by Dan Taylor
I do, and then I say, “Oh, boy. There it is. Buster.” It’s written in a squiggly font, but that’s definitely the cat’s name.
“See!” he says. “Now let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, I’m still not convinced your Tracy’s brother. Why weren’t you on the police database?”
“What database?”
“The one where all the cops are registered or some shit. I phoned and checked. There are only two Detective Lucys working for the LAPD, and neither of them is you.”
“I’m working undercover. That’s protocol. Case the shitheads I’m infiltrating gain access to the records.”
“So you are Tracy’s brother?”
“Yep.”
I realize that the whole time we’ve been having this conversation, I’ve been holding the cat. I put Buster down and she runs off in the direction of the stairs.
I look at him a second, thinking. Then I say, “So who was the other guy?”
37.
“Which other guy?” he says.
“Another guy came to visit me today, said he’s Tracy’s brother. Had photos of her on his phone.”
“Look, I don’t care what you’ve done. I won’t report that you hit me over the head and are holding me captive. And I believe you didn’t do it. I really do. Just let me go.”
“No can do, guy. I apologize, but you’ve got to stay here with me until I find out who did it.”
“How long will that take?”
“Just tonight, hopefully.”
“Then untie me. I can help you better if I’m not restrained.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
The guy goes quiet for a second, and then he starts shouting at the top of his lungs, “Help! Help me, nerdy guy! Tracy’s dead and the guy who did it has me tied up!”
I rush over to him and cup his mouth with my hand, gagging him. He attempts to bite me, getting spittle all over my hand, which makes it slippery and difficult to hold over his mouth. Keeping my left hand pressed against his face, I raise my right leg up towards my ass, take off my shoe, and then take off my sock, which I stuff into his mouth. Far down, almost into his gullet.
I look around for duct tape in the kitchen, but only find regular old Scotch. It’ll have to do.
I pull the sock out slightly, so there’s no chance of him suffocating, and then secure it in place with the tape, going around his head four or five times. The result doesn’t look pretty, but the only sounds he’s able to emit are muffled calls for help. He gives up after thirty seconds or so, and starts breathing heavily through his nose, which emits a whistle on the exhale.
Disappointed, I say, “You said you believed me, dude.”
He looks at me wide-eyed, and tries to say, I’m sure, “Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me, asshole?”
I think a second. Gagged, he can still be of help. I say, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to nod once for yes, and two for no.”
He frowns, the scornful kind. Then I realize why. So I say, “Or shake your head for no. That works. Is that cool?”
He shakes his head. I say, “Look, as soon as I find who really killed Tracy, I’ll let you go. I’m maybe sixty percent there on my own, but I need your help. Help me to help you.”
He thinks a second, and then sighs through his nose, indicating compliance. I ask, “Are you Tracy’s only brother?”
He nods yes.
“What about a half-brother on the force, a guy with a short-trimmed mustache and legs made for hiking long distances?”
He shakes his head.
To myself, I say, “Then that guy’s definitely the imposter, and the reason I’m in Tracy’s duplex with my DNA and fibers everywhere.”
He nods yes. I say, “That question wasn’t really for you, dude. I was thinking out loud.”
I try to think of more closed questions to further the interrogation, when there’s a knock on the door.
38.
I was pretty sure the neighbor hadn’t heard Detective Medal for Bravery when he was screaming like a girl, as that dude likes to watch his sci-fi shows with the volume turned way up. I could hear the bangs and crashes of the more exciting parts through the wall dividing Tracy’s and the neighbor’s sides of the duplex. But it looks like I was wrong. Unless it’s a different visitor.
Upon hearing the knocking, Tracy’s brother starts yelling muffled screams. I tell him to shut up a few times, but he’s not playing ball, so I take out a dishtowel from a drawer and double-down on the gag. I do it in a rush, and the result is a whole mess of cloth and tape, which looks less than stellar. I then push him up flush against the refrigerator so that there’s no chance the neighbor will be able to see him while I go and get rid of him.
