Much Needed Rain

by R. G. Oram

  ‘What?’ Daniels nearly shouted. His legs began to shake.

  ‘Usually, when you hear of a totalled car you assume the windscreen is smashed or the tyres are slashed. Diesel into the fuel tank, that’s pretty smart. Looks fine on the outside but when you turn the key to start it up, huge surprise.’

  Forsythe slammed the table with his fist. This got Daniels really awake.

  ‘Let me be more clear. To know about putting diesel into an unleaded engine is quite specialised knowledge. That wouldn’t be the first thing that usually comes into the head. They’d want to just key it or smash the exterior. And when I read these here,’ Forsythe pointed at some papers clipped together. ‘“Bitch what the hell is wrong with you?” The “what” is spelled without an H by the way. Then there’s: “Nobody wants you.” Another: “Don’t waste your time with this one, all she does is inflate.”

  ‘Quite the romantic aren’t you? I wonder why she stopped using her social media accounts,’ he reversed the paper and threw it to Daniels. ‘You know, I see a lot of these messages, posts, whatever you want to call them. People can say some very hurtful things to others. But you know what question I always ask when I see someone slandering another person online? I ask them why don’t they say it to that person’s face? Maybe it’s just me, but if I have a problem with somebody I’ll say it in front of them, not on some online chat room.

  ‘Now… Violating a restraining order. Vandalism. Assaulting a police officer. How do you feel?’

  Greg Daniels’ chin lowered. He said weakly, ‘I want a lawyer.’

  Forsythe said to the recorder, ‘Interview stopped at 12:52pm. Mr Daniels requests legal counsel.’

  Chapter 15

  Silver Lake is a neighbourhood in central and north-eastern Los Angeles, near Echo Park and the Dodgers Stadium, surrounding the water reservoir.

  Before it was called Silver Lake, ‘Ivanhoe’ had been the name – its past identification given by Hugo Reid, a former Scottish resident, awarding the neighbourhood the same name as the Sir Walter Scott novel.

  Last year, to counteract the California water drought, 96 million shade balls were launched into the reservoir; acting as a shield to protect the water from the drying evaporation effects of the sun.

  Baker had been delayed on his journey by road works and lines of traffic had formed. The line of cars filled with colour variations. In front of him he could see a head and pair of hands held rigid onto a steering wheel. To alleviate the prison of static monotony Baker rewound his thoughts to the past.

  His decision to join the LAPD was made, so he didn’t end up like his long ago deceased dad who used to come home every night bitching about his bosses, how they didn’t care about what guys like him did to keep assholes like them in a job; always full of complaints, but no forwarding action – Baker was happy not to have to listen to it anymore.

  Today felt like yesterday, to him a new day didn’t change anything, all it did was add more hours onto what had happened. Suspended, treated like crap, following his dad. How was it his fault? If anything it was the department’s for not watching the place, they should have patrols down there making sure you’re not bothered by anybody, not his problem if he unintentionally talked to a reporter, he couldn’t read minds.

  Suspended, by a prick behind a desk who gave up working the streets to order people around. Baker didn’t care if Joe Walters was highly respected by the rest of the detectives in the division. To Baker he was just a coward who stayed behind his desk to hide himself from his fear of the outside world. Telling people what to do, not having to worry about what happens to them, only ensuring everything was spick-and-span on his desk: all papers neatly stacked and pens and pencils in line.

  Finally, after driving past a construction worker pummelling a section of the road with an automatic breaker, he followed the green and blue signs and found the right street. There were some nice houses in this neighbourhood. If you lived in the hills then the minimum amount a house would go for is six figures. Most weren’t mansions, mainly two storeys, some stuck to one floor, with no upper extensions. While searching for Lewelyn’s residence he sneaked a couple of glances at some of the houses. Each had its own personal shade of trees hovering over it. Mark checked the address he had on him. Slowing his car down a touch, in case he had passed it and not noticed.

  No, not yet. There were still a few more houses to go.

  Coming up to a house that seemed more like a cabin with nice creamy walls and a blood orange tiled roof, Baker read the address again and looked at the house number – they matched. He parked his car in the vacant driveway. The house itself, from the outside, looked congested, like it could only fit one bedroom. Had its own garage, with a driveway, no upstairs. Had a nice view of the reservoir, down an incline with a forest of wood and leaf, to a bath of blue bathing in the sunlight giving you glossy winks. From where he was standing the massed accumulation of water looked like a swimming pool.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket to grab the duplicate keys. Before trying each key he checked for any alarm system. None he could see. The only wiring he could see was protruding out of the doorbell.

  He tried each key individually; one was too big to even fit the keyhole, he guessed this to be for the office. After two unsuccessful attempts he found the right one. It turned in nicely. The cutter had been worth every penny.

  Baker didn’t rush getting in like some criminal. The neighbourhood looked quiet. Everyone was probably at work. Some homemakers busied themselves with their housework. He found a couple of letters in the mailbox. They looked like bills and junk mail. He didn’t touch them, not thinking they’d be any use to him. The house’s interior air seemed enclosed as if a window hadn’t been open in a while.

