Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  Panning the room, Alex noticed few familiar faces, despite a packed house. No one appeared to be an immediate threat and, even from a wheelchair, Alex was reasonably sure he could have physically restrained any of the elderly terrorists that might be lurking about. One table shook its rider – whose eyes were closed as if she was sleeping – gently back and forth. Another elderly lady, an obese woman with thinning silver curls, lay on a machine with her knees bent as the bottom half of the table raised to nearly 90 degrees and slowly rocked back to a perfectly horizontal position. Next to her was the scissor machine that reminded Alex of a bicycle. Each leg raised up and down, much like the table to its left, the difference being that each leg was raised one at a time, independent of the other in a scissor-kick kind of motion. The woman on the machine was a tiny thing. A stranger to Alex, but one Paula Mason called by name on more than one occasion. Were it not for her wrinkles and cream-colored hair, she might have passed for a child of twelve. On the next machine was an elderly man who appeared to Alex to be in reasonably good shape, despite his years. His face put his age, by Alex’s best guess, at about 84, but his voice and his stature were those of a man much younger. His name was Charles, Colonel Charles Roberts, he would proudly announce. Most people just called him Charles or Colonel, though he’d actually been honored with the rank of Lt. General by the end of his military life. He was retired Army, having served in Europe during and after World War II. According to him, he’d won the Purple Heart, two Silver Stars and a Bronze Star, Conduct Medal and had achieved the accolade of Expert Marksmanship which, as he put it, meant he could “castrate a gnat a mile away and it wouldn’t even feel the wind whipped up by the bullet passing by.” Alex was reminded of an older man his family had lived next to when Alex was a boy. If ever there was a hillbilly in Texas, it was Old Man Phelps.

  Well, if ever there was another, it was the Colonel. A sweet man, with a thick southern accent, he had been educated at Junior College before going on to join the military. During the war, a lot of young guys waited to be drafted, or attempted to dodge the draft by running to Canada or Mexico. Even before December 7th, 1941, the Colonel had volunteered for the Army, surprisingly with his father’s blessing. He had been briefly married after the war to a woman he’d met in Europe, and had a son he hadn’t seen in nearly fifty years. Another son had died rather young. According to the Colonel, it played a huge part in the breakup of his marriage. Returning to The States, leaving behind his wife and living son, The Colonel had retired from the Army and settled in for a life of what he called “preferred solitude.”

  Out of ten siblings, two had died young, six more had died of old age and one of the remaining two was currently in a nearby nursing home, stricken with Alzheimer’s. Nothing more than the slowest, most cruel form of death ever invented.

  “The guys in my unit, the soldiers under my command and finally around my own family. It might been selfish of me, but I seen enough death in my life. After Charlie’s death, I just couldn’t take it anymore,” he admitted to Alex, feeling a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t even attended the funerals of his last two siblings. Alex wanted to tell him that death wasn’t the end of it all and that he’d see Charlie, and all his loved ones again someday, but the truth is that Alex wasn’t sure he believed that himself. Anymore, Alex wasn’t sure what he believed. He and Mike had grown close in the past couple of weeks. The accident had left Alex unsure of a lot. He had always believed in God, but could not understand why this was happening to him. He’d always seen those movies where the people would get injured in some horrible accident and immediately take to cursing God for harming them. Invariably, they perceived themselves as good people.

  “I go to church, I say my prayers, pay my taxes and take my vitamins, so why is this happening to me?”

  Alex always thought people in those movies were such saps. He’d never gone for the touchy-feely Lifetime movies either. The ones where they had the horribly tragic accident and cursed God all the way to the pulpit, becoming the greatest of preachers. While he knew he wasn’t going to hop up to the pulpit anytime soon, Alex finally understood the way of thinking behind cursing God one minute and calling out to him the next. Though he hadn’t quite stooped that far yet, he definitely understood the anger, confusion and torment. Some people would never understand it. But those people would never understand Alex’s situation. Many would never care to understand Alex’s story.

