A Question of Will

by Craig Spector

  And it stuck.

  Kyra and Paul had loved Star Trek; they watched the old episodes in syndication, each weekend on Channel 11. Which was their favorite episode -- the one with the gunfight at the imaginary OK Corral? Yes, that was it. Paul loved it because it was surreal, dreamlike, with phantom constructs of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and the others, all culled from their own imaginations, trying to kill them, the product of some superior alien being or another. It had scared eight-year old Kyra half to death, and she had curled into Paul on the big sofa, safe in daddy’s arms, eyes wide and rapt as Paul explained that they could only die if they believed the illusion, that it was all a dream...

  ...and Paul remembered even further back, to the first time he had ever seen the program, this very episode, when he was eight, and wasn’t that a coincidence, too...

  ...and Spock had hypnotized them with his handy Vulcan mind-meld, so cool and logical, telling his frail human counterparts the revelation that logic had given him: that they had nothing to fear, that the figures were illusions, the bullets mere shadows, ghosts... spectres...

  ...and there was a logic here, he thought, there had to be, if logic could save William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy on a fucking TV show it should work here in the screaming real world, right? I mean, is that all logic is good for...

  ...as one by one, a make-believe character named Spock worked the magic: coming alive in his daughter’s mind just as he had in eight-year old Paul’s some twenty-two years before, placing long and graceful fingers on the key mind-meld points -- forehead, temple, under the eye, under the jawline...

  ...and Kyra had deep purplish bruises under her jaw, indentations from fingers pressing, crushing her windpipe, ligature marks, strangulation...

  And that was when logic failed him, and the desperate pattern dissembled into nothingness. The oilslick in Paul’s belly suddenly came roaring to life, sluicing up from deep within as he bolted and lurched for the bathroom, realized in a heartbeat he would never make it, beelined for the kitchen sink instead. The bile rushed out in a scalding, bitter torrent as Paul gagged and vomited, took a heaving gasp of air, then threw up again. His knees wobbled, and he clung to the edge of the counter, heaving until there was nothing left, until it felt like he would turn himself inside out. With every next spasm the void grew darker, deeper, until by the time it subsided he was utterly empty, clinging to the sink like a shipwreck survivor, drained, spent.

  Paul looked up. A little wooden placard hung over the window, a present from Eleanor’s mental storehouse of cheery affirmation. TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, it read. The words sank in.

  Paul heaved again.

  FIFTEEN

  Over the next days the Kelly home reeled, under siege. The telephone rang every few minutes from dawn to midnight -- well-wishers and bereaved friends tag-teaming with mainstream media and freelance stringers vying for scraps. The message tape filled to overflowing, was not replaced.

  Outside, news crews hovered, noting every rustle of blinds and car in the driveway; the Halloween decorations became the focus of many the ghoulish lead-in. Link Lenkershem preened and intoned forebodingly at regular intervals, all prime-time grief and pre-chewed emotion. In a grim bit of abattoir opportunism, the tragedy got picked up during an otherwise slow news week and became filler for the wire services; within forty-eight hours Kyra’s beaming high school yearbook photo was splashed luridly across the tube on the local channels, was even picked up as a drive-by media blip for the network affiliates. Pundits waxed prophetic about yet another sad reminder of the violent times in which we live, bemoaning the breakdown of family values and western civilization while heedlessly cannibalizing Kyra on behalf of ratings and an insatiable public’s presumed need-to-know. It seemed everyone had an agenda or a sociopolitical ax to grind, and most were happy to sharpen their edge on the murdered child’s memory.

  The Post and the Daily News followed suit, hawking gory details in grainy black-and-white. Glendon’s local paper, the Herald Examiner, took the merciful high road, giving Kyra page one coverage with an inside spread. They had lost one of their best and brightest, and her murder only fanned the flames of public outrage. Kyra’s death sent shockwaves through every parenets' psyche; within thirty-six hours there were plans for both a candlelight vigil, and a manhunt.

  The house on Marley Street was combed again and again, sifting for anything that would constitute a clue. The impromptu crash-pad upstairs pointed an accusing finger at the indigent; within seventy-two hours every vagrant and shambling wino in the greater Glendon metropolitan area had been swept in for questioning, grilled relentlessly. It all went nowhere. The public clamored for an arrest, a suspect, something -- anything -- that would substitute for justice… or payback.