  He didn’t need to turn any lights on – the house’s miniature size gave the sunlight more room to spread. Appearing to his right, a living room opened in Baker’s sights. At least it ‘appeared’ to be one, so infested with moving boxes. Some furniture could be seen among the clutter; a couch and reading chair were separated by a glass coffee table. A hard-covered book lay on the couch’s arm.

  Baker looked into each box in turn. All contained its own library of books. Some fiction and nonfiction, a couple of academics too; mainly psychology, a few on basic world history. Baker couldn’t see a bookshelf or anything to stack the books Lewelyn had accumulated.

  Mark Baker checked his hands, they were trembling, but not from anxiety, from adrenaline. He directed his attention seeking hands to the leather hard-cover book on the couch. Its dark chocolate skin made it almost invisible on the couch’s arm rest. He sat himself down. Baker could see immediately what it was – a journal. He opened it to the first page. A photo captured a family of four: two young boys, a woman and a man. All of them dressed conservatively. The man and children were in suits, the woman wore a nicely fitting dress.

  Baker could see the man and woman were Lewelyn’s parents. He shared some of their features. Lewelyn had his father’s ocean-surfaced turquoise blue eyes and his mother’s light brown hair. The boy next to Lewelyn didn’t resemble him much but it was enough to reveal they were brothers. Baker turned his attention to the father in the picture. Other than him, the three were smiling, showing the inevitable viewer their recorded happiness. The father didn’t want to share his, not even so much as a grin. He gives the look of intensity, as if he wants to eternally intimidate you.

  Baker could see the father was some kind of big shot and made sure he looked the part. Fitted to the bone tailored suit, golden cufflinks, sharp tipped shoes, blinding shoe shine, a designer watch below the sleeve.

  He lifted the first picture to look at some more, seeing other pictures that meant little to him, mainly places where the family had visited, which looked like all over the world.

  He came to one final picture. Two men were in the picture, one in a dark navy gown, the one you’d wear at your
high school graduation, and the other in a basic tie-less suit. Plainly Lewelyn was the suit and his brother, the gown. Over the years the brother had inherited more of the father’s features, all except for the intimidation technique, because both smiled to the camera.

  ‘A spitting image,’ Baker said out loud. He cringed when he said it. The house still had only one inside but you felt trapped when in somebody else’s house, like the faintest sound could initiate some kind of booby trap.

  ‘You’re being paranoid,’ he told himself.

  He flicked through the pages, all diary entries, with no dates and written in pen. The handwriting was jagged, marginally good enough to read, the writer obviously didn’t want to stop until everything was down. Baker stopped the pages fanning and read one entry:

  Journal Entry: Two Sides to Everything

  People say this is one of the worst places to live, can’t say I agree with them. Sure this city has a lot of crime but so does every other place inhabited by humans. Violence is inevitable. Way I see it, unless you’re afraid to open your door or leave your home then it’s not a bad place.

  What is this guy trying to be – a philosopher? Baker thought.

  He moved to another page:

  Journal Entry: Rules vs Personal Needs

  When I see the white guy in the display at the crossing I still look left and right before putting my foot on the road. Once when it told me to put my foot out on the road I heard brakes screech and a pair of front wheels stepping over the pedestrian line. The driver let me and the other crossers know the car had a horn. That outburst told me the driver and his passenger had been talking and not paying attention to the road when the pedestrian walking sign came on.

  Baker skipped a few pages:

  Journal Entry: Do I Hate People?

  It’s not that I don’t like people.

  No, I just don’t like the ones who whisper when your back is turned.

  Baker went back to the first page and looked at the photos again, something struck him.

  What intrigued him was the apparent end of the photographs – there weren’t any more adult photographs of Lewelyn or his brother, or an older set of parents. It told him Lewelyn hadn’t seen his own family for quite some time. Of course he hasn’t seen the guy’s phone or checked the other rooms yet but it was a good guess.

  Lewelyn’s place of birth was Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Born into a rich family. Why leave Philadelphia that had infinite prospects for him and move to Los Angeles? He let the ideas flow in his head, hoping to find an explanation for them.

  When nothing clicked, Baker went through the journal again. He let the pages fall on top of each other. He stopped at an entry title: ‘Regrets.’

  Journal Entry: Regrets?

  Why do I keep going back to it? I made my decision a long time ago. Why is my head like a broken record?

  Why did I leave home?

  Because I didn’t belong there. I’d had enough. Got to a point where I just didn’t care anymore. So many people I thought I could trust, but they all turned out to be selfish assholes.

  Get used to disappointment, right?

  The people I knew, all they seemed to care about was how successful they looked and how many people were around to see them. All they seemed to care about was the bubble they lived in.

  After moving away I wondered what was the point? What was the point in trusting people anymore? I remember how draining that was.

  Then there was the day I boarded that plane. It reminded me of what really mattered.

  I was introduced to that Positives/Negatives technique. Where you take a piece of paper, put two columns with a heading in each. One heading being ‘Positives’, the other, ‘Negatives’. You fill in each column, and you wake up. You find out that no matter how much bad is thrown at you, it’ll never be enough to stop you, because there will always be more positives than negatives.

