The Real

by James Cole

  “I understand that if we don’t study today, we’ll regret it for a long time because there is no way for us to pass if we don’t. We might fail even if we do study.”

  Tavalin was adamant and, for once, he was right. Jeremy gave in and spent the next several hours holed up with his friend in one of the small study rooms in the library. Though Jeremy intended on returning to the cemetery, the days were short this time of year and by the time they wrapped it up, it was too late. Though disappointed, he thought it best to postpone the trip.

  Claire would have to wait.

  Chapter 29

  Monday, December 1

  On Monday morning Jeremy arrived at the elevator to find a cluster of graduate students, also just out of class, attempting to get upstairs to their respective labs for work. A University police officer was checking identification cards against the printed sheet he held.

  “All non-faculty personnel who work in this building have permission to take the day off,” the officer said. “That’s straight from the chairman of the department.”

  Jeremy heard this and had already begun to walk away when the officer spoke again, louder this time.

  “You’re free to leave after I see your ID,” he said.

  Jeremy turned, looked at the cop, raised his eyebrows, pointed a finger at himself and mouthed, “Me?”

  To which the officer responded resoundingly, “Yes, you.”

  He studied Jeremy’s student identification for a moment then punched the elevator up button on the wall behind him.

  “You can go on up, Mr. Spires. Fifth floor, right?” the officer asked. Before Jeremy could answer, the guard pushed the fifth floor button.

  “Thanks,” Jeremy said, glad that his section of the building seemingly had not been deemed pertinent to the investigation but disappointed that he might have to work today after all.

  The elevator door opened to two more men in uniform who somehow already knew who he was.

  “Step this way, Mr. Spires,” one of them instructed and directed Jeremy toward Dr. Sloan’s office.

  Much to Jeremy’s chagrin, it wasn’t Skippy Sloan who sat at the desk; it was Lieutenant Sykes. He did not stand when Jeremy entered the room, nor did he offer his hand to shake.

  “Have a seat, Jeremy. I have a few questions.”

  “Okay,” Jeremy said in an uncertain tone.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to be using this.” The cop indicated to a small tape recorder on the desk. The little red light was already on. “State your name please.”

  “Jeremy – Jeremy Spires.”

  Jeremy caught himself leaning forward in a posture that reflected his tense mindset. He forced his shoulders back, took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “For the record, can you affirm that you are here of your own volition?”

  “My own volition?” asked Jeremy. “I don’t know about that. I was headed home when one of your partners-in-crime directed me up here.” Jeremy spoke jokingly and smiled, as he tried to lighten the mood.

  “Let me reword that,” the cop said in a tone that was not pleasant. “You understand that this is a voluntary meeting.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Let’s get started.” Lieutentant Sykes picked up the pen that was lying on the open page of a small notebook. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a reason to want to kill your coworker, June Song?” he asked and clicked the mechanism of the pen: Click-click.

  “I can’t imagine anybody even getting mad at June. That’s what’s so weird. I never heard her say a cross word, much less get mad at anybody.”

  “What about a jealous boyfriend?”

  Jeremy thought of how she rebuffed Tavalin’s advances but kept that information to himself. Tavalin was not only his friend; he was also his alibi.

  “As far as I know she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Did you ever go out with her yourself?”

  “No, not really,” Jeremy answered, remembering the night they had gone to Sticks River Landing, the night they almost kissed.

  The lieutenant perked up at this and not in a good way.

  “What do you mean, not really?”

  “I mean we went out as friends only.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of the young lady. She was an attractive girl. You’re telling me you never made a move on her?”

  “You know I’ve got a girlfriend, Lieutenant.”

  “Answer the question please.”

  Today felt totally different from their other talk a week ago. The prior meeting, though nerve-racking, had, in retrospect, been casual and unscripted, more like a simple conversation between two men. The current meeting felt contrived, as if the script were being read straight from the manual of standard operating police procedure.

  “No sir, I never made a move on her,” Jeremy replied and sighed deeply. “And you’re right, she was an attractive girl. She was my friend and I still can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “Did Ms Song have a key to your lab?” Sykes asked, switching gears.

  “No,” answered Jeremy. He wondered where this line of questioning would lead.

  “And the door to your lab is kept locked?”

  “The door closes and locks by itself.”

  “So you would agree that if Ms Song were in your lab on the night that she was killed, someone with a key must have let her in?”

  “What would make you think she was in my lab that night?” asked Jeremy.

  “Hang on, I’ll get to it. You previously told me that you spoke to her on Saturday night.”

  Lieutenant Sykes paused, waiting on Jeremy to verify the statement. Jeremy did not break eye contact but maintained his silence. He felt as if he were under attack or was about to be, and his passive-aggressive tendencies were rising to the surface.

  “Well?” prodded the policeman.

  “I’m sorry. Did you ask a question?”

  The lieutenant tapped an angry-sounding rat-a-tat-tat rhythm with the pen on the surface of the desk. “You previously told me that you spoke to Ms Song on Saturday night. Is this an accurate statement?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Where did this exchange take place?”

  “In her lab down the hall.”

