Burdened By Guilt

by Michiko Katsu

The only thing Mike left in the conference room was his contempt but what he took with him crushed down on him like an industrial press. The missing confiscated items were insignificant. Tying those items to his triple homicide was substantial. But identifying him as the link was incomprehensible. Now he was a suspect in his own investigation. He had twenty-four hours to find irrefutable proof of his innocence and the only thing fitting that description would be to find the actual killer.

  His neck was rigid, the veins and tendons were like steel cables protruding under tightened skin. He charged down the hallway like a bull tormented by a matador, each step taking him closer and closer to his own destruction. Collusion with Daily predated Kevin. There was only one person who had the access, the will and authority to exploit the I.A. investigation leading them down the convenient yet contrived path.

  The vibration in his coat pocket went unacknowledged until the subsequent ringing grabbed his focused attention.

  He answered the phone without looking at the caller ID. "What," he barked. His co-workers parted like biblical movie extras as he continued his way down the hall to Smythe’s office.

  "Mike? It's Suzanne. Is this a bad time?" She said, apprehension in her voice.

  He stopped abruptly but did not respond.

  “Mike?”

  "Yeah. Hi,” he said curtly. “Actually this is a bad time." He started walking again but with less intensity.

  "Oh. Sorry. You can just call me back when you have a few seconds."

  "No, no, now is fine I just—I just don't have a lot of time.” The flare of his nostrils receded to a flicker as his focus, now divided, would not support the same intensity. A worried hopefulness tinged her voice which simultaneously set off his emotional and warning alarms.

  "Oh…uh…okay,” she stuttered. “Well I—I wanted to talk to you about what happened last night. I’m not sure if that’s a long or short conversation."

  He cleared his throat. "Yeah, we probably should talk about that." He ducked into a vacant office and closed the door. He did not turn on the lights. “That’s probably a long conversation.”

  The air was silent and heavy with assumptions.

  "Does that mean you want to talk about it later?" She asked.

  "Well, I don't think now is a good time but I wanted to let you know I was in agreement that we needed to talk about it. How about dinner tonight?" He asked.

  "Dinner would be fine. When and where?"

  "I’ll have to get back to you. I'm not sure how the rest of this day is going to go. I’ll meet you around seven at your place unless I call you and give you an alternative." His mammoth hands shielded his eyes as if he stood under the noon sun. It was a mistake to make plans, tentative as they may be, but he felt compelled.

  "Around seven?" She questioned.

  He cleared his throat. "Okay exactly seven."

  "Seven it is," she said then hung up.

  Confronting Smythe diminished in priority as he leaned back into the chair and contemplated his next moves. His posture mimicked that of a reclining version of The Thinker. He railed against the realization he may have to sacrifice Suzanne to save himself. Regardless of their…relationship…the idea made him uneasy. At least he was secure in his own innocence. But he could not be as definitive about Suzanne. The idea gave him no comfort.

  He turned the chair and looked out the window. The park behind the station was empty except for a single pet owner exercising his dog. Brown tainted the attempt at green grass as he watched the dog wag its tail in anticipation of his owner throwing the yellow ball. The late afternoon provided neither breeze nor any other indications to the temperature. It was sunny but then again it was always sunny.

  Walking back to his office he suppressed his chivalrous nature and resigned himself to saving his own skin. He had no confirmation to Suzanne’s guilt or innocence and would not spend any more time assuming. He was the one always schooling his peers about such mistakes and he needed to follow his own advice.

  Kevin greeted him with an expression he could only attribute to fearful anxiety. Furrows running across his pale forehead tested his boyish features as his silver dollar sized eyes only held their shape by the balloon knot creases at the corners.

  "Do I even want to know?" Mike asked with a heavy sigh.

  "No, but you're going to need to know anyway," Kevin responded, his voice gruff with dryness. He held up the morning paper.

  Mike shook his head. The media frenzy was inevitable but the tangible representation on the front page added a dynamic he hoped to avoid at least until they had something concrete.

