Shutter

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “And so who do you think killed Mr. Roman?”

  “Julian’s a good guy,” he says, in lieu of a response. “But he got a really raw deal—not just with this case. His life has always been pretty shitty. A real shame, too—the guy is, like, a genius. Not many people know that.”

  “He’d have to be smart to escape a detention facility and remain on the run.”

  We come to the end of the sidewalk, and Barry crosses the main road.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him.

  “Just a little bit farther,” he says, turning down Cherry Street. It’s a relatively quiet road, with cars lining both sides and a gas station on the far corner.

  “Where?” I insist.

  He doesn’t answer, just keeps on moving, his pace quickening with every step. I’m almost tempted to turn around, but I stay beside him for a few more blocks, my cell phone clenched in my hand.

  I look upward. The clouds have collected over us, and it suddenly appears darker. “Barry?” I demand.

  He stops, finally, and turns to me. “This is it,” he says, nodding to the house.

  We’re standing directly in front of it.

  I recognize the house from news articles: the yellow police tape, the screened-in front porch, the faded white shingles. “Julian’s house,” I mutter.

  “I thought that coming here might give you a better picture of things.”

  “It does,” I say, trying to imagine Julian coming home from the beach that day, parking his car out front, and climbing up the broken steps.

  “I live just around the corner.”

  “And the neighbor whose lawn Julian mowed?”

  Barry points to a red Victorian across the street and a few houses down. “The guy’s pretty nice, but he’s hardly ever home.”

  “If he’s hardly ever home, how can he say for sure what time Julian mowed his lawn?” Not that it even matters much.

  “Apparently the wife came home for lunch around noon and the grass wasn’t cut.”

  “But that’s still hearsay if nobody else can corroborate the detail.”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  “I actually sound a lot like my mother.”

  “Is she a cop?”

  “No. She’s just good at picking stories apart, catching people in lies.”

  “That must suck for you.” He laughs.

  I gaze back at the house. The windows look vacant—no curtains, nothing propped on the sill. The mailbox hangs crooked by the door, its flag pointed downward. “I wish I could see inside.”

  Barry glances over both shoulders before pulling a knife from his back pocket. “Come on,” he says, moving to the side of the house.

  I remain firmly in place, watching as he walks along a row of bushes that separates the Romans’ land from the neighbor’s.

  “We’ll just have ourselves a little peek,” he says, stopping in front of the window toward the back. He cuts a couple of the police tape ribbons.

  I grab the keys in my pocket and run my finger over the sharpest one, ready to use it if I need to. I begin toward him, my curiosity piqued.

  Barry points inside. “This is Julian’s bedroom.”

  I peer through the glass, keeping Barry in my peripheral vision, especially since he’s still holding the knife. Four stark white walls surround two single beds, a broken dresser with lopsided drawers, and a trash barrel that only partially covers a gaping hole in the carpet.

  “See…nothing out of the ordinary,” Barry says.

  “I guess.” If ordinary is a room that resembles a prison cell.

  “The bed on the right was Steven’s.” He points to it. There’s a stack of storybooks where there should be a pillow. “Do you know about Julian’s brother that died?”

  I nod. “Someone in the group found out about him somewhere.”

  “Yeah, sucks. When Steven died, it pretty much killed the family.”

  “Did you know Julian back then?”

  “Yeah. We weren’t in school yet, but we played together—with Steven too. I remember that Steven had the funniest laugh, more like a cackle, and always carried fake bugs in his pockets.”

  “Do you remember a change in the parents after Steven’s death?”

  “I remember that Mrs. Roman went pretty quiet and stopped inviting me over for lunch, and that Mr. Roman would flip out over the littlest thing—like this one time when I sat down on Steven’s bed. The guy went totally ballistic.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Roman could’ve killed her husband?”

  “You obviously never met Mrs. Roman.” He laughs. “People called her the walking zombie, because she was ninety pounds and completely checked out on painkillers. If you so much as sneezed in her direction, she would’ve fallen down.”

  “So maybe she threw something heavy at his head.”

  “Not with enough force that it would’ve killed him. Apparently forensics investigators were able to estimate the force that hit Mr. Roman—something to do with weight and speed. Anyway, they said that Mrs. Roman wasn’t physically capable.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Julian told me, before the arrest. He used to tell me everything.” He taps the blade of his knife against his chin in thought. “My theory: she either offed herself once she saw her dead husband, or she did it earlier, before he was killed, which would explain Mr. Roman’s really bad mood that day.”

  “Bad mood?”

  “You didn’t hear about the UPS guy witness?”

  “Oh, right. Julian and his father’s argument-turned-fight.”

  “I figure the fighting must’ve been pretty explosive. Why else would the UPS guy go spying in the windows?”

  “Did the UPS guy call the police?”

  “Nope. And I’ll bet he’s lost a few good nights’ sleep over that, because imagine if he had called. The police would’ve appeared on the scene. No chance for a homicide with cops hanging around to mess it all up.” He laughs again. “Did anyone in your group find out about the fingerprints?”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, I guess nobody really knows about that. The police didn’t leak it.”

