True Story
Page 17
I will tell you what happened. Someday soon. In person, probably; I’ll tell you as much as I can (and then you’ll fill in the gaps—in your own way, you’ll make Q a monster, too). But no matter how much I tell you, you’ll want me to talk more. You’ll want me to write about Q; you’ll want to interview me for another documentary film. You’ll want me to be a quote-unquote survivor. But all I want to be is safe. I want my life back.
Or maybe this time will be different. After all, next time I see you I’ll live in a new city, I’ll have a new job. Maybe I’ll be a new person. Maybe, from here on out, it’s just you and me.
To us,
Alice
FIFTEEN PIECES
BASED ON THE HORRIFYING TRUE STORY
WHITE DRAFT: 10/15/96
BLUE DRAFT: 11/3/96
PINK DRAFT: 11/13/96
YELLOW DRAFT: 12/20/96
Written by Alice Lovett
Story by Alice Lovett & Haley Moreland
FADE IN:
INT. THE LEDBETTERS’ LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
A normal house in a normal neighborhood. So normal, in fact, that it is IDENTICAL to every other house in the neighborhood.
The camera tracks around the room to take in the decorations. The living room is tastefully decorated. A SLIDING GLASS DOOR overlooks a grassy yard. Family photos of MR. and MRS. LEDBETTER are on the mantel.
There’s only one decorating detail out of place . . .
. . . the camera slowly pans down . . .
. . . to reveal . . .
. . . A DEAD BODY!!!!
SMASH CUT TO:
TITLE CARD: FIFTEEN PIECES
INT. THE LEDBETTERS’ LIVING ROOM — THE NEXT MORNING
The body is covered by a WHITE SHEET, which is dappled with bright red BLOODSTAINS.
A DETECTIVE crouches next to the body. This is DETECTIVE MORGAN, thirty, long brown hair and a look of vigilant intelligence on her face, a look that says, I WILL NOT ABIDE BULLSHIT.
Detective Morgan LIFTS the white sheet and LOOKS at the body underneath it. She grimaces.
She lowers the sheet and stands. Contemplates the room.
She turns and examines the SLIDING GLASS DOOR.
A ROOKIE runs into the room.
THE ROOKIE
Detective Morgan! This is the third body in the neighborhood this month! All of them have been cut up like that!
DETECTIVE MORGAN
(mostly to herself)
Fifteen pieces. Who cuts a body into fifteen pieces?
THE ROOKIE
It’s a serial killer!
Detective Morgan ignores the Rookie. She looks at the MANTELPIECE, takes out a tissue and dusts for a FINGERPRINT.
THE ROOKIE
You’ve got to stop him. You’re the best man we’ve got!
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I’m not your man.
The camera ZOOMS IN on the SERIOUS, DETERMINED look on Detective Morgan’s face.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
But I am your only hope.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. MR. LEDBETTER’S OFFICE — AFTERNOON
A psychologist’s office, with DIPLOMAS on the WALL, a BIG DESK, and a BIG MAN sitting behind it.
MR. LEDBETTER is middle-aged, balding, wears GLASSES. He’s dressed in a SUIT and TIE.
He is CRYING INCONSOLABLY.
We watch him WEEP for a minute.
The camera PANS to the other side of the desk: Detective Morgan is sitting in a chair.
She watches Mr. Ledbetter with a skeptical look on her face.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
(dryly)
Mr. Ledbetter, I’m so sorry for your loss.
Mr. Ledbetter SNIFFLES, trying to get a hold of himself.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I know you’re upset. I’m very sorry that your wife was murdered.
Mr. Ledbetter WAILS at the word “murdered.” Detective Morgan subtly rolls her eyes.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
But you have to answer some questions.
MR. LEDBETTER
Can’t this
(sobs)
wait until
(wails)
after the
(blubbers)
funeral!!!
Detective Morgan suddenly stands and BANGS her FIST on his desk.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
We’re dealing with a serial killer here! If we wait for the funeral, who knows how many more women will die!
The camera ZOOMS IN on Mr. Ledbetter’s face, which looks SHOCKED.
Then for a minute: His face TWISTS into UNCONTROLLABLE RAGE.
Then it’s GONE in a FLASH.
Mr. Ledbetter composes himself.
MR. LEDBETTER
You’re right. I’m sorry.
He wipes a handkerchief across his face. As he does, Detective Morgan subtly leans forward and STEALS a PEN from his desk.
She holds the pen with a TISSUE. She slips it in her POCKET.
Mr. Ledbetter folds his hands, ready to answer questions.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I only have one question for you.
The camera focuses on Mr. Ledbetter’s face. He looks NERVOUS.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
Your first wife. She was killed in the same way. Ten years ago. Police never found her killer.
The look of RAGE briefly crosses Mr. Ledbetter’s face again.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
Do you think it’s the same person?
A beat.
Mr. Ledbetter BREAKS DOWN into SOBBING again. He’s not answering ANY questions today.
