by Guy Harrison
Chapter Seven
Once he tucks me into the cruiser, the cop who arrested me paces outside the car and uses the walkie affixed to his chest to communicate with whomever he’s communicating with. I can’t hear all of what is being said but there’s quite a bit of mention about the ID. After waiting what seems like an eternity to be driven somewhere, anywhere, I’m taken to precinct headquarters, booked, given the mug shot treatment and put in jail. They tell me they’re holding me for trespassing, but this seems to have gone on far too long for that. Besides, if this is a simple trespassing case, then why so much focus on the ID?
I can’t give Jimenez much of an update, either; they confiscate my earpiece and cell phone as soon as I arrive at the police station. Thus, I never get to tell her that I am being held at the fifteenth police district headquarters, not more than fifteen minutes away from Lincoln High.
After waiting for what seems like another eternity, I now sit alone in an interrogation room. A single fluorescent light hangs over the table at which I’m sitting. This light is far less maddening than the one at the Agency of Influence branch but I would trade this well-behaved bulb for a chance at getting out of here.
A man in a navy blue suit, badge on his belt, open dossier in his hands, enters the room and closes the door behind him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says. “Had to get a judge to give us a search warrant, schedule your arraignment, and all that other crap … but I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Arraignment?” If they’re considering holding me with or without bail, I clearly wasn’t just arrested for trespassing, which is only a misdemeanor if I recall.
“You know what I don’t understand? After all this time, why on earth would you still be wearing her ID?”
“After all of what time? What do you think I did?”
“You also called out sick at work yesterday and suddenly submitted your resignation this morning. Sounds an awful lot like a guy who had designs of either turning himself in or running away.”
I shrug. “I had something else lined up.”
“You know, your coworkers were shocked. Vouched for you. But I’m having a hard time believing you’re an innocent man. Maybe you can help me.” The detective tosses the Jenny Cooper ID on the table. “Where’d you get that?”
“Someone gave it to me.”
The cop scoffs and shoots me a smirk. He sits down across from me, laying one leg on top of the other. “C’mon,” he says with a smile, “admit it. Admit what you did.”
“I—I’m sorry … I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m beginning to wish I had taken them up on their offer to talk to a lawyer. Whatever this guy wants me to admit, it sounds frighteningly serious.
The detective drops the folder on the table and folds his arms across his chest. “Look, you’re wasting your time. Just admit it.”
“I don’t know wh—”
“Right, because people run from the cops for shits and giggles. Look at the ID. You recognize her, don’t you?”
I look at the card and shrug.
“Doesn’t look familiar?”
I shake my head.
“Read me her name, maybe that’ll help you remember.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I—”
“For the last time, read the girl’s name. You can read, can’t you?”
I look the man in the eye and gulp before opening my mouth. “Jenny Cooper.”
“That’s right,” he says, nodding his head as he bites his lower lip. “Jenny Cooper. You remember what happened to her, don’t you?”
I shake my head.
“Found dead in Pennypack Creek three years ago. Blunt-force trauma to the head, cracked orbital bone, broken leg. Scuffmarks on her bike that made it look like an accident. Tell me; is that the price for saying ‘no’ these days?”
“No! You think I killed her?”
He shrugs. “The evidence doesn’t lie.”
I can feel my face radiating as my arteries and veins pound the walls of my neck. I damn near faint as I sit back in my chair, letting the detective’s words reverberate in my mind. I’ve been set up … by way of human error, I think. I don’t believe an organization as benevolent as the Agency of Influence would go to such elaborate lengths to see to it that Jenny Cooper’s death—which was a cold case, it seems—was pinned on me.
The detective clears his throat. “I’ll give you credit … the marks on the bike, the absence of DNA … you covered your tracks.”
“But it’s just an ID,” I say, my eyes fixed on the card instead of the man.
“Unless you have one hell of a story, it’s all we need.” He leans forward and places his interlocked hands on the table. “C’mon. Just admit it.”
