-Nietzsche. From The Anti-Christ, right?
She nodded her head.
-What about it? –he asked.
-I was thinking that he was right. I was thinking that I have no memories prior to that day we met at the hospital. So whoever I was—that person is dead. And whoever I am now, whether I am the same person, or a different one, I’ll die for a crime that I don’t know if I committed. In some way, I was born posthumously.
Once again, Hunt kept quiet. There was not a word in the English language that he could use to comfort her. She looked so sad, lost, and resigned.
Hunt instinctively put his palm to the glass, trying to reach her hand.
-I promise I’ll do everything in my power to help you. –he said.
-I read Sartre’s No Exit, too. –she said, ignoring him.
Hunt did not answer.
-He was wrong, you know.
-Wrong about what? -Hunt asked.
-“Hell is other people” –she said. -Hell is not other people. Hell is when you’re left alone with your own thoughts.
Hunt sat there silent, contemplating her words. He was about to say something, but Audrey spoke first.
-Some days I wish I could remember—just so I could prove myself innocent. And some days I’m glad I can’t. Because I’m afraid to wake up and see my hands covered in bloodstains. –she said.
Audrey hung up the phone and left the room.
* * *
Los Angeles – 7/14/1997
* * *
Zamora had been listening to his story for over six minutes now. Being a bit of a sceptic, she struggled to avoid interrupting him every couple of seconds. Finally, when Hunt did finish, Zamora said -Don’t you get it? She’s been playing with your head. She’s trying to brainwash you.
-No. You know that I have a gift for reading people and I’m telling you, she’s not lying. I could see the truth in her eyes.
-Try explaining that to the judge. “Hey, she’s innocent—trust me. Just take a look at her eyes.” I’m sure you’ll be very convincing... –Zamora smirked at him smugly. -We work with facts, Hunt. That’s what we do. We prove things. And the only way to do that is with physical evidence.
As much as he hated to admit it, Zamora was right. There was no way to prove her innocence based on a look.
-Are you going to help me with this or not? –he said.
She remained silent some time before answering.
-Before I accept or decline your offer to work on this case in my free time, because—let’s be honest—the boss won’t approve of this, I need to know something.
-What?
-I want to know what the point of this is.
-What do you mean?
-Are we doing this to save her, or are we doing this for justice?
-What are you suggesting? –he asked.
-I want to make sure that whatever the result of this investigation is that we’ll go all the way with it. Even if it proves completely opposite to whatever theory you may have right now.
-Yes, that is the point. I want to find out what happened. If she did it, I want to prove it. If she’s innocent I want to prove that as well. –Hunt said.
-All right. When do we start then?
-Tomorrow. 7:00 A.M. at my place. Don’t be late. –said Hunt as he left the room.
* * *
Los Angeles – 8/27/1997
* * *
Zamora knocked at the door twice. She was on Hunt’s porch. They had been working on the case for over a month and a half and still had yet to prove whether or not the girl, Audrey, was innocent or guilty.
Nobody opened the door but she had heard her partner speaking from inside the house.
Hunt said -Come in, the doors’ unlocked. –So she did.
Brett was seated in a chair at the center of his living room. It had served as a personal office since the investigation began. All over the walls and floor of the room were strings that connected to post-its and written events on note cards. Zamora thought that given a different set of circumstances, this could all be considered artistic—but she didn’t comment.
Brett stared at her.
-I don’t know where else to go with this. –he said.
-We must be missing something. Let’s go over it again...
Seeing Zamora invested, to some extent, gave him a boost of confidence. He got up and grabbed a couple of dossiers.
-The victim –he said. –Douglas Bennett. Thirty-one years old. Son to Raymond Bennett, the famous movie producer. Cause of death...
-Stabbed seven times with an unknown weapon… Twice in the stomach, three times in the chest, once in his left arm and ribs. –Zamora said. –A man, Robert Carter, found them unresponsive not far from the Hollywood Art Institute.
-The suspect –Zamora said. -Audrey Sophie Miller, 19 years old. It says she was studying acting. No known family… No phone… Claims to have amnesia and doesn’t remember anything prior to waking up in the hospital.
-She studied at the Hollywood Art Institute. First year student. Found unconscious next to Bennett with a severe head wound. –Hunt said, almost reciting the words.
-Weapon?
-A Bowie knife—which has yet to be found.
A big silence occupied the room.
-We’ve got nothing. –Zamora said. –Nothing useful.
-We need to dig deeper.
-Deeper? If we dig any more we’re gonna pop up in China.
Hunt did not respond. He felt empty, as if he had given everything he had and come up short.
-We could always... Falsify some proofs... –Zamora suggested, her voice timid.
Brett looked at her.
-Just to get her a prorogation, and to give us some more time. –Zamora said.
-I don’t like your methods. –He said, staring at her.
-I don’t give a shit. –She said. –I’m just trying to help.
Hunt said nothing.
-The end justifies the means, you know?
-Machiavelli. –Hunt said.
-What’s Machiavelli? –She asked.