  The political fallout was just as obvious, and equally intense. Howard Haims, Glendon’s waxy, posturing mayor, had ridden his recent re-election bid to victory on a hard-line, get-tough-on-crime platform, and he could hardly appear weak or ineffectual now. Registered voters were in a panic, the aggrieved family a decorated civil servant and a local teacher. Haims made a big show, promised that he would not rest until Kyra’s assailant had been brought to justice, and looked suitably grievous at every photo opportunity. St. Anthony’s Medical Center likewise decided, in a stunning display of politically motivated empathy, not to penalize Paul for his unauthorized medical procedure en route to the hospital, partly because the M.E. ruled it did not contribute to Kyra’s death, mostly because they reasoned it would be difficult, legally speaking, for Paul to sue himself for malpractice, but also because it made for hideous headlines. The Fire Department agreed. Small comforts.

  It was a smart move. Paul was known and liked in the trenches of city government, Julie no less so in her own, more academic milieu, and public sympathy was clearly on their side. From the D.A.’s office to the medical examiner down to the greenest rookie on the beat, everyone was deeply committed to finding Kyra Kelly’s murderer. Steve Buscetti combed the roster of known sex offenders, pedophiles and perverts - but whether guilty of past or planning future depravities, Kyra’s murder did not appear to number among them. Nonetheless, every shred of information, no matter how unlikely or obscure, was scrutinized for clues.

  For all the good it did.

  ~ * ~

  There was a knock at the door.

  Paul pried it open, one sunken eye peering through the crack. Stevie Buscetti huddled on the porch, his collar flipped up against the wind and the snick of autowinders. It was just after five o’clock, and the setting sun cast everything in burnished, shadowed hues. The golden hour, photographers called it, one of the most optimum times to shoot. Even in this most flattering light, Paul looked about three million years old.

  "Hey," Stevie said softly.

  "Hey," Paul replied. The conversation faltered, stillborn. Buscetti held a large manila envelope in his hands, hovering at the vestibule like a plague bearer. "Can I come in?" he asked.

  Paul nodded and the door swung back. The detective stepped into the foyer, in the process doing his best to obscure the view from prying eyes. Paul closed the door behind him, throwing the deadbolt.

  The interior was warm and cluttered with the detritus of family life, rendered subtly poignant in the wake of the tragedy. Kyra’s big overstuffed coat and brightly colored scarf hung empty on a peg, sandwiched between Paul’s bulky leather bomber and Julie’s more conservative Land’s End gear. Kyra’s daypack sat on the little hardwood chest beneath, as if she were off in another room somewhere, about to come bounding in. An oppressive stillness permeated the air, as though her absence had somehow registered on the molecular level, a palpable flaw in the Kelly family DNA.

  Buscetti unbuttoned his coat, but did not take it off. He hated this moment, though he, like Paul, had weathered it scores of times before. They both knew the drill. Informing the bereaved of the gruesome particulars on a case simply came with the job, along with toe tags and body bags and the stench of v
iolent death; over time one simply acclimated, did what had to be done, and got the hell out. You wore your professionalism like body armor, cumbersome and uncomfortable but essential. You kept a distance. You simply couldn’t afford to feel their pain. But this time there was no avoiding it.

  "How’s it going?" he asked.

  "A minute at a time," Paul replied, his voice low, stoic. "I figure if we can make through this sixty seconds, we’ll be ready to try for the next." He shrugged and laughed, dry and humorless. "Repeat as necessary, a few thousand times a day."

  Buscetti nodded. "How’s Julie?"

  Just then Julie appeared in the living room doorway. She was visibly shrunken, her natural beauty eroded by grief. If Paul was a husk, loss had transformed Julie into a pillar of salt -- the normally pleasant laugh lines around her dark eyes now deepened into fissures, her features stark and haunted, her shoulders caved in to cover the hole in her heart. She folded her arms across her chest, leaned against the door frame. She tried to smile, managed a grimace, nothing more.

  "Stevie," she said softly, then stopped, as though she couldn’t think of another thing to say. He leaned forward to hug her and she drew back. He stopped. "You, uh, you want some coffee?" she said.

