Severed: A Novella

by H. G. Reed

  “Have you eaten dinner?” he asks. “Of course not,” he laughs, answering his own question. “You’ve been here all night. Let’s see what we can do about that. A burger?” He points at me to verify my order.

  “Yeah, sounds good,” I concede. Nothing tastes better than free food, except free food bought with someone else’s tax dollars.

  He’s surprisingly polite as we sit and eat, each sipping from our oversized sodas. I’m half expecting an apology when our awkward dinner concludes. He offers to clean up the mess and steps outside to throw it away. When he returns, he gets right to work.

  “Tell me what happened tonight.”

  “I already told you everything I know.”

  “You look pretty beat up. How’d you come about those defensive wounds?”

  Now this I can answer.

  “They’re not defensive,” I say, looking at them. “Like I told you before, I was assaulted.” This is the second time around on this carousel and I’m getting tired of it. “Are you charging me with anything?”

  He stays silent, eyes cast downward and something in my gut tells me this is bad. I recall the conversation we had an hour ago about my blood at the crime, but is that enough to hold me? How does he know it’s mine? Is that considered evidence in a trial? Am I really the only suspect of a kidnapping and potential murder?

  “I think maybe I need a lawyer,” I say quietly, not even sure how to properly go about getting one.

  “We’re just chatting, Rory. But if you want one, I can make sure you get the best public defender the county has to offer.” He stands and buttons his suit coat, heading for the interrogation room door. He rests a palm on the metal knob and turns back to me. “At this hour, it will probably be midnight or 1AM before—”

  “Can I just tell you what I know, and we’ll be done with it?”

  “Sure.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits back down. “So what did you want to tell me?”

  “I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t even think I knew her.”

  “She wasn’t a classmate of yours?”

  “How am I supposed to know? He had me facing the other way.”

  “Who did?”

  “My attacker.”

  “Oh, so now you’re the victim?”

  “Yeah, I think I am!”

  He drops a folder on the table, full of reasons why I’m guilty, and holds up his hands between us as if this is supposed to make me feel at peace.

  “Calm down, Mr. Halstead. We’re just talking about what happened. We both want the truth. We’re on the same side.”

  He grabs a remote on the table I never noticed until now and clicks on an ancient television he must have wheeled in on a cart before I got here. My mind is running a mile a minute and the gears won’t stop cranking, processing, churning. Something isn’t adding up, and I figure it’s because he has all the numbers.

  “You know,” I say with a sickening realization. “You know who she is. The girl that went missing.”

  Detective Azley turns back over his shoulder to face me, his mouth heavy with smirk. “In fact we do, Mr. Halstead. It’s mind-boggling that you came in here to report a violent crime, and couldn’t even tell us what the girl looks like.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “That’s police information. But you knew it before I told you, isn’t that right?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because you left her that way. You do know who she is and what happened. Tell us what you did to her, Rory. Where are you hiding her?”

  “I didn’t do anything! Why did you ask me to come back? I thought you had news or you caught the guys or something. Jesus!”

  “Come on, Rory. You knew what happened because you were there. Now, I’m not saying you’re the master mind, but you helped, didn’t you? We know the truth; I just need to hear you say it.”

  “I can’t!”

  “But you want to, is that it? You protecting someone?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  “Let’s see if this jogs your memory.”

  I look at the television for the first time and see it’s the local eleven o’clock news. I recognize the reporter’s face, except her usual journalistic affect is marked by something awful.

  “What a sad time for the university’s campus as they send out thoughts, prayers, and responders to aid in the search of third year student, Rosemary Peterson.”

  Her face flashes up on the screen with her name beneath, and I look at it straight on. She’s pretty, with dark blonde hair and green eyes. In her picture, she’s smiling, and the overexposure casts her features in a white glow, lighting up her teeth and glinting off her eyes.

  “Rose…” I manage to whisper.

  “Yes, it is. You were fond of her?”

  “No, I… She just preferred to be called that.”

  “She was in class with you, wasn’t she? Dr. Fynes’ class. Your freshman year before you dropped out of school.”

  I see her face on the TV and I can hear her voice, shouting for someone to call 9-1-1. She was the girl in the classroom on the day of my seizure.

  “I know her,” I confirm in a dazed whisper.

  “Could you write that down?” He slides the legal pad across the table.

  “That wasn’t a confession,” I say, shoving the pad and pen back toward him. “I’m just saying I remember her. She was there. Last night.”

  “Tell me something we don’t know yet.”

  “I have a brain injury?” It comes out like a question, and my sudden doubt keeps me from expounding on that super critical detail.

  Azley snorts. “Sure. Everyone I arrest has some screw loose in their head.” He smacks the notepad against his open palm. No room for further explanation even if I thought he deserved one. “You two met your first semester, but you didn’t come back that following spring of your freshman year. You withdrew from school.”

  “My mom pulled me out. I came back fall of sophomore year. Or what was supposed to be sophomore year. My credit hours got all messed up.”

