Much Needed Rain

by R. G. Oram

  He tried to pull himself up but the weight below wouldn’t allow it. Then he tried yanking on the chain, hoping it would give in to the force. There was no weak link.

  Mark Baker closed his eyes, shuddering violently in the depths. He ignored the sound of his ear drums ringing. Forgetting the choking clutch of the water. He mouthed some words before submitting his body to be taken by the consuming liquid.

  Chapter 18

  The mood was tranquil in RHD that evening or that’s how Lewelyn saw it. It was past six and both Forsythe and Lewelyn tried to alleviate their feeling of frustrated dissatisfaction by sitting in silence.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Lewelyn breaking the silence with his impatience, exacerbated by the tender area of bruising that forced itself to the surface of his cheek.

  ‘Now we book him. Obviously not for murder but he’ll eventually see jail time,’ Forsythe said while cradling his kneecap.

  Greg Daniels, the man had not killed Hannah Miller, that was made clear by the several people at his local gym witnessing him perform his late night to early morning workouts, but he was being charged with violating a restraining order and assaulting a police officer and, hopefully, if they can pull a print off Hannah’s car, prove he poured the wrong fuel into its fuel tank.

  ‘What’s next on the agenda?’ when finishing the question Lewelyn saw Forsythe’s computer screen power down.

  ‘Day’s end. Made good progress today. Could have been easier but I’m happy with what we found.’

  Good progress, is that what it was? Lewelyn questioned rhetorically.

  There were two ways to look at it, they had taken a scumbag off the street, yet wasted their time on Daniels and given the real killer more time to flee. It depended on how you looked at it; he didn’t know which interpretation to go with.

  ‘You all right? You seem a bit cynical?’

  ‘It’s just… Nothing.’

  ‘Well, do you fancy a beer? I know a good place where we all go to blow off steam. Might help you get rid of some of that negativity.’

  Lewelyn visualised the bar; exaggerated shouting, deafening music, spilled drinks, pulsating pounds to the head.

  ‘No thanks, not feeling very talkative, you’d most likely be talking to a wall than a person. I appreciate the offer though.’

  Forsythe smiled, ‘No worries, I might go home to,’ he put on his jacket. ‘Oh, before I forget. You might want these back.’ He held Lewelyn’s house keys in his hand.

  Lewelyn surprised at their re-appearance took them from Forsythe. He was about to ask Forsythe where had found them when the man spoke.

  ‘Steve from Homicide found them on the floor yesterday, said when he found them we were gone. So when I got back he gave them to me.’

  ‘Tell him I said thanks. Thought I’d lost them, had to use the spare key to get inside. Nearly forgot where I hid the spare. Thanks by the way, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Lewelyn left first.

  When discovering his house keys missing, he’d had to search for the spare set. He had chosen an unlikely place for it, not a place someone would normally look. You wouldn’t even have thought someone could hide it there.

  Getting up a half hour sooner than he normally did one morning, Lewelyn went out to his front porch with a kid sized spade. He dug a tiny hole into the small grass patch. Made it wide enough for a small container with the spare key inside and returned the ground its green toupee to cover up the evidence.

  Back home now. Everything looked in order. It was still the hut he recognised.

  He had lied to Forsythe earlier about not feeling so good, it wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy. If anything, he was beginning to know what to and what not to say to him. The reason he declined the drink offer was because he was never good in crowds of people. Something about when a wall of eyes look at you.

  Sure, he was good with clients but that was acting, performing – outside work he wasn’t good company. Perhaps it was just the way he was, whenever people placed their eyes on him, it made him think they saw him as an outsider. He also got irritated; irritated that people always seemed to forget that it was rude to stare. Embarrassing to him that he still felt isolated, now three years past thirty and still shy around people.

  The epitome of social anxiety, he mocked his timidity.

  Lewelyn stared into his bathroom mirror, analysing the bruise; the colouring now a dark purple, with a touch of red. He checked his other features for damage, remembering the fall which followed the blow. Both of his light aqua blue eyes seemed intact. No sign of bleeding in the nose. The area around the mouth appeared clean. His light brown hair didn’t show any dark spots; all the oil had been scrubbed out.

  Reviewing his eyes again, he noticed both upper eyelids were lower than normal, probably the result of sleep deprivation. Lewelyn knew he couldn’t sleep now; he was too wound, the case inflicting on him all kinds of wild emotions. He was desperate and hungry, wanting to catch Hannah’s killer, but it was taking too long.

  He knew he was being naïve and idiotic, thinking it would only take a few days to catch the killer. The near immaculate crime scene should have told him this. It was just the idea of them being out there, like he could hear the laughing, getting louder and louder as each day passed. As if the laughter had a voice, saying, ‘I’m free.’

  Earlier Lewelyn had tried to calm himself by walking around the Silver Lake reservoir, hoping the tranquil openness would calm him down. Evidently it didn’t work, now he was fighting the idea – the unyielding urge, of going to the crime scene. He kept telling himself he’d find something there that the LAPD had missed, something that could speed things up.

