by Helga Zeiner
Her nose flared. She reminded him of a rabbit in a cage, taking in the scent of danger. Her distrust was so obvious, he decided to soften her up a bit.
“You can do that list later, Melissa. I’m here for a different reason. I’ve gone over the statement you gave Detective Harding when you were at the station, and I noticed it didn’t have much information. It was probably the Detective’s fault, not asking you the right questions, that’s usually the case at the beginning of an investigation, one doesn’t really know where to begin. But really, all that’s important is that we get ahead in our investigation as quickly as possible, right? … You want to help us find out what really happened, don’t you, Melissa?”
She had been shaking and nodding her head throughout his monolog, but now he stopped, forcing her to respond verbally.
“I do, but I don’t know how I could help. As I have said to Detective Harding, I don’t know anything.”
“Oh, but you do. You know more than you are aware of, and we do need to find out what it is if we want to help your daughter.”
She finally sat down as well. “What do you want to know?”
“To start with, you said you don’t know the victim. How can you be so sure?”
“I didn’t say I’m sure. It’s just, I have no idea who she could be. Her face was never shown on TV, at least not clear enough to really see her. It was all so shaky. And you never gave me her name. So how would I know?”
“You got a point there. Unfortunately we’re a bit stuck on that one. So far nobody has come forward with a missing person’s report to match the victim. Her face is not recognizable yet, we need to wait for the swelling to go down. If she survives, she will most likely lose one eye, according to the physician in charge. So for the time being, we can’t circulate her picture and as she had no ID on her, we must wait for her to regain consciousness. All we know is that she’s Hispanic.”
He watched her reaction closely and thought he detected a faint widening of her eyes. “That’s why I was thinking your daughter might have known her. After all, there are a lot of Mexicans living in Texas, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, you got any ideas on that? Could it be somebody your daughter might have known?”
“No.”
His voice sharpened. “Listen, Melissa, we are not getting anywhere with this attitude of yours. You’re not helping.”
“But how could I, if I don’t know anything. I told you, I can’t imagine who it could be, even if she is Mexican. That could be just a coincidence. There are a lot of foreigners walking around here in Vancouver.”
“True, true.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But we find it a bit much of a coincidence that your daughter, having grown up in Texas and coming back here only three years ago, would stab a Hispanic lady totally unprovoked and in broad daylight. Way too much coincidence in fact.”
Melissa nibbled on her lower lip to indicate that she was seriously mulling over what he had suggested. “No, honestly, I can’t imagine who it could be.”
“Why don’t we try and work on the wider picture then? Maybe we can come up with something together. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your daughter?”
“Like what?”
“To start with, why she calls herself Princess Tia?”
Now Melissa looked genuinely astonished. “She said so?”
“Mhm.”
“Oh, that’s surprising. That she would even remember that! It was a child’s game, that’s all. Most children give themselves fantasy names, play names, you know. With Tiara it was Princess Tia whenever she wanted to be somebody else. Just for playing.”
“She’s not a child anymore. Is she a bit backward, I mean, for her age and all?”
“Of course not! I told you before, she has a good mind, but she always liked to play games.” Then her eyes clouded over again, getting lost in her loss.
“Describe her to me,” Macintosh said. “Anything that comes to your mind.”
“The last years haven’t been easy for her. I’m not trying to make excuses for what she’s done, but don’t you think a judge should take that into consideration? That she was a bit like a fish out of water. I tried my best to help her adjust, but at that age it gets very difficult to reach out to a teenager. Surely you know how it is. If you have kids, you know.”
“I have a son who lives in Ontario.”
And a daughter who’d be twenty-five now, if she had lived.
Maybe he wasn’t judging her fairly. Maybe she really was caring and loving and just one hell of an unlucky mother.
But maybe not.
“So, you think Tiara wanted to stay in Texas?”
“Oh, sure. Yes, of course. She had so much going for her. She was a child model, you know, made lots of money with it.”
This was new.
“Can you tell me a little about that?”
“She was posing for lots of different agencies, for posters and advertisements and such. She didn’t just have the face for it, she had the attitude. The camera loved her. Honestly, she was one of the best looking little girls in the whole country. She was a natural until—”
Macintosh leaned forward. “Until what?”
“She grew out of it. She started to shoot up like a beanpole when she was about ten. She needed braces when she was eleven. All that cuteness, gone. Even I had to admit that, and I’m her mother. Maybe I should have better prepared her for it.”
Now her eyes started to fill with tears again, she fought them hard and swallowed most. Macintosh could see her composure wilting.
“I was so busy, caught up in this whirlwind of … of … of happiness, activity, luck. I hadn’t had much luck till then, you know, but Tiara had been a blessing to me then. Oh, listen to what I’m saying. Then! I mean, she still is. I have to stand by her, that’s what I need to do. That’s what any good mother would do.”
Macintosh tried in vain to get her back on track. After a few more questions that yielded only more motherly self-pity, he made a mental note to ask Harding to get in touch with their Texan counterparts and check out Melissa’s claim to Tiara’s fame.
“You’ll hear from me again,” he said. “And don’t forget to make me that list.” He hoped it sounded like a threat.