  Alex knew Mike’s story too – the loss of his wife and daughter and the anger he’d felt as well as the sense of betrayal. And somehow Mike had overcome. By all appearances he seemed, at least to Alex, to have found happiness again. Alex wasn’t sure he’d be capable of the same. He had not lost Lisa. He hadn’t suffered the death of Christina. To Alex, he’d lost something that was, on some level, worse. He’d lost himself. He’d lost everything he’d ever been to Christina. He’d lost the husband, the provider and the protector he’d been for Lisa. He hadn’t lost his family, but he had lost his manhood. He’d lost the power of choice.

  In truth, he’d lost the ability to be Alex Mendez. To choose who and what Alex Mendez was. He’d always been a decent man. He had never hit Lisa or Christina in anger. Except on the rarest of occasions, he didn’t bring his work home with him. He made it a point to be strong and do his best never to let anyone see him frustrated or emotional in any way. At least until the accident. He was, by his own assessment anyway, a good man. So he couldn’t deny a bit of resentment. He couldn’t fight the desire to ask God what had he done that was so bad as to find him in his current state. To tell the Colonel that he’d see his son again in Heaven seemed like such hollow words to Alex when he wasn’t even convinced he believed them. Still, he couldn’t deny the overwhelming force with which that sentiment tugged at him.

  Mike had done a lot to teach Alex about God’s love. They’d read The Bible together. Mike had taught Alex to pray properly, though Alex had never realized there was a right and wrong way to pray. Alex needed answers, kind of like the Colonel seemed to need answers. Even if, over time, the Colonel seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that his answers would come when he stood before his maker. Alex had already done that. Alex had died. He had stood before his maker and, he guessed, been judged. Whatever the judgment, his fate was to be back in the world with Christina and Lisa. Half the man he once was, he was back nonetheless. Back to figure out why. Why had he been sent back?

  Frustrated, Alex had taken to reading The Bible even when Mike wasn’t around. He’d researched on the Internet, even taken to listening to any televangelist he could tolerate for more than five minutes. Surely somebody had the answers he sought. He had not found his answers and, to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he was meant to find them in this life or not. Just because he might have been sent back to seek the answers didn’t guarantee he’d find them. All he knew was that this was a test. A test of what he did not know. A test of strength? A test of resolve? A test of wills? Whose will was stronger? Alex’s or God’s? Alex had talked to God. He’d known fear in his life. He was a cop after all. He was a father. He was a husband. He had journeyed through the regrets of his past, the tragedies of his present and the realities of an unwritten future. God, whatever He was, had shown Alex what it would take to be strong. He’d shown Alex death and granted Alex a second chance at life. Alex was still learning the reasons why. Should he be grateful? What kind of man would he be rolling down the aisle beside his daughter on her wedding day? Would he rather not be a part of his daughter’s special day? What kind of man sends his wife to check out the noise that was coming from the living room? Would he rather not be there to alert her, should she be dangerously deep in the land of sleep? Alex knew it was pride that prevented gratitude from entering his heart. It was pride that caused resentment and frustration to build. But the resentment, anger and frustration had not destroyed him. He’d used it to create a virtual miracle of healing. He’d turned the negatives into a positive. What had not destroyed him had, as the saying
goes, made him stronger. So maybe he needed his pain. Maybe his resolve wasn’t strong enough. But, he thought, maybe it would be strong enough before he once again stood in the breath of God.