He’s right. There’s no way of convincing anyone that I was given that ID by accident without being laughed out of town and into prison. The only other plausible explanations would either include me having a weird mentor-like friendship with Jenny or with a friend of hers. Either way, I look suspicious.
I can’t say anything else, lest I risk further incriminating myself.
“Nothing?” says the interrogator, eyebrow raised, anger growing in his eyes.
My lips start to quiver and my hands start to quake; I’m losing control of my body. I don’t feel like I’m going to cry but I feel paralyzed instead. I can’t speak because I can’t breathe. I can’t hear what the detective’s saying because my mind is racing, speaking over him. And I can’t move a limb because I don’t want to appear even guiltier. Detectives study body language, don’t they?
Suddenly, the detective grunts and slaps his hand on the table. He stands up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With the weight of a murder charge firmly placed upon my shoulders, my mind starts racing for a solution. I have no way to reach Jimenez or Ronni, not that the latter could do anything about this. Even if they do give me my phone call, I’ll still be locked up in here. My only solution is escape.
I look at the walls and then the ceiling. As I look at each corner of the room, I notice a camera, located on my right, above the door. The first plan that pops into my mind is a risky one but if it’s going to work, I have to employ it now.
Looking straight ahead, I set my mind on the camera and cut its cable. Next, I tear the camera off the wall and watch it fall to the floor before it breaks into several pieces.
Swoosh!
Now sitting at the table, hands cuffed in front of him, is Detective Lawrence, a young man I noticed leaving the station when I was being booked. He has closely-cropped brown hair, brown eyes and a tan complexion.
The interrogator bursts back into the room, his eyes wide open. “Lawrence?”
“I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I could get him to crack.”
Veins protrude from his neck. “Are you kidding me?”
“First, stop yelling. Secondly, you’re wasting your time. He just left, you can still catch him.”
The interrogator barks an f-bomb and turns around in a huff, his jacket flailing in the air like a cape. With the door left open, I stand up, leave the interrogation room and begin walking down a short hallway lined with vanilla-colored concrete walls.
I hear a steady commotion come from around the corner. Sounds like a large group of people. As I get closer to the corner, the commotion grows louder, reaching its highest volume when I reach the end of the hall and take a left turn around the corner.
The precinct’s front lobby is a circus.
In addition to the dope pushers and prostitutes waiting in line to be booked, there are several more people sitting in the station’s lobby and many more milling about outside. Through the crowd in the lobby, the decibel level inside the station rises with each opening of the precinct’s double doors. I look through the horde of people and get a clearer picture of what exactly awaits outside; the media.
They’re ravenou
s, the media. And they’re all waiting to catch a glimpse of Calvin Newsome. That gives me an odd sense of comfort in this otherwise ghastly situation. Because I know I’m innocent as charged, I can judge the media throng barricading the police station’s front steps as ugly. To their knowledge, the murderer of a teenage girl has been captured and they’re frothing at the mouth, almost giddy to be covering this story. I know that the if it bleeds, it leads mentality is the mantra that most media outlets live by these days but, given my unique position, I can now see it for all its absurdity.
“He escaped!” exclaims a man.
A collective gasp fills the lobby. With the subtlety of a tidal wave, word of my escape filters through the lobby and out to the media in front of the building. I find the nearest officer at the front desk and approach him in a harried state.
“He got me,” I say, holding up my cuffed hands. “You got a key to take these off?”
“Detective Lawrence? I thought you went home.”
“I did … but I couldn’t stand being at home with that shithead here.”
The cop chuckles before sifting through a collection of keys on a ring so large, you could fit a Nerf ball through it. “I hear you on that one.” He finds the key. “How’d he get you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I must’ve blacked out. One minute I was talking to him, the next minute he had me in cuffs.”
“Wow.”
“Crazy, right?”
The cop undoes my cuffs. With my wrists free, I resist the urge to rub them. I look behind the counter for my cell phone and wallet when I jump at the sound of a loud voice.
“Lawrence!” the detective yells. I hear the man but don’t acknowledge him. “Lawrence!” He grabs me from behind and turns me around, speaking with clenched teeth. “You’re coming with me.”