  “Leak what?”

  Still holding the knife, Barry places his hands around his neck in a choke hold, rolls his eyes upward, and sticks his tongue out to be funny. “There were fingerprints found around Mr. Roman’s throat.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “They were on some necklace he was wearing, as well as on his skin. I know, right? Who knew you could get prints off skin, but apparently it’s possible. Something about sweat residue, lipids, and amino acid shit—way too science-class for my taste.” He laughs some more. “Anyway, they were Julian’s fingerprints—and not from a pulse-check, if you get what I’m saying.”

  The detail goes straight through my chest, like a sharp-pointed spike.

  “I know, freakin’ sucks, right?” he says.

  “It had to have been some mistake. Maybe Julian had touched his father’s neck earlier in the day.”

  “I take it your group is Team Julian, then?” He grins.

  “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate.”

  “The prints were made from the front, with the thumbs right between the clavicle. But, even so, all the prints prove is that Julian was trying to defend himself from his father’s bullshit.”

  “I thought his father was killed from a blunt trauma to the head?”

  “He was.”

  I shake my head. “Then I guess I’m even more confused.”

  “The police think that Julian tried to strangle his father,” he explains, using his knife-holding hand. “But then when that didn’t work, he grabbed something in the heat of the moment and hit him over the head.”

  “And you know all of this because…?”

  “Like I said, Julian told me everything. He said his father had him pinned that day, and so he had no choice but to try and protect himself. When I asked him—for the millionth time—if he killed h
is father, even by accident, he said he didn’t. He swears he left the house after the fight. He says he went for a ride, looking for me, but I was at work at the restaurant. It wasn’t until Julian got back home that he found the bodies.”

  “Wow,” I say, taking his words in, feeling my pulse race.

  “I know. But, hey, three cheers for no murder weapon yet, right? At least we’ve got that going for us.”

  “Do we even know what the murder weapon is?”

  “No.” He sighs. “And believe me, the police have looked.” He moves to another window—the one that’s closer to the street.

  I follow along and look inside. The living room’s been ransacked, the sofa cushions thrown askew. An end table drawer’s been dumped out onto the floor.

  Barry smooshes his face up against the glass, making a weird humming sound as he does.

  “All these theories…” I turn toward him again, noticing how he’s frequently looking upward, avoiding eye contact. “What’s your theory on who did it?”

  “Hell if I know.” He uses the back end of the knife to scratch his forehead. “But his dad wasn’t exactly short on enemies, myself included.”

  “Okay, but being an enemy doesn’t mean that you want to kill that person.”

  “You might’ve asked me that question about six months ago, when he shoved me up against a fence and said that I was a worthless piece of shit. Thankfully I have an alibi for his death; I was at work. Otherwise, who knows; maybe they’d have locked my ass up too.”

  “Someone in our group said that Mrs. Roman might’ve had a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, but that was years ago, at least according to Julian. But who knows? Maybe that’s just what she told him. But, then again, who would date a zombie?”

  “Is it possible that a former lover might’ve sought retaliation for Mrs. Roman’s zombie state?”

  “Bam,” he says, using his knife as a baseball bat through the air. “I think you might be on to something. Is that what your group thinks?”

  “We’re exploring all possibilities, including the one that involves Mrs. Roman seeking help in the death of her husband.”

  “Help as in a hit man? I’d give that lady major props if that were true.”

  “Do you know if the police questioned the neighbors to see if anyone was spotted coming into or out of the house?”

  “Yes, and negative. But then again, half the neighbors here are drunk by two in the afternoon. The other half don’t want any dealings with the cops.”

  A police siren sounds in the distance. Barry scurries to bury his knife inside his boot. “We should go.”

  I start to mutter a good-bye, but Barry has already turned away and headed for the street.

  Instead of taking the bus to the stop by my house, I get out in the center of town and walk three blocks to my dad’s new apartment. It’s sandwiched between the movie theater and a French bakery, which, admittedly, gives it a definite edge.

  I search the door buzzers for my dad’s name. It’s there, in bold black typeface. I press it and wait for him to appear.

  “Hey!” His face brightens when he sees me. He pulls me in, gives me a hug. He smells like the cologne version of grapefruit. “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure.” He checks his watch.

  “I made a detour first.”

  “Well, I’m really glad to see you.” He leads me up a stairwell. “No elevators here. No need for a gym, either.”

  We climb four flights. The door to his new place is already open. I follow him inside. If I thought our house was sparsely decorated, Dad’s apartment gives new meaning to the word “scant.” There are two metal folding chairs positioned in front of a fuzzy green ottoman.

  “Wow,” I say, for lack of descriptive words.

  “I know. I obviously have some work to do. But I was hoping that you could help me. We could go furniture shopping together.”

  “To make things more permanent?”

  “I really want you to be comfortable here,” he says, avoiding the question. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” He crosses the room and points to the kitchen.

