She cocks an eyebrow. "I'm Officer Burns."
"Thank you." No reason not to be polite.
"So why were you in the alley?"
I groan inwardly but try to keep my voice pleasant. "I had been waiting for Luis inside and he was taking a long time, so I went to check on him."
"And?"
"And I found him like you saw him."
"Why was there blood on your boots?" She asks as if this is an important mystery and not an obvious point.
"I saw him sitting there and I went closer to see if he was breathing. That's when I noticed the blood on his shirt. I was staring at him when I heard your siren, Officer Burns. I looked up and saw you. When I looked back down again the blood had pooled around my feet."
"So there wasn't blood on the ground when you first approached the victim?"
"No Ma'am." I say. "I actually thought he was wearing a turtle neck. It looked wrong though. That's part of why I approached him, to see what was up with his clothes."
"His clothes, not to check his breathing?"
"That too." I shrug. This isn't going well. "He just looked wrong, the clothes, the stillness, his position, it all looked off."
She presses her lips together before speaking. "His position was off you said? How so?"
I'm having a hard time trying not to roll my eyes. Are they trained to be obtuse? "First off, I thought it was weird that he was sitting on the ground by the dumpster at all. Second, his arms were just draped by his sides resting on the ground. That didn't seem normal to me either. I don't know about you, but I try not to touch filthy things and the ground by a dumpster is gross and it smells bad. Why would anyone hang out by a dumpster?" My voice is getting high, not a good sign. If you show the police that you're irritated with them, they just work extra hard to be nasty. Officer Burns opens the file she brought in with her. She isn't volunteering any response to my little speech. I dislike her for a moment before I remember I don't really care. This is as good a way to fill my time as any I suppose. Hell it’s not like I have a job to go to.
"So, Meegan, right?"
"Yes Ma'am."
"We have you on file from an incident in February of 2008. That's almost three years ago now." I nod. She's not looking at me, so maybe she doesn't notice. A few moments tick by. Maybe she's waiting for something. If she's waiting for me to say anything she can just sit there. Now she looks up. "Remember anything yet?" She asks it like an accusation.
"No Ma'am." I say.
She nods. "Why were you meeting Mr. Finch?"
I sigh, I can't help it. "I thought he might know something about Madeline."
"Madeline Cross." She says.
I nod.
Officer Burns folds her hands in front of her. "How did you know Miss Cross?"
I bite my lip. "I just ran into her and she said she recognized me from before." The Officer's perfectly groomed eyebrows contract making tiny vertical lines between them. "From before your incident." She gestures towards the file.
"Yes Ma'am." I say.
"Did she give you a name?"
"No." I say, deliberately misinterpreting the question. Madeline never did give me her name.
Officer Burns changes topics. "You told Officer Clark that you have a history of sexual trauma. Is that something you remembered?"
I shake my head. "No Ma'am, recent history."
"How recent?" The police woman asks.
"Yesterday." I say staring at her.
She looks categorically unimpressed. "Have you filed charges?"
If that's my record in front of her she must know the answer. "No."
"Are you planning to?" She asks flatly.
"No." I say.
"And why not?" The officer taps her fingers on the table.
I notice her short clean nails. "Does this have anything to do with Luis's death?" Okay, so I'm getting snotty.
"Does it?" She asks.
"No." I reply.
"Sexual predators will never change their behavior if they get away with it, Miss Jones." Now she sounds like a mom. "You need to have some regard for the next victim don't you think? That is, if anything actually happened to you."
I sigh. "There was room for misinterpretation. I don't think he's a predator, a creep maybe, but not a criminal. He thought I wanted to fuck him. I told him to stop. I told him no. He felt me up. He copped a feel, sort of forcefully, but he didn't leave any bruises, and eventually when I kept insisting that I really didn't want him, he let me go."
"Were you drinking?" She asks dourly.
"No, and would it matter?"
Officer Burns shrugs. "Would it?"
I feel tears spring up in my eyes and I hate her for it.
"Who was he?"
I blink back the irritating optical lubricant and clear my throat. "Nobody."
