by R. G. Oram
Still, Jerome kept his ‘vow’ of silence. Lewelyn spotted the attorney turn and give his young client a facial expression with eyebrows coming together and the bottom lip disappearing under the upper one – popular signs for anger. The body language expert guessed the attorney had not been provided the full story by his client and was now frustrated with Jerome’s omissions.
‘My client refuses to answer any more of your questions. Now do you intend to charge him for this? If you do then you’d better stop recording and inform him of his constitutional rights.’
Lewelyn could see Jerome’s sluggish posture transformed to upright and attentive, evolving to current circumstances.
‘Don’t worry I will,’ once he finished these words a knock from the room’s only door echoed through, Forsythe raised himself and went to the door. Lewelyn saw him talking to a man, the newcomer handed him something.
When Forsythe’s face was in clear view, there wasn’t a specific emotion expressed on it. Each emotion overlapped and interrupted the other. Lewelyn couldn’t be sure what this meant. Then, as if abruptly grasping his current surroundings, Forsythe said, ‘I apologise, Mr Harris. It appears there’s been a mistake made. You can leave.’
What did he say? Lewelyn mouthed.
A few minutes had passed, Jerome Harris and his lawyer gone and Detective Forsythe was sitting in the interview room with that same look of a man deliberating something. Lewelyn went in, rushed was more like it, demanding an explanation for what just happened.
‘Hey!’ Lewelyn shouted.
Forsythe had his back turned to him, ‘His DNA doesn’t match.’ After taking Jerome Harris’s DNA, Forsythe had requested it to be compared as a priority to the sample found at the murder scene, and the result was negative.
Chapter 25
Clean cut grass, as if someone had taken a razor to it and eliminated any overhanging pieces. Birds singing their song – chirping to wake up the others. He was in the right place, his car positioned outside this tranquil neighbourhood, away from suspecting watchers.
Detective Thomas Forsythe’s house was his objective. Nearing the door to the home, he heard the motorised sucking commonly made by a vacuum. The wife was inside performing house duties. Not an issue to him. Reaching the two-storey house he listened to the incessant droning of the motor sound from outside. Either she was upstairs or at the other end of the ground floor. She was away from the door and that’s what mattered.
From his side pocket he pulled out the snap gun, more commonly referred to as a lock pick gun. A tool that can be used to force open a lock much quicker than the traditional manual handling lock picks. It was a reasonable size – small enough to fit in his pocket – similar shape to an ear piercer. Trigger operated with a slim handle.
What differentiated the lock pick gun from the ear piercer was the thin metal stick at its firing end and the torsion wrench that came with it; similar in appearance to a tooth pick. The snap gun worked by inserting the end metal stick into the lock. Once in and under all the lock’s tumblers you would squeeze the gun’s trigger, whereupon the metal stick would lift itself and the lock’s tumblers, giving the user a brief moment to insert the torsion wrench to manipulate the temporarily raised tumblers.
A tool of his former trade, maybe life-profession was more appropriate, and not the first time he had used it this month, so he did not have to hesitate.
He inserted the gun, harbouring no doubt about the device’s capability. It served him well. What he did worry about was neighbours’ walking past or a courier dropping off a package. The tumblers jumped, instantly he inserted the T wrench. Success, the door lock released. He closed it gently behind him. He could have shut it harder, the vacuum was still on – conveniently, it masked the sound of his entry.
Without warning four legs and a tail welcomed him, its curly fur brushed in and out of his legs. A white canine, small but too big to fit in a handbag. You could just about manage to carry it in one hand.
What should I do with it? he thoughtfully asked himself.
There was a problem here, would it bark and reveal his presence? You couldn’t judge the behaviour of animals. Where would he hide it?
A dog with a broken neck would bring a lot of questions and a missing one would probably unearth even more; both had too many negatives. He reached into his pocket; a bundle of paper came out, unwrapping it he threw the contents to the small animal. The animal continued to look at him, unsure of his strangeness, he put an index finger to his mouth and pursed his lips – communicating the ‘keep quiet’ gesture. It wheeled around to start eating its treat.
Doing an analysis of the ground floor it looked like one of those homes pictured in a decorating magazine. Everything looked new and neat, but that was really down to good cleaning. It looked like the wife had already done the living area; no spots on the carpet and an odour of mild dusted decay presented itself to him. The woman clearly designed the house. There were ornaments on top of every available space, pictures on tables and walls, all the furniture colourfully matched.
He could not understand this, what was the point of it all? Why did people do this to their homes, buy all this junk? In his opinion you should only purchase what you needed: a bed, some freestanding lights, basic furniture: a table and chair, what else did you need? What was the point of buying extras for a home? How could a candle confined in a small white cage on a shelf be of any practical use? When you died it would all be taken away and scattered among relatives, or strangers who didn’t know you and did not care where it all came from.
Moving through the ground floor of the house, not letting the sum of the distracting paraphernalia of consumer spending delay him.
Gaining little information from the living room he quietly inspected other rooms on the ground floor. The door to the kitchen was open but he walked past it. A dining room lay opposite the kitchen, again he did not enter.