  "It gets better," Kevin said.

  "What do you mean?" Mike asked.

  "Ask me how I found out about the news clip."

  Mike blinked a few times. "Smythe."

  "Yep."

  "I'm sure he told you with words of encouragement," Mike said sarcastically.

  "I'm not sure I would qualify them as encouragement."

  "What did he say?"

  "I'll paraphrase but it was something along the lines of getting our heads out of our blank asses and getting the blank, blank case solved before the blanking mayor starts breathing down his blanking neck. That's pretty much the gist. I don't think there's anything lost in translation."

  "I'm sure. Have you read it?"

  "Oh yeah."

  "And?"

  "Well, I think we need to make a few phone calls. There are a couple of anonymous sources within the department who have been quoted in there and it's pretty sensational. No doubt the public went crazy over their morning coffee. Just wait until after the six o'clock news hits the air."

  "Are either of us mentioned by name?" He wasn’t sure why he asked.

  Kevin hesitated. "I’m not."

  Great. The air left his lungs as if released from a tire. It wasn’t from surprise as the unrelenting media parasites haven’t left him alone since Carolyn died.

  Mike unfolded the paper and flinched when he saw the face of his wife posted next to the article. All he read were fragments as rage clouded his eyes and compromised his ability to read left to right, top to bottom.

  “…decomposed body found by three children…internal investigation…lead Detective Michael Anderson…pregnant wife Carolyn shot and killed…baby died at hospital…”

  Mike balled up the paper and threw it in the trashcan followed by deep seated ball of phlegm regurgitated from his throat.

  Kevin’s eyes widened at Mike’s hate-filled reaction to the article. "What are you going to do?"

  Mike shook his head.

  "Who do you think is the unidentified source?"

  “What?”

  “The unidentified source mentioned in the article. Who do you think it is?”

  "That's a very good question. I'd like to know and pull his larynx out." He knew it was Smyth but he couldn’t prove it.

  "How many people would know about Dr. Kelly?"

  "Also a very good question," Mike said as he looked directly at Kevin.

  "Hey, don't look at me," Kevin said as he held up his hands. "I didn't talk to any reporters."

  "Did you mention anything about Suzanne specifically to Smythe?"

  Kevin's indignation quickly faded and he looked away.

  "I see," Mike said.

  "I didn't know. I mean, how could I...," he stammered. He stepped forward holding out one hand as he rubbed the renewed creases in his forehead with the other. "Look, Mike, I'm sorry. I didn't know at the time what I was doing, what Smythe was doing. I thought I was helping. I thought…" He stopped talking, dropped his hands and looked down at his shoes.

  "This is what I was talking about with Smythe.” Mike’s tone was parental but not dictatorial. He needed Kevin to understand the depths of Smythe’s duplicity if he was ever going to be able to trust him. “He doesn't care about you or anyone else. He's only looking out for himself. I only register on his radar as something to destroy. You better understand that now. Not just for our working relationshi
p but for your own future. If you put any trust in Smythe you will live to regret it. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Kevin nodded sheepishly but with reinvigorated intent. "So what do we do now?"

  Mike refolded his arms. "Find a killer."

  Chapter 34

  Like starving rodents let loose in a cheese ending maze, they spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening rifling through dust filled file boxes. Old case files flanked the door like Roman columns as they went through them one-by-one looking for any clues tying the old cases to the current one. They hurried their pace as the silent clock ticked forebodingly on the wall taunting their ignorance and inabilities. The unplanned distraction weighed heavily on them as the picture of a faceless serial killer laughed mockingly from behind white, cardboard boxes.

  The only consistencies Mike assessed was the incomplete evidence. The list Daily provided only outlined the missing items; it did not include the entire list of evidence in each case. Mike concluded the items taken were intentional not only in their implication to him but for a specific purpose for which an alternative would be unacceptable.