Chapter 17
Psycho-doc doesn’t show up this morning. I pleaded a headache again, but this time they gave me a Tylenol and escorted me out of my Living Unit to morning classes. Every time we turn a corner, there is a heavy metal door that only opens when my guard touches the electronic lock with a special key that looks like a credit card. Once we step through the doorway, it closes by itself with a noisy clonk. Now I understand the faint clonk-clonk-clonk going on that travels all the way into my cell. It is doors closing, one after another. All day long the clonk-clonk goes on. I guess the guards are used to it, but I flinch every time I hear a final clonk behind me.
Many clonks later, they deposit me in a small classroom where four other girls sit, pretending to take no interest in me. They are all my age, purple, moping, apathetic, clearly not wanting to be here. That’s something we have in common, I guess. I sit down and sulk with them. It’s such a waste of time. What should I, or any of them, do with an education? Do they think I’ll be the Prime Minster of Canada one day, or the Premier of British Columbia, or the Mayor of Vancouver? I won’t even get a low-level job in a backyard company when I eventually get out. I’ll be a jail bird, and my past will be public property. They’ll wallow in the filth they dig up. I’ll wear a scarlet letter branded on my forehead, a big, fat ‘F’ for filth. I’ll be an old woman before they let me forget what I’ve done.
So I sit there, as far as possible from the other four girls that have to go through the education motions and try and think about pleasant things. Like birthdays. I need to figure out what the F stands for. All I come up with is four.
My Birthday Four
A few months ahead of my fourth birthday, the photographer friend tol
d Gracie about a very special local beauty pageant. They had a section for girls of all ages, but the important one was for ages 4 to 6, called the Pretty Princess category. He showed her pictures from the previous year’s winner, pictures he had been commissioned to take, and both he and Gracie agreed I outdid this pudding-faced plain Jane in every aspect. I had the best of both of my parents. Dad lived on through my smoldering Mexican eyes with the long, long lashes and Mom had freely mixed her translucent Canadian skin with his sun-resistant complexion to give me the perfect beach-sand shade. She had also contributed her delicate features, which were still visible in the pictures Gracie had pasted in albums up to my years six or seven, after that, they started to hide in shame under excessive fatty tissue.
“It’s not too late to enter her.”
The photographer friend didn’t need to do much convincing to persuade Gracie of the advantages associated with this exciting venture. “The Pretty Princess winner goes on to National American Miss. Your girl can become famous. You can make a lot of money.”
Gracie checked through the competition rules. I wasn’t even four yet, but nobody asked for a birth certificate. Just a parental signature. Truth be told, Gracie could have just signed it herself. Mom had been so out of it when I was born that she never noticed the name on my birth certificate. It read Tiara Rodriguez-Brown. Gracie had faked her brother’s signature, and as his death had not yet been officially registered, she got away with it. Graciella Rodriguez could pose as my mother whenever it suited her.
But Gracie knew she couldn’t keep my participation in the contest a secret, so she went home with the forms and told Mom everything, just like the photographer friend had told her. The winner got a crown, a banner, a trophy, roses, one thousand dollars! She could advance to national competition, a modelling contract, scholarships, traveling opportunities, God knows what else. The contest was the stepping stone, the door opener for an amazing career. One little stroke of Mom’s pen could change my life, her life, the life of our square as we knew it.
Mom hesitated. “Wasn’t that what JonBenet had done? The media crucified her parents. It was in all the papers.”
“But that had nothing to do with it,” argued Gracie. “They got that wrong. The girl was murdered in her own home, not at a beauty contest.”
Very true. Mom liked the idea of her little angel being admired on stage. That was a totally different matter than those boring photo sessions with that arrogant photographer friend of Gracie’s. There were people in the audience, maybe even TV cameras. The moms of those little girls were key to their success, nothing happened without them. This sounded exciting! We’d be staying in hotels, getting roses and chocolate and money—and sparkling crowns.
“Maybe that’s why I called her Tiara,” she mused. “Maybe fate knew that all along.”
“You have to sign here. That’s all you need to do. Don’t worry a thing. I’ll handle it, just like the photo sessions.”
Mom must have thought of the spoils. “But I’m her mother. People will expect to see me there.”
“Here,” Gracie told my mother. “You want to be in charge? That’s fine with me. You got to fill out the whole registration, all five pages of it, and pay a fifty dollar entrance fee.”
“No, no,” Mom said when she heard it cost money to launch my career. “You go ahead, register her. I know how much this means to you. And I’m always so busy anyway, I barely have a minute to myself. But I will come along to the pageant.”
Psycho-doc had to change his schedule. From now on he can see me only on those afternoons when he comes to the Center anyway.
I would have preferred mornings, but I have no say in any of that. I’m the non-paying customer here, free-loading on his legal-aid generosity. As the Center admin can’t be sure when he shows up, I’m excused from participating in all the afternoon activities I would normally have to attend. Which is a bonus; morning classes drain me enough.
Now I can at least hang out every afternoon in my cell until I’m called to the small office reserved for his Center visits. I spend my solitary hours wisely, I write in my journal or stare at the wall.
