Jek/Hyde

by Amy Ross

  What the hell happened?

  I realize my alarm is still going off, but after glancing at the silent clock, it hits me that it’s not my alarm, but my phone. Ringing. At six thirty in the morning.

  I scrabble around in the mess until I find the phone under a pile of books and spilled makeup. It’s an unfamiliar number.

  I answer.

  “This is Inspector Newcomen of the London Police Department,” a voice says. “Am I speaking with Lupita Gutierrez?”

  I stare at the wall in front of me, my brain still sluggish. Why are the police calling me?

  “What?” I say, my voice still sleep-rough. It’s the best I can manage.

  “Is your name Lupita Gutierrez?” the voice on the other end repeats slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “This is the police.”

  “I don’t—I...yes, that’s my name,” I offer.

  “Miss Gutierrez, we need your help with an investigation. Are you over the age of eighteen?”

  I rub a hand over my eyes. None of this is making sense. “No,” I tell the voice on the phone. “I’m seventeen.”

  Inspector Newcomen gives a soft sigh, as if this is a nuisance she didn’t need this morning. “You have the right to have a parent, guardian or lawyer present when we speak to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say, because these are the first words she’s said that make some sense. I look at the clock again. Mom’s still at work, and her manager always docks her pay if she leaves early, even for an emergency. There’s Uncle Carlos, but he’s hardly strong enough to get the mail these days. “Do I have to have someone there?” I ask.

  “No,” says the inspector, and she sounds as relieved as I feel. “Legally, it’s not required. It’s at your discretion.”

  I wonder if this is true, or if Inspector Newcomen is simply too eager to bother with correct protocol. Since I’m just as happy not to involve any of the adults in my life in this, I let it slide. “All right then,” I say. “What do you want from me?”

  The inspector takes a breath. “We need you to identify a body,” she says, her voice calm but with a buzzing excitement just underneath. “There’s been a murder.”

  I sit down hard, but miss the bed and wind up on my bedroom floor.

  “What? Who?”

  There’s a pause on the other end. “We don’t know, miss,” Inspector Newcomen explains carefully. “That’s why we need you to ID.”

  “But why would I—”

  “Your number,” she says. “The victim texted you. Your number was the most recent one in his phone.”

  That wakes me up completely.

  I start pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants from the mess Jek has made of my room, and I promise Inspector Newcomen I’ll be there as soon as possible.

  The whole drive over to the morgue, I can’t help running through a mental list of the last people I received texts from: there’s Camila, of course, but I’m pretty sure they said the body was male. It can’t be Jek, I tell myself over and over, because he hasn’t texted me since before he disappeared on Saturday. Unless he hasn’t texted anyone else in that time, either. Or if he deleted texts in between. Shit. Shit. Lane? I heard from him a couple of days ago. My cousin, Manuel? When was the last time my dad texted me? But why would he even be in town?

  A plainclothes cop is waiting for me when I get there.

  “Miss Gutierrez?”

  I nod, already trying to look past her at the body on the slab.

  “I’m Inspector Newcomen—we spoke on the phone. Please,” she says, trying to get my attention, “I need to you to listen to me.”

  I take a deep breath and nod again, looking at her this time, forcing myself to take her in. She’s surprisingly young, and dressed boldly yet precisely, in a way that seems designed to project confidence but actually suggests an overeager beginner. Her expression is serious and composed, but just like on the phone, there’s a strange undercurrent of excitement emanating from her, as if she is secretly thrilled about the whole situation.

  “Thank you,” she says with a tight-lipped smile. “Now, please try to focus. The victim was found without ID. He appears to have been out for an early-morning run and left his wallet at home. We need you to identify this body, if you can, but I want to prepare you first. The attack was extremely violent, with severe facial trauma. Do you need to take a few moments before you go in?”

  “No,” I insist. I’m aiming for reasonable and calm, but my cracking voice betrays me. I take another breath and let it out, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m fine. Please, just let me see.”

  Inspector Newcomen hesitates a moment, as if she is wondering whether she should give me more time or insist on the presence of a guardian. But her own eagerness to get this investigation moving clearly wins out, and she steps aside to guide me through to the body.

  She wasn’t kidding about the violence of the attack. He’s been beaten with a brutality that makes me wince: one eye has been yanked free from its socket, loose and missing teeth give him a crazed, jack-o’-lantern grin and over his left temple, the skull is caved in like a deflated basketball. Still, even through all the mess, there’s no question who I’m looking at.

  “Danny,” I say, my voice shaking with relief. “Danvers Carew. He was my lab partner.” I noticed last night that he texted me to ask a question about the lab report, but I’d been way too preoccupied to get back to him, and I’d forgotten all about it.

  Inspector Newcomen makes a note. “I know this must be very difficult for you,” she says, not succeeding in making it sound like anything but a stock phrase. “You can take a minute if you need to, but any information you can give us about Carew would be helpful to the investigation. Do you know of any enemies he might have had? Any kind of trouble he had been in recently?”

  I shake my head, bewildered. “Danny was one of the most popular kids in school. Baseball team, student council. Not the type to start fights.”