I have a few words of warning for Tracy’s brother before I go answer the door: “He hears you, I won’t be best pleased. I’m not the torturing type, but the shit you do has to have consequences. Understood?” Sounding like a kindergarten teacher.
He nods yes three or four times, and I take a deep breath to prepare myself.
I walk over calmly to the door, and when I open it, I think about how much Scotch tape is left on the roll.
Standing there, holding a mud cake on a platter, is the neighbor.
He says hi, and then attempts to look around me inside the duplex.
He then looks up at me, and says, “Is that guy still here?”
“Which guy?”
“The short cop with the bad attitude?”
I smile. “He’s inside and watching a football game. He gets a little excited from time to time. Sorry about the noise.” I go to close the door, but he stops me by saying, “Oh, because he mentioned something about being hungry when he spoke to me.” He shrugs. “And I told him—well, promised him—I’d bring around this mud cake, which I mentioned. During the conversation we had.” He swallows, looks around me again, and then says, sheepishly, “I don’t suppose he’s able to come to the door right now?”
I sigh. “That’s the best excuse you could come up with?”
He shrugs again.
A minute later I’m wrestling the neighbor inside the house, mud cake all over me and him. He’s screaming and crying out for his life, which I don’t like one bit, as I’m pretty sure Tracy doesn’t own enough robes to supply belts for the tying up of the whole neighborhood.
“Stop squirming.”
I eventually get him inside and close the door behind him. While I’m closing it, he makes a run for it, and I have to run after him and tackle him from behind, hooking my arms around his ample thighs. We fall to the floor with an almighty crash.
Five minutes later, I have both tied up. Hot Pocket, as Detective Lucy so affectionately referred to him, is also sitting on a dining chair with his hands tied behind his back. He’s also a squealer, so I’ve dressed his head up like a Christmas present wrapped by a five-year-old, too. I’m now wearing no socks. His hands are tied behind his back and to the chair using the belt from Tracy’s second robe. It must be her everyday robe, for when she isn’t entertaining male company, as there’s a whole bunch of smeared makeup on it and dried snot.
I’m standing in front of them, holding the cat, which has grown accustomed to my picking her up. I’m stroking her, and I suddenly realize I look ridiculous.
Detective Lucy must be getting used to being tied up and held captive, as he looks bored more than anything else. But the big guy, his eyes are fresh with the intensity of losing his freedom.
I address them. “Listen up, guys. I’m going to take off your Scotch tape, because we’ve got some shit to discuss. Before I do, I should probably let Captain Frozen Pizza know that Tracy’s dead.”
The big guy frowns and glances at Detective Lucy. So I say, “That’s you, big guy. I don’t know your name yet.”
I’m pretty sure he says, “Tracy’s dead?”
I nod yes. “Unfortunately she is. I didn’
t do it. And I’m pretty sure Michael J. Cop didn’t do it either.”
It’s Detective Lucy’s turn to frown, so I say, “That’s you, Detective Lucy. If he gets a colorful nickname, I think we can both agree it’s only fair you do too.”
Muffled, he says, “But you know my name.”
“I’m ninety percent sure I do.” Addressing them both, I say, “Now, there’s little point screaming when I take off your tape and give you back the ability to speak, as no one will hear you, apart from Buddy. But if you do, the tape goes back on, along with your gags. Is that understood?”
They glance at each other, and then both nod yes.
Five minutes later I’ve managed to take off their gags, though I remain sockless.
The first thing Captain Microwave Pizza says is, “Sir, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“You can drop that ‘sir’ shit. I’m not your headmaster. And no one’s getting untied to go to the bathroom or for any other silly excuse, like your hands have little circulation or you’re having a stroke. Is that also understood?”
They both nod.
“You can speak now.”
They say yes.
