by Helga Zeiner
“Do you remember where you grew up?”
“Please. By now you know I’m from Texas. You know probably more about me than I do, or you’re a lousy policeman. I’m sorry, but I wish I could tell you more.” She took a deep breath. “It’s pretty tough not knowing what makes you tick.”
He waited.
“Don’t you understand?” She forced the words out through gritted teeth: “I…do…not…remember…anything!”
“If this is an act, you’re quite gifted.”
Finally, she opened up. Her lips, her whole expression, relaxed again and she start to giggle. It came naturally, from deep inside, bright and melodic, much different from the nervous giggle she had fallen into before. It was a sound he hadn’t heard for so long, it turned a metal screw in that locked-up heart of his and forced it to beat a bit stronger.
“If I could fool you, I’d be a contender for the Oscars.”
He was still fighting it. Fighting her. “Don’t think for a minute you can fool me. Or your psychiatrist. Or the judge.”
“I don’t.” She frowned. “Can I ask you something?”
He shrugged.
“If it wasn’t your wife, then who got killed?”
“Tell me why this is important to you.”
For a long time, only the clock on the wall ticked away time. Then Tiara got up, looked down on him.
“I guess I’ll never know then.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, but could already see that he had lost her again. All the innocent playfulness she had shown had dissipated, making room for a more saturnine attitude.
“I have no idea why this is important to me.” She slowly walked to the door, shoulders down, legs dragging, and knocked.
The guard opened the door to let her out.
“It was my daughter,” he said softly. “She got killed at a party by a 16-year old drug addict.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure if she could still hear him, but then she stopped in her tracks and slowly turned around. Her face mirrored the pain he was feeling.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He was taken aback by the raw sincerity in her words, and he realized that she wasn’t lying. Not now, and not before.
Chapter 32
The last of the leaves has fallen. One shriveled brown left-over of colorful autumn has finally given up clinging to Mother Nature and has drifted to the pavement. I actually watched it.
Now I can only see bare branches scratching a dull sky with their spindly fingers. November in Vancouver is like bathing in grey water—without a scent, a color, a candle.
Dreary.
Like me.
Going to Birthday Eight
I’m eight now. I’m bloated with anger and angst. Angst. I like that German word better than fear—at least to describe the emotion I felt then. Angst is deviated from its original meaning ‘Enge’, which means tightness. My life is controlled by those two emotions. The moment I get angry over the things I don’t want to do, I turn tight—my lungs constrict, I can’t breathe, my mind goes blank, which eventually leads to one of my anxiety attacks, which in turn results in my complete surrender. I do what I’m told without question and complaint.
What do they make me do?
A week after my seventh birthday Hurricane Katrina had hit, and for nearly a year after that all pageants had been cancelled. People in the Southern States had to rebuild and reshape their future, they had to set priorities. To watch beautiful and talented children perform on stage wasn’t one of them until things settled down somehow. Gracie fired The Stick. I didn’t need a dance instructor for the photo sessions.
August is a really hot month in Texas, but on that particular August when I turned eight, the ocean breeze carried cooler air and we decided to celebrate in the famous Hotel Galvez on the Seawall Boulevard (on the wrong side of course, like everything in my home town). It was still under renovation from the damage Katrina had caused, but the lobby restaurant with its elegant stucco ceiling and pillars was open again and served huge ice cream cups with chocolate sauce, topped with colored beads and cute little glass monkeys holding umbrellas. Gracie loved that hotel for its old-fashioned splendor. It was built in 1911 and named after the Spanish Colonial Governor Bernardo de Galvez who had been the first to charter the Texas Gulf coast and had been the name inspiration for Galveston (I’m only mentioning this to prove that I’m not a total ignorant, even if I’m not smart enough to succeed in killing somebody).
The three of us were sitting in the lobby. Mom was craning her neck to look beyond the passing traffic and catch a glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico, when Gracie announced that the first pageants were opening up again. She wanted to enter me in all of them. Truly Unique Pageant, Model Search Pageant, Miss Heart of America, Midwest Fabulous Dolls—all pageants which catered to age group 8 to 12. She planned four years of hectic pageantry for me.
“What are you thinking?” Mom said. “It’s way too many.”
Gracie ignored her.
“Ouch”, she said and crossed out the Bella Latina Pageant, “that won’t work. Tiara’s got an important photo session that day.”
“You can’t seriously plan all those contests and do photo sessions!”
“The photo sessions pay for the contests, in case you’ve forgotten. But what’s it to you? You can stay home and stuff your face while I earn our keep,” Gracie snapped back.
“That’s unfair. I would have come, but you said the photographer doesn’t want me there!” Mom said.
“And right he is! Mothers are always a pain.”
“Sure, and aunts are not.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re just jealous because you’ll never be a mom.”
Gracie’s face clouded over.
“If I were, I’d be a hell of a better one than you.”