  The inspector looks a little disappointed by this answer. Murders like this don’t happen much in small towns like London, and I can see she’s desperate to prove herself by getting the investigation wrapped up expeditiously. She recovers her poise quickly, though.

  Guiding me to another room, the inspector directs my attention to a table nearby where a few objects are laid out and marked with labels.

  “We found this at the scene,” she says, pointing to one in particular. “It appears to be the murder weapon. Have you ever seen it before?”

  At first, all I can see is a messy and undistinguished heap on the table, but as I get closer, the object takes shape and my breath catches in my throat at the sight. Under a smear of blood and brain and hair is a bright green bike lock—exactly like the one Tom gave Jek last year. The one Jek never uses but always keeps strapped uselessly to his bike.

  I can feel Inspector Newcomen’s sharp eyes on me as I stare at the object, and I wonder if I can still pass off my gasp as one of horror and not recognition. I’m suddenly gripped with fear of what this could mean for Jek. Newcomen, probably faced with the first serious crime of her career and anxious for a speedy solution, might be all too willing to accept the first likely suspect that falls into her path. And Jek would make such an easy, satisfying target—the cops in town have always been too quick to believe the worst of him. Once they had him in custody, would they even stop to sort out the details? Jek’s not exactly my favorite person right now, but I don’t want to see him in jail.

  “Miss Gutierrez?” prompts Inspector Newcomen.

  Before I can come up with a response, we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. We both turn as it opens, revealing a young and nervous-looking uniformed officer leaning tentatively into the room.

  “Inspector?” He clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have the witness to the attack. The one who call
ed it in this morning? We just tracked her down.”

  “Thanks, Jim,” says Newcomen. “If you’ll just show her into the—”

  “Is that her? Are you the inspector?” A small woman in a red trench coat, her bright white hair cut in an elegant bob, pushes her way in past the officer. “I’m very sorry,” she says with the confidence of someone who is used to dominating a room. “I was in such a panic this morning when I called, I didn’t think to leave my name. But I saw everything that happened.” She launches into her story before anyone can stop her. “I was out walking my dog this morning—she’s a puppy, can’t make it through the night—and the poor young man was jogging through the London Chemical grounds when someone came tearing through on a bicycle. The jogger told him to watch where he was going. Then the biker stopped and got off his bike and...” She stops and shivers dramatically. “It all happened so fast. He didn’t even seem to think about it. He grabbed the lock from his bike and started beating the other boy. The boy fought back at first, but he was no match, and he fell to the ground screaming. It was awful. Even after the screaming stopped, he kept beating him with that chain. The sounds it made...” The woman stops and takes a steadying breath. “I was too stunned to think at first. When my mind came back to me, I took my dog inside and called emergency services.”

  Inspector Newcomen steps forward and places a hand on the woman’s arm.

  “Can you describe him, ma’am? The assailant?”

  The woman nods shakily. “It was only twilight, but after the assault he got back on his bicycle and raced right toward me, so I saw him clear enough. A young man, maybe a teenager. Tall.”

  “Okay,” says Inspector Newcomen, pulling out a notebook and jotting down the information. “How about his race?”

  The woman considers a moment before speaking. “White,” she says. “Or...he could have been Hispanic. Or some kind of Native American?”

  Inspector Newcomen sighs. “But he was light-skinned?”

  The woman shakes her head. “No, he was—That is—” She closes her eyes tightly, trying to focus on a mental image. “I’m sorry,” she says at last. “I can’t say for sure.”

  “I thought you said you saw him clearly.”

  “I did,” the woman insists. “I can picture him in my mind, I just—” She breaks off in frustration. “I don’t know. My memory must be playing tricks on me. All I can remember now is that there was something off about his face. Something odd and out of place. And his eyes...such strange, black eyes...”

  That’s all I need to hear.

  “I know who that is,” I tell the inspector, for the second time this morning feeling almost weak with relief.

  She gives me a dubious look. “You can identify someone from that description?”

  “I’m sure of it. His name’s Hyde.”

  “Hyde,” she repeats, making a note in notebook. “Is that a first name or last name? Does he go to your school?”

  I shake my head, frustrated at how useless my information is. I hardly know anything about Hyde, but I need for Inspector Newcomen to accept this lead. Then inspiration hits. “I know where he lives,” I tell her. “I can take you there.”

  Again, the inspector hesitates, probably concerned that this doesn’t quite follow standard procedure. But her ambition wins out. “All right,” she says. She rips a sheet out of her notebook and hands it to the uniformed cop. “Give this to Sarah and tell her to notify the victim’s parents. Then get us a warrant—wake a judge up if you have to—and meet us there.”

  * * *

  Inspector Newcomen drives and lets me have the passenger seat as we make our way along the now-familiar path to Hidden Ponds under low, dark clouds. I’m grateful that the inspector doesn’t seem prone to small talk, as my mind is racing, trying to sort out everything that has happened in the past few hours. I know my evidence is shaky right now, but based on that woman’s description, Hyde just has to be the murderer—I feel it in my bones. But last time I saw him, he was in Chicago, and he didn’t show any inclination to return to London. What brought him back here? And why the hell would he go after Danny Carew, of all people? Worst of all, where is Jek in all this? Can it be coincidence that he skipped out on me around the same time Danny was killed? And what was Hyde doing with his bike? Is Jek back to his old ways, jumping whenever Hyde calls, protecting him and helping him cover up even the most heinous of crimes?

