Butterfly Girl

by Wayne Purdy

  “I’m so bored,” she said, in a casual, almost lackadaisical, tone. “Who wants to spice things up before the nights over?”

  The man, eyes still lecherously staring through the diaphanous brassiere, answered, “bored? I could think of several ways to excite you.” The other men laughed, vying for her affections. She felt like Scarlett O’Hara entertaining her suitors.

  Hazel laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder. The flirtation successful, the man agreed to a private dance. Hazel turned to lead him to the VIP lounge, affording him a view as she walked ahead, but she felt a strong hand on her elbow, pulling her into the opposite direction.

  “No touching, big guy,” she chastised him. “This isn’t that kind of place.”

  “Hazel, we need to talk.”

  “Heck? What are you doing? I’m working.”

  “We need to talk,” Heck repeated.

  “It can wait until after I’m done.”

  “Is there a problem here, fella?” The man asked. He was the type that didn’t brook any sort of disrespect to women, a white knight, but the wedding ring betrayed that notion. Did his wife know where he was? Probably not.

  “There’s no problem,” Heck said. “Mariposa has a prior engagement.”

  Confusion crept across the white knight’s face. “A what?”

  Heck saw Ginger walking by. He flagged her over. “Ginger, can you take care of this gentleman? Mariposa can’t right now.”

  Hazel began to protest but something in Heck’s dark expression told her to hold her tongue. The white knight was momentarily put off too, but he visually appraised Ginger and decided that the slender red head would suit his needs just as well and allowed himself to be led to the back by his new companion. Hazel watched them go, Ginger smiling coyly as the man spoke. She rounded on Heck.

  “What was that about? He was a George. You just cost me a good score.”

  “Sorry about that.” He wanted someplace private where they could talk. The girl’s dressing room was usually busy. The girls retreated their for their breaks, to change outfits, or just to get some quiet, but this near to closing time, all the girls would be out on the floor, trying to hustle one last dance for the night. This was where the desperate men got hopeful. Money flowed more freely, and, in turn, the dances got raunchier. It was a self-perpetuating circle.

  “This better be good.” She crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. Heck came right out with it.

  “Cutler is dead.”

  “What?” Now, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the dressing room, Hazel noticed the blood splatter on his shirt.

  “He killed himself.” Hazel didn’t know what to say. Silence grew between them. Heck’s mournful eye met Hazel. Finally, he spoke. “What were you doing calling him?”

  Hazel looked shocked. “Calling who? Cutler? I didn’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know all about it. Cutler told me.”

  “Heck, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never spoken to the man in my life. I’ve only seen him once, in the alley, but he scared me. He didn’t even see me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  She put her arms up. “Am I sure that I’ve never spoken to him? What are you even saying?”

  “He told me.”

  “He said he spoke to me.” Hazel’s brows furrowed.

  Heck was silent.

  “What did Cutler say?”

  “He said that an Asian woman had been calling him. Threatening to expose the truth.”

  “Did you ever think that it wasn’t me. I’m not the only Asian woman, in the city. There are others. Maybe it was my mother. Or Jaimie. Are there any other Asians in the city, Heck? Christ!” Hazel went to her dressing table and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She removed one and lit it.

  “You can’t smoke in here-”

  Hazel’s angry glare shut him up. “Why would you automatically think it was me, Heck. I thought you knew me better than that.”

  Heck was abashed, but he pressed on anyway. “Do I?”

  She groaned. “I can’t believe we are even having this conversation.”

  “Who is Haruna Abe?”

  Hazel looked like she had been punched in the stomach. She exhaled audibly. “What?”

  “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t go by that anymore. It’s Hazel.”

  “What did you do, Hazel?” Heck asked, his voice gentle.

  She took another drag from her cigarette before answering. “I already told you some of it,” she said. Her eyes were wet. “I told you about my drug abuse and my sexual history, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I wanted to tell you, I almost did, but I don’t know if you can handle it.”