Today he shows up quite late.
It’s interesting to watch his tactics. No pressure, no demands. Just talking about whatever comes to mind (his more than mine). He is supposed to do a few tests which are designed to establish the degree of my madness, but that’s a bit difficult with me not cooperating fully. (Which is not an act and not by choice. I wish I could give him more than the memories that feel like worn-out, washed-out hand-me-downs).
Still being non-disclosive, as he calls it (empty headed, boring, bland, as I call it), means I have little to say to him. Today though, I have something on my mind. I open our session with the question I have mulled over since his last visit.
“When you gave me the good-news shit about the woman still hanging in there, you seemed delighted. Why?”
“It would take quite a burden off your defending lawyer if she survives. That, and you being a minor, could swing things in your favor. We might be lucky.”
He says we as if he is my partner-in-crime. It pisses me off. I need him as a shield, not as an ally.
“Are you sure she isn’t dead?” I have to ask. My hatred is hard to contain under the covers of my amnesia-blanket.
“I’m sure.” He gives me an odd look.
I don’t want him to dwell on this. “What’s this about a lawyer? I didn’t know I had one.”
“You don’t, yet. Your case worker has been in contact with your mother, but she has no funds for a private defense, so the juvenile court will appoint one for you.”
“I don’t need one,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t want one of those mediocre, bored, underpaid legal-aid types who don’t give a shit about me. I want to figure out what drives that crazy person inside me, and once I figured it out, I can rot away in peace and quiet.
By the way, I won that first contest, I was crowned Miss Texas Princess, age 4 to 6 at the age of 3 years and ten months. Mom came along, as she did to all the future contests. Gracie and her had come to a silent understanding—a cease-fire of sorts. Mom would bask in my pageant glory in front of a live audience and let Gracie handle the tedious photo sessions in a stuffy studio.
“I wouldn’t come along if you’d pay me,” she would often say to Gracie. “I don’t know how you can stand it—there’s nothing to do but sit and wait.”
That first pageant victory must have been so special. I was told many times what a day of jubilant joy that had been, with Gracie and Mom being so happy that they hugged each other and cried for the rest of the day. They took the roses and the thousand dollars. They told me how proud they were of me and what a bright future lay ahead of me, and all of them. They had a crown and a picture to prove it.
Chapter 18
After Macintosh had left, Melissa stayed in the kitchen for a long while, fuming.
If only she hadn’t told him she’d write down the names of Tiara’s friends. How could she? There were none.
Tiara had always been a loner. She had not been close to anybody in Vancouver, and even growing up in Texas, she had not sought out friends. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity, she had come in contact with lots of girls her age down south, at every beauty pageant, but she never started a friendship with any of them. Once, Tiara had been five or six then, a girl who participated in the contest had come up to her in the hotel lobby and had wanted to give her a stuffed teddy. The little girl was hugging the stuffed toy, it had a heart-shaped pendant dangling over its fluffy tummy, while approaching Tiara with a wide smile. When she was close enough, she extended her hand with the teddy in a straight-forward, generous gesture, delivered with a generous smile. You want to be my friend?
Tiara had slapped the girl’s hand so hard the teddy sailed over the runner in the hotel lobby, bounced off a stainless-steel rubbish bin, the heart-shaped pendant harshly clink-clonking against the metal, and landed on its tummy next to a suitcase with r
ollers. The owner of the suitcase, the mother of another contestant, picked it up and, thinking it was Tiara’s (everybody always concentrated on Tiara first, she had this air about her), wanted to hand it back to her. The little giving girl had lost her smile. Children can change their moods so quickly. She tried to grab the teddy back and at the same time she tried to hit Tiara. Suddenly those two had a fight, slapping at each other without targeting properly, but still. The grown-ups had to separate them, screaming and kicking.
“What on earth possessed you?” she had asked Tiara once she was calm again. “You could have just said ‘no, thank you’, the other girl meant well. She had only wanted to make friends with you.”
“Mom, you are soooo stupid,” Tiara had said with those airs. “She probably sneezed on that stupid bear, wanting to give me a cold.”
She could never tell Detective Macintosh about this, of course. He would only paraphrase it into so, your daughter always had a tendency to violence! But aside from that long ago and in hindsight rather harmless incident, Tiara had never been aggressive. That she had now flipped out in public and attacked a complete stranger in that coffee shop was an isolated, out-of-character rage thing. Chalk it down to pubescent confusion. It was a phase, nothing else. Sure, she had been a touch unbalanced when they had left Texas three years ago. But many people, especially at that age, went through rough patches and pulled themselves together again and got on with their lives. Entertainment Tonight often featured young stars who went through difficult times and then had a fabulous comeback.
All those dreams, all those hopes for the future, where were they now? Tiara at eighteen, in a flowing evening gown, with a smile brighter than the sun, lighting up the auditorium, waiting for the beauty queen crown to be placed on her proudly-raised head. Her Tiara, Miss America at last!
Tiara would never get a shot at a comeback if the police knew about that previous outburst of anger, as young as she’d been then. Tears of frustration and anger welled up in her again. She should make an official complaint about this detective. She had seen it in his face, he hated her!