Detective Morgan rolls her eyes.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. DETECTIVE MORGAN’S HOME — EVENING
Detective Morgan’s house looks a lot like the Ledbetters’ house. No dead body, but same sliding glass door, same mantel, etc.
She lives ALONE. She is standing in the KITCHEN, making POPCORN.
Suddenly . . .
JUMP SCARE: There is a MAN STANDING OUTSIDE OF HER SLIDING GLASS DOOR!!!!
. . . IT’S THE KILLER!!!!
He’s a BIG MAN. He’s wearing ALL BLACK and a BLACK SKI MASK.
Detective Morgan DOESN’T SEE HIM. He is BEHIND HER.
The camera ZOOMS IN on the HANDLE of the SLIDING GLASS DOOR.
The Killer crouches slightly and LIFTS the HANDLE of the SLIDING GLASS DOOR from the outside. (Anyone who owns this kind of sliding glass door knows this WEAKNESS.)
The lock FLIPS OPEN.
Detective Morgan HEARS and spins around just in time to see the KILLER THROW OPEN the door and ENTER THE ROOM.
She SCREAMS.
The Killer LUNGES, knocks her down.
She SCRAMBLES backward.
The Killer is holding a KNIFE.
He LUNGES at Detective Morgan. She KICKS his hand, the knife goes FLYING.
The Detective and the Killer FIGHT.
The Killer THROWS the Detective across the room.
She SCRAMBLES over to the desk, where her GUN is waiting.
She FUMBLES the gun.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
God damn it . . .
She GRABS the GUN.
She SPINS around and stands, holding the gun with two hands.
Her living room is EMPTY.
The Killer has FLED.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. MR. LEDBETTER’S OFFICE — THE NEXT MORNING
The Rookie is standing next to Mr. Ledbetter’s desk.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Ledbetter.
MR. LEDBETTER
What are you doing here? My wife died! You should be finding her killer!
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I found her killer.
The camera ZOOMS IN on the LOOK OF SURPRISE on Mr. Ledbetter’s face.
MR. LEDBETTER
What are you suggesting?
DETECTIVE MORGAN
(to the Rookie)
Cuff him. He might try to run.
The Rookie HANDCUFFS Mr. Ledbetter.
MR. LEDBETTER
What is this?!!
DETECTIVE MORGAN
My first clue was the sliding glass door. Everyone in the neighborhood knows those locks are a joke, so I know the killer lives local.
MR. LEDBETTER
That doesn’t prove anything!
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I also found the killer’s fingerprints at the crime scene. And last night, someone attacked me in my home. He left a knife behind. The fingerprints matched the killer’s. They also matched the fingerprints from this pen, which I took from your desk yesterday.
The camera ZOOMS IN on Mr. Ledbetter’s face, TWISTED WITH RAGE. Now he makes NO EFFORT TO HIDE IT.
He TRANSFORMS into the KILLER we KNOW he IS.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
Checkmate, mister.
MR. LEDBETTER
You’ll never take me alive!
Mr. Ledbetter TWISTS and HITS the Rookie with his handcuffed fists.
The Rookie stumbles back.
Mr. Ledbetter tries to run —
Detective Morgan SHOOTS HIM.
Blood EXPLODES OUT OF HIS CHEST.
He falls back against the wall.
He DIES.
Silence.
Detective Morgan shakes her head. The Rookie stumbles up to his feet.
The two cops stand over Mr. Ledbetter’s DEAD BODY.
THE ROOKIE
He killed his own wife. I can’t believe it.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
I can. I’ve always known . . .
The camera ZOOMS IN on Detective Morgan’s face, which looks determined.
DETECTIVE MORGAN
You can never trust a man.
FADE TO BLACK.
PART V
OLD FRIENDS
2014
1. Idiot Nick
The first thing Lindsey says when she opens the door is “Jesus Christ!” Then she squints at you and says, “Are you doing the steps?”
Her apartment is in a sprawling brick complex in Brooklyn. She’s number H5 (which makes no sense; she’s on the second floor). You stood outside, pretending to look at your flip phone, until a guy with keys came up and you slipped in behind him; you didn’t want to explain yourself to Lindsey over a loudspeaker. Standing in the hallway now—too late—you realize it’s weird to show up already inside her building.
You give her a big, stupid smile. She’s right. You’re doing the steps. (Lindsey has always been one step ahead of you.)
You say, “Would you rather I were here to borrow money?”
She rolls her eyes but gives you half a smile, and you feel a tick of satisfaction. You’re surprised how much you still want to impress her.
“Well,” she says, then steps aside and widens the door. “I guess it’s been a long time coming.”
You keep your hands in your pockets as you follow her inside. Her apartment is unmistakably the domain of a child. In the narrow kitchen, a few pieces of letter-shaped cereal are scattered across the floor; the refrigerator is covered in finger paintings.
“You have a kid,” you say.
Lindsey just nods. “Why are you here?” she says. She’s got her arms crossed and you have the feeling she’s trying to restrain herself, but from what—hugging you or hitting you—you can’t tell. You mirror her, unconsciously folding your own arms.
