Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Joshua starts acting a little more human and says, “Fuck you, Officer Cools. What the hell is this all about?”

  “You know exactly what this is about; you called the radio station. I heard the tape.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that,” Cools replies sarcastically.

  “It was just a joke.”

  “A joke? You call that a fucking joke?”

  “Yeah, man, I thought it was kind of funny. I was just fucking around.”

  “Where’s your wife, asshole?”

  “I told you, top cop; she’s working.”

  “Where?”

  Joshua smiles, pauses, then answers, “She’s working the noontime show at the Kitty Club in Everett.”

  Cools gives him a look of disbelief and pulls his phone from his pocket, noticing that even his hands are shaking from agitation. He dials 411. “I need Kitty Club in Everett.” The prompter gives him an option; he pushes another button and is shortly connected, expecting to learn momentarily that it is just more bullshit. And what’s more nauseating to him is the fact that Joshua slouches back on his heels, unconcerned, maybe even enjoying the charade.

  “Thanks for calling the Kitty Club; this is Candy. What can I do for you?”

  “Is Kimberly Siconolfi there?”

  “Well…yes…she is,” Candy’s amorous voice replies.

  “I’m Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department; I need to speak with her.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry, Detective; she’s dancing. Would you like some Candy instead?”

  “No, I need to talk to Kimberly,” he replies, growing strangely frustrated by her sexy talk. “Are you sure she’s there?”

  “Oh, well let’s see…I’m looking at her fine, round ass quivering in the air. Wait—she’s turning…Yep, those are her big, beautiful tits straddling the pole… Oh and now she’s crawling across the stage, and I can see her face. It’s definitely Kimberly. Why don’t you come over, Detective, and we can watch her together.”

  “Maybe another time, Candy,” he answers sharply, and hangs up. “What kind of sick fuck are you?”

  Joshua doesn’t respond, only grins while peering around his yard full of cop cars and police officers snooping about his home. Cools does the same, seeing the whole thing beginning to slow down. Then he gets a call from his captain and, with a hand gesture, motions the rookie, who is now simply loitering nearby, to watch over Joshua. Passing him off like a baton on the track course, he moves to the other side of the yard, so he can privately talk to his boss, Captain Jackson.

  He and Cools have been friends for many years; they make it to the basketball court two or three times a month and go deep-sea fishing in the summer. They even share the same temperament. Socially and mentally they are equals but physically quite different—mostly because Captain Jackson is a large black man, a bit older, who wasn’t even pretty when he was young. Cools reports the entire situation, and then there’s a long silence. “What should we do?” he asks.

  “Hold tight; do nothing; I’m gonna call you right back.”

  Cools, feeling it all slipping away, lights up a cigarette and glares at Joshua. “Pretty boy punk,” he mutters under his breath. Then the phone rings; “Jerome Jackson” shows on the display.

  “Cools, I have in my office assistant prosecuting attorney Levits, and she’s telling me, unless you can find some evidence of a crime, we have to let him go.”

  “Let him go! Are you fucking kidding me?” He knew it could come down to this, but he doesn’t plan to cave without a fight. “I am not just going to let him go!”

  Captain Jackson snaps back sternly, “You know who his father is, and when you break it all down, we got nothing. If we try to arrest him for a prank, they’ll…they’ll have our balls on a platter!” Then in a more affable voice, he says, “Cools, you do remember who his father is don’t you?”

  Cools answers with a long and exasperated yes, while briefly running a couple details through his mind: William Siconolfi, one of Seattle’s greatest trial attorneys and head of the legal team representing the Roman Catholic archdiocese.

  Then Captain Jackson adds, “That’s just the way it has to be: no crime, no time.”

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He holds the phone in the air, shooting daggers at it with his eyes for a time, then slowly pushes the end button, trying to quiet his nerves. He scans the scene of cops standing around aimlessly at this midday false alarm, gathered about a tall, tanned playboy without a care—smiling like a kid at the circus. Maybe I should get him some cotton candy.

  Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, other cops, followed by two news vans, begin pulling onto the scene. “Damn, they’re fast,” he says just before recognizing a familiar face. It’s Tabatha Sterns jumping out of her van, microphone in hand, and he’s not the only one to take notice of her easy, blond hair and dark blue, inviting eyes. She carries with her that innocent, Midwestern, good-littlegirl way about her, the kind you want to dirty up. “Hold ’em back!” he yells to some of the fresh cops now on-site. Soon a collision between cops and reporters forms a mob of noise and questions. Cools shakes his head in disbelief, making his way back to his cruiser, where Joshua stands smiling for the cameras. He has no choice but to accept defeat. There he excuses the officers of their duty, and once again they are alone.

  “Like the street party, top cop,” Joshua says, almost as if making small talk to a friendly neighbor.

  Cools doesn’t answer, only glances around to make sure no one is within earshot, then positions himself up close, locking eyes with a cold stare that would strike fear in most men, but has little noticeable effect on Joshua. “I have to let you go for now, but first…I do not like you—you sick fuck!” Next he breaks his eye contact to guide Joshua’s attention to the gun he’s holding; he moves it side to side and says, “These things accidentally go off sometimes, punk. It’s rare, but it happens. Next time…next fucking time!”

  Joshua’s relaxed grin is his only reply. Outwardly he appears to be nothing more than an adult delinquent; though on the inside, he’s strategically laughing his ass off, picturing it all: a courtroom, a jury, a HD home surveillance clip, and an expert witness on the stand gaining the trust of the twelve while rambling off his credentials as a lip reader, telling the jury exactly what Detective Cools is saying.

  Chapter Four

  Cools struggles through the rest of his day, stumbling at every step down a steep and rocky hill. The first hurdle presented itself, as he was parting the cluster fuck of a call, when Tabatha Sterns asked for an interview. Not meaning too, he apparently shrugged her off, which she responded to by calling him an asshole. Tabatha Sterns, his favorite news reporter—not to mention the one he’s had a boyhood crush on for years, the one he watches every night—now hating him. Then to the station where Captain Jackson balled him out and informed him that he’ll soon most likely be sued for shooting the hole in the driveway, in addition to emotional distress brought on by an overzealous cop. All of which is followed by an earful from his partner, Michelle. And Joshua goes back to sipping expensive scotch in his khakis. The rest of his afternoon is spent alone in his office, brooding over the morning call and catching up on all things Joshua Siconolfi.

  His phone rings. It’s an attractive woman, a persistent sweetness, who seems to have forgotten he’s an asshole. Twenty minutes later she sneaks in the rear entrance of the station. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” she says, holding out a slender hand. They’ve met a few times through the years, yet he can never get over the fact that she appears thinner in person. Their last meeting took place at the Deistali Restaurant, where after a few drinks, he got the impression she wanted him to give her more than just information on the latest, high-profile arrests.

  “Have a seat,” he says, presenting an empty chair. She sits and crosses her long legs, her movement wafting her fragrance through the air. Then playfully cutting to the chase, he asks, “So do you still think I’m a
n asshole?”

  “Yes,” she quickly and matter-of-factly replies. Cools’s eyes tighten, showing rigid lines while processing her sharp, confident answer. Then she cuts to some chases of her own tactically ignoring his frustrated puzzzlement, “Do you have a complete rap sheet on Joshua, and do you think he’s a danger to the community?”

  Cools’s thoughts shift to the demented person of interest. “You didn’t get to interview him?” he asks, somewhat surprised.

  “No, but he sent me a text. I’m not even sure how he acquired my number.” She slips her phone from her bag, keys in a few buttons, and reads it proficiently. “Today I will retire within the sanctuary of my dwelling, relishing in my endeavors, forcing the media to beg for my story in tomorrows.”

  They sit quietly pondering his objective, both coming to the simple conclusion that he plans on giving a statement tomorrow because he considers himself worthy of some sort of celebrity status. Cools breaks the silence, saying, “Well, I can tell you this: this isn’t his first run-in with the law by any means.” Tabatha’s ears perk up. She fumbles out a recorder while he reads from the computer screen. “2001: DUI: dismissed. 2002: DUI: dropped to reckless. 2003: domestic violence, Sherry Hill: dismissed. A few months later another DUI: deferred program, completed. And later that year, another domestic violence again Sherry Hill; this one goes to trial, and he’s found not guilty. Then he snaps, and in mid-2005 he gets a third degree vehicular assault on his battered girlfriend Sherry Hill… His father is William Siconolfi—you might have heard of him?”

