| Fiction: Between Heaven and Earth: Chapter 2 |
Posted by
feralucce on Saturday, June 07, 2003 - 12:04 AM PST
Chapter Two
As I walk away, I wonder if he’ll drown on his own blood. I mean, I did kick him in the face pretty hard. That part of me that I am not sure that I really like speaks up. It doesn’t really care if he does. I keep walking. I walk to the end of the street and I can hear sirens. Sirens are a sound distinctly out of place in the French Quarter, so I know they’re coming to pick up my assailant.
My steps lead towards the police station. It’s always better to file a report and be an upstanding citizen than it is to wait for the police to find me. Besides, I think I should press charges for him trying to kill me. I turn left and a black and white squad car emblazoned with the crescent and star of New Orlean’s finest prowls past me. Talk about segues.
The First District station of the New Orleans Police Force is something right out of a movie. You walk in the front door, and before you is a high desk where the watch commander sits, flanked by a low half wall on either side. Swinging doors usher you through the half wall, should you be admitted beyond the symbolic barrier.
Sitting at the tall desk, his head a full foot above mine, sat the round and pleasant faced man that commands the entirety of the French Quarter Precinct. His nametag states that his name is Captain Joe Smith. As I approach, I find myself wondering if the captain will be as bland as his name, or if he’s just in the witness protection program.
“What can I do for you, sir?” His voice matches his face, round and friendly. I’ve always felt that the police should sound more menacing than that.
“Well,” I pause, carefully wording my statement, “I need to file a report of attempted murder.” I place the stake carefully on the desk in front of him. From the sound the contact makes, I can tell the desk is real wood, not veneer.
“What do we have here?” His face shifts instantly from friendly to professional, revealing nothing of his thoughts. I might have judged him a bit hastily.
“That, sir, would be the weapon.”
“Are you turning yourself in?”
“No.” My blood turns to a cold slush as it passes through me and my hackles rise. “Some guy attacked me with this.”
“Ah.” His eyebrows crawl up into his hairline to hide for a while, “Why don’t you come on back here, and we’ll get a statement from you.”
They lead me back to another room that could be from the set of any 80’s genre police drama. The walls were a calming and boring gray, and a table stood in the center of the room. A chair sits on either side, and they matched the table and walls. A mirror dominates the wall by the door. I can almost feel the eyes watching me from its impenetrable surface.
I sit here and two officers walk in after fifteen minutes. I tell them what happened. Then, I tell them what happened. Then, once more, because they don’t hear so well, I tell them what happened. They leave me alone for about ten minutes. I find myself thinking I should have just let it alone. As I start to curse myself for playing the upstanding citizen, they come back in.
Bad Cop speaks, “Well, you’re story checks out.”
“Oh?”
“The guy that attacked you is in the hospital, after what appears to be a savage beating.”
“I thought I covered that.”
Good Cop flips through the report he’s been jotting down the entire time. “Yup, right here.”
“So what’s the issue?”
Bad Cop chuckles, “Frankly, you waltz in here with a story like that. A guy shows up at the hospital with the wounds you describe. And you haven’t got a scratch. Just, from a professional standpoint, it seems like you’d have to be lying.”
Good Cop cuts in, “But we’ve got a dozen witnesses that confirm your story, and a S.C.A.V.”, he says that word like it tastes bad, “in the hospital with a pistol in his pocket. Now, it becomes a question of what you want to do about this.”
“I want to press charges. A psychotic man tried to kill me. He tried to do it with a stake. I want him in prison or a mental institute. It doesn’t matter to me which it is, as long as it’s forever.”
Good Cop nods and they both leave the room. The gray room seems to suck my will away as I sit there. They say that millions of dollars a year go into research for criminal pacification every year. It becomes painfully obvious as I wait for them to return that the research has created a shade of gray so flat that it could literally kill a man if he’s left exposed to it too long. Any length of time, in my opinion, is too long.
Just as I feel my will starting to slip completely into the hands of the grey, a third cop enters, a guy I’ve never seen.
He calls me by my real name, something that I hate, “Mr. Davis.”
I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to confirm it. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Richardson. I’m working on a case, and I was just about to come and see you about it.”
“I’ll help any way I can. I mean, you’re the one with the gun.
He chuckles, which I take as a good sign. Most people find it hard to shoot someone when they’re laughing.
“It’s not as bad as all that. Actually, that’s not true; it is as bad as all that, but not for you.”
I look confused. It’s an easy look; I mean it comes naturally when you’re bewildered. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about, officer.”
