Joe Victim: A Thriller

by Paul Cleave

“Good,” he says, and leans back into the chair.

  “But we’re only after Joe,” she says. “Not any of the cops escorting him. No more lawyers. There’s been too much blood spilled already. Just Joe.”

  “Of course,” he says. “The cops are the ones trying to lock him away. They’re on our side.”

  “And the cop who came to your door?” she asks. “What did he want?”

  “Schroder? Well, he’s not a policeman anymore,” he says, sounding a little cautious. “He just wanted to ask if anybody else had come to mind.”

  “Come to mind about what?”

  “About suspicious people at the group. I’m not sure who he’s after.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him nobody came to mind.”

  She heard their conversation from Angela’s room. She knows Schroder showed him a photograph of her. She knows they spoke about her, they even used her real name. It was probably a copy of the same photograph she found in the back of Schroder’s car, the photograph taken the day Cindy got bookended by two guys at the beach she’d never met before. In that photo Melissa has dark brown hair. That was her natural hair color—well, still is, technically—though these days she dies it black and keeps it short. And of course she wears the wigs. Even long wigs. And for Raphael, her hair is long and black.

  “That was it?” she asks.

  “Yeah. It was pretty routine,” he says, and she thinks back to last night when Raphael climbed into her car. In their time spent chatting before that, he’d been excellent at concealing the truth. He’d known then she wasn’t who she said she was, and she’s sure he knows it now. “So, how about we go over this plan a few more times? It’s why we’re here.”

  She takes another sip of her water and puts it down. “Okay,” she says.

  “It shouldn’t change anything,” he says. “At least you know I’ll do it. I’ll pull that trigger.”

  Raphael is wrong. It does change everything. Not the fact he killed two lawyers, but the fact he’s lying about his conversation with Schroder. He knows who she is, and now it’s her job to hide that she knows that. It also means she’s going to have to adjust the plan because Raphael is going to adjust it too. It’s a matter of staying ahead—and that’s something she’s always been good at. Only person who’s beaten her since she stopped being Natalie and became Melissa is Joe.

  Raphael is a killer, and that side of him is going to be on display on Monday morning, and not just with Joe, but with her too.

  Bullet one will be going into Joe.

  And bullet two, she is sure of it, will have her name on it.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I end up missing lunch because of my busy schedule with my psychiatrist, with Schroder and my lawyer, and then my psychiatrist again. So by early afternoon my stomach is twisting in knots. Which is when prison guard Adam comes and sees me. He has a sandwich. I’ve missed meals before because of other appointments, and I faced the same problem back then that I’m facing now—you just don’t know what’s in the food that prison guards bring to you, and it’s their job to make sure you get something.

  “Bon appétit,” Adam says, which I figure is Latin for Fuck you.

  I unwrap the sandwich and peel back the bread. There’s a bunch of pubic hairs between a slice of cheese and a slice of meat, enough of them to knit a jersey for a mouse—which is ironic because the last time Adam brought me a sandwich there actually was a dead mouse in it. I wrap it back up and hand it to Adam, who doesn’t take it.

  “It’s either that, Middleton, or go hungry.”

  “I’ll go hungry,” I say, just like I went hungry with the Mickey sandwich.

  “We’ll see,” he says, and he wanders off, leaving me alone in my cell.

  I go back to staring at the walls. I think about Melissa and I think about my auntie and I think about the psychiatrist and I think about the death penalty, and all that thinking makes me hungrier, and I realize I have more doubts than I thought about my future. The public has built up a profile of me without even getting to know me. A jury pool will be drawn from people who have been reading and watching a whole lot of negative shit about me over the last twelve months. How is it I can be judged by a panel of my peers? Are there twelve men and women out there who have taken lives, banged a few lonely housewives, had part of their genitalia removed, and tried shooting themselves? No. I’m going to be judged by dentists and shoe salesmen and musicians.

  The communal area between the cells is open. The same people are there doing the same things—playing cards, talking, wishing they were all outside doing the kinds of things that got them locked inside. Other than an hour a day exercising in a small pen outside, most of us haven’t seen outside in a long time. Outside could be destroyed by aliens and it wouldn’t make a difference to any of us.

  Another hour goes by. My stomach is rumbling even louder. Adam comes back to see me. “You have a phone call,” he says.

  He leads me back through the cellblock. We head down a corridor and past a locked door to a phone that’s been bolted to the wall, the same size and shape of a payphone. It’s bolted pretty securely not because prison is full of thieves, but full of people who could beat somebody to death with a nice heavy object like that. The receiver is hanging from it, still swinging slightly from where it was dropped. Adam leans against the wall a few feet away and watches me.

  I pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Joe, it’s Kevin Wellington,” he says.

  “Who?”

  A sigh, and then, “Your lawyer,” he says.

  “You’ve got a deal?”

  “It’s your lucky day, Joe,” he says, which is good because I need to string a lot more lucky days together and this could just be the one that gets the ball falling. “Between me and the prosecution, yes, we’ve struck a deal. You’re getting immunity on Detective Calhoun if you show them where the body is. It can’t be used against you in the trial. You just have to keep your mouth shut about everything else and just show them where the body is and nothing more. Do you get that?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Repeat it to me.”

