re smart isn’t going to help either of us. If anything that kind of response tells me you’re starting to get pissed which tells me you have a little bit of a short fuse.’
‘Well you’re not exactly going to be in a calm mood when you’re accused of murder.’
As if not listening to what Lewelyn had said, Baker kept talking, ‘You said you had no relationship with your secretary. I find that hard to believe. I’ve seen her face. I don’t need to be a Miss America judge to know she was pretty. Long blonde hair, great body, beautiful face. And you’re telling me you never even tried?’
‘Just ask the question,’ Lewelyn said.
‘All right, when my partner and I started talking to the neighbours and the apartment owner, some of them seemed to remember a guy who had the same light brown hair as you, wearing similar clothing, same height, same weight, some even said you looked a little anorexic, getting out of a cab and walking Miss Miller to her door most evenings.’
Lewelyn felt he had fallen in another accusing hole that he needed to climb out of.
‘There’s a good reason for that.’
Baker pulled out a sarcastic hand to gesture Lewelyn to explain, ‘Hannah has… had, some problems with an ex-boyfriend. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept calling her late at night, stalking her online, showing up at her apartment unannounced. The kind of things that screams the word harassment. She was nervous going home on her own, so I offered to walk her to her door to make sure he wasn’t there.’
‘Wow, very noble of you.’
‘And I’m sure if you check my cab receipts at my office they’ll tell you what time I got home that evening and how I was only at the apartment building a few minutes.’
‘Don’t worry we’re already there. We got our best guys there searching the place.’
They were at his office, great, that’ll make him famous to the others that work in the district, and certainly encourage any new potential clients to do business with a man who’s ‘friendly’ with the police; showing everyone he’s a bona fide businessman, Lewelyn imagined.
Detective Baker carried on.
‘Do you know what I think of all this? I think the ex-boyfriend story is garbage. You’re blowing smoke out of your own ass. Make yourself look like the good guy, knight in shining armour, all that crap. I think you wanted more from her but she wouldn’t give. When she didn’t give you what you wanted, you snapped. Not getting what you wanted, bet it made you feel worthless. Impotent. Thinking you owned her and she’d do whatever you wanted. You walk her to her door, you ask her if you can come in, she tells you no. Getting upset, you leave. You get in the cab, ask for the receipts to get a solid alibi. Then you go back to her apartment. Not using a cab this time, if you have a brain. You knock on her door, force your way in and kill her. When you’re finished, you clean the place up, to make it look like you were never there. Thinking yourself a genius and untouchable, you leave. But just like any genius killer, you forgot something. You forgot to check the body. I’m guessing you dribble when you get excited, because we found a saliva sample on the victim. What do you think of that?’
Once finishing that summary statement Baker re-applied that arrogant grin.
Lewelyn had listened intently to the detective’s account of the crime scene but had tried not to show the attentiveness. What interested him was the fact that the only DNA found was a saliva sample. Able to remember most of Friday, when he finished up for the day, both him and Hannah got into the cab. It dropped them off at Hannah’s place, she got to her door, he left, got in the cab, and then went to Wilshire Boulevard to meet the FBI.
So the killer removed the entire DNA – except for the saliva. No doubt it was the killer’s DNA, unless it was somebody else’s, which was unlikely because Hannah didn’t socialise much. He’s never actually been inside the apartment, seen the inside whenever she opened her door, always offered him to a drink as a gesture of appreciation, but Lewelyn politely declined each time, excusing himself.
It was pointless for Lewelyn to try and convince Baker of this. He saw the type of guy Detective Mark Baker was – his way or no way.
The detective’s opinion was like a straight road with nothing else in front. On this self-imagined stretch of tarmac, there weren’t any of the usual stop signs, intersections, other cars – anything that challenges your theoretical knowledge of the way forward. No such thing as an opposing obstacle – straight, empty, unblemished surface to travel; a start and end, with nothing in between.
Interfering with the flow of interrogation, a knocking of the two-way mirror announced itself to the two men. The standing Baker turned to stare at the mirror. Lewelyn heard the detective grumble something before leaving the room.
Chapter 6
‘Somebody’s working here,’ he quietly grumbled.