  He continues like I didn’t even speak. “You withdrew because you knew you had urges, isn’t it? Urges to harm her. You tried to resist, but it didn’t last, isn’t that right? Then you re-enrolled this fall, so you could be close to her.”

  Suddenly, I come to my senses. We are not on the same side.

  “What? No, that’s not it at all. I’m not a stalker! What is this anyway? I said I wanted a goddamn lawyer.”

  The door bursts open and my dad crosses the threshold, followed by a short, balding man in a navy suit.

  “Don’t say another word, Rory,” the short man orders, and I feel like I’ve just been snatched from the jaws of an animal.

  I’m saved!

  His round glasses give him the appearance of the highborn, well-educated sort of man who could get Charles Manson out of prison. I hope it’s enough for me.

  “And you are?” Azley asks.

  “You’re the detective,” he fires back. “You figure it out.”

  I like him already. I’m too stunned to put words together, but my dad crosses to me and talks into my ear.

  “This guy is the best money can buy, son. Trust him.”

  “Wait, but how did you—”

  “Don’t worry. Your mom called.” He turns and pats the suited man on the shoulder like they’re old golfing buddies. “Take care of him, John.”

  Dad leaves, and the room is silent for a moment before my bright, shiny attorney extends his hand and it occurs to me I haven’t seen my dad since my surgery.

  “John Strausberg,” he introduces himself politely. “Now why do you have my client present for interrogation, and why wasn’t questioning ceased the moment he asked for counsel?”

  Detective Asswipe has no answer.

  “I will be present for any and all questioning, and will be representing Mr. Halstead if that need arises, which I’m sure it will not because you have no reason to hold him.”

  “
In fact, we do, Mr. …”

  “Strausberg. May I ask what evidence you’ve managed to come by in less than twelve hours and through a coerced confession?”

  Strausberg doesn’t even bother sitting down. He stands with fingertips pressed into the tabletop, leaning forward and almost hovering over the detective. I sit back and let him do his job, glad to be off the coals for once.

  “We have his DNA at the scene.”

  “I doubt that. Or you have the fastest lab in the history of government. We’ll be leaving now.”

  “You can stop bluffing. Your client told us himself. Gave us his sample and everything.”

  “I never gave you a sample.”

  “Actually you did, Rory,” he says, leaning back in his chair, stuffed with confidence.

  Then I remember the dinner, and the soda. It wasn’t a kind gesture at all, but a trap.

  “Not to mention his injuries,” Azley goes on, looking at Strausberg. “Looks like he got into it with someone, wouldn’t you agree Counselor?” He folds his arms comfortably over his chest as he eyes my black and blue face.

  “The guy pushed me down and—”

  “Enough, Rory.” My lawyer holds up a hand to silence me. “Are you holding him or not, detective?”

  Azley says nothing, but looks as if someone has just stolen his prize from the state fair.

  “Rory, let’s go.”

  I do as I’m told, and follow the balding man out of the interrogation room. My eyes have barely adjusted to the change in scenery when my mom’s arms wrap around my neck.

  “Oh, thank God,” she says, wrapping me up tightly.

  “Kelly, let’s get him out of here,” my dad urges with a hand on the back of his ex-wife. She doesn’t even flinch, but does as he says, and walks numbly toward the door of the precinct still sniveling like I’ve been sentenced to twenty-five to life.

  Strausberg tugs at my arm as my parents walk ahead, and he leans in so that no one overhears. He reeks of cigars.

  “In a few days’ time, they’ll probably schedule a meeting. Be ready to give your statement to a handful of detectives and a camera.”

  “They’re going to arrest me?”

  He shrugs. “They don’t have enough evidence now, but I can’t stop them from building a case against you. We’ll just have to build a better one.” His eyes wander off as if he’s never considered the likelihood of me ending up in jail.

  “I didn’t do this.”

  He snaps out of his daydream. “Sure. Of course. Look, we’ll work together to get your statement ready so when they come calling, we’re prepared.”

  “But how can they force me to talk?”

  “I see your face like everyone else. Something happened that night, and if they believe you have information that will lead them to her, they’ll call you as a material witness. For now, you’re still a person of interest. Which is better than being the suspect.”

  “But I don’t know anything. I mean, even if I did, I can’t…my brain—”

  “I know, but they don’t. I’m working on getting your medical records sent to my office as we speak. That should clear up a lot, but let’s hope it’s enough to take you off the suspect list. I don’t know when they’ll make their move, but until they do, you don’t say a word. Got it?”

  I nod, suddenly afraid that I’ve done something terribly wrong. I just wanted to help her. I wanted someone to know what happened and to find her. A sneaking question scratches at the base of my neck, and claws its way up into my head.

  “Why did my attacker let me go?”

  “No idea,” he replies, making minimal eye contact as we walk toward my mom’s car. “But if anyone contacts you—school, media, police—you keep your lips shut, and you call me. The last thing we need is your story getting out before we’re ready.”

  I nod again, though it’s a ridiculous idea. I couldn’t tell Azley, why on earth would I be able to tell TMZ? A random thought strikes me. “Hey, do you think I could get my car back?”