I get down on my haunches, and say to Detective Lucy, “Michael, I’m about to reveal something that will make you really mad. You will literally want to kill the guy sitting next to you, but it’s important that if you communicate that to him—which is understandable and permitted—you do so in a calm and quiet manner. Got it?”
Detective Lucy shakes his head dismissively. “I’m a cop, and unlike you, asshole, I don’t get involved in vigilante justice. No matter how personal it is.”
“We’ll see if you think differently in a minute. You guys sit tight.”
I go up to the loft and take down a video tape, as I forgot them when I was disturbed by Detective Lucy knocking on the door. I go back to the kitchen. When Captain Frozen Pizza notices what I have in my hands, he goes white and swallows hard. Detective Lucy says, “Who the hell still owns VHS cassettes?”
“I’ll tell you who does, Michael,” I say. “He’s sitting right next to you.”
Detective Lucy glances at him, then looks back at me. “I don’t get it. That’s why I’m supposed to get angry?”
“No. You’re definitely going to get angry because of what’s on the video tape.”
I hold up the tape for him to read. Detective Lucy must not have gone to an Ivy League school, as it takes him around five seconds to read the title. When he has, he says, “What is this shit? Why does he have a tape of Tracy going to the bathroom?”
As a cop, Detective Lucy can recognize a guilty man when he sees one. When he glances at Captain Microwave Pizza and finds he’s unable to make eye contact with him and unable to have an expression on his face like he’s about to ride the lightning, Detective Lucy explodes with rage. He thrashes in his chair as he says, “What is this shit, icecream tub? Why the hell have you got a film of my sister going to the toilet, you sick fuck?”
Understandably, the big guy’s lost for words. This only angers Detective Lucy more: “I will fucking end you! You hear me? You’re dead! I will Rodney King your ass!” Detective Lucy takes a deep breath, and then says to me, “Okay, we found our killer, and he’s a three-hundred-pound tub of shit. Let me go.”
“Not so fast,” I say. “We have neither motive nor evidence.”
“Let me out of these binds and I’ll stomp some evidence into his face.” He looks at the big guy, and says, “Tell him you did it, so he can take off my binds.” A pause. “Now!”
In response, the big guy shakes his head, making his pallid, dripping-with-sweat jowls sway from side to side.
I go up to him and look him right in the eye. “Did you do it, big guy?”
“N—no. The videos… they aren’t what you think.”
Detective Lucy scoffs. He goes to speak, but I interrupt him by asking the big guy, “What do you mean?”
“I…” he begins, then glances at Detective Lucy, and says while misguidedly looking him in his eyes, “I loved Tracy.”
Detective Lucy emits a long groan deep from within his stomach, like Brad Pitt when he discovers his wife’s head in the box in Seven, and then mumbles, “I need a bucket. I’m going to throw up.”
I believe him, as he’s the color of a hobo’s mattress. I rush around the kitchen trying to find a bucket. There isn’t one, so I use the next best thing, a casserole dish, and hold it under Detective Lucy’s chin. He vomits like a bridesmaid at the end of a bachelorette party, ending with a groan. “I don’t feel good.”
The whole time Captain Frozen Pizza has watched him.
I put the casserole dish in the sink, and rinse it partially with hot water, to get rid of most of the smell. Then I turn my attention back to my two captives. I kneel down next to the big guy and ask, “If you loved her, then why didn’t you ask her out on a date instead of filming her sitting on the toilet?”
“Look at me,” he says, looking down at his abdomen. “Tracy would’ve never have gone for a guy like me.”
Somewhat recovered, Detective Lucy says, “Then you should’ve eaten broccoli and gone to the training studio once in a while, like everyone else…” He shakes his head as his voice trails off. “I can’t believe I’m saying this shit. You should’ve, I don’t know, not filmed her during private moments.”