  Except for the drugs, all items were easily obtained. Identification was the only logical reason to avoid standard means of acquisition. Stealing from evidence lockers was not only difficult but nearly impossible to forge. Evidence removal was checked, rechecked and checked again for rank, intent and duration. You couldn’t take a tissue out of lockup without a signed requisition from the Captain.

  Mike sneezed heavily blustering the paperwork as if the desk took a deep breath, the relocation of the newly situated papers uncovering the autopsy reports. He shifted the papers and removed the manila folders from under their cellulose blanket and stared. His brain sparked like flint rock on wet flora and would not catch fire. Opening the files he skimmed over the notes running his fingers up and down the pages with undefined intent.

  “…significant amounts of diazepam and trace amounts of oxycodone and propxyphene…”

  Sparks but no flame.

  “…the knife used to cut the victim’s throat had a curved, approximately three inch blade…”

  Smoke but no fire.

  “…at least three cuts made by a blade approximately 10” long with a serrated edge. Five cuts made by an approximately 7” long blade, no distinct markings. Six cuts by an approximately 4” long blade, four with serrated edges, two without. Two cuts made by an approximately 3” curved blade, no distinct markings. Additional and overlapping cuts make it impossible to determine exactness of remaining blades. However, there does appear to be at least four other blades used in addition to those identified…”

  He sat up straight as the flames of his mind burned hot and bright illuminating the evidence like an ocean side bonfire on a hot summer night. But unlike the warmth and joviality of the bonfire he only felt the sobering cold of a forgotten meat locker with sides of freezer burned meat hanging in isolation and despair.

  He gathered the old case files and opened them side-by-side against the autopsy reports. Confirmation was unnecessary but desperation trumped logic. As he looked to one and then the other he realized each one of his previous cases matched perfectly to the new triple homicide. Just as Daily had implied.

  Usually a fan of coffin nails, Mike felt awkwardly distressed as he realized he was the one being hammered instead of the one doing the hammering. The black and white finality of the guilt Daily assumed struck him like an anvil but unfortunately for him it did not have the relief invoking Acme Manufacturing written across the side. This was real—powerful, gut-wrenching—real.

  Up until that moment Mike felt exoneration was eminent but this was exactly what Daily wanted him to find. He gave neither pretense nor misinformation. Daily wasn’t the type to play Poker unless the deck was stacked in his favor. He left nothing to chance. It would take an act of Congress to get him to the point of accusation but once his feet were planted, it would only be a matter of time for him to finish digging the grave.

  Mike paced. He stopped at the window and stared at the now bustling park which was empty only a few hours earlier. More owners and pets ran through the grass and gravel while couples played tennis on the courts. The playground was empty.

  His cell phone rang. "Anderson."

  "It’s Doug. I've got some information for you. You free?" He asked.

  Free. The word held more meaning to him at that moment than it ever had in the past. No, he was not free. The manacles of suspicion bound his soul more effectively than the iron chains Daily already allocated him.

  Doug was a friend with another department. He was the one Mike called to do a background check on Suzanne. He couldn’t rely on anyone inside his own department and he’d been friends with Doug since high school. He was on a very short list of those he trusted.

  “Mike?” Doug asked. “You there?”

  “Yeah, Doug.” Mike cleared his throat. “I’m here.”

  “You wanna’ hear what I found out about your teacher friend or not?”

  The change of scenery would do him good although the topic of conversation wouldn’t. He wavered on which held more importance as he looked from the pile of boxes still to be reviewed and the carefree people in the park. It wasn’t a fair analogy unless Doug was going to confess but his head throbbed and he needed some fresh air. Clarity into Suzanne Kelly’s life, regardless of the details, would be helpful. At least that was what he hoped.

  "Yeah, I've got some time. How about the bookstore here by the station?" Mike asked.

  "I'll meet you in fifteen," Doug responded and hung up.

  Mike turned to Kevin. "I've gotta' run out for a bit. I should be back in about an hour."

  Kevin didn’t question or give Mike his usual pout of exclusion. He just said, “I’ll be here” and went back to his paperwork.