  “Yes, yes, I have; he’s a high-dollar trial attorney, isn’t he? And didn’t he represent some Catholic priests a few years back?”

  “That’s him, and every time his insane son gets into it, Daddy gets him out. So it turns out that he was released on good behavior in February of 2006, doing a grand total of eight months, three in a minimum security, the remaining five in a work-release unit where he worked as an assistant manager at a strip club— Chloe’s Paradise. He gets picked up six weeks later for violation of a no-contact order against, once again, Sherry Hill. This time Daddy gets the charges dropped on a technicality. After that he goes off the Doppler radar for a few years. Then in 2011 our records show he’s married to a Kimberly Sharons; he was arrested for disorderly conduct…served 30 days. And another little misunderstanding when he’s arrested for the first degree arson of St. Luke’s Parish in Aberdeen, Washington, but charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.”

  “Arson? So there was enough evidence for an arrest but not enough for a trial?”

  “Well…money can make a lot of problems go away in this town. Besides it turned out that the parish was insured for double what the property was worth. And after some further investigation by a private investigator, paid for by William, it was later reported that it was a distinct possibility that the maintenance man could have forgotten a can of gasoline in the basement earlier that day.”

  “So was it arson or an accident?”

  “Arson…accident…It doesn’t fucking matter. This guy probably could get away with murder.”

  Tabatha raises an eyebrow and makes a notation. Then their attention is diverted by some noise coming from a small group of officers who’ve gathered outside Cools’s office window to watch the two of them as they interact, most likely paying more attention to her. Cools throws them a quick a glare before shutting the blinds and denying them anymore fun. Tabatha looks down to her legs and blushes a bit. Cools pretends not to notice and returns to the task at hand, adding, “Now here’s another curious tidbit. Our records show that twice within the past year, 911 calls were made from a woman, claiming to be Kimberly Siconolfi, reporting to have been physically abused by her husband. But no contact with her was ever made, other than the initial calls.”

  Tabatha writes on her pad and asks, “Are there going to be any charges filed concerning the events of this morning?”

  “No, most likely not. But I’ll tell you this: this freak has jumped a step.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, not only does he escape any real punishment, but each time he advances to the next level of violence against women. Just the fact that he’s fantasizing about it, especially in this much detail, would mean he’s getting closer to actually doing it.”

  “So he is a danger to Kimberly, in your opinion?”

  “Let me show you something.” He navigates his keyboard to revisit an old case; a picture of a young, pretty girl lights the screen. He swivels the monitor, giving Tabatha a better view. “This is Sherry Hill before what he did to her.”

  Tabatha sees his facial muscles tense; she then looks jealously to the picture of the teenage girl in her cheerleading uniform; the insignia across the bottom reads, “Senior Year 1984.” She is tiny, looking as if she weighs a hundred pounds, with eyes bright and full of life, and light brown hair partially hanging over her delicate features.

  “She’s as cute as a baby kitten.”

  Cools waits until Tabatha has taken her in before pressing forward. “And this is what he did to her.” Another quick click of the keyboard, and a horrifying picture of a dead-looking girl appears on the monitor; she is nearly unrecognizable. Her left cheek is busted, exposing bone; one of her eyelids is entirely swollen shut, the other not far behind. Her nose is smashed and discolored, and dried blood cakes her once ivory-white skin. Cut marks, bruising, and broken blood vessels cover most the rest of her body. A couple of close-ups then reveal that two of her finger nails had been completely snapped off and clumps of hair had been ripped out of her scalp, as she fended off her attacker.

  “Oh God, she’s a mess. But wasn’t this a car wreck?”

  “No!” he yells. Then he opens a drawer, fumbles through a few files, and hands her an unofficial report he’d written years earlier. Tabatha begins to read in silence. Her first impression is that Detective Cools is a gifted writer. As she reads, the story comes alive.