  ‘I’m not a clairvoyant,’ he said out loud, in his home.

  The house-phone seemed to wave to him on its rested stand. He grabbed it and dialled the cab company’s number.

  Lewelyn took the familiar path to Hannah’s apartment. The apartment block was shaped like a block. The apartments were next door to one another, all formed together in a perfect square design, with open space in the middle. In the centre was a fountain spurting water. The building had a ground floor and an upper floor, Hannah’s place was on the first floor.

  It wasn’t an easy place to access, the secure steel gate in the narrow alcove was like a solid vault door, not willing to give the adjoining walls an inch of space, and you needed the code to get inside. Since the murder you needed the new code. He knew both of them. Hannah had given the old one to him when he’d helped her carry a few things to her door once, and the latest one the LAPD had set, Lewelyn acquired it from the murder book.

  He punched in the numbers, 1 – 2 – 1 – 8 – 7 – 6

  The number of the apartment was 2F. Approaching the door, obvious the police had been – tape was placed across the door opening. You couldn’t gain access without ripping it, which would result in the police knowing someone had been there.

  He put his hand on the door. Did he really want to go in? The body wasn’t there anymore and nothing had been touched by anyone. Everything had been documented. Would it really help the case? Lewelyn thought himself inept, coming down here and now having second thoughts about opening a door.

  She had never asked him why he went out of his way to help her. Why he made the effort to walk her to her door every evening after work. People would probably say he wanted something from her. Always thinking there was an ulterior motive to generosity. If people did think that he didn’t care. It wasn’t their business anyway, even if they did have freedom of thought.

  He did it because he chose to. She might have been an employee but she was also a friend and she needed help. People could think what they wanted, he knew they would be in the wrong and he would be in the right, didn’t matter what the overall consensus was. If someone had spent their time coming up with stuff like that
then they had too much time on their hands.

  Last Friday Lewelyn hadn’t walked her to the door. As he was about to initiate the final act of turning off the lights in the office to complete the ritual of closing time, the phone inside his pocket had gone off. Hannah was outside waiting for him, but he had answered the phone call from the FBI asking him to come down to their Wilshire Boulevard office. While hanging up and finally locking the door and turning on the alarm system, he had told Hannah he had to get somewhere, literally ten minutes ago, not telling her who it was on the phone (he was not allowed to).

  The cab took them to her place first. Through the journey she must have seen the intense concentration leak into his movements. When exiting the taxi, she assured him she could manage on her own to get to her door. Lewelyn had not protested as such, more accurately he asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  He didn’t know if she had been too embarrassed to accept his offer, or afraid if she asked him to walk with her to the door he would have been secretly displeased with her for making him more late. The offer was declined and he watched her from the rear window of the cab, cross the street, alone, to her home.

  Never would he have gotten angry of course. She was always worried of what he thought of her. Always watching his face when they were talking, it was polite to do that anyway. But, Lewelyn knew from the very little blinking she did during conversation, that she wanted to keep things good all the time between them, by trying to figure out what he was thinking.

  It had been the weekend after last Friday. Not at the centre piece of his thoughts, more to the back, the realisation he had left her to walk to her apartment by herself. Not knowing until the Monday what had happened. He imagined getting a call from her or a hospital; when it got to the start of Monday morning his fear of the unknown had him consider the most distressing of scenarios. He worried. Couldn’t help it, he just worried about other people.

  The tape on the door stuck and Lewelyn’s hand printed itself on the door.

  Footsteps echoed behind, they sounded like clapping hands. Lewelyn had produced a similar noise when ascending the grey-white cemented steps. He hadn’t turned around yet to meet the stair climber, his hand was still on the face of the door. Lewelyn couldn’t hear the claps anymore. He turned to acknowledge the person and saw them walk around the corner – returning to the stairs.

  What had encouraged Lewelyn to investigate he did not know. There were numerous reasons why someone would turn back: forgotten keys, unlocked cars, time for a cigarette. Something in the passing glance of the departed intrigued him. He couldn’t hear an orchestra of clapping from someone descending down the ridged concrete. Turning to the corner dark brown sideburns down to the chin and a greased overall leaned on the wall.

  ‘Who got you out?’ Lewelyn asked Greg Daniels.

  ‘My mom,’ Daniels admitted.

  ‘You seem to have a way with women,’ Lewelyn said sarcastically, keeping an impassive face.

  Daniels kept his head down and grumbled internally.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Daniels mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ Lewelyn asked.

  ‘I’m here to get some of my things.’

  ‘The apartment’s sealed off. Go in if you want, wouldn’t bother me if you got arrested again.’

  Greg Daniels kept to the wall, Lewelyn chose not to linger.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Daniels said when Lewelyn was at the top of the steps.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lewelyn felt cut with an insult.

  ‘I was wondering if you could ask your friends in the department to – to – to…’

  ‘Drop the charges?’

  Daniels nodded.

  ‘Sorry but I don’t help bottom feeding narcissists,’ Lewelyn’s nostrils burning.

  Daniels appeared hurt: face compressed like a beaver’s, everything squinting around the nose.