“You always think what you do is so important. Those sessions aren’t getting her famous. It’s the contests that do it. Tiara spends way too much time doing those pictures. She needs more time for dance lessons. I insist! I’m her mother. I won’t allow that any longer. I’m telling you, no more photo sessions.”
I got quite excited when Mom said that and jumped up and down on the oversized lobby couch I had been placed upon, nearly knocking over my humongous ice cream cup on the low table in front of me.
“Yes, yes, please!” I squeaked like a piglet. “I’ll do all the pageants, I’ll study hard, I’ll practice my dance lessons, I’ll learn all the poems by heart, I’ll let you put those false nails on for every pageant.”
That was a huge concession on my part. When they had applied acrylic powder with a chemical solution to my nails and held them under a heat-lamp it had burnt like hell.
Gracie turned on me.
“You ungrateful little brat! What’s the matter with you? You want to complain about a few photo shoots? Don’t you know what happens when you do that?”
All I wanted was for the photo sessions to stop. By now I had a deep aversion against sitting in front of the one-eyed monster, the large black round hole on the camera that was so dangerous because it always swallowed me up.
“Mom, please?”
Mom didn’t look at me. She looked at Gracie who went on telling her, and me, how bitterly disappointed she was in us. After all, last year hadn’t been easy, with no pageants, how would I ever become famous if it weren’t for the exposure those pictures gave me, and how should we all survive if I didn’t do my duty. The pictures had always been the back-up plan, and Thank God we had had them in the past year. And Thank God for the sponsor, who knew best how to manage the sessions. (A meaningful, if not outright malicious, side glare at Mom). Without mothers!
Mom stroked my back although I didn’t need soothing, I had already given up.
“Princess, Gracie is right. She knows what’s best for all of us. I’m sure we’ll find enough time between the pageants and the pictures to keep your lessons up to date.”
When psycho-doc—oh, all righ
t, it’s silly to keep calling him that—when Stanley showed up again, I had a burning question on my mind.
“Stanley,” I say, “when I think back to my ninth year, I was angry and full of angst. Why would I feel like that? What does it mean to feel anger and angst?”
For once he doesn’t reply with another question.
“Well, let’s start with the anger. What was it about the sessions that made you so angry?”
“I never said the sessions made me angry.”
“Then what did?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask you.”
“Okay. How about you tell me about those sessions anyway.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you tell me. Who was there?”
“Gracie’s photographer friend. And Gracie of course.”
“Was she always there?”
I had to think hard. My memories are not an open book where I can flip though the chapters.
“Usually, yes. But only in the beginning.”
“Was there anybody else?”
“Just the Purple Shadow.”
“But you don’t know who that was?”
I shake my head.
“It’s very blurry. All I can make out is a shape. Large, round, like a barrel.”
“And a color?”
“Actually, I don’t know why I’m thinking of purple. Maybe it’s because I don’t like it.”
“Quite possible. As you didn’t like what was happening in the photo studio, your repulsion by association makes sense. What was this Purple Shadow doing there?”
“Watching.”
“Watching what?”
“Me. Having my pictures taken. Helping the photographer to do his art.”
“I see. How did you feel about that?’
“About what?”
“About being handled by the Purple Shadow.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”
“Did you get angry then?”
“No.”
“Did you feel angst?”
“No, you’ve got it totally wrong. I wasn’t angry or felt angst when we did sessions. It was at all the other times. I got mad at Mom or Gracie and then I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes I even fainted.”
“You never fainted when you had a session?”
This Stanley guy is nuts. He just doesn’t get it.
“Of course not! Why should I faint? I didn’t feel anything!” I’m practically yelling now. “I wasn’t there, it wasn’t ME!”
Suddenly I’m crying. I cry because I don’t understand. How can I make him understand what I don’t understand myself?
Stanley gives me a tissue and smiles.
“Wow, we’ve made huge progress today.”
I’m so mad, I could kill him.
Chapter 33
Macintosh enjoyed puzzles. Not just the crossword puzzles in the Sunday papers that challenged his mind, he also took pleasure in putting together picture puzzles whenever he found the time for this utterly senseless activity. It relaxed him.
His Princess file started to turn into an oversized picture puzzle. He kept studying the pieces he had gathered so far and tried to make them fit. Not a single one fell comfortably into place, and there was very little to go on. Time was slipping by without generating anything useful.
Tiara’s mother had refused to give him a list of her daughter’s friends, citing temporary memory loss. “I don’t personally know the people she was hanging out with and I’m so bad with names,” she had said.
Tiara herself was impossible to investigate. She didn’t own a computer. She didn’t own a cell phone either. He double-checked on line, the girl must be the only 15-year-old in British Columbia without a Facebook or Twitter account. She did cooperate with the court-appointed shrink for her mental assessment, but refused to see her lawyer or case worker. After his last visit, he believed she really had lost her memory. There wasn’t much point in visiting her again, at least not until the shrink made some progress, but deep inside he knew he wouldn’t wait that long. He needed to see her and speak to her once more. Harding had made it quite clear to him. Tiara would be his last case, and he’d be damned if he didn’t give it his best shot.