"Someone at work? A supervisor?"
"No, Geeze, no one I work with."
"A boyfriend?"
"No."
"Someone who knew Luis?"
Ah... I see where she's going with this. "No." I sigh. "Actually I have no idea, but I'd highly doubt it."
"I need to know, Miss Jones, to rule him out."
I shudder. "A professor at Loyola." I say it grudgingly, knowing the questions that come next.
"You go to Loyola?"
"No Ma'am."
"What were you doing there, Miss Jones?"
"Why?"
She stares at me grimly.
"I went there because I had found out Madeline went there, and since she said she knew me, I wanted to see if I could find out anything else. This professor came up and acted like he knew me, so I followed along and went to talk to him in his office. When we got there he sort of jumped me. I guess he either knew me before, and we had a thing that I don't remember, or he thought I was someone else he had a thing with. That's why I wasn't planning to make a big deal out of it."
"Did he call you a name?"
I don't know why but I don't want to tell her. I shake my head. "He said it had been so long, that's all." Does she believe me?
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm full of shit. "Did Luis know you?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "I never got to talk to him."
Officer Burns stares at me... and stares... and continues to stare. At long last she says, "Tell me the name they called you."
I blink. "They didn't." Hell, I don't even believe me. Its one of the shittiest lies I've ever told and I know it, but she has no proof and I refuse to be broken by a stare.
"Who was the professor?"
"He didn't say."
The officer gets up and walks to the door without looking at me. Once there she turns. "When you're ready to give me a name, wave at the camera."
I sigh. This is obviously not the best time to ask for a drink, or a smoke... or a phone call. But on the plus side, I have learned from Law and Order that they can only hold me so long without charging me right? All I really have to do is wait them out. Oh and I have to pee.
***
After what feels like an eternity, could've just been twenty minutes, I wave at the camera. Another little eternity later, Officer Burns returns to the room.
"Have something to tell me?"
"Yes." I reply. "I have to pee, I'm thirsty, I want a cigarette and I want my phone call." Officer Burns lets out a big sigh, turns around, and leaves me without saying another word. Just as the door is closing I shout, "I'll just pee in the corner, if that's how you want it." She leans back in the door, gives me a look, keeps her silence and departs for real this time. I groan... shit. Now I realize that I don't know Schuyler's number anyway, so a lot of good a phone call would do. Who would I call? Not Ashley, the only number I have memorized. There is no one else.
Well hell, I'd settle for a toilet. I am now forty six in bladder years. I don't know how long they can make me wait. Who am I kidding? This is Chicago: they can do what they want. I'm pretty sure if I pee on the floor they can charge me with something, but that d
oesn't mater because I'm absolutely sure I'm going to piss myself. I stand up and move to the corner under the camera. I unzip my jeans. I'm about to drop trou and squat when the door opens and in walks Grouchy Pants.
He eyes me speculatively. "You need a restroom?"
"Yes please." I zip my jeans back up.
"This way." Grouchy Pants leads me out into the gray hallway. We amble past a mess of desks, and down another hall before he points me to a door. With a certain amount of forced trust I open the door. Trust is rewarded sometimes. It is indeed a bathroom. I'm tempted to cross myself, or make some other religious gesture to show my gratitude to the universe, but there's no time. I bee line to the nearest stall. There aren't any doors on the stalls and I don't care. A whole crowd of my very coolest peers could be watching, and that wouldn't stop me from enjoying this piss. I think I groan a little with the relief. I seem to piss and piss forever, how vindicating. I'm so glad I didn't have to unload this on the floor.
I finish up, wash my hands and check the mirror. Honestly, I don't look too bad. My racing stripe hair is clean and shiny. My clothes are okay, the jacket lends a lot of character that I might not otherwise posses. I think I've lost a little weight, my size tens are looking loose. My skin is in a dormant phase, very few zits, must be ovulating... that's a scary thought. Oh by the way, I know about the ovulating thing from a special I watched on NatGEO, not because I'm trying to get knocked up. I sigh in a contented way. This isn't too bad really, interrogation. At least this is America, not Islamabad or something. There's only so much they can do to me. I wipe my wet hands on my jeans and exit the bathroom.
