Somewhere in the Dark

by R. J. Jacobs

  Detective Williams is asking someone, “You sure?” He sounds like he has stifled a laugh. Maybe this is just business for him, just another day at work.

  A second later, he emerges from my bedroom holding a crowbar. He walks with such purpose that I know where he means to go. I flash back to yesterday morning—him, me, and Detective Marion sitting around this very table. Me trying to keep my eyes off the bottom drawer of my dresser. Now he looks down at the very same thing, smacking the crowbar against his palm.

  “Last chance to open this up for us,” he tells me, then winks.

  “Stop,” I say. “Please.”

  Williams hesitates. He tests the edge of the crowbar against his thumb as the officer looking under my sink shifts forward and looks up, his neck an accordion of wrinkles.

  I need to tell them about Brian Peterson, but my head is a mess. Where would I begin?

  “There’s something else, something I know,” I manage to say.

  Williams shakes his head.

  “I’m sure you do know a thing or two. You can give a statement later. The only thing now is whether you want to open this drawer or watch me pry it open. Your choice.”

  I twist the soles of my shoes on my kitchen floor and dig my fingernails into the knees of my jeans. Not wanting to open the drawer isn’t about the restraining order. I’m already in trouble. The only reason charges haven’t been pressed already is the police have been too busy to bother—maybe that is about to change. No, wanting to keep the drawer locked is about having things that are mine. Only mine. Possessions. Privacy. A safe place.

  A dream.

  Unless you have one, you can’t explain wanting to protect it. Sometimes, I wonder if I am the only one on earth with a private world.

  Williams widens his eyes at me, waits one more moment. Then he shrugs and begins to kneel.

  “I’ll open it,” I say.

  I walk across the living room, my shoes adding more prints to the marked-all-over carpet. My space feels ruined already, but keeping things a certain way doesn’t really matter anymore. Williams glances at the officer standing in the kitchen like he’s just won some kind of bet while I reach inside the shade of my floor lamp, my fingers finding the space between folded fabric and the plastic piece, and pull out a key—shiny and silver and small. It looks strange as I hold it in my hand, almost like I am seeing it for the first time. It’s warm in my palm from the heat of the lightbulb.

  Inside I feel like I’m falling, collapsing, as Williams makes space for me. I feel a surge in my throat, like both a cough and a sob, as I slip the key into the lock. Another officer comes up beside Williams. Then another.

  I pull open the drawer and step away. I go to my seat at the table as Williams begins to go through what I’ve kept to myself—James memorabilia sits on top, all there now for him to see. Even having it risks breaking the court order, I know. Ticket stubs. A program. Photos of Shelly I’d taken and printed at the library. There is a copy of Shelly’s high school yearbook I ordered on eBay. Bags of the confetti dropped during their shows. One of Owen’s guitar picks in another bag.

  I spent too much of my state stipend on it. I can’t help it, I want to say. I guess I could tell the police that most of it came from Robert, but would that matter to Williams? I can feel that it won’t. His drive to arrest me feels so focused.

  Williams jerks his head back and hollers, “Somebody take a few pictures of this. And I’m going to need some evidence bags.”

  One of the cops steps forward with a camera. Then, a flash, blinding me.

  Another cop comes forward and hands Williams a set of large tweezers and a stack of Ziplock Piece by piece, he lifts and examines my things. He looks at me, just once, and quickly shakes his head. Then he goes back to sorting through the drawer the way kids sort candy at Halloween. He’s found what he was looking for. Hiding it only made it worse. He seems to believe he is holding confirmation in his hands.

  Another flash.

  My stomach turns over as I watch.

  Williams reaches into the drawer and picks up the Discman. I had it wrapped in a soft cotton cloth to protect it from scratches and dust. A shudder goes through my body. All I can think is: What if he drops it? I could buy a new one, but it would never be the same. My legs are tight like I mean to spring forward. My hands grip the bottom of the chair.