He did keep track of the victim’s recovery. Over the weeks, the swelling had subsided, but she was still in a medically induced coma. The doctor on duty had mentioned on his last visit that they would try to wake her up soon. He had promised to inform him when the victim was capable of being asked a simple question like who the hell are you. Macintosh was very keen to ask this question and could only hope the victim recovered enough to reveal her identity. Her face was damaged beyond recognition and would remain so forever. If she woke up with permanent brain damage, it would be another dead end.
At least there was Josh. Due to the Texan’s diligent research, this homicide investigation had taken a decided turn, one he, like all his homicide colleagues, could barely stomach.
Macintosh had forwarded the second picture, the princess on the white shag rug, to the Sexual Offense Squad and had attached what little info he had so far with a request to try and match it to their data base. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too busy with their own on-going cases. He pulled his notes from the file which started to be buried under several incoming cases that needed his attention. Resigning himself to the fact that very soon he could not justify spending so much time on the Princess case, he closed the file just when Harding walked by his desk.
“Any new development?” Harding asked when he saw the file.
“Nada. I was just wondering. It might be time to talk to the shrink.”
Harding nodded and grabbed a chair. Macintosh looked up the shrink’s office number, picked up the phone, put it on speaker and dialed. This time he was lucky.
“You haven’t returned my call, Dr. Eaton,” he said. “About Tiara Brown.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Detective Macintosh. You were on my list for this week.”
“That’s good to know.” Macintosh rolled his eyes. “I’m wondering if you can assist us with some information.”
“Please ask.”
“You’ve submitted your initial report already, I’ve seen it. There is nothing really in it that gives us any lead toward her motive or the victim’s involvement with the alleged suspect.”
“Indeed, a fitness assessment is usually quite superficial. And at that time she wasn’t cooperating at all. All it could do was establish that she is mentally fit to stand trial. But you might be aware that the judge ordered a more comprehensive assessment for her next hearing.”
“Yeah, we know that. She’s Legal Aid, so we were quite surprised to hear that your office took her on.”
“It’s unusual, yes. I’m reluctant to take on Legal Aid cases, but she made her resolution to cooperate with anybody but me quite clear. It’s an interesting case, especially as certain elements of her story don’t match the initial court report.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let’s say the attack is out of character for her. It tempted me to continue working with her.”
“Isn’t she lucky! No disrespect there, doctor.”
“None taken. I do believe this case warrants not only my personal involvement but also a closer look by representatives of the Sexual Offense Squad. The situation Tiara has grown up in was exceptionally exploitive. She’s been abused by her mother and her aunt, emotionally as well as physically, and possibly by a number of other adults. I suspect early sexualization, conduct disorder and self-harm, but you can’t quote me on that yet. You’ll get a copy of my full assessment as soon as it’s ready.”
Macintosh sighed deeply. Let the doc hear his frustration! Why the hell did those guys always take so long to make up their mind? Hadn’t they studied that stuff?
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know. She has not yet disclosed herself fully.”
“Meaning?”
Now Dr. Eaton sighed, barely audible, but
Macintosh could hear it and pictured the pained face of the learned man over his pushy ignorance. “She’s still struggling to uncover the trauma she has suffered.”
“Yeah, and you’re sure she stabbed the victim because of that particular trauma?”
The shrink sounded pointy now. “I’m not sure of anything until I’ve completed my assessment.”
“Okay, okay, let’s leave it at that,” Macintosh said. “We haven’t been able to establish the victim’s identity yet. Did you gain any knowledge that might help us on that one?”
“No, not really. Nothing I’ve learned so far indicates she knew the victim. But again, I have not—”
“Finished your assessment, I know, I know.” Macintosh thanked him nonetheless and hung up.
“Why didn’t you send him those pictures Josh dug up?” Harding said.
“Just want to make sure his assessment doesn’t get tainted. You know how lawyers are. They twist anything to their advantage.”
“Christ Almighty, you still think Tiara deserves to be treated like any common criminal?”
Macintosh shook his head. “To be honest, I do think her amnesia is genuine. If she is hiding anything from us, it’s most likely out of shame. But I do want to know if the doc comes up with the same conclusion all by his studied self.”
“Is this a pissing match?”
“Uh, maybe. I bet he can’t figure her out. Look at this call. It was a total waste of time.”
His partner was grinning. “I wouldn’t say that. He did mention something interesting. The girl grew up with her mother and an aunt. How about that!”
Macintosh snapped his fingers. “Right, he did say that! I didn’t even register it. Thanks.”
“Still blocking?”
“Shut up. Let’s go look for the aunt.”
Chapter 34
Melissa walked up the short but steep gravel driveway. The front porch with its wooden pillars was rotting away under chipped, peeling paint, the roof shingles were buckling. A gutter had slipped out of the drainage pipe—the next downpour would flood the porch, might even seep into the house. She had never noticed when she’d been a child, but now it bothered her. After all, the house with its great location in North Vancouver would belong to her some day.