Mark Baker exited the interview room, only to be met outside by his supervisor, the physically imposing Lieutenant Joe Walters and his own partner, Thomas Forsythe.
‘What’s going on Lieutenant? I got this guy. It’s just a matter of time before he breaks,’ he said formally, even though he considered Walters’ imposition to be unprofessional. In his dark skinned hand Walters handed Mark a folded paper document.
‘We found some receipts at his office that backs the going straight home story. We called the cab company just to make sure. The driver who took him home confirmed the drop off at Silver Lake. Tracked his phone’s GPS. He, or the phone, wasn’t anywhere near Santa Rosalia that night. We’ve pushed the CSU lab for the results. They should be getting back to us soon. ’
Baker profusely scanned the documented results, ‘This guy did it, Lieutenant. He was the last person to see her alive. It can’t be a coincidence he was at the murder scene hours before it happened.’
Lt Walters, out of habit, rested both his hands above his hips; fingers upfront, thumbs invisibly toward the back (Baker had witnessed it many times). Mark hated it when the Lt did that. It was bad enough the guy had to look down at him, doing the hip action made his living Goliath impression even more insulting.
‘What do you think Tom?’ Walters asked Forsythe.
Forsythe threw his eyes up to the square patterned ceiling for a moment; another annoying habit Baker had to deal with – Tom did this when he was thinking.
‘I don’t think he’s our guy. When I saw him look at that photo, he was shocked. The kind of expression you see when you hear your favourite VIP has just died. Then, when he figured out who it was, he was close to tears – thought we’d see a waterfall. There were no pauses or hesitations in his reactions, he froze, then accepted. Everything he showed was real. But we might as well be patient and wait for the lab.’
‘Fine. Do you have any more questions to ask him?’ Joe said.
‘I do, but I’ll wait. The guy knows a lot about this girl. He was her boss. He knows more about her than her neighbours. When we went door-to-door at the apartments they all said she was a nice girl that didn’t cause any trouble. I asked them if they knew what she did for a living, nobody knew for sure. Most said they thought she worked Downtown. They only saw her on weekends and most of those she spent visiting her mom in some retirement home. I do need to ask him a few more questions.’
Lieutenant Walters nodded his head as if he thought the same, ‘All right that settles it. We’ll wait for the Cal State lab’s resu
lts. When you hear from them let me know.’
Turning on his heels, Forsythe and Baker’s commanding officer left them for the sanctuary of his office.
Baker looked at his partner.
Backstabber, he wanted to say.
Chapter 7
Expecting someone in state correctional uniform to come in next, Lewelyn was mildly surprised when he saw Detective Forsythe. What bewildered him was the terse removal of the figure of eight shaped handcuffs.
Instructed, ‘Follow me,’ by Forsythe and not entirely aware of what would happen next, Lewelyn was just happy to get out of that room. The room had presented an emphasis of neutrality, where nothing inside revealed what it represented (even if it did have a name); it kept giving him that plain concept.
Slowly peeling himself out of the chair, his clothes didn’t slide down like they usually did, perspiration glued and stuck them to him. The suit’s material rubbed roughly against his skin when his joints bent as he started to walk.
In another office now, which overlooked most of RHD, it afforded the owner constant ground surveillance of the division, four men, including Lewelyn packed the glassed space. A man who looked African-American sat behind the only desk, the nameplate, bigger than the one Lewelyn owned, identified the seated as Lieutenant Joe Walters. Standing alongside Lewelyn, near the desk, but slightly behind him was Detective Forsythe.
Communicating nonverbally his not wanting to be there, Detective Baker stood by the office exit. Lewelyn saw the man’s face working to hide his current feeling, eyes tensed and lower lip a thin tight line, almost invisible. Evidently, the current situation was abundantly disagreeable to the detective.
‘Let me just apologise for what has happened today, Mr Lewelyn,’ said Walters. ‘However, our work sometimes requires us to ask the difficult questions. Legally we’re allowed to interview you in whatsoever way we like. As long as it does not produce any wrongful confessions, we are legally bound. I’m sure you can understand that it was simply procedure.’