  From this angle, I can see a puke-green fridge and a tiled counter to match. The floor is the same as in the living room—wide-planked, dark-stained wood.

  Dad points to two more rooms. “The one on the right is mine. Yours is on the left.”

  I move to have a look. The walls are painted lemon-yellow. There’s also an armoire and a bed.

  “It obviously needs decorating too,” Dad says. “So start looking at catalogs to get ideas of what you might like.”

  “Why do I have a room here?” I ask, trying to process what all this means, as if it isn’t already obvious. Dad’s told me. I’ve clarified it. How many other ways do either of us have to say it?

  My parents have grown apart. They’re not getting back together—at least not anytime soon.

  “You’ll always have a place wherever I am,” Dad says.

  My eyes instantly fill, and I’m not even sure why. It’s not just because of my parents’ separation, or the fact that Dad has a new apartment, or that I have a room here.

  It’s everything. Just like Jeannie said. Life is changing, and I guess I’m having a hard time keeping up.

  Dad comes and wraps his arms around me just as rain pelts down against the window screen behind him. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

  I wipe my eyes and take a step back. “I know. I just have a lot on my plate right now.”

  “With school? Your peace and justice club?”

  I shake my head. “It’s way more complicated than that.”

  “What is?”

  Tears slide down my face. I take a seat on one of the metal folding chairs. “How do you do it?” I ask him. “How do you help people who’ve done bad things?”

  He scoots down in front of me and takes my hand. “Where is all of this coming from?”

  “I just don’t get it.” I shake my head. “You give those people a chance despite the fact that some of them have robbed banks or stolen cars. Or hurt others.”

  “I give them a chance because, in a lot of cases, they haven’t been given one before.”

  “And what happens when they blow that chance—when you find out they’re not the person that you thought?”

  Dad gives my palm a squeeze. “Well, then that’s a choice they’ve made today, and maybe tomorrow they’ll choose more wisely. But at least I’ve given them some tools, as well as my trust and the benefit of the doubt. Believe it or not, those things are luxuries to some people—gifts, even. Has someone disappointed you?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” All I know is that Julian’s lied to me. Twice now. But does that make him guilty? Or does it just make things more complicated?

  “Does whomever you’re talking about need the kind of support I’m referring to?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, so tempted to spill my guts. “Do you think that good people can do bad things?”

  “I know they can. Just look at your mother.” He grins.

  “Seriously now.”

  “I am being serious. Or maybe half-serious.” Dad lets go of my hand and moves to sit on the fuzzy green ottoman, only it doesn’t have enough stuffing, and he nearly topples off. “During some of her demonstrations, let’s just say that things could get a little bit ugly. But you’ve heard the stories of throwing paint on strangers, linking arms across a highway, and destroying public property. Of course, for every one of those cases, she felt that her actions were justified. That’s another tricky piece to all this. Everyone has their story—their own version of the truth, a rationale for how they act.”

  “Because everyone has a unique perspective,” I say, thinking about my photo project.

  “Exactly. In most cases, your mother’s political escapades aside, I’d say that people act out when they’ve lost their way, or when they aren’t getting the support they need. They’ve fallen through the cracks and gotten desperate. I’m not sa
ying that what they do is justified, but you have to wonder: if those same people were given different opportunities—”

  “They wouldn’t rob banks?”

  “Maybe or maybe not. The answers aren’t so black and white, especially when there are other variables too, like mental illness, addiction, or trauma.”

  “Your clients are really lucky to have you.”

  “I’m lucky to have them too.” He reaches out to take my hand again. “But I’m even luckier to have such an amazingly intelligent daughter, who asks all the right questions in her quest to do what’s right.” He holds my gaze for several seconds, perhaps waiting to see if I’ll tell him what’s really on my mind.

  I clasp my hand around his, wondering if he’ll persist with questions. But he doesn’t—because maybe he trusts me to do the right thing, and that trust, as he said, feels like a gift unto itself.

  Friday, October 23

  Night

  There was a knock at the door, scaring me shitless, startling me awake. I sat up, all out of breath, and looked toward the window. It was dark out. The moon shone in through the glass, painting a narrow strip across the floor.

  In the strip of light was a bag of supplies. A towel hung out. There were food cans on the floor and a pile of clothes. I was getting way too comfortable. I should’ve been ready to bolt at all times.

  I got up and crept over to the window, tripping over a sandbag, barely catching myself from falling forward. It was raining out. I angled my face against the glass, trying to see the door. But it was too dark.

  Another knock.

  “Julian?” Day’s voice.

  I went to the door and opened it an inch—just enough to assess the situation. It appeared that she was alone. She was standing there with a flashlight—not an umbrella—clenched in her hand. I widened the door to let her in, but she didn’t move. Her face was wet from the rain. It looked like she’d been crying.

  “Is there something you have to tell me?” she asked, before I could say hello.

  Panic struck my heart like a match, burning through my veins, making my skin feel hot.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the fingerprints around your father’s throat, on his necklace?”