“I am?”
“C’mon.”
I follow him through the crowded lobby. “Where are we going, Detective, um, Jones?”
“First off, the name’s Suter,” he says. “Secondly, we’re going to his house. The jerk might pop up.”
“Do we have a warrant?”
“What do you mean, do we have a warrant? You were there when we searched his place, remember? You better hope his ass turns up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suter opens the station’s front door, exposing us to the collection of media-types guarding the stairwell. As soon as we reach the edge of the staircase’s top landing, microphones, tape recorders and all manner of other electronic devices are shoved in our faces. Suter acts as a lead blocker, opening up the smallest of spaces for us to squeeze through.
The media, determined to get the right quote, says us question upon question, speaking over one another. Suter and I reach the pavement and shove our way to a black Ford Taurus parallel parked on the street. Suter utilizes the car’s remote and motions for me to get in. I open the door and climb in, surprised to see no police equipment inside, save for a walkie and dispatch receiver. I suppose homicide detectives use their own vehicles when on the case.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Suter says, slamming the driver side door.
“I don’t know, I—”
“If he doesn’t turn up, I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your ass.” He turns the ignition and drives off, parting the sea of media.
“Relax, man. We’ll find him.”
“Relax!? That’s a pretty big collar you just let get away.”
“You honestly think he’s that big of a collar?” The Taurus fishtails as Suter takes a sharp right turn. I instinctually place my hand on the dashboard to steady myself.
“Hell, yeah. You saw all the reporters.”
“Yeah, why were there so many?”
“Have you seen the girl’s picture?”
“No.”
Suter’s knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. His head turns about like an oscillating fan as he scans our surroundings for his prey. “She was pretty. A girl like that gets murdered … that’s just asking for attention.”
“Remind me. Did we find anything at his place?”
“No. The guy’s place was clean. We’re still waiting on that scan of his computer, though.”
Great. There goes my stash of porn.
“And we impounded his car, too. Can you believe the guy made a six-figure salary and drove a Kia?”
I catch myself, careful to keep my breath from escaping loudly out of my mouth. I’ve most likely seen my car for the last time. Hopefully the same won’t hold true for the light of day.
In a normal world, my murder trial would not be as much of a slam dunk as Detective Suter thinks it is. Any team of defense attorneys I assemble would be able to find me a more than adequate alibi. Between my e-calendar at Maxwell and my phone records, I’m sure my legal team could prove that I was nowhere near Pennypack Park at that time. But my world isn’t normal anymore. The truth is, I was given Jenny’s ID and I don’t have anyone credible to blame for giving it to me.
As we get off the interstate, approaching Northern Liberties, I begin to appreciate the car ride. This is probably the best thing that could have happened after my escape from the interrogation room. I don’t have any money for a cab and taking the bus all the way to FDR Park would have proved risky; who knows how many Agents of Justice utilize public transportation.
Entering my townhouse will be easy—I use keyless entry, as you recall—but breaking away from Suter will be the hard part. If I can somehow manage to do that, I’ll be able to gather a few things—some clothes, money, and the cellphone I use for matchmaking. That is, of course, unless the cops confiscated those items, too.
“What are we doing?” I say as we pull up in front of my townhouse.
“We’re staking out.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes. We’ll have cops all over the city looking for this guy.”
“Except here.”
“Right. And he might be dumb enough to come back here. If the bastard shows up, I want to be the one to bag him.”
“Not if I cuff him first,” I say with a grin.
Suddenly, Suter turns and grabs me by the lapels, bringing my face only inches away from his. “This is my case,” he says, his breath warming my face. “You arrest him and I’ll put my foot up your ass. You understand?” He lets me go, the tension in his face subsiding as he pulls away before he finally bursts into laughter. “I’m just kidding you, pal.”
“That was hilarious,” I say, unimpressed. “You really had me going.”
“Yeah I did,” he says before containing himself. Detective Suter is either bipolar or has a sick sense of humor. I’d rather have Jimenez as my partner.