Grumble pants is waiting. "What was your name again, Officer?" I ask as nicely as I know how, which isn't saying that much.
"Officer Clark." He answers humorlessly.
I nod. "Am I being charged with anything, Officer Clark?"
Grumble Pants Clark looks at me. "We're working on it, Miss Jones."
Well, that sounds promising. I wonder how I'll like jail. I give Officer Clark the once over. Mid forties I'd guess, thinning colorless hair but pleasant features. He's probably not a catastrophe in plain clothes. The Officer gestures for me to precede him back the way we came. I shrug and comply without comment. If they can't think of a reason to hold me, I know they have to let me go. As we ease back by all the desks I hazard a look towards the front of the building. I am rewarded by the sight of daylight streaming in through the windows.
"Jesus, how long have I been here?" I'm not expecting an answer and I don't get one. "Can I get a drink Officer Clark?" I glance back at him.
"Sure thing." He says, in a way that makes me think he has no intention of letting me have a drink. We arrive at the plain wooden door and Grumble Pants Clark opens it for me. I pad in, my sock feet lending me silence, and resume my seat. The Officer leaves and I am afforded the opportunity for more quiet introspection. If the chair were more comfortable this would feel like home. Good thing there's no windows in here. I'd hate to know how bright it’s getting outside. That might make me cranky.
***
It’s been another interminable amount of time. The door opens again. A police man I've never seen before enters. He has thick brown hair. He looks young and well rested, must be a day shifter.
"You're free to go Miss Jones."
I stand up and stretch. "Can I get my stuff?"
He looks dumbfounded. "Stuff?"
"Yes Sir. I had a gray and black shoulder bag with my phone, cigarettes, lighter, computer, wallet... my stuff. And I had boots too." I'm struggling to keep my voice reasonable.
"I'll check on it." He says. He sounds genuine. I don't trust him, but I follow him anyway. He leads me out past the desks, which are teaming with activity at this hour, and to a meager looking lobby on the front of the building. Now he disappears to 'check on my stuff'. I suck down my weight in metallic tasting water at the conveniently located fountain and settle in to wait. I wonder how long I should give it before I hassle someone else for my things. To my surprise, less than fifteen minutes later the very same dayshift police person returns and he's carrying my bag. When he gives it to me I check through it. Everything seems accounted for, wow.
"Thanks." I say. "Any word on my boots?"
The police man looks regretfully at my sock feet. "I'm sorry, Miss Jones. Those are evidence. You stepped in blood."
I sigh. What can I say? I could ask when I'll get them back, but I'd only be prompting the poor nice man to lie. "Bye then." I announce, and I turn in my sock feet to walk out the front doors.
Once outside, the cold seeps into my sock feet with great enthusiasm. I stop to light a Camel, before digging out my phone. I forgot I'd turned it off. I power it on and it takes its sweet time getting ready to function. I suck on my cigarette and hop from one sock foot to the other while I wait for it. My breath is fogging. It sure cooled down since yesterday. Finally the phone is on, and now I have to wait while it vibrates about a dozen times registering all the missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. I groan. I should check the messages, but I don't. I just open the recent calls and dial Schuyler.
He picks up before I even hear it ring. "Meegan!" He shouts. "Are you okay? I thought you were dead. Answer your fucking phone."
I hold the phone away from my face for a second to make sure he's done yelling. Are we that close now that it's okay to yell at me? "Sorry dude my phone was off. Listen, are you busy right now?”
There's a long pause. "It's 10AM why are you even awake?" He sounds so much nicer now.
I sigh. "I just got released from jail. I didn't get charged with anything, but I've been here all night and they took my boots for evidence, so I'm standing out here in sock feet and I'm sorry I didn't call you back, really, really sorry, but do you think you could come get me? It's the one on South Racine."
"Sure." he says.
Really? Just like that? Where's my guilt trip? Ashley would have given me hell over this.