  * * *

  Longview’s interrogation room was straight out of the movies. The walls and floor were lined with ceramic tile – moldy, stale-smelling ceramic tile – that made the room feel as much like a bathroom as it looked. Despite the absence of urinals and toilets, a lingering odor of vomit and urine added to the bathroom façade. A single lavender fluorescent bulb struggled against the darkness, devouring the small, windowless room. Large mirrors adorned opposite walls, each providing secret access to observers, official and unofficial. A lone wooden table sat in the center of the room silently announcing past occupants. George had sat here in May of 2001, followed by Rob in September. Whoever Rob was, someone had felt a pressing desire to question his sexual preference. One had to wonder how the unknown author reached the rather blunt conclusion. Sitting by himself, going over the forthcoming question and answer session with Scott Bryan, Danny had long ago stopped marveling at the table’s literary selection. He was focused. He knew that he’d need to push Scott Bryan’s every button to rattle him into a confession. As a minor, his legal guardian would already be entitled to join the questioning from the beginning. If she was smart, or at the very least, if she cared about her son at all, she’d already got him a lawyer. Would they walk in like Wyatt Earp’s posse headed for a verbal gunfight or would they come in peace, cooperating like the innocent people they claimed to be? The guilty dog barks the loudest and, personally, Danny wanted Scott Bryan to break into barking fits loud and long enough to make every dog within ten miles jealous. He’d been a little shocked when Mrs. Bryan had so willingly agreed to subject her son to a police interview. She’d voiced a mother’s collection of objections, most of which Danny might have expected, given the circumstances. Everything from the deaths of his friends to questioning whether the building had elevators and ramps. Even going as far as to bring up the overwhelming shock of losing his father so recently. But Danny assured her that it was necessary and that it would be relatively quick and painless. “Just procedure,” he’d assured her, hoping his professionalism and courtesy would prevent her from making the decision to lawyer up.

  The questions would be quick but Danny knew they would be anything but easy for even the most innocent to answer. And, if the truth were told, Danny had a few for the mother as well. Perhaps it was just paranoia but she came across as the seemingly overprotective mother. To Danny’s surprise, she seemed more concerned about her son’s grief over the loss of a father than as to her own over the loss of a beloved mate. Maternal instinct perhaps, but Danny couldn’t help but question any little inconsistency. If he couldn’t pin the crime on little Scotty, his mom would do in a pinch.

  When the door opened, Danny flinched slightly, startled from the path on which his thoughts had gotten lost. He smiled out of reflex before his mind registered the image of Scott Bryan sitting in a wheelchair. A blonde woman wearing a navy blue skirt and matching jacket over an ivory blouse accompanied him. She looked to be in her mid-forties, but her elegant posture and graceful movements reminded Danny of Diane Keaton, mixed with Audrey Hepburn.

  “Detective.” Her voice was soft and smooth, warm and inviting, like a fresh cappuccino.

  “Mrs. Bryan, I presume?”

  “Lindsey,” she whispered, pleasantly, though absent of a true smile.

  “This must be Scott,” Danny said, directing his attention to the wheelchair bound adolescent.

  Danny was taken aback by the wheelchair. While he’d known Scott Bryan to be physically disabled, he’d only known the boy to use metal forearm crutches. All the reports said he walked on metal forearm crutches. His appearance in a wheelchair sent Danny thinking about a courtroom scenario with this poor, frail, living corpse as a defendant. It would be beyond making Danny the laughing stock of the police force. Suddenly, Danny began to wonder if his entire career had just shriveled up and died. When Scott offered his hand, Danny hesitated, eliciting a chuckle from Scott. When they finally shook hands, Danny’s timid grip was met with an uncharacteristically strong squeeze. Danny forced himself to respond with a firmer grip.

  “That’s better,” said Scott. “Shake like a man. That’s what my Dad used to say.”

  Danny smiled but said nothing; he stepped out of the doorway, offering a chair to Lindsey Bryan.

  “You can tell a lot about a man by their handshake,” Scott finished.

  Switching on a tape recorder and placing it on the desk between himself and Scott Bryan, Danny said, “Scott Bryan, before we continue, I have to advise you of your rights.”

  “My son is aware of his rights, Detective. He’s here willingly and can leave willingly unless you plan on charging him with something.”

  “Nevertheless,” Danny said, “it’s the law. Scott Bryan your rights are as follows.”

  He administered the statement of rights as quickly and professionally as he could. He concluded in scripted fashion, “Do you understand these rights as I have stated them?”

  “Stinks in here,” Scott replied.

  “Do you understand your rights, Mr. Bryan?”

