The Broken Ones

by Stephen M Irwin

  “The knife is already en route for testing,” Haig said. He hesitated. “Weapons?”

  “The wounds on his hands are two different profiles,” Oscar said. “One type has two sharp edges, the other only one. Two knives.”

  Oscar felt every eye in the room on him. The air seemed statically charged.

  Haig’s smile turned even colder. “Shouldn’t you be interviewing your suspect, Detective? You’ve only got”—Haig checked his watch—“eleven minutes.”

  “Thirty,” corrected Oscar. The deeply flawed legislation allowed him thirty minutes at the scene with the suspect.

  Haig shook his head and pointed his large, well-manicured thumb at Neve. “She’s been here twenty already.”

  “I was outside!” Neve protested.

  “Neve,” Oscar said quietly.

  Neve returned a glare, but bit down on her words. Oscar looked at Haig. “Suspect?”

  “Wife,” Haig replied. He motioned for his officers and the others to allow Oscar and Neve deeper into the house. “Ten minutes,” he said, and turned away.

  Oscar stepped into the gloomy hallway. As he glanced back he was pleased to see uniformed cops grumbling as they dropped to hands and knees, looking for the second knife.

  The rest of the townhouse was as narrow and murky as the kitchen. Its ceilings were disproportionately high, there were too few lights, and the lack of furniture let footsteps echo dolefully. Yet another uniformed officer leaned against the hallway wall. When he saw Oscar and Neve, he wordlessly pushed himself off the wall and led the detectives through a door into a small sitting room. It was piled high with urban detritus: a rusted walking machine; cardboard cartons overflowing with shabby Christmas decorations and moth-eaten clothes; magazines on dog breeding, dog nutrition, dog fighting. The single window was a small rectangle of cobweb gray, unwashed in years and hunched on a sill dusted with the husks of dead flies. Rain pattered on the glass. A single bulb hung by a rubber cord the color of dirty bone, its glow hardly stronger than a few candles would make. Junk had been pushed aside to make space for a card table at which sat a young detective constable in a trim single-breasted suit, trying to read a newspaper by the weak light. Opposite him sat a string-thin, middle-aged woman whose hands were knitting themselves in worried knots. Another door was set in the far wall.

  “Barelies,” said the officer in the doorway.

  The seated detective looked up from his newspaper. “Seriously? You’re still bothering?”

  Oscar waited.

  The uniformed officer left. The young detective sighed and held out his hand for their IDs.

  “Oh, come on,” Neve said.

  Oscar squeezed her shoulder. She made a disgusted sound and handed over her badge. Oscar passed across his. The young detective made a show of inspecting them and handed them back. Oscar noticed the lad was already developing a paunch.

  “Bazley, isn’t it?” Oscar asked. “Haig teaching you manners?”

  Bazley ignored him and turned to the thin woman. “Mrs. Tambassis?” She seemed to flinch at the mention of her name. “Detective Sergeant Marina and Detective Constable de Rossi here—”

  “Mariani,” Neve corrected, “and de Rossa.”

  “—are with the Nine-Ten Investigation Unit. Due to the nature of your statements to arresting officers, these detectives have been summoned.” His voice slid down into the monotone of rote learning. “They are vested with full rights and powers to interview you, and anything you say to them can be used as evidence at trial. Should you wish not to answer their questions here, you have the right to a formal interview in a state police facility, courthouse, or location nominated by a justice of the peace with or without representation by a practicing solicitor. Do you understand?”

  Oscar watched the thin woman’s eyes dart about nervously. They fixed for a moment on a blank patch of wall near the other door, then slid off it as if they’d met something oily and unpleasant. She nodded once.

  Bazley looked at Oscar and glanced meaningfully at his watch.

  “We know,” Oscar said.

  Bazley picked up his paper and sauntered from the room.

  Oscar removed his wet hat and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Mrs. Tambassis? May we sit?”