  “Hazel, I’m your friend. You can tell me anything. It won’t change anything between us.”

  “Promise?”

  He smiled and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Promise.”

  “I killed someone.”

  She said it just like that, bluntly. Plainly. The frankness surprised Heck. He exhaled sharply. “Hazel-”

  “I didn’t do it directly. I didn’t stab or shoot anyone. I didn’t push him off a building or poison his drink, but I killed him just the same.”

  Heck tried to say something, anything, but words failed him.

  “I was the original party girl. I would go out drink, get fall-down drunk, get high. I was totally out of control. My parents tried. They really did. They tried loosening up the rules. They tried tough love, my mother was especially good at that,” Hazel paused, took another drag, “I can’t use that as an excuse though. My mom isn’t an easy woman to love, but my choices were my choices. Could things have been different? I don’t know.

  “I was kicked out of school. Not that I ever went anyway. It just gave me more free time. I drank more. I fucked more. I had no limits. I even slept with my guidance counsellor if you can believe that. One night, I was at a party. A high school party. As usual, I got drunk. I think someone put something in my drink, but I don’t know for sure. I blacked out. I don’t remember anything. I remember dancing with this really cute guy, he was on the swim team, tall and lean. His name was Brent Turner. I remember kissing him. I remember kissing another boy too, Raj Patel. We went to an upstairs bedroom, the three of us. That’s all I remember.”

  “Hazel, that was a long time ago.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of her dressing table and lit another. Her hand trembled. “I have the pictures to remind me.”

  “What pictures?”

  “I passed out in that bedroom. One of them had gotten me naked. They took pictures of me. They had sex with me. Both of them.” Tears ran down her cheeks. Her nose was running. “They took pictures of that too.”

  “Hazel-”

  “I didn’t want that, Heck. I didn’t want it.”

  Heck stood awkwardly. He wanted to hug her but wasn’t sure he should. The issue of consent loomed large, and he didn’t know if it was appropriate to even touch her. He threw caution to the wind and took her into his arms. She folded into him with a reckless embrace and wept into his chest.

  “They sent the pictures to everyone, Heck. Everyone saw me like that. I started getting messages, guys asking me for a turn. Girls calling me a slut. I couldn’t go anywhere. People laughed at me, called me terrible names. I couldn’t stay home because they would blow up my phone with rude texts. There was no escape. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I couldn’t go to my mother. She would have killed me and then herself. There was no escape.

  “Eventually, I went to the police. I told them I was raped. They investigated, but all they managed to do was confirm that I was a slut. Interview after interview, that’s what people told them. I was a slut. I slept with everybody. I must have wanted it.”

  “How could I have wanted it, Heck? I wasn’t even awake. In the end, the police decided to drop the charges. There just wasn’t enough proof.”

/>   “There were the photos.”

  She laughed. It was filled with scorn. “All they showed was a girl that liked to have sex having sex. They couldn’t tell if I was conscious or not. The did get charged with possession and distribution of child pornography, but they weren’t convicted. They were good boys that had made a mistake. They had promising futures. Me? I was just a whore. I didn’t matter.”

  “You said you killed someone?” Heck asked.

  “After Brent and Raj were released, the messages kept coming. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” She fingered the scars on her forearms. They seemed redder, uglier, after the telling. “I sought a way out.

  “Even then, while I was in the hospital, people harassed me. I was fed up. I compiled the photos, all of them, people had been kind enough to send them to me,” she said with a scowl. “I posted them all as well as my side of the story to every social media site I could think of. Reddit, Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook. Everything. It went viral. The media started picked up the story. Finally, Brent and Raj were held to account. Raj Patel and his family moved away to keep him out of the spotlight. Last I heard, they were in Brampton. He went on to university. He’s a hotshot finance guy on Bay street. Brent couldn’t cope with the notoriety. His mother found him hanging in the basement.