  "Thanks," Buscetti murmured. "Coffee would be great."

  Julie nodded and pushed off from the wall, heading down the hall, a grim automaton. Spock appeared behind her, pressed past and nuzzled up to the detective.

  "Hey, fella," Buscetti murmured, scratching the dog’s ears. Spock wriggled, relieved to see a familiar, friendly face. Even he seemed to sense the eggshell vibe; the brittle click of his toenails on the floor underscoring the fragility of the mood. Spock gazed dolefully at Paul and hunkered off, looking for someplace warm to hide. Buscetti knew the feeling.

  Paul gestured, and the two men followed Julie to the kitchen. Julie’s parents were already there; Eleanor puttering at the sink, rinsing barely-touched dinner plates; Ted, at the table, reading the sports page -- an absurd parody of normalcy that masked his insistence on pre-screening the headlines, lest his daughter be blindsided by some wayward hindbrain’s reportage. His silver hair was mussed; a patina of gray stubble stippled his jowls.

  "Mom, Dad, this is Detective Buscetti," Julie offered. Buscetti stiffened somewhat, both at the presence of the elder folk as well as the demotion from family friend to public servant. He nodded to Eleanor, offered his hand to Ted.

  "My deepest sympathies," he said.

  Eleanor nodded, eager to take the edge off the tension. Ted just eyed him skeptically. "So," he said gruffly, "do you know who murdered our little girl yet?"

  "Uh, nossir, not at this time," Buscetti said uncomfortably. The tension between the two men hummed like freshly plucked piano wire. "But I want you to know we’re doing everything we can."

  "Hmmph," Ted grunted, then picked up the paper and exited the room. As he left Buscetti whistled soundlessly. Eleanor interceded.

  "Please excuse my husband, Detective," she said. "This has been a terrible strain on all of us."

  Buscetti nodded thanks, then took a seat as Eleanor fetched four steaming mugs of java. When it became apparent that she intended to join them, Buscetti leaned toward Paul. "Um, can we talk?" The look in his eyes said, parenthetically, in private?

  Eleanor got the hint. She rose, motioned to Julie. Julie didn’t budge. "Anything you’ve got to say, I can hear," she said.

  "This might be unpleasant," Buscetti warned.

  "This is already unpleasant," she countered.

  Buscetti sighed, then the three of them watched as Eleanor smoothed her apron and retreated. Buscetti waited until she was safely out of earshot, then turned his attention to the task at hand.

  "I, uh, thought you might want these." He handed Paul the envelope, still bearing the stamp of the Glendon P.D. forensics department. "I’m bending the rules a little," he continued, "but we’ve already determined that robbery wasn’t the motive. Her clothing is still in the system -- we’re analyzing it for hair, fibers, anything that can help us nail this bastard."..

  Paul and Julie nodded wordlessly, as Paul slid the contents out onto the table -- a pair of dangling silver earrings in the shape of a pair of hands; a tiny, delicate bracelet with chains like gossamer thread linked to an equally delicate silver heart, and the guts of Kyra’s shoulder bag -- wallet, hairbrush, make-up, assorted accouterments of girl-tech. The mere sight of it caused Julie’s eyes to well with tears. As she fingered the bracelet Paul picked up Kyra’s wallet; it fell open to reveal school ID, an AT&T calling card, a brand new driver’s license, youthful beauty shining through holographic tape. Inside were four crisp twenties in cash. Paul looked at the envelope, as if hoping to see something else. But that was all.

  Buscetti cleared his throat and withdrew a little notebook and pen from his pocket. "The M.E.’s report came back," he told them. "Based on the ligature marks and the amount of carbon dioxide in her blood, the official cause of death is listed as strangulation."..A deathly silence hung in the air, as each next word seemed to settle onto them like a cinder block.

  "I just have a few questions." Buscetti flipped open the notebook, clicked the pen. "Was she seeing anybody? Steady boyfriends, anything like that?"

  "No," Paul replied.

  "She was dating Kurt Wheeler for a while," Julie added softy, "but they broke up, maybe four months ago."