  Seen closer, Mrs. Tambassis was not middle-aged but a hard-worn thirty or thirty-two. She licked her lips, then nodded again. Oscar and Neve sat. Oscar placed a small digital recorder on the tabletop and slid it toward the woman; she stared at it as if it were a new and dangerous breed of insect. He switched the recorder on and a red light, small as a pinprick of blood, glowed on its side. The woman’s eyes followed a worried triangular path—recorder, Oscar, Neve, recorder, Oscar, Neve—then dropped to watch her own nervously weaving fingers. The room was silent except for the muffled barking of the dogs.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?” she said.

  Oscar gave Neve an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Mrs. Tambassis,” Neve began, “you killed your husband this evening. You took two knives from your kitchen and while he was carrying bowls of food for your dogs you stabbed him. Many, many times.”

  Mrs. Tambassis watched her hands. “His dogs,” she said quietly.

  “You called the police?” Neve asked.

  The woman nodded. “My phone’s out of credit, but the cops are a free call.”

  “And when they came and asked you what happened, what did you tell them?”

  The woman looked up. Her skin seemed as thin as wax paper; the bags under her eyes were puffy and gray. “You know. You’re here.”

  Oscar could see that the front of the woman’s dress was flecked with blood; a long spittle of red was crusting dry on her neck.

  “Mrs. Tambassis,” Neve continued, “can you tell us why you killed your husband?”

  The woman’s eyes darted from the tape recorder to the empty wall, then back to the little red light.

  “I didn’t think it was him I was stabbing,” she said. “I thought I was stabbing him.” She jabbed her finger at the blank wall.

  “Who, Mrs. Tambassis?”

  “Him. My uncle. Uncle Robert.” She spat the name like a sour thing and stared at the empty wall with scared, angry eyes.

  The small room fell silent for a long moment. Even the dogs were momentarily quiet, and the only sound was the sad whisper of rain.

  Oscar spoke: “We don’t see anyone where you’re pointing, Mrs. Tambassis.”

  “Of course you don’t.” She looked at Oscar as if he were a fool. “He’s dead.”

  Oscar could see that the woman was very pale. Her pulse thumped in the artery on the side of her neck. Shock’s setting in, he thought. The hammering knowledge that she’d taken another person’s life would soon shut down her thought processes, and they’d get nothing from her.

  “Mrs. Tambassis,” Oscar said carefully. “If it was your uncle’s ghost that you attacked, why is your husband dead?”

  The woman glared at him. “He must have stood in front of Darryl just as I went for him, didn’t he?”

  “And you’ve seen him before today?” he asked. “Your dead uncle?”

  Her eyes narrowed, wary of a trick question. “I’ve seen him since we all started seeing them.”

  “Which was?” Neve asked.

  “You know very well.”

  “Tell us anyway.”

  “You know this!” the woman cried. “Years! Since Gray Wednesday. Jesus …”

  Neve glanced at Oscar. Time was running out.

  “Why did you attack your uncle?”

  The woman stared at the table for so long that Oscar thought the stunning curtain of shock had closed already. Then she spoke again. “Because he’s always here. You know what they’re like. Always standing there, staring. Wherever I am, there he is, watching me. Yes!” she accused the empty wall, lips curled in disgust. “He’s there when I sleep, there when I wake up. When I eat, when I shop, when I p-piss. My fucking filthy shadow …” She looked at Oscar, tear
s welling in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a dry whisper. “You know what they’re like. The dead bastard has stolen my life.”

  Oscar felt the back of his neck turn cold.

  “Let me get this straight, Mrs. Tambassis,” he said. “Your dead uncle has been tormenting you—”

  “Yes,” the woman nodded. “Tormenting, yes.”

  “Driving you mad.”

  “Mad.” She nodded quicker, eyes bright.

  “Making your life unlivable.”

  “A living hell, exactly!”

  “For years.”

  “Years! Three years!”

  “Then why did you wait until this evening to attack him?”

  The woman blinked like someone who’d just missed a step on a staircase, surprised and suddenly afraid of a fall. Oscar knew this was the critical point, the terminator moment that separated truth from lie, or a well-planned lie from a spontaneous one.

  “Had you attacked this vision of your uncle before?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked between Oscar and Neve.

  “Yes,” she decided.

  “How?” Oscar asked. “Fists? Threw something?”