I turn my attention back to my window to look at my townhouse, its yellow vinyl siding glistening in the moonlight. My building is a new build, constructed as part of a gentrification process that would later accommodate the influx of yuppie hipsters that have inundated the neighborhood. Knowing that my heart wasn’t in my work at Maxwell, I decided to rent a place instead of buying.
“Man, I’m thirsty,” Suter says, tugging at his necktie. He engages the car’s power locks and opens both our windows. I look at the convenience store across the street, kitty corner from my townhouse.
“Go grab a drink,” I say, nodding toward the store. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
He takes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “Yeah right. You already let him go once. You go.”
“I don’t have any cash,” I say, reaching into my pockets. “I left my wallet back at the station.”
Suter opens his door. “Fine. I’ll be right back.” He climbs out of the car and closes the door.
My heart begins to race.
“Don’t be no hero,” he says, pointing at me with the unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. “You see him, you call me.”
“Got it.”
I watch Detective Suter walk away, waiting for him to enter the store. I’m sure he’l
l be watching me like a hawk since he’s so apparently hell-bent on making a name for himself. I crack my knuckles in anticipation; I want my fingers loose for when I dial my keyless entry code.
When Suter crosses the street and enters the store, I already have my hand on the door’s handle. He turns back once more to make sure that I’m still in position and that the fugitive has not returned to his roost. He then makes a beeline for the refrigerated section of the store. The store’s entire selection of beverages faces the entrance, so Suter has his back turned to me.
This is my chance.
Before he can choose between Pepsi and Coke, I open the door but stop. A homeless woman with a shopping cart full of cans strolls right in front of the car. I close the door.
Dammit.
I could go for it now but if this lady sticks around, she could tell Suter that I’ve gone inside. I want to give him the impression that I’ve left the scene completely. After taking another peek at Suter, I look at the woman. She doesn’t stop at the corner. She continues walking down the street, out of sight. I might have missed my chance, though. Suter has reached the checkout counter, Coke in hand, his Taurus in full view. Before reaching for his wallet, he turns around to study the junk food behind him.
Now or never.
I thrust the door open—using my hands, this time—before racing to my townhome’s front door. Without looking back, without closing the car door, I type the four digit code. The lock scolds me with an angry tone. I must’ve fat fingered the code. Or maybe it was changed.
Shit.
I take a peek back. Suter still has his back turned. With the fury of someone who’s just seconds away from urinating himself, I try my code one more time. This time, the lock greets me with a friendly tone. I open the door just enough for me to slip in, and close it shut.
Relief.
I finally breathe. My heart pounds against my chest, my legs shake in my slacks.
“Lawrence!” I hear Suter yell outside.
Through my peep hole, I watch as the detective runs across the street and slams his car’s door closed.
“Lawrence!” He uses the Lord’s name in vain as he pulls his gun off his hip. He then looks both ways before running down the street, away from my townhouse.
Out of habit, I turn around and reach for the light switch before catching myself. Instead, now that my eyes have adjusted, I climb the stairs using the faint combination of moonlight and streetlight to lead the way. I take each step slowly, careful not to trip in the dark stairwell.
My place is one of those where the entrance sits at ground level but everything else is upstairs. The main inhabitable space hangs over covered parking. I never did get to park in my designated spot last night; some jerk decided he was entitled.
When I reach the top of the first flight of stairs, I step away from the stairwell and turn onto the first floor. It comes as no surprise to me that my place has been ransacked. I’m not a neat freak but I try my best to keep the place tidy. So, when I see a stream of clothes spread across the cherry wood flooring and into my laundry room, I know that’s not my work. I peek to my right—into the laundry room—and see that it’s been pillaged.
Thank goodness my place is a rental. I won’t have to worry about keeping up with a mortgage when I go into hiding. My landlady will be inconvenienced but she’ll have my full permission to ditch all the stuff I leave behind.