-A kind of Italian food. I’m hungry -he said, rolling his eyes in despair. Hunt was surprised that she didn’t know the person she had just quoted, but was even more surprised that she didn’t know that Machiavelli was a person.
-Good idea. Let’s get some Italian food. I’m hungry, too.
They were back at Hunt’s home eating some pasta from an Italian take-away restaurant, reading their notes over and over again.
-Why are we doing this? –Zamora asked, frustrated to no end. Her hair was frazzled, and her mind was a fog of emotion. –How is this case any different than the others we’ve worked on?
Hunt thought about that.
-I don’t know. It surprised me that everything went so fast... –he said. –Three weeks after we found Bennett dead, Audrey was already behind bars with a death sentence under her arm. If that’s not unusual, I don’t know what is.
-What do we know about the victim? Other than where he came from and who his father is?
-Let me look into it.
Zamora started reading through papers and notes and dossiers. Trying to find anything related to the victim, Doug Bennett.
-Here… –she said showing him a small dossier. –This is interesting.
Brett started reading it.
-Two accusations of sexual assault. –He read aloud.
-But no charges were ultimately filed. –Zamora said.
Hunt sat there, mulling it over.
-I have a theory. –He said.
-Please, expand upon it. I love to hear you ramble. –Zamora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
-Like I said, it all went too fast.
-Yeah, and?
-Not only did it go fast, but we were pushed out of the case two days after we talked to the victim’s father.
-Because we were moved to a more important one…
-Yes, but the case fell in the hands of Dobbs who, for all intents and
purposes, is probably the most inept person ever employed by the L.A.P.D.
-But—
-Who also happens to be driving an Aston Martin –he interrupted her. –A car that costs around $200,000. A car that he got one week after he was assigned that case. –He stopped to loosen his tie. –I’ve been working in this field for more than thirty years and I can’t even afford a fucking bike.
-Are you suggesting that his father is bribing people to get the girl sentenced to death?
-I’m not suggesting it, I’m saying it. As much as I like his movies, I think his dad moves more strings than a fucking puppeteer. In this town, he has fingers longer than an octopus’ tentacles.
Zamora sat, unresponsive.
-“One must not let oneself be misled: they say “Judge not!” but they send to Hell everyone and everything that stands in their way.” –recited Hunt.
-Who said that? – Asked Zamora.
-Nietzsche did.
-And who’s that?
Again, Hunt was amazed by her ignorance.
-A comedian –he answered, smiling.
-So he’s doing all of this to avenge his son? –Zamora said, puzzled.
-Maybe not to avenge his son. Maybe only to silence her. Maybe he wants her executed before she can remember something.
-I’m not sure what to think… But that almost makes sense.
-Go back to the office. Bring everything you find about Doug Bennett and the victims of those two sexual assaults.
Zamora, wasting no time, rushed out and went directly to the office.
···
The phone next to Hunt rang. He picked it up.
-Yes?
Zamora was on the other side.
-Brett, I may have found something.
* * *
Los Angeles – 9/11/1997
* * *
Hunt was standing in front of the Judge; waiting for him to finish reading the dossier he had just given him.
He tried to hide how nervous he was because he knew time wasn’t playing in his favor.
The judge read everything slow and carefully.
He knew all the hard work; all the days sleeping less than three hours had led him there. Two months of hard work. Working on his free time, digging as deep as he could to find out what had really happened… And he did. He could prove them wrong. He could save her. He now had facts, not theories.
-Do you support this? –The judge asked.
-I do. –Hunt answered, firm in his conviction.
The judge signed the papers that Hunt had given him and then handed them back.
-Thanks –Hunt said, as he grabbed the dossier and left running.
He got inside the car that was parked outside. Zamora was sitting behind the wheel.
-Hit it – Hunt said.
Zamora was on the wheel, driving and Hunt, as usual, was sitting next to her, looking outside of the car.
-God, I hate this town. –He said- the whole world knows it for its glamour and fame, but they’re blind to the filth. In order for a few to live the good life they need a whole bigger bunch to live in the dirt. –He stopped to take a breath. -All these youngsters who come here looking for fame and money think this city is special and that it’ll help them get to the top, but that’s bullshit. The media only tells you about the ones who survived. They know nothing about those who ended up lost and rotting in the crevices of this town.
-I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about, Brett. -Zamora said.
Hunt shook his head. He kept checking the clock every now and then, nervous.
They stopped in front of the prison where Audrey was set to be executed. Hunt had been told that a call would be made to pardon her. But with so many crooked enforcers in the city, he needed to know that she’d be safe. That her life would be spared.
Once they arrived, Hunt hopped out of the car. He raced toward the prison as fast he could. For a fifty-one-year-old man his speed was impressive.
Raymond Bennett, the father of Doug Bennett, as well as some others, were seated in front of a one-way mirror. On the other side was Audrey Miller, tied to a bed, about to be injected with the mix of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride.
This was his idea of justice. An eye for an eye.
Less than three minutes away from seeing his son avenged, Raymond noticed, through the glass, that one of the guards looked agitated—confused.