  “Threw something,” she agreed. “A glass.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Well, it broke, didn’t it? On the wall.”

  “It went through him?”

  “Some detective.”

  He kept his voice low and reasonable. “Then why did you attack him this evening with knives?”

  The woman’s tongue emerged again, a cautious snake from its hole, testing the air and finding it fraught. Her eyes found the red light of the recorder; she forced herself to look at a spot on the floor and said nothing.

  Oscar said, “And why did you wait until your husband had both hands occupied holding dog bowls?”

  Silence settled heavily over the room. Neve glanced at Oscar. Her expression betrayed nothing, but a small gleam of triumph lit her eyes. Oscar knew that Neve held little love for people who murdered their spouses.

  “Mrs. Tambassis,” Oscar continued. “What do you know about Clause Seventeen of the Personal Sightings Act, also known as the Nine-Ten Act or the September Ten Act?”

  The woman licked her lips again. A sheen of tight panic closed over her face. “I know what everyone knows. If you, if you kill someone and you say you were told to do it by”—she nodded harder, as if to say, You know what I mean—“by the dead, you won’t go to jail.”

  “Which is just what you say, isn’t it, Mrs. Tambassis?” Oscar asked. “You say a ghost made you kill your husband.”

  Her hands twisted like fighting insects.

  “Do you know, Mrs. Tambassis,” Oscar continued, “how many homicides we attend where the suspect invokes Clause Seventeen? It’s become very popular. There are even people—some of them are street lawyers, some of them are just off the street—who for a few dollars will tell a person exactly what to say to the police about Clause Seventeen, should they happen to commit a serious crime. Like arson or homicide. Did you know that?”

  The woman kept staring at the floor and shook her head. “I don’t have a few dollars,” she whispered.

  That I believe, Oscar thought.

  The woman’s narrow lips worked as her mind tried to concoct a way out. But it wasn’t coming, and fresh tears of fear and frustration welled in her overbright eyes.

  “I don’t …”

  “If there is a problem with your story, Mrs. Tambassis, it’s not too late to change it.”

  The woman looked at him. Her cheeks trembled, and her whole body had started to shake.

  Beside him, Neve radiated energy. Oscar nodded to her.

  Neve spoke clearly. “If you were attacking the ghost of your uncle, Mrs. Tambassis, why didn’t you stop when you realized it was your husband? Why did you continue to stab him more than thirty times?”

  The woman’s eyes were wide and glossed with tears. Her face worked like the front of a building whose foundations had just been detonated. She glanced over at the empty patch of wall.

  “Fuck you!” She spat not at Oscar or Neve but at the empty wall. “Fuck you!”

  The dogs barked louder. The handle of the second door rattled softly, and the door opened a crack.

  “Mummy?”

  In the open doorway Oscar glimpsed the pale curve of a little girl’s face. Haig had made no mention of a child.

  The thin woman’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. With great effort, she wiped her cheeks and forced lightness into her voice and said, “Go back to your room, Button. Mummy’s nearly done.”

  The door began to close.

  “Wait,” Oscar said. The door stopped moving. The pale hint of face hovered in the shadows behind it. Oscar turned to the woman. “Your daughter?”

  Tears finally broke from the woman’s eyes and rolled down her ashen cheeks. “You don’t need to see her.” She looked at Neve, pleading. “Don’t.”

  Neve stared back evenly.

  “Come in please, honey,” Oscar said to the girl behind the door. “It’s okay.”

  The door creaked wider, and a small girl stepped sheepishly into the dimly lit room. She was barely taller than a toddler, but her face could have been a five-or an eight-year-old’s. It was hard to tell, because huge scars distorted one entire side of her small face, pinching in one eye and lifting one side of her mouth into an ugly sneer. One nostril was far too large where part of her nose had been torn away. The disfiguring scars, still fresh, crawled down her neck like pink lizards. Oscar felt his stomach tighten. The girl had been savaged, and it wasn’t hard to guess how. The dogs were still barking.

  Oscar looked again at Neve. She was watching him, and he knew what she was thinking. And now we have motive. Oscar knew he should have been thrilled. Instead, he felt hollow and tired.

