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

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  “Exactly, finally someone’s making some sense,” Captain Jackson says, tossing a smile to Michelle. “Now we need to get more on him. So contact Kimberly’s family members, talk to the boyfriend, dig through the garbage, follow him if you have to. And you really need to start listening to your partner, Cools. From what I get from her as well as some of the other guys around here, you have some anger issues, my friend; you need to slow down.”

  “Ah, fucking hell,” he grumbles, as he springs from his seat; he turns his back on them and glares out the plate glass window.

  Then, after a few uncomfortable seconds, Michelle takes a chance and recites in a girly voice, “I’m a good little girl…and I don’t want to be…you know… in any trouble or anything.” Captain Jackson looks at her, confused. She begins again, using the same voice. “I just…you know…cover the girls who have…you know, boyfriends and husbands…but I’m a good little girl, Detective.”

  Cools, still with his back turned, tries ignoring her.

  Now getting the joke, Captain Jackson asks, “Is that how she talks?”

  “Yes,” Michelle snickers.

  They share a laugh together until Cools responds by admitting he could hardly contain himself in the interrogation room, and all at once the three of them start laughing hysterically.

  “I gotta get a look at this one,” Captain Jackson says.

  “Oh, you’re going to like her, Captain,” Michelle laughs out in a tone that tells him she’s a hottie.

  He looks to Cools, who, with his expression, verifies Michelle isn’t kidding. He can also see the energy is now running in the right direction and decides to add to the joviality, asking, “Did you see JFK scuttle his butt outta here?” This sends the trio over the edge, and they laugh like they haven’t in years, each of them adding witty comments on the spectacle until they’re exhausted.

  Finally Captain Jackson brings their meeting to a close. “All right,” he says, clapping his hands together, “sounds like I’m gonna do an extended interview with Little Miss Innocent, while you two are gonna hustle up the dirt on our boy Joshua. This creep isn’t gonna make fools out of us, not on my watch—you better believe it. Now, I think you should start with the boyfriend: find out who he is, where he is, and interview him right away.”

  “Okay, boss,” Cools replies.

  Likewise Michelle agrees and gives the captain an assuring smile to let him know she’ll be taking good care of her partner. They all inhale a refreshing breath of air to reorganize their minds before Cools and Michelle are off in search of Kimberly’s lover. The laughter served its purpose, to soothe their demons for the moment. Still, for Cools there is, just below the surface, an underlying sense that life-altering events are soon to take place—an uneasiness that makes you feel like you need to run, that you won’t make it through the day, that today, for some unknown reason, you should be extra careful while crossing the street.

  Chapter Nine

  The deputy mayor of Tacoma sits alone in his master bedroom, uncertain as to what will come next in his existence. His skin is pale, with dark circles below his eyes. There is an eerie stillness that shrouds his thoughts as he makes a call.

  His call is answered.

  “My name is Trace Friesen. I have a beautiful, caring wife. I live in a beautiful home with my children, and I have a promising career. I’ve been preparing my run for governor, and yet today, I am here with a loaded gun in my hand.”

  The listener on the other end is Maggie, a student at Washington State University. There she studies psychology and volunteers in her off time as a suicide lifeline operator—this is her day off.

  “Sir, what you’re doing right now is the best thing you can do for yourself: reaching out. And I will help you through this; we will get through this together.”

  “I’m not asking for your help, Maggie,” he says in a monotone voice. “I only call to clarify my reasons to someone. I already wrote a letter to my friends and family, saying that I am truly sorry to have let them down. But I just feel the need to talk to a person first—my notion of a confessional.”

  “Okay, I will do that for you, but first I ask you to do something for me: tell me why you are sorry. Why do you think you have let them down?”

  He tries clearing his mind in preparation to tell the short and sweet answer. “I am a married man in love with a dancer—a stripper, to be more correct—and I believe her to be dead. She was murdered by her insane husband. And I have been torn in days past, watching it unfold on the news, hearing others mention it continually, knowing it would catch up to me sooner or later.”