  “Did she leave her lab at any time while you were there?”

  “No.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular,” replied Jeremy.

  “Nothing to indicate that she was concerned for her safety?”

  “No.”

  “Any indication that she had had any sort of disagreement or argument with anyone?”

  Jeremy hesitated before answering. It was that very night, the night of June’s murder, that Dr. Cain had confronted June over her use of his lab for the unauthorized research. Could he have been so angry as to kill June over that? It didn’t seem likely. Besides, if Jeremy mentioned the secret work he and June were doing, he would be opening himself up to a whole slew of uncomfortable questions and to much closer scrutiny from the police. He finally decided to keep the subject under wraps, at least for the time being.

  Jeremy replied, “No arguments with anyone that I am aware of.”

  “When you entered the building, which door did you use?”

  “I came in the back door,” answered Jeremy, perplexed.

  “But didn’t you park your car out front?”

  “Yes.” Jeremy realized that someone else must have provided this information to the police and, trying to be preemptive, explained, “You might be wondering why I went all the way around to the back door when the most direct route would be to simply go in through the front door.”

  “Yes, that was my next question.”

  “I noticed that my friend’s car was parked down the street and I was trying to avoid him.”

  “Who were you trying to avoid?”

  “Tavalin Cassel. It’s a little silly, actually. I thought he might be hiding in the lobby. I was afr
aid he might try to scare me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain. I made the mistake of sneaking up on Tavalin a time or two inside the Facility and scaring him, you know, just for kicks. He returned the favor. After that, the whole thing got out of hand. Now, every time I enter the building, I worry that he is lying in wait for me. For that reason, I try to be unpredictable when choosing my route in. That’s why I walked around to the back door of the building the night of the murder – simple as that.”

  Lieutenant Sykes glared at Jeremy as if he didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Meanwhile, the pen in his hand, which seemed to be operating independently from the man, tapped out rhythms that would make a drum major blush.

  “You also were observed, and I quote, ‘sneaking around in a suspicious manner’. Do you claim that behavior to be similarly motivated?”

  “We refer to it as the game,” said Jeremy, trying to add credence. “It’s just our on-going, tit-for-tat practical joke.”

  A fat bead of warm sweat gathered at the base of Jeremy’s armpit and ran down his side. Everything he told the cop was true but he knew it must sound suspicious. “If you don’t believe me, you should ask Tavalin. He’ll back me up on this.”

  “That’s the problem I’m having with you, Mr. Spires. Every part of your alibi is dependent on your friend Tavalin. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but his credibility is questionable at best. That boy is as crazy as a road lizard. As for you, my impression is that you’re hiding something.”

  “I’m not hiding anything, Lieutenant.”

  “Our forensic team found a tuft of hair caught in the window in your lab. It belonged to Ms Song. Can you tell me how it might have gotten there?”

  “She’s visited my lab plenty of times. I’d be surprised if you didn’t find any of her hair in my lab.”

  “We found a tuft of hair, along with some tissue caught in the window’s hinge. It could only have gotten there at a time when the window was open.”

  For many years, before it became the Facility, the building housed the since-relocated biology department. On its reincarnation as the house that Cecil Cain built, the outer design and construction of the original building remained intact. Included in this vintage design and retained in the new facility were windows that opened outward like miniature French doors.

  “Did you ever have an occasion to open the windows in your lab?” asked Lieutenant Sykes.

  “Maybe once or twice.”

  “How about Saturday night, the night June was killed? Did you open them then?”

  “I told you, I didn’t even go in my lab that night. After I left June’s lab, I went straight home.”

  “You sure about that?” The cop’s manner changed from methodical complacency to glaring ferocity. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, now would you, Mr. Spires?”

  Jeremy’s fear and frustration boiled over. Venomously, he asked, “What exactly are you getting at, Vick?” Jeremy only knew the lieutenant’s first name because he had overheard someone at the police station using it. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase?”

  “The autopsy results show wounds on the body that are consistent with a post-mortem fall from your window. June was thrown out the window of your lab into the dumpster, sometime between one and five a.m. on Sunday,” growled Sykes. “This was an inside job and you are slap-dab in the middle of the inside. That, Mr. Spires, is what I’m getting at.”

  Jeremy’s heart lost count for a second before resetting itself with slower, more powerful strokes. He could not quite fathom this turn of events. Were they really going to try to pin June’s murder on him?

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Jeremy retorted. “We aren’t even supposed to open those windows,” he added without reason, as if this provided some sort of defense.

  “Jeremy, you have to realize that I’m in one hell of a tight situation. Someone threw a dead girl out your window right into my lap. I need answers and I need them now!”

  “I didn’t do it, I swear. I have no reason to kill June or anybody else.”

  “I want to believe you, Jeremy, I really do. But you’ve got to face the music. Your alibi is dependent on your friends and you were in contact with the victim on Saturday. Practical jokes aside, you were observed behaving in a suspicious manner around the time of her death. Furthermore, I believe you had a thing for Ms Song. Why else would you spend all those late hours with her? Maybe she rebuffed your advances. Of course, these things are circumstantial and would mean a lot less if it weren’t for the physical evidence found in your lab. Put it all together and you are a suspect.”