  I look up at Adam, who’s still staring at me. I lower the phone. “It’s my lawyer,” I tell him, “doesn’t that entail me to some privacy?”

  “It’s entitle, you idiot,” he says, but I’m not so sure he’s right. “I’m sure it does entitle you,” he says, but doesn’t make any effort to move.

  I turn so my back is to him and talk into the phone.

  “I get it,” I tell my lawyer.

  “No, Joe, tell me what it is you get.”

  “I’m to keep my mouth shut,” I tell my lawyer.

  “That’s right. You don’t answer their questions, you don’t make conversation. And most importantly, you don’t act like a cocky smart-ass because that’s the exact attitude that’s been making life difficult.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your attitude, Joe. You think you’re superior to everybody else, and you’re not. Your belief that—”

  “Uh huh, okay, cool,” I say, interrupting him because he’s making it sound like a bad thing to be superior to other people. It’s that kind of attitude that turns small-minded people into losers. “Moving on,” I say. “What happens with the money? How do we know they’ll pay?”

  “The money goes into escrow.”

  “Where the hell is that? Europe?”

  “Are you for real, Joe?”

  “What the hell are you on about?”

  “It’s not a where, Joe. It’s a what. It’s like a middleman for the money. It’s like a referee looking after it. Once the body has been identified as Calhoun, you get paid.”

  “So I’ll get it when, tomorrow?”

  “That depends, Joe, on how easy he is to identify. What condition did you leave him in?”

  “Shit,” I tell him. “So this escrow guy, no matter what happens now, the mon
ey comes to me if the identity is confirmed, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No matter what.”

  A pause, and then, “No matter what,” he confirms.

  “Let’s say a nuclear bomb goes off and half the country is killed, there are dead cops everywhere, nobody to run the prisons so we’re all set free. I still get paid, right?”

  “What are you getting at, Joe?”

  “I just need to make sure. No matter what, I get paid. If I were to walk out of here a wanted man after I’ve shown them the body, then—”

  “You get paid,” my lawyer says. “The only condition it’s subject to is Calhoun being identified. However, if you were to walk away somehow a wanted man, you’d find it very difficult to access your bank account.”

  “Oh,” I tell him. “Can we get it in cash?”

  “No, Joe, you can’t. And what does it matter? Are you planning on walking away a wanted man?”

  “No, no, of course not. But having a bank account is no use to me in here,” I tell him. “It’s not like there’s an ATM in here. It’s not like I can offer to write a check to somebody who wants to kill me.”

  “And it’s not like you can store fifty thousand dollars under your mattress, Joe.”

  “Can you set up a separate account? Something under your name that I can access?” I ask.

  “No. Listen, Joe—”

  “Okay, then put it into my mother’s account,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “Because she needs the money,” I tell him. “Because I want to look after her. And because she visits me every week and she can bring some of it with her each time.”

  “Do you have her account details?”

  “She’ll have them. You can contact her.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll contact her tomorrow.”

  “What time am I showing them?”

  “Ten a.m.”

  I shake my head. “Err . . . no. That doesn’t work for me.”

  Another pause. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. Ten o’clock is too early.”

  “Come on, Joe, are you deliberately trying to make this difficult? This is a good deal for you. A great deal that a lot of us had to work hard to—”

  “I’m telling you, it’s too early,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got interviews with the psychiatrist all day tomorrow. That stuff is important. I’m not going to risk ruining it. You warned me about that.”

  “Well I’m sure she can work around it.”

  I start shaking my head as if he can see me. “Listen to me. David—”

  “It’s Kevin.”

  “Kevin. Morning isn’t good for me.”

  “Because you have other appointments.”

  “Yes. This is my defense we’re talking about here. My future. It’s my life. I’m not going to mess around with that.”

  I can imagine him sitting at his desk. He’s got one hand on his forehead and he’s holding the phone away from himself and staring into it. Perhaps he’s even thinking about hanging up. Or tying it around his neck and hanging himself.

  “Joe, we’ve got the ball rolling here, and you’re in danger of messing everything up. What’s really going on here?”

  “Nothing is going on, other than what I just told you. You’re my lawyer. You convince them that if they want this deal to go ahead, it can’t be in the morning.”

  “When then?”

  “When I’m done with the interviews,” I say. “Make it four o’clock,” I say.

  “Four o’clock,” Kevin says. “Why four o’clock?”

  “Why not four o’clock?”

  “Jesus, Joe, you’re really making this difficult,” he tells me.

  “Just make it happen,” I tell him. “And by the way, it’s falling, not rolling.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got the ball falling here. Not rolling.”

  He doesn’t answer. I listen to his silence for a few seconds, then I hang up like they do in movies all the time without saying good-bye, when both parties seem to know the conversation has come to an end.

  I turn toward Adam. “I need to make a phone call.”

  “You just made a phone call.”