  Williams squints at it and removes the cloth, drops it on the carpet where it partly covers the round black tip of his shoe. “Huh,” is what he says, like he is puzzled by a relic. Maybe that’s what it is to him.

  But what he holds in his hands kept me alive for thirteen months. He doesn’t understand that what he’s holding is a world.

  I think I may throw up across the table when he pops open the cover and peers inside. “Please,” I say, out loud.

  Williams turns his back to me, holds the Discman to his ear, and shakes it.

  “No, please,” I beg. “I have to have that.”

  The other officers look at me, then exchange glances.

  “Sometimes, there are little compartments in these things,” he tells the others. He pulls out Shelly’s CD and drops it onto the floor beside the cloth, then digs his thumbnail into the spring-loaded battery cover.

  I shut my eyes in a long blink, a reminder not to feel sorry for myself. Finch and Owen lost much, much more. Shelly James actually lost her life. But I can’t watch Williams anymore. I set my head down on the table over my folded arms.

  I will not cry in front of these men, I think.

  A second later, a different cop rushes in. I feel the table tremble from his footsteps and prop my chin on my arm, looking up. He whispers something to Detective Williams, who looks confused and asks, “Really?”

  They both look at me. In that second, the room’s air pressure drops, the way it does right before a thunderstorm. When another cop comes over, I hear Williams tell him clearly, “… likely recovered the murder weapon.”

  No.

  I shake my head. That’s not possible.

  I wasn’t present when Shelly James was killed. I have no idea what weapon killed Shelly James. I couldn’t possibly have it.

  But they are sure I do.

  The look on Detective Williams’s face tells me everything I need to know about his intentions now. He has a drawer filled with evidence, a suspect he can place at the scene of the crime, and now a murder weapon. I am not guilty, but it sure as hell looks like I am—even to me.

  His handcuffs jangle as he takes them from his belt. The cop beside him rests his hand on the butt of his gun.

  “Jessie, stand up for me.”

  I try to talk but my throat feels airless and dry. Did I hear right? Why else would Williams be about to arrest me?

  “Turn around,” he says, “and spread your feet apart. Put your hands together behind your back.”

  He is about to touch me.

  “Let me … put them on,” I try, finally finding the words. I hold my hands out in front of me. I don’t want to go, but it will be better this way.

  “Turn,” he barks. “Now.”

  Beside me, the hallway light flickers. The room spins a little like a rolling screen on an old TV.

  A hand suddenly grabs my shoulder from behind. Electricity shoots through my body from the suddenness of the touch. As I jerk upward, the back of my skull connects with the bridge of the cop’s nose.

  After that, everything happens very fast.

  Drops of blood splatter all over my kitchen floor. The cop I’ve hit starts to shout as his shoe smears them horribly. Williams’s eyes widen as he lunges forward, searching for my wrists. I can’t think, don’t think, knock over the chair I’ve been sitting in as I turn, the top beam catching Williams’s shin. He jumps back, wincing.

  “Somebody fucking grab her,” he screams.

  Two more cops rush out of my bedroom, but I’m already out the front door. I run into the hall, ducking under the arms of another cop who tries to block my way. I fling open the hall
way door and tear down the steps, into the night.

  I’ve officially lost my mind.

  You can’t run from police, I know. At least not for long. I have no idea where I mean to go, or how to get away. I am not Detective Marion, able to “lay low” until I can crack the case. Wherever he is, he suddenly is of no concern to the police. I am now the suspect.

  My legs turn, my feet landing one ahead of the other, a reflex that keeps firing. I tell myself I can figure out where I’m going later. I just breathe and go as voices shout behind me, yelling my name, telling me to stop. An engine starts and blue lights begin to move. I cut across the road without looking, a car screeching to a stop inches from me, its horn blaring, its driver furious. The thick night air stings the back of my throat. I grip the top of the wooden fence, my hands knocking loose dust and debris that’s settled there from the trees above. The board bends where I plant my foot but holds my weight as I throw my other leg over the top.