  ‘That’s not a nice thing to say. You’re not a nice person.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not. But I’m always honest,’ Lewelyn spoke with the absence of manners.

  Daniels stopped leaning, he stood in the way of Lewelyn’s exit down the stairs. He saw the mechanic’s fists clench. Lewelyn did the same. He suddenly realised Daniels’ vulnerable positioning – having his back to the steps, not far away from its multiple falling edges. All it took was a push and that would be it. Did he want that? Want to seriously maim the guy?

  Lewelyn waited for Daniels’ move. The fingers of the hand slackened and shoulders slumped slightly forward. He walked past the tantrum man, his own fist no longer crunched. He kept one hand in a claw just in case Daniels went for the cowards approach and hits Lewelyn from behind.

  A car drove passed as he walked over to the spaces of parked cars, Lewelyn wondered if Daniels watched him from the first floor. The idea of turning his head to face the backstabbing eyes on the first floor balcony was tempting. But what would be the point? Was there much point in starting a staring contest? Did it really show bravado? Did blinking first really show weakness?

  He mounted the sidewalk, strolled by a heavily shedding palm tree and let the paved floor guide him.

  Chapter 19

  He admitted it, he killed her.

  The man stared down at the lifeless pool of water. He didn’t know how long he had been here, after ridding himself of Detective Mark Baker, finding no inclination to leave.

  The man who tumbled down through the water was dead, that was obvious, ripples faded and the bubbling ceased. Then why did he sit there watching it?

  He had no remorse or grief for the death, it had to be done.

  The detective had to die, he clearly had seen him and that was a problem. The man did not seem to have a family – no wedding ring or photographs in his wallet or phone, no tattoo signifying branded love – the man had had a tattoo on his right upper arm, a holy cross, but he didn’t think the man was religious. Even if he did have a family it wouldn’t have stopped him. Of course he couldn’t ignore the fact that the man was an LAPD Homicide Detective. Fortunately for the stranger, the man had been recently suspended, so they will not expect to see him for some time – buying him two weeks head-start at least.

  The car he had driven in here was obviously not an LAPD department car, it must have been Baker’s personal vehicle. All that needed to be done with it was a change of licence plates, bleach the inside and outside, then leave it at LAX airport. When the police found the time to notice it they will discover the plates do not match the car, causing confusion among the man’s former colleagues and giving him more time to conceal his involvement.

  Acting as a noble and generous man always relaxed the captive. They were just words to him, but very effective to the receiver. The possibility of freedom and safety entering the mind made people submissively kneel. When he threw the key to him, it was to distract him, providing himself with little resistance and a few seconds to anchor his captive.

  He could have shot him and left him back at the house but then there would have been a body. In his experience, an actual corpse leads to a bombardment of questions; creating more problems than solutions.

  The stranger still could not get himself to move, was it paranoia that even being hours underwater the man could have survived or was it moral respect? Killing might not be personal to him, but it’s personal to the victim, possibly paying tribute to the life that had ended.

  The man had been unworthy, despicable, unfit to live. He gave you everything you asked without resistance. You did the world a favour by ridding it of his filth, he thought.

  He got to his feet, standing, not flexing his legs until he was fully erect. The information he had procured was beneficial, the police did not have any suspects, only DNA evidence, saliva found on the body, an error a child would make. He’d make sure it will not happen again.

  How could he have missed it, did his skills ne
ed re-evaluating? No it was just uncontrollable, blind, misfortune, chance.

  His next objective: Thomas Forsythe’s home. Needful to acquire as much information as he could, in order to give himself an advantage. David Lewelyn’s home had given him what he needed; a person’s home said a lot about them.

  Just moved in, judging from the vast array of boxes in the living room. A library of varying books which suggests an open mind. No memorabilia hanging on a wall and a personal journal for notation tells him the man keeps to himself, perhaps a loner. He had not given the journal much of a read because he did not know how long he could stay there. In one of the boxes was a certificate for graduating from the University of San Francisco. The field of study was psychology but this was not mounted on the wall either, so the body language expert shows no care in advertising his life to himself or to others.

  A nobody, he summarised.

  He checked the time on his wristwatch, it glowed in his face, reminding him of the decadent, windowless building he stood in. Too late to visit the home, as the detective would most likely be there now. He would go tomorrow, late morning, when the man was at work.

  He had few facts about the detective. So far all he had was a name and address.

  Chapter 20

  Happy to be out of the sweat pants, in a black suit and striding purposefully down the path, with a polystyrene bag in one hand, Lewelyn crossed the stone floored ground, passing some palo verde trees outside LAPD Headquarters in ‘Lawtown.’

  He called this part of Downtown, ‘Lawtown,’ because in one neatly organised pocket stood the Criminal Courthouse, Federal Courthouse, LA County Courthouse, LAPD Headquarters, City Hall and the LA Law Library.

  Eventually, the main glass arrowed entrance hove into view, but an obstacle compelled Lewelyn to stop; the obstacle was human.

  ‘Hi, sorry to bother you but are you Mr David Lewelyn?’