  * * *

  “Rory, it’s John,” he says on the other end of the phone. I don’t respond. “Strausberg.” My throat goes dry, and he sighs. “The results of the DNA test came back and they have you at the scene, just like you told them, so at least we’re going into this looking honest. The bad news is you have to present at the precinct tomorrow at nine AM to give your official statement. No more blank legal pads. Silence is not an option. They’re planning to call you as a material witness, should this go to trial.”

  “So they know I’m not guilty?”

  “Did you hear me? As a material witness, they can hold you if they decide you’re an asset to the case. Or a flight risk. Which you are, given your father’s assets.”

  “But my dad hasn’t seen me in two years.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He gave you a brand-new Mercedes, and the best lawyer in the state. He could get you a jet to Bermuda if you asked.”

  This is going from bad to worse, but that allows the silver lining to shine a little brighter. I’ve never considered myself an optimistic person, but there’s no time like the present.

  “But I’m not a suspect. They’re still not arresting me for murder.”

  “Well, they’re not saying it so loudly as before. I think you’re still a person of interest, which is understandable, but after today, we’ll tell them everything. Deal?”

  “Sure. You’ve got all my records from the doctor?”

  “Everything from the past twenty years. Think that’ll be enough?” He says with a laugh. Or the closest thing to a laugh John Strausberg can muster. “Meet me at eight AM tomorrow and we’ll go over the plan again.”

  Don’t I just tell the truth?

  * * *

  I meet my lawyer the following morning just as instructed, driving my own car into the parking lot of the precinct. I can’t help the skip in my step as I close my driver side door and saunter up the front stairs. Just a few days ago, I was heaving up my lunch over there by that waste basket. Now I have a fancy new lawyer, my beautiful car back, and Azley waiting to get his career handed to him. He has the wrong guy, and he has to know it.

  I’m feeling confident until I see my lawyer’s face.

  “Have you been talking to the media?” He asks, sweat stippling his temples.

  “No, I swear to God—”

  “Keep that between you and him. You’re late. We’ll have to skip the pep talk. They’re all over this, Rory. Just follow behind me and don’t say a word.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I soon learn as we round a corner and head straight into a pile of reporters.

  They purposefully stand in our path and the only way out is through. Questions and comments and outcries are hurled in my direction, but I keep my head down, hand over my right ear, not looking at any of their wicked mouths. For once, I use my condition to my advantage. I place a hand on John’s jacket as he leads me to a nicer, brighter interrogation room. The décor is much nicer, but the purpose is still the same. I don’t even know what the reporters said, but it must have been terrible because John is practically sweating through his jacket when we reach the room.

  “In all my years of practice—” he begins to address the room full of people trying to ruin me.

  “Counselor, you honestly can’t think we had anything to do with that circus out there,” Azley interjects, offering a slimy handshake.

  “I’m not saying you did.”

  Azley scoffs. “Please, have a seat.”

  Fancy office chairs sit around a glossy wooden table, and suited, spectacled men and women sit in them. I take one at the head of the table, John sitting to my right and I stare ahead into a camera lens at the other end.

  A gray suit at one end does the round of obligatory introductions, and I make a point to watch everyone’s mouth that is moving, letting both ears and eyes absorb the information and verbal cues. I have to be alert at all times.

  “Mr. Halstead, this meeting is being recorded
for posterity,” the gray suit says. “You will be sworn in and asked a series of questions by the prosecution regarding the crimes committed against Miss Rosemary Peterson. You do understand that if determined to be integral to the solving of this case, and if proved to be uncooperative, we do reserve the right to detain you until a trial takes place and you can testify.”

  John turns to me and speaks softly but firmly, like a grandpa giving final advice before his grandson goes off to war. “Do you understand what has just been told to you, Rory?”

  I nod, convinced if I try to speak, nothing will come out but air and fear.

  Strausberg retrieves a large brown file from his leather bag and sets it on the table in front of me. Paper clipped to the top is a form that reads Release of Information.

  “Rory, if you agree to sign this, it will give the precinct access to this medical file. You and I know what’s contained in here and I believe it’s the surest way to affirm your testimony. But of course, it’s up to you.”

  He makes a grand speech, but we both knew it was our opening act. He saved this form on purpose. He wants the investigative team to see I’m being compliant and holding no secrets.

  Strausberg doesn’t even set a pen in front of me until I finish reading the form. When I nod, he places a weighted fountain pen in my hand, and I sign away my privacy to the smirking son of a bitch sitting across from me.

  “Very well,” Strausberg begins. “I can show you now that my client was in fact a witness to this heinous crime of abduction and alleged assault, and exactly why he is of no use to you. Therefore, he should not be held as a material witness.”

  Strausberg opens the file and I feel naked and exposed in front of people waiting to judge and point fingers. I want to run from the room, but I don’t. If someone was hurt, I want to help, and maybe that means telling a total asshat my deepest secrets.

  Detective Azley begins scanning the pages, one by one, nodding and ‘uh-huh’ing as he goes along. We sit while he peruses and consumes, eating his fill of my history starting from the time I was two years old before he passes it along to the next guy.