  Mike sat at a four-top drinking coffee in the deserted café when Doug arrived.

  "Well, since you didn't give me a whole lot of time I didn’t get very much," Doug said.

  "I know. Just tell me what you did get," Mike said.

  "You sure know how to pick ’em." His expression was bland although his eyes bore into Mike.

  "What do you mean?"

  Doug pushed the envelope over to Mike. "According to state records your friend died during childbirth."

  "Wait what? When did she have a baby?" Incapable of taking in any more information each additional bit required the sloughing off of other information to sustain it. He only understood direct answers until he could reprioritize his brain matter.

  "What?” Doug shook his head. “No, she didn't have a baby. She was the baby."

  If smoke could come of out Mike’s ears, Doug would be calling 911 at that very minute. Mike’s inability to process information left him staring at Doug expressionless and mute even though his insides boiled like hot, black tar ready for roofing.

  Doug snapped his fingers. "When I said she died in childbirth I meant Suzanne Kelly died at birth. Her mother Ellen Kelly died three weeks later due to complications from the birth."

  Mike eyes focused but he still could not speak.

  "I see you're having a hard time putting this together. Okay, your teacher friend is living with a stolen identity. The social security number she’s using is tied back to an infant who has a death certificate filed with the state thirty-seven years ago. Whoever your teacher friend is, she isn't Suzanne Kelly."

  "Who—who is she then?" Mike asked his faculties returning slowly.

  "You didn’t give me enough time to find that out but I can keep looking if you want."

  Mike shook his head. "No. No. That won't be necessary." A surprising calmness overtook him as Doug pieced together what his brain could not. The steam from the industrial coffee maker sputtered in the background and the sounds of magazine pages being turned as a young woman, now sitting behind them, licked her fingers and turned another page. He felt the air move from the ceiling fans. "Anything else?"

  "More
from a timing perspective than anything,” Doug continued. “There’s no record of the social security number until she was nineteen or should I say until Suzanne was nineteen. Prior to that there's nothing in any public record showing a Suzanne Kelly anywhere. No school, to tests, nothing. Sounds like your teacher friend bought herself a new identity right after high school."

  "Stop calling her my teacher friend.” Mike ordered solemnly as his index finger tapped the tabletop.

  Doug sat back in his chair. “After nineteen she's pretty clean. There's a DUI on record but nothing else as far as the law is concerned. She went to UCSD and got her undergraduate in English as well as her Masters in Comparative Literature. She got her Ph.D. at U.C. Berkeley—"

  "Berkeley?" Mike interrupted. The word choked from his throat as his finger hung portentously in the air.

  "Yeah, Berkeley.” Doug reiterated. “Anyway, she was hired at the local community college here about six years ago. Seems strange with that level of education she would be teaching here at a local community college but who knows what motivates some people. Well, that's pretty much it." When Mike didn’t respond Doug asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to keep digging?"

  "No, I mean yes, I'm sure.” He scratched his cheek. “I think I can fill in the blanks from here. Thanks for the info."

  "Anytime Mike. I put everything in the envelope. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.” He got up and stopped as he stood next to Mike. He didn’t look down at him and Mike did not look up. “I’d ask you to not do what I know you’re about to do but I can tell that I’m too late so I’ll just tell you to be careful.”

  Doug put his hand on Mike’s shoulder, squeezed, then walked away leaving Mike with the sealed envelope he now held, the diagonal points balanced between both index fingers. The ambient noise of the café no longer registered as the envelope swung back and forth on the hinges of his fingertips. The only sound was the whooshing of blood through his veins as distinct layers of information developed like a perfectly formed trifle.

  Outsides of social stereotyping jokes he only ever said the word “Berkeley” one other time and that was in reference to Kevin’s Alma Mater. So obscure was the coincidence he questioned its validity but their fledgling trust still walked on newborn legs testing water depths and failing repeatedly. Lines would be drawn and sides would be chosen before the coin was tossed. The teams, however, remained a mystery.