“Look, I know it’s been—”
“Nick!” Lindsey exclaims.
You shove your left hand back in your pocket, but it’s too late. Lindsey claps her hands over her face like she’s hiding from the gory part of a movie. “What happened to your hand?” she says.
“I had an accident,” you say. “Just a couple of fingers.”
Lindsey doesn’t say anything, her face still tucked in her hands.
“Really, it’s no big deal. I’m totally fine.”
She exhales and looks up at the ceiling, tears pooling in her eyes. “I just always knew you were going to hurt yourself, and, oh God, of course you did.”
There’s so much you need to explain. Things have changed. You know she’ll understand. You just don’t know how to start. And then there’s a flurry of feet on the floor, a child enjoying the sound of her own stomping, and in comes Lindsey’s kid.
Short blond curls pulled up into uneven pigtails and her mouth open, her tongue sticking out, as she focuses on a My Little Pony she’s trying to balance on her head.
You recognize her right away. She looks like all the baby pictures of you hanging in your mother’s front hallway.
“Look, Mama!” the child says, her eyes crossed up toward her own forehead as she holds the plastic horse in place with one hand, fooling nobody.
Lindsey transforms, some bright maternal magic; you can barely tell she’d been upset. “Wow, Katydid,” she says warmly, rubbing one eye with one fingertip as if to dislodge a stray lash. Of course Lindsey is an excellent mother. You asshole.
You look from Lindsey to the girl and back. You say, “When were you going to tell me?”
“Not right now!” Lindsey says, firmly bright. “Katie, this is Nick. He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Katie,” you say, slowly.
Katie doesn’t say anything. The pony drops off her head and falls to the floor, but she rolls her eyes and twists her small torso backward, posed. She’s got her eyebrows raised, like she’s doing another impressive trick. She doesn’t make eye contact, but she glances your way once, then twice. She’s checking to make sure you’re watching.
She wants you to be impressed.
The pain is like falling, accelerating into despair.
“I’m an idiot,” you say.
And now your daughter, delighted with her own sense of humor, won’t call you anything but Idiot Nick.
* * *
• • •
LINDSEY SPENDS TWO DAYS thinking about it. You’re in a hardware store, buying a strip of flypaper for your motel room, when she calls with her answer.
“You owe back child support,” she says, “but if you make it square, you can be in her life. And if you really are sober.”
You promise you really are sober.
Lindsey has done some calculations. Taking into account your earnings over the course of Katie’s life so far, and your future earning potential—which, let’s be honest, is almost nothing, after all the jobs you’ve lost—she decides you owe her ten thousand. “Actually, it’s twenty thousand,” Lindsey says. “But I don’t have to hire a lawyer, and you’ll pay me under the table, so we’ll do ten.” She wants a monthly payment plan, and she wants it in cash. As you hang up the phone, you realize she wants you to prove you’ll stick around.
Goddamned right you’re sticking around.
You go straight to the nearest ATM. You overdraw your account as much as it lets you—four hundred dollars. You take it directly to Lindsey’s apartment. To put an anchor on her. Once she takes your cash, she can’t change her mind.
She meets you at the door, says, “Thank you.” She even kind of smiles. She doesn’t invite you in, but you can tell she’s impressed. You walk away feeling like a new man. This is your chance to do things right.
You move to New York in May. You miss that month’s payment, but only because your landlord in Virginia rips off your security deposit. Lindsey doesn’t mind. You figure she’s impressed that you’re moving to be closer to Katie. She’s impressed that you’re following through. She adds another five hundred dollars’ interest to the total you owe, but that’s fair; you’re just glad she never asks where your money is coming from.
By the fall, the three of you have a routine. On the first Saturday of the month, you meet them at a coffee shop near Fort Greene Park. Katie gets an apple, because Lindsey doesn’t want her to associate you with treats. Lindsey gets a giant latte and you get a black coffee, and then the three of you walk together to the playground when the weather’s nice, and to the library when it’s bad.
“Idiot!” Katie says as soon as she sees you, and runs up to give you a big hug. You love it, although you suspect she only does it to annoy her mom.
One Saturday, on your way to the coffee shop, you pass a man selling knickknacks on a table on Joralemon Street. You notice a packet of stickers for sale, twenty-five cents. They’re dog stickers. Katie is crazy about dogs. Whenever she sees a dog on the street, she runs straight up to it with her arms spread and gives it a huge kiss. You dig in your pocket for a quarter.
Lindsey doesn’t let you bring Katie gifts. You like to buy things anyway. Like you’re going to somehow sneak them to her. Say you got this at kindergarten. You know that telling your daughter to keep secrets is not a great way to make progress on joint custody. But you can’t help buying her things. You’ve got a whole stack of toy ponies and snap bracelets on your kitchen counter. It accumulates in pieces, like an hourglass, as you try to earn your way into Lindsey’s good graces before Katie gets too old for toy ponies. Or too old to get attached to her biological dad.
In line at the coffee shop, you feel the stickers in your jacket pocket. For twenty-five cents, it’s basically like you found them for free.