  That answers that, Baker thought.

  Baker got up from the couch. After taking a few photos of the written journal entries on his phone, he placed it back in its original place, face down on the arm rest, if he remembered correctly, and went in search for the bedroom. End of the house, little distance from where Baker had been seated. Borderline claustrophobic, a double bed covered the entire room with a closet to its side.

  This place didn’t offer him much help. As he suspected there were no photographs or memorabilia to reveal Lewelyn’s story. He went to the closet, double doors and painted white. Baker opened them, a line of hanging clothes and boxes which undoubtedly housed shoes. Gently making sure he didn’t rip the cardboard as he checked each one individually. A pointless task Baker found out. He went to the small chest of drawers under the suits but again no dirt, only socks and underwear.

  Maybe the downtown office has more to offer, he mused.

  Baker sat on the bed feeling defeated. Knowing he shouldn’t have gotten so worked up over the possibility of finding something. He composed his unsatisfied thoughts.

  As he did this a flow of air passed him. The unmistakeable sound of the front door opening made him forget the disappointment.

  Lewelyn was here! Sooner than expected!

  But now it hit him even harder. Baker had left the front door unlocked. Lewelyn would notice the need not to insert the key. And Baker’s car was in the driveway!

  He lost feeling in his body, all the blood had gone up to his head, resulting in a narcotic kind of intoxication. Racing neurotically, his mind competed for the winning exit idea. Thankfully he was positioned near the middle of the bed, so he couldn’t be seen from the front door.

  Putting a hand to his hip, patting the area repeatedly, until it dawned on him – his service weapon was in Joe Walters’ desk. He remembered the spare he had.

  Shit, he thought. Putting a hand to his mouth, squeezing the cheeks all the way through, past the teeth inside, he remembered where the spare firearm was. He looked out the window, to his car, visualising the weapon stored safely in the vehicle’s glove compartment.

  Baker seated, listening to the man’s movements. Still by the front door, in the living room most likely. Baker couldn’t get himself to sit up, in fear of the bed springs betraying his location.

  Get up slowly, he told himself internally.

  With a snail’s pace he stood upright, not allowing the springs any abrupt release. Baker, as inconspicuously as he could, poked his head around the bedroom door frame. Limited in his vision of the hallway, the front door stood in front. It seemed to want to pull him towards it.

  He ignored the thoughts of temptation. There was the current unforgotten issue of Lewelyn being closer to it. Baker listened again, a lot of footsteps and shuffling; Lewelyn was looking for something.

  No way was Baker risking the front door, the chances of being spotted were too great, his only options were find a place to hide or escape via a window. He looked at the bedroom window behind him, small but he could just fit through it if he breathed in. It had two openings, one on each side. The narrowness of them discouraged him. His clothes rubbing on the window pane would make too much noise. The house was small and sound travelled fast. He’d get caught halfway through.

  Shit. Shit. Shit, curses only Baker could hear.

  Now it was hide.

  He had a choice, under the bed or in the closet. Both led to isolation. The closet had less restriction. He could tackle the guy if he got close enough, it might be expected but at least he’d have a chance. If he went under the bed he’d basically be paralysed.

  Closet.

  Baker came around the bed to be in full view of the hallway. No one there, yet he still moved away from it. The front door’s offerings came back but Baker refused it by graciously pulling the closet’s door open. He pushed himself inside. Little room to spare. The back-heels of his shoes pressed against the boxes and the front tip of them pushed
at the closet doors. Baker stood up uncomfortably – the mounted clothing and stacked boxes obstinately protested for their space. His heels wanted more room inside and they were nagging him to move forward. As Baker readjusted his feet the closet door tipped open, showing him half the bedroom. The door came back to his relief; after re-shutting it he didn’t even try to wiggle a toe.

  The closet afforded little view of the bedroom – its slats faced down, giving him only the floor and base of the bed. Noises could still be heard, they seemed to get closer. Only footsteps now, the continuous beats became louder to Baker. They arrived at the bedroom. He made out what he thought were dark pants.

  Baker made smaller breathes for air and blew out more frequently, strenuously controlling the output; not allowing the outside to hear them.

  Drawers were opened, inspections were made. Baker could feel his muscles complain. They were not happy with their current state, which gave them little comfort. Becoming more impatient by the second, starting to pull at his legs, causing them to shake. He had to keep his physical dominance a little longer.

  He wanted to shout, ‘Leave already.’

  It was harder to control now. The aching muscles produced longer breaths. Then Baker thought he could hear retreating footsteps. If his interpretation of sound was right then they must be by the bedroom door now. Was he leaving?

  He wanted to exhale a loud relieving sigh. The knots in his muscles seemed to untangle.

  ‘Out of the closet.’

  Baker received a shot of surprise. The genesis of the surprise came from the voice that spoke.

  Chapter 16

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Mark Baker’s heart demanded more space in the confines of his chest. His presence was known. Whoever was out there knew he was in the cramped closet. The voice, not Lewelyn, and one that did not belong to any person Baker knew.