The reason for letting Detective Lucy know about Captain Frozen Pizza’s sick video cassette collection was to divide and conquer. I didn’t want them being captive buddies, giving each other moral support. I also hoped that Detective Lucy would help in my interrogation, as I’m sure, even though I think CFP didn’t kill Tracy himself, that it’s got something to do with him. But the only help I’m getting so far is Detective Lucy vomiting and shaming CFP for his lifestyle choices and dating strategy.
CFP says, “I don’t like to exercise or eat vegetables.”
And Detective Lucy says, “Well no one likes it, shithead. But that’s how you get ladies in Hollywood to stomach you.”
“Guys,” I say. “This isn’t helping.”
Detective Lucy sighs, and then says, “Tell him everything you know, lard ass. This shit’s definitely got something to do with that sick video you have.”
CFP, knowing I know he has a whole collection of them, looks at me with pleading eyes. Detective Lucy notices and does a double take. Then says, “What is this shit? What don’t you want him to say, Hot Pocket?”
“N-nothing.”
“I think full disclosure’s the best course of action, Captain. If you don’t tell him, I will.”
CFP shakes his head.
And Detective Lucy says to him, “What is it, shit stain? What is it you don’t want me to know?”
“That isn’t the only video cassette he has up there,” I say.
“What? There’s a whole collection?” Detective Lucy says.
“There’s a whole bunch of series.”
Detective Lucy looks queasy. “Are they worse than the one you showed me the title of?”
“The one I showed you is her peeing…” I say.
“So what, she goes two in some of them?”
Sympathetically, I nod yes.
“That’s it. Untie me so I can get my pistol and put a bullet in this prick’s head.” Anger turns to disgust and then to uncontrollable sobbing. He pleads with CFP: “Why, you sick fuck? Why in the world would you film that sick shit?”
CFP’s response? “I was curious.”
“Uhhhh-uhhhh-uhhhh…”
I need to grab the reins of this interrogation. To look at Detective Lucy, you’d think he’d witnessed his whole platoon being massacred in Nam. It’s going to be a while before he’s any help.
CFP’s glancing at him every couple seconds with a look of deep concern on his face. He’s probably wondering how long he’ll live when Detective Lucy’s eventually set free. It isn’t a great place to be at, but I put whatever empathy I have for CFP aside to ask him: “Big guy, how did you do the f
ilming?”
“What?” he says, snapping out of his trance and looking at me.
“Have you got pinhole cameras set up around Tracy’s home?”
“In the upstairs bathroom and her bedroom I have.”
So that explains the secret access to her side of the duplex.
Detective Lucy moans, burping at the end.
I ask, “What about audio?”
“What about it?”
“Do you have microphones set up too?”
“No.”
“So if I were to play one of these tapes, they’d be silent films?”
“Please don’t put one of them on. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Relax. I just want to know.”
“I’m telling you there’s no audio.”
I think a second. And then I start looking around the kitchen. When I pull out the knife drawer, making them rattle, CFP says, “Please, no! Don’t!”
“I’m not going to cut you, big guy. I’m looking for something.”
“What?”
“I think better when I don’t have to provide a running commentary.”
I continue my search, looking in the places I might’ve missed last time, though I was in a panic, so I’m not so sure where I’ve checked.
“What are you looking for?” CFP asks.
“Something you haven’t put here.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll know when I find it. Now let me think.”
I look in all the drawers, all the cupboards, skimming my eyes between plates and bowls, and moving any large items so I can look in the back of them.
I find nothing.
Then I go and get another dining chair and carry it to the kitchen. I place it down in front of the eye-level cupboards and look on top of those. Nothing. Then I glance at the refrigerator. It’s the last place it could be. I mentally cross my fingers and place the chair in front of it, climb onto it, and what I see standing on the top of the refrigerator makes me say, “Bingo!”
39.
“What is it?” CFP asks.
I get down from the chair and examine it. I go to speak, but then stop myself. CFP also goes to open his mouth again, but I shush him as quietly as I can. I then take the device, carrying it carefully like it’s a bomb, take a beaker out of Tracy’s sink, fill it up with water, and then drop the device in it.