  “Suddenly, I was the bad guy again. The girlfriend scorned. I was the girl who pushed a promising young man to his death. Never mind the fact that I cut my own wrists. We went to trial and the case was eventually settled. I was convicted of criminal harassment. No jail time, but because of my cyberbullying history, I’m not allowed to use the internet, or own a device capable of surfing the web,” she held her flip phone aloft, punctuating the point. Heck nodded. Another mystery solved.

  “I was a juvenile so the media couldn’t report my name, but it was out there if you looked hard enough. I stopped using my birthname. My parents were ashamed of me. I’d brought all this on us all. They disowned me. If it weren’t for Jamie, I don’t think I ever would have seen them again.

  “I didn’t kill Brent Turner, but I wasn’t sad that he was gone either.”

  Some of the girls came into the dressing room. Hazel knew that the bar was closing. They would be getting changed and going home. Mercedes, a tall black woman with high cheek bones carved from onyx, saw Heck and Hazel embraced but didn’t see the need to give them any further privacy. This was her space, as a result, she began stripping out of her clothing and putting on her civvies. Heck saw her naked all the time. There was no need for privacy. Hazel pulled away and looked into Heck’s good eye, expecting to see revulsion, but saw compassion instead.

  “Well?” She asked. “Do you hate me?”

  He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I couldn’t hate you.”

  Ginger came in next. A wide, toothy smile spanned freckled cheek to freckled cheek. “Hazel! Thank you so much. He tipped me a hundred bucks.”

  Heck’s chin dropped to his chest. “I’ll make it up to you. Can we get a coffee?”

  “I’d like that,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks and blowing her nose.

  “I’ll meet you at the front door,” Heck said. Then his phone rang. He looked at it curiously. “Unknown number.”

  “Mr. Collins? This is Tiff. You gave me your card in case I needed help. I need help. I think he’s going to kill me.”

  Her voice was frantic. It took a minute for me to place her. Hazel and I met her when we were questioning prostitutes about Sandra Mack. She was the young trans girl that told us who Katherine was. “Who is trying to kill you?”

  “One of my johns. He’s like you said, a soldier. I didn’t think of him because he’s so sweet. I never imagined-”

  “Where are you?” She was breathless. It sounded like she was running.

  “I’m on Church. Please help me. He said he was going to cut-” She screamed, and the call was disconnected. I looked at Hazel. My alarm was mirrored in her face.

  “Call the police!” I ran to my truck and raced towards Church street. I screeched to a halt in front of Manhole, the gay bay where Hazel and I first met Tiff. Tiff was nearby. On a hunch, I headed north, pumping my fists as I ran. A man screamed and I followed in that direction. I ended up in the same field that Sandra Mack’s body was found. A small, frightened crowd was gathered. Some were on the phone, obviously calling 911. I pushed my way to the front and saw Tiff’s body splayed out in the weeds. Her penis was removed and placed into her own gaping mouth.

  An Asian woman stood at the edge of the gathering crowd. Her tear-lined face was ashen, and her mouth was agape. Her lips were moving but it didn’t take a lip reader to know what she was saying. “Not again. Not again. Not again.”

  ◆◆◆

  Zaki arrived half an hour later. His red-rimmed eyes were heavy with exhaustion and his normally pristine suit was rumpled. “What the hell is going on here? A copycat?”

  “It wasn’t Cutler,” I told him. “It can’t have been.”

  “Then who the hell could it have been?” He sounded defeated. I knew the feeling.

  For the second time that night, I gave Zaki my statement. “You need me for anything else?” I asked him after I’d caught him up.

  “You can go,” he said. “I know where to find you if I have any more questions.”

  I thanked him and turned to leave, then I spotted the Asian woman. That’s when the penny dropped. Cutler told him that an Asian woman had been threatening him, maybe even blackmailing him. I assumed it was Hazel because I’m an ass. I recalled the crime scene photo from Sandra Mack’s murder. Tiff was in one, crying on the shoulders of a middle-aged Asian Woman’s shoulder. Katherine Chosuk.