  “Mummy shouted,” the little girl said quietly. Her “sh” sound came out like a whispered hush. “I want to see Mummy.”

  “Of course you do, sweetheart,” said Oscar, and he smiled. He was out of practice and hoped the expression didn’t look as beastly as it felt.

  The girl moved quickly across the room and slid like a shadow behind her mother. The woman didn’t know where to look—she chose to stare at the digital recorder on the tabletop. The main door opened, and Bazley looked in. “One minute.”

  “Then get out,” Oscar said.

  Bazley slammed the door shut.

  Oscar looked at the woman. Her daughter’s hand had crept around her waist and was clutching it tightly.

  “Mrs. Tambassis?” The woman’s wet eyes slowly met Oscar’s. “Did your husband’s dogs do that to your daughter?” The woman’s brow became a mire of furrows, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you press charges?”

  The woman lifted her chin. Her soft voice was full of contempt. “I did,” she said. “They didn’t stick.”

  Oscar switched off the digital recorder.

  “Oscar,” Neve said. “What are you doing?”

  Oscar ignored her and instead leaned toward the woman, speaking low and quickly. “You hold to your story. You went for your uncle. I’ll sign off on that, and under—”

  “Oh, Oscar!” snapped Neve. “What the hell!”

  “—Clause Seventeen you should only be charged with involuntary manslaughter and get home detention and court-appointed counseling. Okay?”

  The woman stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.

  “Oscar!” hissed Neve.

  Oscar dropped the recorder into one of his many pockets. He opened the nearest door and called for Bazley. He arrived, carrying a red folder. “Well?”

  Oscar said, “We’re done.”

  “We’re not!” Neve said.

  “We’re signing her Seventeen,” he finished.

  “Oscar!”

  Bazley held out the folder, amused. “Jesus, Mariani, why not get a rubber stamp—”

  Suddenly, there was a meaty slap, and Bazley’s eyes widened. Oscar was surpris
ed at how whip-fast his own hands had moved, one slapping and grabbing a handful of stomach skin and twisting hard, the other restraining the young man’s wrist. He was surprised, too, at how angry the comment had made him. Something to think about.

  His voice was mild, though. “Detective Sergeant Mariani. Not Jesus. Maybe the facial hair threw you.”

  Bazley was pale. “You’re a crazy f—”

  Oscar squeezed tighter, pain cutting off the detective constable’s words.

  “I’m going,” Neve said, fed up.

  Oscar released his grip and Bazley skittered backward, clutching his belly. He kicked halfheartedly at Oscar. “Loser,” he hissed.

  Although it was whispered, the word smarted. Oscar signed the form, threw the folder down beside the young detective, and went after Neve.

  He edged past the dogs to the gate and down into the lane. The rain was heavier, and the sky was dark gray. Night was settling fast and the surrounding buildings were black cliffs. A shining hearse was now parked outside the fence and two undertakers in suits were lifting the murdered man’s covered body into its back. Half of the police officers had left; only two squad cars remained. Neve hadn’t waited—she was already stumping up the alley. Oscar sighed. He’d let her cool down; in ten minutes, she’d be fine again

  “A shame.” The voice was edged brightly with good humor.

  Oscar looked around. Haig idled out of the metal gate, hands in pockets. Very few inspectors left their offices for the shitty streets. Haig seemed to relish it. He was also the only inspector Oscar knew who preferred a uniform to a suit.

  “How’s that?” Oscar said.

  “Well, I thought you had one there.” Haig reached into his jacket for a small tin box of cigarillos. “Clear motive. No lawyer. A story that was, let’s face it, uninventive at best.”

  Haig shielded the cigarillo from the rain with his cap brim as he lit it, then, almost as an afterthought, held the tin out. The smell of good tobacco made Oscar’s mouth water. He shook his head. Haig was not a man to be indebted to.

  “Why wasn’t Tambassis prosecuted when his dogs ripped that little girl’s face off?” Oscar asked.

  Haig returned the cigarillo tin to his pocket and exhaled blue smoke. “Who knows? Record keeping has gone to hell in the last few years. He must have slipped through the cracks.”