The door of the room opened and Detective Hunt walked inside. He handed some papers to the guards and then left.
After reading them, they carefully proceeded to untie the girl from the bed and escorted her outside of the room.
The governor’s office wouldn’t call the prison for another six minutes, with the same exact information.
Raymond Bennett stormed out of the room in a fury, only to find himself facing Detective Hunt.
-What do you think you’re doing? –Raymond asked and saw the girl leaving the room with two guards.
-Murderer… –He screamed at her. Audrey stared at him, afraid. But Hunt shoved him away.
-Leave her alone, she’s innocent.
-She killed my son… –Raymond said, and pushed him back. Hunt almost toppled over, but regained his balance.
In return he struck Bennett once across the face.
Bennett collapsed, his nose pouring blood.
Two men rushed to help him up.
-This is unbelievable… –Bennett whined.
-Make a movie about it. –Hunt said, and walked away.
Zamora’s car stopped at the front of a dingy, little house. They were in a small neighborhood in Los Angeles. Hunt turned to the backseat, where Audrey was sitting.
-This is yours. –he said.
-Is it?
He handed her the keys that had been kept in custody since she had been detained.
-Fancy a coffee? If there’s any. –she offered the two.
-I don’t think it’d be ethical. –Hunt said.
-Please. To thank you for saving me.
-Okay. One cup. –he said.
-Thanks, but I’ll wait out here. –Zamora said.
Audrey nodded. They exited the car and walked to her house.
Inside there was dust everywhere. It hadn’t been cleaned in several months.
Hunt was standing in the middle of a living room holding a cup of coffee in his hands. Audrey was looking for something to eat.
He felt as if he was drinking a bottle of champagne after winning the 24 hours of Le Mans. That coffee was like heaven to him, even though it lacked any kind of quality taste. It was the reward for all the hard work he had put in; the lack of sleep and endless days had not been in vain.
-Damn Audrey, that’s some good coffee. Best I’ve had in a while. –He said –By the way, where’s the bathroom? –he asked, off-handedly.
-Upstairs, second door to the left –Audrey responded without hesitation.
They were both paralyzed, aware of what had just happened.
The sound of a shattering cup, falling to the floor, broke the silence between them. A silence that seemed eternal to her.
* * *
16
DEFILEMENT by George P. Farrell
The cinder road came out of the darkness and continued on into the darkness. Its soft banks sloped steeply down to the marshes on either side. There were no stars in the sky that the boy could see. He couldn’t even see the marsh grasses and cattails he knew were down there on either side of the road. The only light was from the glowing coals of the dying fire. He was surrounded by darkness and did not want to get close to the embers that shimmered orange in the center of the deserted cinder road. He did not want to see what remained within the glowing embers. The boy turned in slow circles looking for movement. Sensing something, out there in the darkness, but it wasn’t moving now. Not yet anyway. The boy crept closer to the warm embers. He wanted to see, and yet he didn’t want to see what the fire had done. He feared looking into the fire. He feare
d seeing what had turned to white ash and now lay inert. And he didn’t want to be seen. He felt utterly lost.
He dared not walk down the cinder road in either direction. And sliding and slipping down the soft embankments would bring him into the mire of the marshes. Why were there no stars, nothing to provide guidance? No melodic voice from his mother calling to him, giving direction. Come here, this way. The boy’s breath constricted in his chest till it felt like a balled fist struggling to get out. Then the movement. At first he thought he imagined it. It was on the other side of the fire. As it approached, the orange embers outlined the black, looming form. The boy backed away, his movements deliberate, dreamily slow, till he was at the edge of the cinder road. The shadowy figure was blotting out the embers and the white ash. It was on his side of the fire now and approaching. It had seen him. It moved quickly toward him. The boy scrambled over the edge of the road, through the deep, loose cinders that sloped steeply downward. He lost his balance and tumbled head over heels crashing to the bottom and rolling into the deep weeds, the ground here boggy, sticky, and malodorous. The dark shape was loping down the slope after him. The boy got up and ran into the tall reeds, the hard stalks slapping at him, the muck pulling at his feet, his heart racing, pounding, the sweat pouring from his face…
… Dick Hennessy sat bolt upright in his bed, swung his legs and feet to the floor and stood up in one spastic motion. He was bathed in sweat, his heart pounding. He hated that cinder road. It wasn’t the road less travelled. It was the road never travelled. By anyone. But it kept coming back. Again and again. There he’d be on the cinder road with the dying embers and the dead white ash and the ultimate approaching darkness.
Lemke said, “The deer was gut shot. If you don’t bleed it out fast, the meat all tastes like liver.”
The two men stared at the carcass of the whitetail deer airing out inside the bleeding-room, off to one side of the kitchen, Olga out there somewhere battling with pots and pans. They sat at a scarred butcher block table and stared through the opening in the wall to where the deer hung from its hind end dripping blood through a hole in the floor. The blood pooling in the swampy muck under the old clubhouse.
Walk Hand IN Hand Into Extinction : Stories Inspired By True Detective Page 13