  Joshua walks into a dealership and begins the process of a new purchase. Then, when left alone in the salesperson’s office, he sneaks a look at the monthly sales sheet until he finds what he’s looking for—2013 Cadillac Escalade sold to Ronald and Anne Hollister just five days earlier. He shuts the door to the office and makes a call.

  It takes seven rings before Anne, because of her age, can check the caller ID (“Jenkins Cadillac”) and answer. “Hello.”

  “Hi. Is this Anne Hollister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, Anne. I’m David Ellis, the shop manager, down here at the dealership. And I’m sorry to inform you that we have to recall your Escalade. I shouldn’t bore you with the details, but there’s a relay switch that needs to be replaced— one that I was supposed to have done before it was sold. So I’m in a bit of a bind here. I’m a married man, Anne, with three kids, and I cannot afford to lose my job. So what I would like to do this afternoon is send a man over to pick it up, and I can have it back to you, fixed, fully gassed, and cleaned inside and out, in under two hours.”

  “Well…” She pauses. “Well, I don’t think that would be a problem, David. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your work.”

  “Okay, great, Anne. I’ll send my guy over. You’re a real sweetheart.”

  Thirty-two minutes later Anne Hollister is handing over the keys to her new Escalade to Joshua, who’s now wearing a mechanics uniform.

  Tabatha turns the page, and the story moves forward.

  Joshua is in his home. He’s drunk and ranting at little Sherry Hill. Then he begins smacking her around, beating her until she’s unconscious, then dragging her limp body into the garage. He sits her up in the front seat, and soon they are driving down the interstate. He reaches over and turns off the airbag for the passenger side and starts speeding recklessly through the night’s traffic. He veers over the white line and onto the drunk bumps. He looks at her. She doesn’t wake, even as the truck continues to speed faster and faster. Then he moves his gaze back through the windsh
ield, still steering off the road. Up ahead there’s an underpass embankment. He aims the vehicle and closes his eyes. They crash into it at full speed. The Escalade flips, end over end, crashing upside down. There’s nothing left but twisted metal, broken glass, and smoke.

  Tabatha’s mouth falls open as she turns the page.

  Now Joshua is in the ER, being treated for some light abrasions and a dislocated shoulder, while Sherry is in an adjacent room on the operating table, looking like Hannibal Lecter was playing with her.

  When Cools sees that Tabatha has finished his report, he adds, “But Daddy convinced the prosecutor otherwise, and Joshua was allowed to plea to the lesser crime of vehicular assault due to negligent driving.”

  “And what about stealing the car?”

  “It’s not a theft when the owner hands you the keys.”

  Tabatha gasps, springs from her seat, and stands facing the wall for a moment. Cools lets it sink in. She stiffens visibly in anger. “You fucking asshole; why did I never hear of this before?”

  Her reaction catches Cools off guard. But the detective quickly realizes her logic. The story, for her, always comes first. He raises his hands in defense. “You know we cannot let information like that leak. We couldn’t prove it, and no one wants to look incompetent in the face of the public.”

  “You let him off because you didn’t want to look bad?” she wails.

  “Remember, William was representing him; we had to make certain concessions.”

  “Concessions? Concessions!”

  “Look, Tabatha,” he says, holding out his hands, gesturing for a truce, “it makes no sense to try a man for something we cannot prove.” Tabatha doesn’t reply. “We have a responsibility not to supply ideas to the public; they’re much better served believing that forensics, that CSI will uncover any crime.”

  Then silence. They both linger for a minute, cooling down. “Okay, I see your point,” she says, retaking her chair, switching gears. Between a few smiles and soft eyes, she apologizes for her outburst. They talk for a while until their emotions subside and a bit of playful flirting finds its way back into their little chat. Wanting more, she invites him to her apartment for some late-night conversation and a few drinks. He responds to her advances in a way Tabatha has only experienced a few times in her life: he refuses the offer. Disappointed she leaves as sassy as she came, thinking that whoever the woman is in his life, he must really love her.