  I see the bounce of approaching flashlights during the second I’m poised on top. I hear the commanding call of men’s voices telling me to stop immediately, to go no farther. But I do the opposite—I let go and fall backward, my hair whipping around my cheeks. The ground is a jolt against my back that shakes my whole body, forcing the air from my chest.

  I roll once, and for a second my legs feel numb. I gasp, but can’t breathe. I force myself to roll onto my stomach, where I push myself up onto my elbows, then onto my hands. I heave myself forward, my head light from moving without oxygen. I pray my breathing will come back quickly. Already I hear boots scraping against wood, the police at the fence, trying to scale it—unable to find traction enough to let them get over the top.

  Gravity seems to shove at my back, forcing me down the small hill into a parking lot, then toward a sidewalk. I brush myself off as I go, staggering, the world spinning as I manage to draw in tiny breaths.

  I recognize the street in front of me, though I’ve never approached it from this side. Ahead is the bus stop where I bounced from one foot to the other to stay warm the winter before I saved enough for my car, where each morning I pulled my sleeves over my frozen hands.

  I glance behind me—they still have not cleared the fence. The bus shelter is thirty feet away, then twenty, and is empty. I hurry to it as the bus rounds the corner with its sad-sounding acceleration and blinding, near eye-level lights. The air brakes cry out just as I reach the shelter. I keep my eyes down and climb aboard as the door swings open. I brush clumps of dirt from my shirt as I take my seat and then disappear down the dark road, hoping like hell there will be time before I’m arrested to do what I know I have to do.

  * * *

  I change buses to get to where I’m going, and the second is slightly more crowded than the first. This time the driver gives me a long, disapproving look as I board and make my way to an empty seat near the back. Any other day riding the bus might have been a chance to sit quietly and think, but now I keep looking up at the rearview mirror, catching the driver’s gaze twice. Stop, I tell myself, eyes down, between your shoes. Because there is no going dim—not here, not now. The driver might not be able to place me fully, but he recognizes me, at least partially. I see a searching intensity in his eyes.

  But my mind can’t fully process him. Too much of it is trying to figure out how the murder weapon was found in my apartment. Just when I thought I was starting to understand where I fit into the story, the structure had crumbled again.

  What kind of weapon was it? Neither cop said. Did Williams plant it somehow? I don’t think so—he seemed satisfied when its discovery was announced, but a little surprised too.

  Outside, a police car goes screaming past, headed in the other direction, its red-and-blue lights on, siren shrieking until it fades. Is it headed toward my neighborhood? There are probably all kinds of ways to find me—police techniques I could never begin to guess. My tongue’s tip finds my chipped tooth as I picture Marion and his faraday bag and think of how he described staying hidden. He’d said most people weren’t “willing” to do what it took.

  I will be, I know.

  I am.

  At my stop, I get off at a measured pace, then trot up the sidewalk toward the store I mean to go to, its cursive sign red and aglow. I pull my phone from my back pocket, pausing for a second to appreciate the miracle of it still being in my possession—somehow it managed to stay in place during my escape over the fence. The screen is a spiderweb of cracks, but lights up when I touch it. I find Detective Marion’s number as the store’s glass door whooshes open.

  The cool air-conditioning chills the sweat on my skin. Soft rock plays as I step into the fluorescent light. I press the phone to my ear and listen to the call ringing, picturing his phone tucked away in the little bag he showed me—maybe still in the glove box of his car. As I move into the first aisle I pass a clerk and switch the phone to my other hand to shield my face. When the call goes to voice mail, I curse under my breath, then turn into another aisle. I pick a pine needle from my sleeve as I scan the shelves. I don’t know where to find what I am looking for, but there is no way to ask. Think, pay attention. Stay calm and look.

  A second later, the phone rings in my hand, making me jump a little. During the pause between rings, I realize I’d partly given up hope of reaching him. I answer in a whisper, “Detective?”