  Out the car window, I’m startled to notice that we’re almost there. The outer edge of London’s commercial strip strikes me as even grimmer than usual with its seedy businesses and false neon cheer. The trailer park itself takes on an almost nightmarish quality, the shabby dwellings huddled together against a grittily driving rain.

  We pull up in front of Hyde’s place, and Inspector Newcomen practically leaps from the car. I take a deep breath to settle my nerves before following her.

  The uniformed officers are just behind us, and Newcomen tells me to stand back as they rap three sharp knocks on the trailer door. When there’s no answer, they try the handle, and to my surprise the door swings open.

  The officers enter with their hands on their weapons, but once they give the all clear, I follow the inspector inside. The last time I was here, peering through windows for anything out of the ordinary, the place just looked like a normal teenager’s slightly messy living space. Now it has clearly been ransacked. As I follow Inspector Newcomen around the trailer, I see that closet doors stand ajar and drawers have been flung open, their contents disgorged all over the bed and the floor. Couch cushions are heaped up, and the mattress is sloping off the bed at a weird angle.

  “It looks like he was in a panic,” says Newcomen, her eyes sweeping the scene. “Like there was something he was looking for.” She turns to me. “Miss Gutierrez, you’ve been here before?”

  I nod.

  “Walk me through it, then. Describe everything exactly how it was last time you saw it, and what has changed. Maybe we can reconstruct what he was thinking.”

  I cover the whole trailer with her, pointing out everything I remember about how the furniture was positioned and what has been moved since then, but I don’t think I’m adding much to what she has already surmised. At one point, one of the other officers comes over to give a report.

  “The kitchen’s all clear, Inspector,” he says.

  “Nothing suspicious?”

  “Not exactly, ma’am... I mean there’s nothing at all. The cupboard, the fridge, the sink... It’s strange, but from the looks of them, they haven’t been used.”

  Inspector Newcomen frowns. “What about ID?”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” says the officer. “No identity documents, no mail addressed to anyone but ‘resident.’ No photos, no computer. Nothing in the whole place with a name or picture on it.”

  The inspector rubs her head and sighs, then turns back to me. “Do you have photos? Could you find any online?”

  I shake my head. “The parties Hyde threw...they weren’t the kind people want records of. And he wasn’t the type to hang out on social media.”

  “Sounds like he was trying to keep a low profile,” she says, nodding to herself. She gives instructions to the other cop about the APB they have out, and I pull back, hanging nervously by the door and trying to stay out of the way. That’s when I notice a familiar glint of pinkish gold reflecting from a pile of junk emptied from a drawer onto the surface of a desk. I step a bit closer to it and it gleams more brightly, as if calling to me. The inspector has already told me not to touch anything in the trailer, but somehow I can’t resist the urge to nudge it gently with the edge of my hand. The pile shifts a bit and I can see it clearly now: Hyde’s phone.

  My first thought is to point it out to the inspector. Maybe the phone is what Hyde was looking for—the reason he turned this whole place upside down and inside out. There could be some
thing incriminating on it. But who would it incriminate? My thoughts turn back to Jek, and how close he’s become to Hyde...there could be messages between them about Jek’s drug business, or worse. And what if Jek is protecting Hyde right now? If Jek left me this morning to go help Hyde, he could be considered an accessory after the fact to Danny’s murder.

  My fingers seem to do my thinking for me. I pluck the phone from the pile and slip it into my purse. Then I clear my throat.

  “Inspector Newcomen?”

  She glances at me over one shoulder.

  “Do you still need me, or...?”

  “Oh,” she says. “No...just let me get your cell number, in case we have more questions for you. Then Officer Mitchell will drive you back to the station to get your car.”

  I’m writing my number down in her notebook when another uniformed cop comes in.

  “Inspector,” he says, “I spoke to the property manager of the park. He says the trailer was being sublet by a guy who matches the witness’s description. But the name on the rental agreement and all the checks wasn’t Hyde.”

  “What was it?”

  “Some kind of Indian name,” he says, pulling out his notepad.

  “Like Running Bear?”

  “No, not that kind of Indian. Like Gandhi. Hold on...”

  I hardly even register the grotesque racism of this little exchange, because my mind has already moved ahead to more pressing concerns. I finish leaving my number and follow Officer Mitchell out the door without waiting to hear the rest. I’m not halfway down the walk before my phone is in my hand, texting Jek.

  Expect the cops at your place within 20 minutes. Hyde’s in trouble and they’re tying it to you.

  CHAPTER 17

  Twenty minutes later Jek hasn’t responded to my text.

  I drive aimlessly around town in a wind so fierce it seems to have blown everyone off the streets. I don’t know what to do with myself. Should I talk to Puloma? To my mom? I could go home, but she’d just want to know why I’m not in school, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face her lectures about the mess I’m in.