"Thanks." I say but he's already hung up. Huh. Maybe I don't get a guilt trip. Maybe I get the silent treatment instead. I wonder which is more effective. Probably guilt, since with silence I could easily forget that he's even mad. Its cold and I'm feeling conspicuous in front of the police station, so I decide to check my messages, make me look legitimate. I have six texts and three voice mails. The texts in order are:
One: Answer your phone. From Schuyler.
Two: Where the hell are you? From 312-573-2947.
Three: Wanna get breakfast? From 312-674-5723.
Four: Answer your goddam phone. Again from 312-573-2947.
Five: Are you mad at me? From Schuyler.
And six: Are you dead? From Schuyler.
Aw, how nice, he cares if I'm dead. And who the hell are 312-573-2947 and 312-674-5723? Now I do the phone task I like the least. I dial up the voicemail. I listen while the automated lady tells me I have three unheard messages. First unheard message: Its Schuyler's voice.
"Hey Meegan. Been trying to call you. Its 3:47 AM on October 31st. Happy Halloween. I wanted to see what you were up to... You must be busy. Catch you later." Hmm. Halloween, I forgot. Maybe I should celebrate.
Second unheard message: I'm surprised to hear Fin's forceful and chipper voice. "Hey I got a new number. Call me. I want you to come hang out tomorrow. I mean tonight. Well, really its Francis... never mind. Call me back. Okay? Cause I have to make plans." So that must account for one of the unknown numbers.
Third unheard message: It's Qasim's voice. I'm too tired to be either excited or irritated to hear from him. The man just seems totally irrelevant at this moment. I don't even listen to the message. I hang up mid sentence. I wonder if his number was the breakfast invite. I wonder if I'd have liked to go. Will we even like each other sober? Maybe.
Message checking is emotionally draining for me. I feel like a good Samaritan, like I've done my civic duty. Why the hell am I so phone popular right now anyway? This is why I don't have large numbers of friends. Their eerily simultane
ous demands on my attention are too taxing. The only person I wish I'd answered the phone for is Schuyler. Speaking of whom, here he comes now. I breathe out a big sigh of relief, and hope he invites me to sleep on his couch. Damn my feet are cold.
I have never been so glad to see the mother ship. Although I haven't known Schuyler that long. How many times have I even seen the mother ship? Three? Well, this is the gladdest of those three times, that's for sure. How did he get here so fast? It occurs to me I don't know precisely where I am, it could be close to Schuyler's building. My new favorite person eases the Escalade up to the curb and unlocks the doors. I jump in and before I even meet his eyes I've got my feet propped up on the heat vents.
"Ahh." I purr. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
He's staring at me. "You're boots are evidence?'
I shrug and rub my toes. "Yeah the blood pooled around them while I was standing there."
"Who's blood?" His voice is deep and has an intense kind of calm that's really not very calm at all.
"Luis Finch. He's dead, dead, dead." And I laugh. I'm aware that I sound crazy. "I went to talk to him at his work and I found his body by the dumpster. His throat got slit while I was filling up a Diet Coke." I feel tears like warm little razors tingling down my cold cheeks. I look up at Schuyler.
He seems shell shocked. "What time was this?" He asks.
I feel my eyes widen in confusion. "I don't know. Early, 11ish I guess." He reaches up and turns one of his heat vents on me. "Thanks." I say.
"I thought you worked last night."
I groan. "I'm on leave without pay." I say. "It's bullshit. Someone planted a book in my bag. I'm not allowed to go back to Flagship 'til after the investigation."
"Planted?" He asks.
"I know, I know. I sound paranoid, but it wasn't my book. All my books have the receipts taped in them."
Schuyler sighs. "So that's why you didn't answer your phone."
I look at him pathetically. "Sorry." I mumble. "I was upset, not at you or anything."
He shakes his head. "I should've... I could've gone with you. Next time..." He grips the wheel and looks exasperated. "Did you even call a lawyer?"
I balk. "I wasn't under arrest. Besides, how would I know a lawyer?"
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