What he says next makes my blood flow like a freon slushy through my veins. “There was a murder last night. A young lady named Jessica was shot once in the face. She died instantly. Her assailant also had sexual relations with the dead girl.”
“And what, exactly, does that have to do with me?”
“Well,” He pauses for dramatic effect. It almost works, it’s almost dramatic. “Nothing - at least, not directly. Jessica was a regular customer of a bar called Exile. It’s been brought to my attention that you own Exile.”
“That is true, but I don’t know anyone named Jessica.”
He lays down a manila folder. The folder is open and has a ream of paper stuffed inside. There she was, paper-clipped to the inside front cover of it. I knew it was her when he started talking, but Lyric is staring out of the photo at me.
She’s pale, but her hair is a white blonde – natural, not bleached. If I hadn’t been aware of who I was looking at, I would not recognize the girl before me. Lyric’s black clothing, hair, eye shadow, lipstick, and nail polish were absent in this normal looking, happy girl. It’s one of her senior pictures, though not readily obvious, as the pose and setting are far from typical. She’s sitting on a rock in a clearing in the woods. She’s framed in sunlight. Between her legs is a cello, the wood a deep warm red.
She’s smiling – actually smiling. I had never considered Lyric capable of it. But then, this isn’t Lyric. This – this is Jessica. I find myself wondering what it took to take this happy girl and twist her into the gothic lifestyle. Don’t misread my meaning – some people are born cynical, hard and generally fatalistic, but this was not one of those people. I can Feel it. For a brief, flickering moment, I can almost feel her as well.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and my body tries to decide if it is time for fight or flight.
“I recognize her. Only, she didn’t call herself ‘Jessica.’ I knew her as Lyric.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing much. I mean, nothing much that you don’t already know. I guess I could tell you what she normally ordered - that and the fact that she was looking for a real life vampire.”
“And how would you know this last bit of information?”
“She asked me. Last night, she came in, ordered the same thing she always ordered…”
“Which was?”
“Chartreuse.”
“She ordered a shade of green? I am not quite sure I follow.”
“Chartreuse is a brand name for Absinthe. That’s all she ever ordered.”
“In your recollection, is there any one that she associated with on a regular basis?”
“Look, she came in - dressed in black and tragic – sat by herself and drank her cheap thrill. She never spoke to anyone that I saw, except for me. Even then, it was only to make her drink order. She seemed to groove on the music, so I left her to herself and let her do her own thing.”
“So you can’t think of anyone that would have had intimate contact with her?”
“I am sorry, detective, but I really cannot see the relevance of what you are asking. Wait, let me reword that – I see the relevance of your question, but I do not understand why you would be contacting the bartender.”
“That is simple. Most people don’t even think of a bartender as a person. They come in, they drink, and they get to be themselves. Under the influence of alcohol, many people do or say things that they would not normally do. I, personally, always like to talk to someone’s bartender in cases like this. Well – that and their hairdresser.”
I decide I like this one – at least better than I do Good Cop and Bad Cop.
“I understand what you’re saying. Last night she comes in, milks her drink and then slides up to the bar, orders another and asks me if I know where she can find one of ‘them.’ It takes her a good long while to quit being dodgy and tell me that she is looking for a vampire.”
“And how did you respond?”
“With the truth of course.”
“And that is?”
I get an odd feeling – like this guy knows more than he lets on – or maybe that he’s one of those that is looking for ‘them’ as well. “That vampires don’t exist.”
“Mr. Davis, this morning, at approximately 4 am, we received a call at our emergency dispatch center. The caller called in from Jessica’s own phone number, told us about the murder, and where to find her. Then, he hung up.”
“That sounds pretty weird.”
“It is - which is why we are so anxious to find the person who called it in. He’s either going to be the perpetrator, or he knows who did it.”
I kind of wish I did know who did it. I mean, who just shoots someone because they are in your squat? My mother always told me it was bad ju-ju to lie, so I tell him the truth. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground detective. If I hear anything, I will let you know as soon as I do.”
“Mr. Davis, we appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”
“If you need anything, just give me a call.”
***********
Walking back to the Inn, I find myself wondering what motivated me to say that. “If you need anything, just give me a call.” The words sound out of place in my head, let alone on my lips. I dislike any display of authority and I am willing to help in any way. Something was just not right. But, I have to admit, today seems to be the day for it.
The key slides easily into the lock and I walk into the one place on the planet I consider home.
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