There were a pair of wooden doors, closed shut; they begged a brief look at least. The doors could be opened by rolling them sideways, one to the right, and the one to the left, once separated they revealed a private office, A desk stood resolute in front. He closed the doors behind him, the vacuum was still sucking, but he noticed when closing the doors that a miniscule amount of sound could be heard – he couldn’t stay here long.
Scanning the desk’s features, a laptop and printer occupied most of the space, along with a group photo of proud looking people in police uniform. There was a medal in a glass frame which he recognised as the Medal of Valor, the most prestigious award given by the LAPD. Awarded to those who showed great courage in situations considered exceptionally dangerous. Next to the glass-protected award, a photo of Thomas Forsythe in ceremonial uniform and a man with one hand on the detective’s shoulder. The man handing the award to the detective, Frank knew as the Chief of Police.
He tried the drawers in the desk, they were locked and he couldn’t find a key. The snap gun was a risk but he wasn’t sure if it would work on this old fashioned lock. There was the option of forcing it open, again too risky, his presence here had to remain unknown.
Some other miscellaneous papers on the desk: old newspapers, printed bank statements, an itinerary for a holiday that had been booked – nothing worthwhile.
Finishing here, he lingered – ensuring nothing was disturbed. In a thief’s manner, noiselessly and in phases, he stepped out of the office.
Silence pervading the house – the vacuum had dissipated. He listened intently to nothing except barren quietness. Creeping along, applying little pressure through his flat-soled shoes, checking each of the remaining rooms on the ground floor. No sign of anyone. Balance of probabilities predicted she was upstairs, resting from her labour. Now he had no background noise to camouflage his movements; a bad footing would advertise him throughout the house.
At the stairs, this was the most likely place to alert anyone of his existe
nce, the banister to his right and a wall to his left. Stairs creaked, he would avoid the middle and go the left; most people would hold on to the banister for support when going down, where the depreciated wear would be great. Stealthily, he made it to the top without detection.
A faint buzzing like a young fly flapping its wings originated from a door offering only a crack-view inside. He went to the hinged side, laying his back on the wall next to it. He placed his hand near the middle of the painted wood and pushed it a foot.
Angling himself to the wider spaced crack he saw a bed that fitted two and laying on it was the middle-aged woman from the framed photographs, the detective’s wife. She had on her face a sleeping mask covering her eyes, and ear phones that filled the caves of her ears. She was indeed taking a break. He didn’t risk pushing the door any further. She had no idea he was here, but egotism was unfitting in a fighter.
This reminded him of why he chose his past occupation. Many people wanted money and fame, an easy and better life they say. A nice proud home to show their success, and freedom to spend without turning the price tag over. But what did it bring you? People believed that it conferred them power and protection. That was a lie. Even if you could afford the best protection, in life you were always vulnerable. All it took was men like him who were trained in the other world, which protected this one. No matter how much money you had, it didn’t change the physical fact that you are mortal, billions of dollars isn’t going to convince a bullet to alter its course. Death is absolute, an end result, a final confirmation to one’s weakness.
On his own now, no rules to abide by, no orders to follow, he can do as he pleases.
He decided there was nothing else to look for.
‘What are you doing here?’ the voice in the bedroom asked.
He didn’t take another step, unsheathing the pocketed blade.
‘You know you’re not supposed to be in here,’ the tone of the voice had a child’s manner to it.
A grisly mannered grunt and a blowing of raspberries; the dog – she was speaking to the dog. The dog must have finished the snack he had given it and gone upstairs.
He returned the knife he had subconsciously unsheathed back into his pocket, its mischievous reflective smile sheathed. Not wasting any more time – now going down the right side of the stairs – partially brushing lightly against the wall in case of a sudden unexpected fall.
Opening the front door and casually emerging on the outside, he strolled in a leisurely style back to his car which he had parked in a nearby street. As he approached it, his phone vibrated angrily. He pulled it out and read the message he had received:
Frank we need to talk
Chapter 26
Purgatory, convenient way to describe the recent events that had taken place.
Following the end of the interview with Jerome Harris, Lewelyn and Forsythe both frozen, David standing, Tom sitting, each seemingly mesmerised by the other, awaiting the first to speak or shift. The first to move was Forsythe, still favouring the left leg. Lewelyn wanting an answer, carried himself behind the man. Forsythe was not going to his desk. Without knowing where the journey would take him, Lewelyn continued his inquisitive pursuit.
Forsythe unknowingly led him to the water cooler, getting a cup and filling it. Taking small gulps, putting more in when the cup came right up to his nose.
‘Go home,’ Forsythe said before leaving Lewelyn alone with the water cooler.
Hearing these words were enough, they told Lewelyn that he wouldn’t get the answer today. Forsythe wasn’t going to tell him what he wanted to hear or any baseless conjecture either; the detective hated bullshit and beating around the proverbial bush, he would tell you straight and not use fancy words as a way to improve or conceal the honest bitch of the truth. He had nothing, that was it.