  “Are you talking about that creepy guy—Joshua something?” Maggie asks.

  “Yes,” he replies, disgusted that everyone everywhere knows him.

  Then Maggie hears a change in his tenor from anguish to pent-up anger. “I’ve entertained thoughts of killing him, praying deadly misfortune his way… He used to beat her…And I did nothing! Anyway it’s all over; I just received a call from a detective from the Seattle police department. At this very moment, he and his partner are en route to come question me. I have just lost everything— my profession, my beautiful family, my dreams of running for office, and the woman I love!”

  Maggie tries to speak, but her persistence enrages him further.

  Trace holds the phone out a few inches from his mouth and yells into the receiver. “That god-awful psychopath killed her. I know it from some of the things she has told me of him; I know he killed her…And I had to hear her die!” He then breaks down and begins to let out tears of misery.

  Maggie, talking through her headset, says, “That’s okay; just let it out; you sound like a nice man that presently has some problems. But we can work through it together. We can and will get you all the help you need.”

  Trace forces his revulsion back deep inside himself, returning to his monotone voice. “Maggie, I want you to tell my wife how sorry I am and that I always loved her. I want you to tell my children that I love them, but I cannot live with this anymore. I want them to hear it from a person, even if it’s a stranger. I just cannot live with myself, being filled with the rage to kill a man, without the balls to do it! I couldn’t protect her; I am a weak excuse for a man! And I am having very bad thoughts!”

  Now sensing she’s losing him, she begins some tough love. “Trace, think about the scene your wife or kids will see when they come home and see your brains all over the wall, think about how that will affect them for the rest of their lives!”

  Her tactic doesn’t work. He simply replies, “I left the door open for the detective, and I am waiting for him.”

  But Maggie isn’t ready to give up. She retreats to her soft-toned voice, saying, “I know you’ve been through tough times before, Trace, and you sound like the kind of man who can get through this. And what do you mean that you’re waiting for the detective?”

  He ignores her statement and asks, “What is your name?”

  “My name is Maggie—Maggie Aversen. Trace, please, please let me help you.”

  “Maggie, do you believe in God?”

  “Yes, yes I do, and God can help.”

  Then for the second time, he begins to break down. His words crack with desperation as he strains to hold back the fear and frustration that have built up inside him. “Maggie, will you pray for God to help me?”

  “Yes, I will, and we can pray—”

  Next all she hears is what sounds like a choked-up thank you as the line goes silent.

  Chapter Ten

  A quick glance down the hall to make certain the coast is clear gives Officer Lonnell the green light. He sneaks into the video room and taps the space bar on the keyboard, activating the computer screen. Then, after a quick search, he finds what he’s looking for—a file for Amberly Carlson. He plays the clip and, in a short time, learns all that he doesn’t need to know.

  Twenty-seven blocks away, at The Seattle Times, Chuck Sheumer and his editor are discussing whether to sell their new
information to the television networks or just hope they’re the first to break the story in tomorrow’s paper. Little do they know but their decision will be made in a matter of seconds.

  Chucks phone chimes, indicating a new text message.

  Rainman: Kimberly was missing before Joshua did the deed—friend from kitty club says she lied for her—Kimberly was not at work when the police raided his home

  Chuck: confirmed?

  Rainman: Yes Chuck: this is good—very good

  Rainman: I want to be careful—erase these texts—meet me @ Charlie’s 9:30

  Chuck: done—see you then

  Chapter Eleven

  Cools stands knocking at the deputy mayor’s residence. “Hello, is anyone home? This is Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department,” he announces through the open front door. “Hello, Detective Cools here; is anyone home?” Just an hour before, Amberly told them about Friesen. Then Cools made the call and spoke with him on the phone, so it seems odd, to both he and Michelle, that the door has been left partly open and no one is answering. They enter into the foyer. “Hello, Trace…Trace Friesen, are you here?” But still there’s no response.