  “My dad was Mr. Bryan. He’s dead now. I’m Scott. And yes I understand my rights. Can we get some air freshener? Or do I have the right to be questioned without puking my guts up?”

  “Scott,” his mother whispered, shaking her head.

  “What? It smells like dog pee in here.”

  “Most likely, that’s human pee you’re smelling,” Danny said, feigning an almost Mr. Rogers pleasantry. “Things don’t always go easy in here. Occasionally, we have to go LAPD on somebody.” Danny winked at Scott. He was playing a solo game of Good Cop-Bad Cop. First he’d gain the child’s trust. Then when “Bad Cop” showed up, Scott would be caught off guard and more apt to answer. By the smile on Scott’s face, Danny calculated it must have been working. “Mrs. Bryan, is it safe to assume that your son is, for the moment, waving his right to counsel?”

  Mrs. Bryan nodded.

  “Let the record show Mrs. Bryan nodded. Mrs. Bryan, I need a verbal response for the record if you don’t mind.”

  “My son does not need a lawyer at this time.”

  “I might want a lawyer,” Scott added.

  “Mr. Bryan, are you requesting representation?” Danny’s gut tightened. Don’t go there, Kid. Please do not go there yet.

  “Depends. Are you gonna do something about the smell in here or not?”

  Sighing, Mrs. Bryan lightly touched her son’s arm. “Scott, this is serious. Please behave so we can get this over with and go.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to go.” Scott said.

  “You’ve got school and I need to get to work. Now please hush and answer the Sergeant’s questions.”

  “Lieutenant.” Danny corrected.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Bryan blushed in embarrassment. Captured by the added appeal the sudden color provided, Danny momentarily forgot where he was. Mrs. Bryan was a very attractive woman and her pristine attire curtained by elegant mannerisms was making it increasingly difficult for Danny to stay focused. First time I ever had a chubby during an interrogation he thought to himself. Poor Mr. Bryan, Danny thought to himself, staring into the sweet eyes of the demure Lindsey Bryan. Wonder if he knew what a lucky man he was.

  “Never been so quickly demoted before,” he said. “It’s rather humbling.” Obviously embarrassed beyond remorse, Mrs. Bryan fought to meet Danny’s eyes. An hour later, as the questioning wound to a close, Mrs. Bryan had still not managed to look at Danny for more than a couple seconds at a time.

  Chapter 19 ~

  On television, most cop work culminates in a tension-fed eureka moment following one of the most confusing investigation processes Hollywood scriptwriters can conjure up. Real police work contained few true eureka moments and even fewer investigations followed a set pattern. Cops relied on instinct and training t
o know what leads to follow and which ones to, at least temporarily, place on the back burner. Sometimes they were right. More often than not, a dead end forced the investigating officer to rethink strategy, start from square one or, if he was lucky, square two or three. Backtracking was costly, both in time and cop sanity but it was necessary if justice was to be done. Real police work had few eureka moments so, when Danny looked at the autopsy reports for Gerald Bryan, he was filled with an unexpected sense of pride, accomplishment and anticipation he hadn’t felt since his first days in homicide.

  Feverishly, he threw papers and manila folders aside to make room for Mr. Bryan’s autopsy report to lie beside those of the children killed at Rock Springs Cemetery. And there it was.

  “Scared to death.”

  Those were the words Lisa had used. It seemed to fit, though the explanation alone didn’t seem complete. And what, Danny asked himself, was so frightening about a tiny disabled boy who, aside from a small dose of juvenile melancholy, was everyone’s best friend. Danny had a feeling that Lisa knew more than she was letting on. He didn’t want to go so far as to say she was holding out on him. He stopped short of thinking she was intentionally hurting the investigation. That was not Lisa and, even if it was, she had no reason to protect Scott Bryan. She had no stake in him. But, like most cops, she played an investigation like a poker game and there was at least one card in her hand Lisa was still holding. In Danny’s mind, it could only mean one thing. She didn’t want to show the card until she was sure it wouldn’t be a waste. Whatever she was looking for, she wouldn’t want to hurt the investigation by playing her card too soon.