  Buscetti nodded corroboratively. "We checked the Wheeler kid out on the first canvass, and he’s clean -- he was home watching reruns of The X-files on the tube when it happened. Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around lately?" They both shook their heads. "Any unknown numbers show up on your phone bill? Hang-up calls?"

  Paul thought back. "We had one a couple of nights ago," he said. "Some mouth breather, nothing to it."

  Julie looked at the detective. "Why? Is it important?"

  "At this point, anything could be," Buscetti replied. "Why do you ask?"

  Suddenly Julie looked vexed, anxious. "We had a few more than that," she confessed. Paul looked at her, surprised and angry.

  "A few more?"

  "So what?" she went defensive. "I mean, there were a couple in the past week, and maybe about a month ago, but that’s it." Both Paul and Buscetti were looking at her now; Julie pulled back defensively.

  "Jesus, babe, why didn’t you say anything?" Paul snapped.

  "I didn’t think it was important!" she snapped back, then lower, "They were hang-up calls, no voice, no nothing. What was I supposed to say?" She looked at Buscetti guiltily, as if he had the power of absolution. "Stevie, do you think it was..?"

  "Probably not," he said, but he scribbled something down, just the same. He shifted gears. "To the best of your knowledge," he asked, "was Kyra sexually active?"..

  "What the hell kind of question is that?" Paul responded angrily. He looked from Buscetti to Julie, who looked away.

  "I’m sorry, Paulie," Buscetti replied. "I gotta ask." The two men eyeballed each other for a moment, then Paul sighed, shaking his head...

  "No," he said heavily.

  Buscetti nodded, scribbled some more. "Okay. Do you know what she was doing in the house?..Did she have keys? Was she expecting to meet you?"

  "No, no, no," Paul said. "She wasn’t supposed to be there."

  "Maybe she thought she’d drop by and surprise you?"

  "Jesus, Stevie, I was working that night. You of all people should know that!" Paul’s tone was aggrieved, exasperated. "Christ, she was coming home from the library. The house was on the way. I don’t know, maybe she saw someone inside and thought it was me."

  Buscetti nodded. "Had you been getting along all right with her? Any fights lately, arguments, stuff like that?"

  "No," Paul said defensively. "We argued some, sure, but it was bullshit, standard-issue teen-angst. No big deal." He looked to Julie and she nodded; the grieving parents drew together instinctively, a psychic circling of the wagons.

  "Where are you going with this?" Ju
lie demanded. "Why don’t you tell us something?"

  "Sorry, Julie. You, too, Paulie," Buscetti sighed and closed his notebook, ran a hand across his hangdog features. "Okay," the detective said, "Here’s what we got so far. First, I agree with you. As near as we can tell, she was heading home, and wandered into this dirtbag’s sights. What we don’t know," he continued, "is whether this was random, or whether the perp targeted her, which is why I have to ask so many questions." He shrugged. "Maybe he set her up. Right now, we just don’t know."

  "There’s a lot you don’t know," Julie said bitterly.

  "True," Buscetti confessed. "But at this point, we’ve ruled out the junkie theory, because any of the local skells would’ve have taken the money. So, we’re thinking it was some deviant." A visible shudder rippled beneath the surface of Paul and Julie’s composure. "We ran the m.o. through the computers, to see if we get a match," Buscetti told them, "but so far, nothing."

  "So you’ve got nothing," Paul said.

  "Not exactly," Buscetti corrected. "One of the neighbors said she saw a lone male, slight build, leaving the scene shortly after it happened. We know he’s white. And he got scratched."

  "Scratched?" they both said, almost in unison. Paul leaned forward, unconsciously shielding his wife from the information. Buscetti paused, squirming like a worm under a magnifying glass. He was dangerously close to crossing the line, but the Kellys were practically family, and he knew Paul would find out eventually. "The M.E. found blood evidence under her fingernails," he said, as gently as possible.

  "What does that mean?" Julie asked.

  "It means she fought him," Paul said flatly. His thoughts instantly spun back to the ambulance, Kyra’s torn fingernails...Any illusions, however fragile, of their daughter’s suffering being somehow mitigated were instantly shattered like crystal on concrete; the jagged truth of it now lay before them. Kyra had been beaten, had been violated. Had been murdered.