  Then Michelle yells out into the lavish home, calling for him, her sweet voice resonating off the high ceilings—but no reply. She looks around; everything is clean, seamless, and ear-piercingly quiet.

  Cools continues calling as they walk through the living room area, his loafers clicking on the hardwood floors. He and Michelle exchange looks of bewilderment. She thinks maybe it’s just because they are standing in another man’s home that the voiceless residence seems to have an unnatural presence. And Cools, after spying a few indoor security cameras, gets the strange feeling they’re being watched. Even if they are, it should be very clear to anyone that they are the police. He is wearing a black suit, a thin black tie, and hanging from his belt is a detective’s badge—the normal look for any detective, except Cools doesn’t wear a bulletproof vest; he thinks of them as bulky and bothersome. Michelle also has her badge hanging from her dark gray pantsuit. Their host could very well be distracted by the upper part of her outfit, which is revealing a sizable amount of cleavage.

  Michelle wanders into the Friesens’ restaurant-style kitchen, wondering why a man in his position would be banging a stripper. Could he be responsible for her death? Then, she yells twice more, out through sliding glass doors into a well-manicured backyard, complete with swimming pool, fire pit, and volleyball net. “Must be nice,” she says to herself.

  Upstairs Cools searches methodically room by room until he reaches the master bedroom. A whisper inside his head warns him to move cautiously, as a cold breeze brushes past. He pulls his weapon from its holster. Again he calls through a partly open door, “Trace…Trace Friesen, are you in here?” Still no answer, so warily he nudges it open, and there he finds the man he’d just spoken to forty-five minutes earlier, holding a gun in his lap. The deputy mayor is slumped back over a red chair against a backdrop of bloody material. Cools’s first thought is Michelle; he can hear her downstairs, still calling for the man, and knows they should no longer be seperated. Subsequently he heads back down the stairs, past framed pictures hung on the wall, the survivors of the deceased, as well as a large crucifix pronouncing the faith of his home. He rounds the corner near the bottom of the staircase and catches her eye. “Found him,” he says, in a defeated tone.

  “He’s not…?”

  “Yeah, partner he is. And it looks like he did it himself.”

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”

  “I wish I was.”

  Once more, with Michelle close behind, Cools enters the cold room, this time spotting Trace’s phone near his bare feet. He pulls a set of clean latex gloves out of his jacket pocket. He puts them on and carefully picks up the phone, pressing redial.

  “Suicide crises and prevention.”

  “Did you just receive a call from this number?”

  “Sorry, sir, we do not have caller ID; it’s to keep everything anonymous.”

  “Well, I am a detective from the Seattle Police Department; a call was made from this number at 11:51, just ten minutes ago, and—”

  “Oh my God,” the girl cries, “did he do it?”

  “Are you the person he spoke with?” Cools asks, ignoring her question.

  “No…no, it was Maggie; she’s in the back, freaking out.”

  “I need you to put her on the line right now,” he demands.

  “Ah…all right then…Hold on. I’ll see if I can get her.”

  Then, as he waits for the hotline girl, he watches his partner suspiciously investigating the scene, and remembers just how resilient she is.

  “This is Maggie.” Her sobbing voice comes over the air.

  In an effort to deflect from the emotional state of affairs, he speaks candidly with her. “Maggie, are you the person who spoke with Mr. Trace Friesen?”

  “Yes,” she replies, holding back the tears.

  “What did he say to you, Maggie?”

  She pulls it together, answering, “He was making comments about Joshua, the crazy radio caller, killing his wife. He said he was in love with her.”

  “Maggie, are the phone calls recorded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen up, Maggie. I cannot go into everything right now, but I need to interview you ASAP. I’m going to send a cruiser out to pick you up, and it is very important that you do not talk about this to anyone, okay?”