  I remembered what Tiff had told me about Katherine Chosuk too. She was a tough woman. She threatened to cut an aggressive john’s balls off once. Sandra Mack’s parents told Hazel that Katherine Chosuk carried a knife for protection. Could that be a coincidence? Tiff was laying in a field, her manhood removed. She was standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, watching. Our eyes met and then she nodded imperceptibly and walked away. My curiosity piqued, I followed.

  23

  Hector

  Katherine Chosuk’s office, Rainbow Bridges, was in the Gay Village, less than a block from the field that both Sandra and now Tiff had been murdered in. She was an outreach worker for at-risk LGBTQ kids, especially trans kids. She was security conscious, bordering on paranoid, and she was protective of her charges. Or was she? Could she have had something to do with all this. But why? Was it possible that she was an ultra radical feminist, that she didn’t recognise trans women as women? And would that be enough motivation to compel her to commit murder? Wouldn’t it be better to let Cutler take the blame? She could have gotten away with it. For that matter, what was her connection to Cutler or Afghanistan? Or Gracie? Damn it! There was still something that I was missing.

  I stood on the street in front of her office. Katherine opened the door, paused as if waiting for me, and then disappeared inside. The heavy door swung closed behind me. I heard the lock latch. It made me nervous. Why was I locked inside? Her office was on the left, past the waiting room and the receptionist’s desk.

  “Hello?” I called out ahead of me. The building was dark with only the security lights on. I saw her office and knocked on the door.

  “Come in.” she said. I did. She stepped out from behind the door, startling me. In one quick motion, the door clicked shut. She moved quickly to the windows that opened into the hallway and shuttered the blinds. She never turned her back to me, watching warily as she worked. Finally, she stood behind her desk. She reached out her hand.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Collins.”

  I took her hand and shook it. Her grip was gentle, but confident.

  “You too. Is this all necessary?”

  She looked around her office. “I like to make sure I’m always in control of my surroundings. Please have a seat.” She turned on the lights as I sat. She was attr
active. Her long black hair reached her shoulders, and she wore a form-fitting, navy pantsuit over a crisp white blouse. Now that I’d seen her in person, she looked familiar to me. I had the crime scene photo of her comforting Tiff, but that wasn’t it. I felt like I knew her from somewhere else too.

  “You keep interesting hours,” I said.

  “As do you,” Mr. Collins.

  “I’ve had a busy night.”

  “As have I. I’m sorry to keep you from bed. I just thought that it was important we talk.”

  “Have you been calling Cutler? Blackmailing him?” I asked her. There was no sense beating around the bush.

  She brought her hand to her mouth. “How did you know that?”

  “Cutler told me before he shot himself. You don’t deny it?”

  “I don’t deny calling him. I wasn’t blackmailing him. He didn’t have anything I wanted. Well, that’s not entirely true. I wanted him to tell the truth.” I noticed that she wasn’t surprised that Cutler was dead.

  “The truth about what?”

  She smiled. “Why, Mr. Collins. You surprise me. Murder, of course. I wanted him to tell the truth about murder.”

  “Murder? Whose murder? Did you kill Cutler?”

  Katherine cocked her head and smiled coyly. “I was under the impression that James Cutler committed suicide. At least that’s what I was told.”

  “The police told you?”

  “No. One of the other residents. I was there tonight. I pretended to be locked out and asked what was happening. Suicide, he told me, some bigshot in the army. Who else would it be? I was planning to give him one last chance to come clean, but when I got there, the building was overwhelmed by police. I watched you leave the building. Were you there, Mr. Collins, when he killed himself? Was it a suicide?

  “He did kill himself, but he was distraught. It wouldn’t have taken much to push him in that direction.”

  “Mr. Collins, I had nothing to do with James Cutler’s suicide. I was in communication with him, threatening to expose him if he didn’t come forward with what he knows. If he killed himself, its because his guilty conscience got the better of him.” She spoke with a slight accent, but her English was good, if slow and deliberate.