I walk past the kitchen and notice that they left that relatively unscathed, save for a single, wide open cabinet. I take a few steps into the living room. I can tell they took liberties with my furniture, but nothing outlandish. I look over at my desk, located next to the kitchen, and see the space where my computer used to be. The monitor is still there, but the tower, which was underneath the desk, is gone. I walk over to the desk and open its drawer, hoping to find my matchmaking phone. Instead, I find nothing, save for my matchmaking phone’s charger.
I grab the charger and close the drawer before heading back toward the stairwell. I’d love to disconnect my PlayStation 3 and take it with me but I just don’t have time for that. I need to pack the essentials, call Ronni, and lay low until Elena finds me.
Still careful to walk softly, I inch closer to the stairwell, reaching out my hands so as not to knock anything over. The walls in this building are thick but I don’t want to chance anyone hearing me next door.
When I get to the stairwell, I watch a police cruiser come to a stop across the street. I crouch down on the top step of the first flight of stairs. With my back against the wall, I peek around corner and through the window. I don’t want to run across the window and risk drawing attention to myself.
Two cops exit the car and stay on that side of the street. They look pretty jovial, perhaps just making the rounds. After sharing a hearty laugh the two officers round the corner across from my townhome and across from the convenience store before eventually walking out of view. I traipse up the stairs, still careful to take quiet, yet efficient steps.
On the second floor, the moon brightens my master suite through two skylights that dot the ceiling. This is where the police did the most damage. Clothes, shoes, ball caps, coats and jackets are strewn all across the floor and on my bed. Thankfully, the safe in my closet is still intact. I step over some of my clothes on the floor as I make my way to the safe. As I starting entering the code to open it, I hear a noise from within the closet.
Buzz-buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz.
I survey the few jackets that are still hanging in my closet. I feel my leather jacket.
Buzz-buzz-buzz.
Then I feel a sports coat. I can feel something hard in one of its pockets.
Perfect. My matchmaking cell phone—a small BlackBerry. Because I haven’t yet attached my name to my matchmaking practice, the police most likely won’t know to trace this number, unless they track my domain name back to me. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to memorize Jimenez’s number. At least I remember Ronni’s.
I look at the BlackBerry and see that I just missed a call from Ronni. I have four missed calls in total—three of them from Ronni—and a voicemail. Other than my clients, Ronni’s the only person who has this number. I press the key to play the message.
“Hi,” says a nervous male voice, “my name’s Mark. I’m, uh, calling to schedule an appointment with your company. I’m, uh, not sure how this works but I’m really interested in being matched. Please give me a call back when you can. Thanks.” Just before hanging up, Mark remembers to leave his number.
Poor kid. He’s probably a loner. Too bad most of my clients are probably old enough to at least be his parents. Either this kid’s desperate or the cops have found my number and have attempted to set a trap. I check the time of the message: 8:09 this morning. I had just left the house to hand in my resignation letter to Maxwell.
I go to the text messaging screen and type a message for Ronni: Have you spoken to the cops? I don’t want to send her messages if the police are hovering in her apartment. If they are, my stay here won’t be long.
No. Where r you???
I sit on my cluttered bed and type another message. The less u know, the better.
R u okay? I’m so scared.
I’m fine. I’ll call you in 30 mins, okay?
K. I’m sorry. She adds a sad face to her text. Even in SMS messaging, Ronni’s emo.
Sorry for what? This isn’t your fault. LOL. I love Ronni but sometimes her affection is laughable.
I hold my phone and look through my bedroom windows, both of which overlook a back alley. With no response from Ronni, I type another message to change the subject. I probably hurt her feelings by laughing at her sympathetic text. I didn’t do it.
I know, she replies, this time with a smiley face. Life, death, taxes, and a smile from Ronni: those are my four guarantees in this jacked-up life.
Before doing anything else, I activate my townhome’s alarm system, punching in another code in the keypad near my bedroom door. If the cops come
barging in, I’ll have plenty of notice.
I turn around and look at my clothes—both clean and dirty—spread out across my bedroom. I grab a duffle bag out of my closet and sigh.
This could take a while.