  “I don’t think I can…,” she replies reluctantly. “Not now, I—”

  “Maggie, yes you can, and you will. And make sure you have the tape.” With that he hangs up and lowers his tone to attend to Michelle. “Have you found anything?”

  “Not much. It seems pretty clear what’s happened here,” she replies, from a crouched position, searching the floor around the body.

  “Are you all right, Michelle?” he inquires, like a protective older brother.

  “Yes, I’m all right, Brad,” she replies defensively. Then she stands glaring at him, folds her salon-styled hair behind her ears, and validates herself further. “I’m fine. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this. You just do what you need to do!” There’s a brief standoff between the two that subsides only when Michelle asks, “How’s the suicide hotline girl going to help us?”

  “Trace made comments that he knew Joshua murdered Kimberly.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he report it to the authorities?”

  “Not sure…But don’t you think it’s a good idea we find out?” She hesitates, but he knows her answer is yes. “Okay then, I need you to get a cruiser over to this suicide hotline place to pick up a girl named Maggie.” Then, from Trace’s phone, he makes a call of his own.

  “Hello?”

  “Milo, this is Detective Cools. I need you to get on your computer and get me the voicemail pin number assigned to this number.”

  “Uh…only…that is illegal.”

  “That’s the easy part; the only part you need to worry about is calling me back with what I need, or I’m going to inform the task force about the secret garden you have hidden in your basement.” Click.

  Ninety seconds later Trace’s phone rings. It’s Milo. “Last four digits of his social: five-nine-zero-seven,” Milo says proudly. “Now, are you going to tell me what this is all—”

  After hanging up on Milo, Cools prompts Trace’s phone to hear his old messages. He skips through, until one says it’s from Kimberly—from eight days ago. “Michelle.” He waves her over, so they can listen together. Standing close they listen intently. It’s the first time either has heard her voice. She sounds upset. “Trace, I’m glad you didn’t answer…‘cause I don’t think I could say this to you in person.” There’s a pause, with only her sniffling. “I just got back from the doctor’s office; they did some tests.” After another short pause, she cries out, “I have HIV. I am so sorry.”

  “We have to call Captain,” Michelle says, flipping her phone
open. She steps out into the hallway where Cools can hear her speaking breathlessly. He listens to her full reporting and then hears Captain’s initial expletive as he screams through the speaker.

  “Fuck! This is turning into a goddamned nightmare. Have you seen the news?”

  “No, but hold on.” Michelle steps back into the master bedroom. She quickly finds the remote for the television on the nightstand and turns it on.

  “What’re you doing?” Cools asks.

  “Hold on.” It doesn’t take her long to find a twelve o’clock news program discussing their case.

  “Sources say Kimberly Siconolfi was reported earlier today as a missing person by a coworker—name not known at this time. What’s more—she’s been missing for a week now. Meaning, as strange as it sounds, she was missing prior to the infamous radio call made by her husband, Joshua Siconolfi. We’ve tried contacting the Seattle police for comment, but they haven’t returned our calls.”

  “Do you see what’s happening?” Captain Jackson says derisively.

  “Yeah, this is getting big, and we don’t exactly know what we’re dealing with yet,” Michelle replies, feeling nauseated.

  “All right,” Captain demands, “I need you, Cools, Maggie, the fucking tape, and a full report in here yesterday; I’m gonna assemble a task force. This one’s going prime-time, and we’re not gonna look like slouches. Not to mention the fact that we’ve got a rat in the house! I bet it’s that Officer Renny; I’ve never liked him anyway—that fat piece of shit. He’s just too much a Goody Two-shoes!”

  “Did you get anything more from Amberly?” Michelle asks.

  “No, I haven’t had a chance, Robertson! I’ve been dodging reporters since you two left. Now, call in the death of the deputy mayor and wait for homicide to arrive, then lead your partner to the car and get your ass in here!”