  “Anybody with a key could have done it,” whimpered Jeremy. If the lieutenant’s intentions were to wear him down, he had succeeded. Jeremy felt defeated and spent.

  A fine sheen of sweat had popped out on the lieutenant’s forehead. “Alright then,” he said, “let’s pretend for a second that I believe you. Help me out – help yourself out. You know most if not all of the persons who have access to your lab. If you didn’t do it, who did?”

  Grady.

  His name popped into Jeremy’s mind of its own accord. Of all those who had a key to Jeremy’s lab, Grady stood out as the oddball. He had also been in the building that night, waxing the hall floors.

  Tell him about Grady.

  Jeremy opened his mouth but no words escaped. For over a week, ever since June’s death, Jeremy had felt numb. He hadn’t even cried for June. Now, sitting here under the duress of the interrogation, it all hit home. June was dead. June was dead and he was here because they thought he did it. How was an innocent man supposed to react when accused of killing his friend?

  Say something. The silence is damning.

  But try as he might Jeremy could not perform like some trick pony for the police or anyone else. For the moment he couldn’t think of himself. And, as convenient as it would be, he could not in good conscience sic the cops on Grady.

  Instead, Jeremy retreated to some faraway recess of his mind, away from the four walls of this dreary little room, away from the straight-back chair that held his board-rigid body, and away from his own vacant gaze to a bittersweet place swelled full with images and sounds of his late friend June.

  “There must be something more you can tell me.”

  The sound of the lieutenant’s voice brought Jeremy back.

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Are you sure that’s all you want to tell me?” asked the persistent cop.

  “Yes.”

  Sykes returned a blank stare and clicked the pen’s mechanism repeatedly in and out, in and out: Click-click, click-click, click-click.

  Jeremy began to wonder if all the tapping and clicking was an interrogation technique. He pictured a young, pimply-faced Sykes, sitting in one of his police academy classes, eagerly studying the chapter titled, “Fifty ways to legally torment a suspect.”

  The lieutenant turned off the tape recorder. “Jeremy,” he began, “Let me give you some friendly advice. Don’t try to fool me. You might think I’m just some incompetent, small-town cop, but I’ve been in the game for a long time. I know when people are lying to me and I know when I’m not getting the whole story.”

  “I’m not hiding anything from you,” insisted Jeremy. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that.” The cop’s tone had changed to one of imminent dismissal and Jeremy gladly stood up, ready to leave.

  “And, just so you know…” continued Sykes, “We are expected to report our progress to the media. I will not give out your name in the form of any official statement but it’s not unusual for leaks to occur in high profile cases like this. Don’t be surprised if your name surfaces at some point, even before being formally charged.”

  “That’s just wonderful,” Jeremy said sarcastically. He picked up on the Lieutenant’s choice of words, before being formally charged, as if Sykes fully expected Jeremy to be arrested eventually.


  He was halfway out the door when Lieutenant Sykes added, “And Jeremy, one more thing.”

  “What’s that, boss?” Jeremy asked facetiously.

  “Stay in town.”

  *****

  Later, Jeremy would not remember leaving the Facility and driving back to his condo. He simply found himself at home in the middle of a dizzying reality: June was dead. He was a suspect.

  Where do I go from here?

  He dreamed of escape. Why not vanish into the night? Why not hide out somewhere far, far away, somewhere where his troubles could not find him? Jeremy pictured himself traveling the country, camping, exploring, living life by the seat of his pants. But he knew if he ran now, his fate would be sealed. He would be presumed guilty and could never stop running.

  Where, then, do I go from here?

  Jeremy had no answers, only questions. He felt lost. And so he sat, alone, elbows propped on the desk’s edge, bowed head held in his hands and tousled hair licking out between the slits of his clutching fingers.

  In a sudden, unbridled expression of frustration, Jeremy screamed, “Let me OUT!” The echo of the last syllable lingered, ringing in his ears and burning in the back of his throat.

  I gotta get out of here…

  Downstairs, the automatic garage door squeaked grudgingly upward, replaced from the bottom up with an ever-widening crease of sunlight of the purest white. The hyper-sport street bike glistened like the lips of a sorority sweetheart: curvaceous, candy-apple red, sexy. Jeremy straddled the seat and worked at the straps of his helmet, his face obscured behind its polarized visor shield. He engaged the starter and with only a slight twist of the throttle the 1300 cc engine growled to life, greedy for more high-octane gasoline. Jeremy shared in its gluttony, desired its brain-sloshing power, and craved the speed it would soon deliver. Here, however, just off the downtown Square, was not the place nor were the oak-lined streets that comprised the outskirts of Destiny.

  The place was Sticks River Road, his raceway and shrink. The time was now. Man and machine, together as one aerodynamic entity, blasted down the straightaway, the roar of the engine an accompaniment to Jeremy’s throat-wrenching screams, the countryside blurring by ridiculously fast, at times in excess of 160 miles per hour.