Hopefully it wasn’t obvious. Not having gone home to change or shower after a highly stressful day and feeling the internal boiling of his skin from the overuse of energy reserves, Lewelyn now uncomfortably sat in the back of a cab parked outside a house in Valley Village.
The driver clearly knew his roads; online maps told Lewelyn the journey from Downtown to the San Fernando Valley would take thirty-five minutes with traffic – it took only twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time to spare to try and process what had happened today. Lewelyn thought he was going to put a hole in one of the computer screens in RHD. No matter what age you were he had learned long ago that you never lost those irrational impulses.
On the way, the driver filled Lewelyn with facts about famous personalities, events and places. Enthusiastically pointed out that Marilyn Monroe used to have a house here from 1944 to 1945, before it was demolished for some property project.
The address he had was right, no one outside yet, so everyone was still inside. His throat felt parched, he would have asked the driver if he had anything to drink when he saw the notice sign in the cab, warning all passengers that no food or drinks were to be consumed in the vehicle.
Lewelyn opened a window to let the cool air dampen his throat. He saw the people piling out of the front door with bags and notepads in their arms. The weekly creative writing group that Hannah used to go to had just finished. One person talked to a woman at the front door. Lewelyn paid the driver and got out.
The conversation finished and the light or dark chestnut door (depending on how it looked in the day) closed. Lewelyn smiled to acknowledge the interested student. Wondering whether he should knock or ring the doorbell, Lewelyn went for the least abrupt. He heard the faint ring deep within the dwelling.
A woman shorter than Lewelyn eventually answered the door. She had a smile at first until she saw that Lewelyn was not one of her students.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
‘Hi. Charlotte? I’m David Lewelyn. A friend of Hannah Miller. I called earlier.’
Why didn’t I say I was her boss? Lewelyn’s hindsight thinking.
‘Oh,’ the smile did not resurface, only a minor drop of the face. She put her hand on the other side of the door. ‘What am I doing? Sorry I almost forgot where I was. Yes of course you did call earlier. Would you like to come in?’
‘Only if it’s not an inconvenience.’
‘No of course not. Please come in,’ she opened the door to allow him inside. ‘Can I offer you some coffee or tea?’ she managed to say.
‘Coffee, black if you don’t mind but only if you’re having some too.’
‘I was planning to. I just had my weekly class and now my throat’s a little sore so I’ll need some refreshment to get my voice back,’ Charlotte pointed to the living room where sofas were rounded around an invisible table. Lewelyn chose the patterned fabric sofa to the leather.
Charlotte came in after a few minutes with the tray of cups and a ground coffee filter.
‘You said black didn’t you?’ she enquired.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘No sugar?’
‘No thank you. As it is please.’
She poured the ground roast dark liquid into his cup. Her long tied ponytailed hair matched Lewelyn’s choice of coffee. He noticed when she’d gotten closer to pour the drink, her hair wasn’t all black. Some of it had flaming red streaks. Charlotte added a splash of milk to hers and the sugar remained untouched.
‘So…’ Charlotte let the word stall in order for her to search for more words, ‘How did you know Hannah?’
‘I was her boss.’
‘Oh. The mind reader,’ she said it with mild humour.
‘Sorry?’
‘Once I asked my class to write a poem about someone they knew. She chose to write one about you and the title she gave it was “The Mind Reader.” It was very good.’
A smirk came, ‘She did have a funny imagination.’
‘She was a very good writer. She told me she wanted to start writing plays. I was surprised when sh
e said that because most of my students want to learn how to write screenplays or novels. Her chosen field was a nice change. She told me she read a lot of Shakespeare.’
‘More like re-read a lot of Shakespeare,’ Lewelyn almost chuckled.
‘Hahaha. She did like quoting him during class. You could see she enjoyed good stories no matter what ending they had. But she wasn’t always so talkative. The first few classes she didn’t say anything. She just listened and made sure not to draw to much attention to herself. Was she like that at work?’
‘Yeah. She was nervous for the first few months she started working for me. I remember seeing her through the glass of my office door getting up and sitting back down when she wasn’t sure when it was best to come into my office. I helped her with that. Whenever I saw her jump-up in her chair I’d call her into my office and let her tell me what I needed to hear. After a while I didn’t have to do the phone calls – her confidence built,’ Lewelyn grabbed for his cup and quietly slurped the bitter rich liquid. Charlotte hadn’t touched hers yet.
‘I can see she found somebody good to work for. You seem to have cared a lot for her.’
‘I suppose she was just one of those people who made your day. You know? Calling her an optimist wouldn’t do her enough justice. She worked hard. Didn’t complain. Always on time. A few of my clients asked me how much I wanted for her?’ After saying this Lewelyn now knew what he had lost. He didn’t look up when he asked the next question.
‘How is everybody… with what’s happened?’
‘Shocked. Some didn’t come to class today which is understandable. Those who did attend found it difficult. So I decided it was better to just ask them how their stories were going than ask them to write about something,’ Charlotte sipped her coffee.