  “Hello?” he asks. “You called?”

  “Yes,” I say … the word for having a style and a strategy, trying to ask my question tactfully. “You mentioned collecting evidence before—samples and tire prints. If you could do that rubbing on a tire, what would you use?”

  “Um,” he begins, tiredly. I picture his hand half-covering a confused expression on his face. We parted ways less than an hour earlier.

  “For the tire, you’d just need a picture to start. Shoes, you’d be scraping bits of dried mud, soil. The analysts look for a match to place them at the crime scene. Why? Did you remember something? About the car?”

  This is going to be easier than I’d thought. No real rubbing on the tire.

  I know how to handle the physical evidence—I just watched the police with my things. I turn down the aisle where the Ziploc bags are kept, aware now of the black-domed store cameras recording me from above.

  “Are … you there?” he asks. “Listen, promise me you aren’t going to that memorial event tonight. It would be so easy for people to get the wrong idea. Officers know to look for you and won’t hesitate to pick you up, and I don’t want you to spend any more time in jail. Okay?” He sounds like he’s walking now. I hear street sounds in the background.

  He and I aren’t much alike—no, we are hardly anything alike. There are about a hundred reasons for us not to trust each other, but we’re helping each other despite them. My head finally puts words to how I feel about Detective Marion: he is kind to me because that’s the kind of person he is.

  “I promise,” I say. “I don’t want to get arrested again. I don’t need another chipped tooth.”

  He laughs a little. The sound brings me a few seconds of happiness.

  “I’m sorry about that. You were lighter than I thought and I had to get you to the ground.”

  It’s no biggie, I want to say. It’s not like you locked me in a closet for a year.

  “Sometime …” he begins, then hesitates. “Sometime, I’d like to get that fixed for you.”

  I don’t know how to respond. If he only knew, that chip is the least of my worries at the moment.

  “Have you found anything?” I ask. “Of Brian’s?”

  “No. I drove by hoping I’d get lucky with the car parked outside. But, no, collecting evidence isn’t going to be easy. And apparently now there’s added security at their house. Either Brian Peterson truly thinks a killer is on the loose and is afraid for his family, or he’s over-correcting. He’s trying to make it look like he’s on the right side of this thing by acting like they’re in danger, too.”

  This thing.

  This t
hing that ended Shelly’s life and swirled ours together. My mind wanders to what she must have looked like lying on the ground, lifeless—an image I still can’t fit together with the energetic, charismatic woman who ran across stages all her life.

  I shake the thought from my head. “Can you meet me at the Belle Meade Walgreens in an hour?”

  I hear him sigh.

  “I’m lost, Jessie. Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  He doesn’t know that Williams has searched my apartment. This is good. I pray he doesn’t hear anything in the next hour about the fact that I’ve run.

  “Can you? Something I want to give you in person,” I say. It’s slightly misleading, but necessary.

  There’s a pause during which I picture him checking the time.

  “The one on Harding?” he asks, finally.

  I tell him yes, then hang up.

  Marion said he couldn’t gather evidence. But I can. I know how to get in and out of a house, and how to be invisible while I do it. I only have one chance to find the evidence that will solve Shelly’s murder and prove my innocence.

  I buy the Ziploc bags and a set of tweezers from a sleepy-eyed clerk with one eye on her phone. On the TV screen behind her, I see a shot of a crowd with a ticker along the bottom that reads: Shelly James Memorial. The camera cuts to a shot of Municipal Auditorium, where people have already begun to gather, the sky behind them yellowed by the streetlights. Some are holding candles, a few others carrying signs. One sign is held by a woman whose hair looks like Shelly’s. It reads: MISS YOU ALWAYS. Another says, SEE YOU IN HEAVEN, SHELLY JAMES.

  The fine print on the ticker says: Doors open at 7PM, the service begins at 8. I check the time on my phone, then take a left out the door and cross the street into the Petersons’ neighborhood.