  “No. I received a phone call. Now I need to make one.”

  He smiles at me. There is no warmth in that smile. “I don’t give a fuck about what you need, Joe.”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “Seriously, Joe, which part of what I just said didn’t compute? Take a look at me. Do I look like I care about what you need?”

  I look at him. He actually looks like the kind of guy who cares about what I need and is willing to make sure I don’t get it. If I tugged hard on the phone receiver and broke it free, I could use it as a club. I could entail the fuck out of him with it. Then the phone would be useless. Which makes it a paradox, since I need it. Or an irony. Or both.

  “Please,” I tell him. “Please.”

  “Tell you what, Joe,” he says, pressing himself away from the wall while scratching at one of his bulging biceps. “Have you eaten the sandwich yet?”

  “What sandwich?”

  “The one I brought you earlier.”

  “No.”

  “Tell you what, Joe. Here’s how it’s going to play out. I’ll let you make your call, and in return for me letting you do that, you eat that sandwich.”

  I say nothing.

  He says nothing.

  I think about the sandwich and what it would take to eat it. I think about tomorrow and getting out of here and never coming back.

  “Well?” he says.

  “Okay,” I say, the word barely coming out.

  “What was that, Joe?”

  “I said okay.”

  “Good. And since I’m feeling in a good mood, I’m going to trust you. You go ahead and make that phone call first. I’ll let you do that. But when we get back to your cell if you don’t eat that sandwich then there will be no more phone calls for you in the future. In fact, your future will become all about misplacement. Your misplacement. We’re not going to be keeping as good an eye on you as we should. Next thing you know, you’re in general population by accident. You’re showering with the big guys. And the thing about accidents is they happen all the time. We on the same page here, Joe?”

  “I’ll eat the sandwich,” I tell him. Then after Melissa sets me free I’m going to find Adam and stuff him so full of pubic-hair sandwiches he’s going to look like a mohair jersey.

  I pick the receiver back up and dial my mom’s number. It rings a few times and she doesn’t answer.

  “Deal still counts even if nobody is home,” Adam says. “You’re still making your call.”

  “It’s not a call if nobody answers,” I tell him.

  “You’re calling and nobody is home,” he says. “Technically that’s still a call.”

  Technically the pubic-hair sandwiches won’t kill him. I’ll make him eat as many as he can, though. But what will kill him will be a blade twisting slowly into his stomach.

  Just then my mother answers the phone and, for the first time ever, speaking to my mom gives me a sense of relief.

  “Hello?”

  I can hear Walt in the background asking who it is.

  “I don’t know yet,” she says to him. “Hello?” she repeats.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “There’s nobody there,” she says to Walt, because she’s already pulled the phone away from her ear.

  “Mom, it’s me,” I tell her.

  “Hello?” Mom says.

  “Perhaps let me try,” Walt says.

  “Damn it, Mom, I’m here. Can’t you hear me?”

  “Joe? Is that you?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Joe?”

  “I’m here,” I say, and I think about what the shrink was hinting at earlier, about surrogate victims, because this conversation has sent me back to the earlier thoughts o
f ripping the phone from its cable and beating Adam to death with it.

  “Well why are you staying so quiet?” Mom asks.

  “Is that Joe?” Walt asks.

  “It’s Joe,” Mom says to Walt, her voice a little muffled as she pulls the phone away from her ear.

  “Ask him how he is,” Walt says, almost yelling at her.

  “Good idea, honey,” Mom says, and brings the phone back to her mouth. “How are you Joe?” she asks, almost yelling at me now because Walt is still talking to her in the background.

  “Things are great,” I tell her.

  “He says things are great,” she tells Walt, talking loudly to be heard over him.

  “That’s wonderful,” Walt says. “Ask him if he’s looking forward to the wedding.”

  “Of course he is,” she says.

  “Mom—”

  “Ask him anyway,” Walt says.

  “Mom—”

  “Joe, we want to know, are you looking forward to the wedding?”

  “Yes. Of course,” I say.

  “That’s fantastic,” she says, then relays the news to Walt, who has the exact same reaction. “Thanks for calling and letting us know,” she says.

  “Wait, wait, Mom . . .”

  But Mom hangs up.

  I feel something tug at my eyes and hurt as I roll them too far upward.

  “Phone call is over,” Adam says.

  “That’s not fair,” I tell him. “I got disconnected.”

  “You still technically made the call,” he says.

  “There has to be something else we can agree on,” I tell him.

  He gives it a few seconds of thought. “Okay,” he says, and I realize I’ve just said something he was really hoping to hear. “Here’s how things are going to play out,” he says, which is what he said earlier. He must love that phrase. “You’re going to get to dial her back, and the next sandwich I bring you you’re going to eat without ever looking what’s inside of it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I tell him.

  “Slow down there, big fella. I’m serious here. You try to renege, and I’ll make you pay. You got no idea the things I can do to you.”

  “It’s a deal,” I tell him.

  He smiles. A big, cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “When you came here, Joe, remember how they put you on suicide watch?”