A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1)

by M. E. Purfield

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. My lawyer will bring you the paperwork when she gets here,” I say.

  “Good.”

  Silence fills the room. My body craves a cigarette but I doubt Sampson will give me one since there’re No Smoking signs all over the building.

  “So who takes care of you?” Sampson asks.

  “Is this part of the questioning?”

  “No. Just curious. Sixteen year old girl taking care of herself in this city…” He shrugs.

  “I take care of myself. I make more in one year than you do in ten,” I say. “I live with my grandfather. And a friend.”

  “I can call him for you if you want.”

  “My lawyer will call him.”

  He nods and then focuses on the file. The door opens again and Detective Hersh walks in. “Did I miss anything? Did she tell you that she’s innocent?” He grabs a chair from against the wall.

  “God, I’m stuck in some bad CSI episode,” I say. “What are you supposed to be, the stereotypical racist cop?”

  Sampson smirks.

  Hersh sits down next to his partner and flashes me a dirty look. “I suggest you only speak when spoken to, since you’re in such deep shit you’re gonna need a snorkel and goggles.”

  “Whatever.” I sigh and lean back.

  “We were just getting to know each other,” Sampson says.

  “Yeah, Little Miss Art Celebrity,” Hersh says. “I guess it was only a matter of time before you filled in the stereotype. Rich Art Brat Goes Insane, news at eleven.”

  I lean forward and wiggle my nose at him.

  Hersh glances at Sampson then back to me. “What are you doing?”

  “Since my hands are cuffed, I’m flipping you the finger with my nose.”

  Hersh cracks his palm on the table. Even Sampson jumps back. He points a finger at me. His eyes flare. “I said, watch it.”

  The door opens a third time, and the third time is the charm. My savior sashays in: Sharon May, my lawyer, business manager, and moral compass. Wearing one of her expensive gray suits with a skirt just above the knee to get attention from the average man, Sharon sweeps into the room and places her briefcase on the table. She lays her big blue eyes on me and opens her mouth in a gasp.

  “Miki Miki Miki, what are these horrible behemoths doing to you?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think the fat one is one step away from bitch slapping me.” I fake cry and sniffle.

  Hersh glares at Sharon, like any other asshole would. I know he wants to ask the question. He wants to know why Sharon, as beautiful as she appears - a smart, leggy blonde lawyer with total class - has an Adams apple as big as a golf ball? Well, duh. She’s a post-op transsexual.

  “Who the hell are you?” Hersh asks. “And what the hell are you?”

  Sharon stares down her nose at Hersh. “I am Miki’s lawyer, Sharon May.” She then slips on her bitch face. “What am I? The one lawyer you don’t want to fuck with.”

  I grin at Hersh who looks like he wants to bash Sharon’s head in. Sampson, smart enough to sense his partner’s mood, places his hand on his Hersh’s arm and whispers, “Calm down.” Hersh pulls his arm away.

  Sharon opens her briefcase and slaps a piece of paper on the desk. “Are any of you gentleman familiar with the preliminary report on the body of Katherine Moore?”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The poor young lady they’re accusing you of murdering, sweetie.”

  I nod.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I just received it before I got into the room,” Hersh says, showing his own folder.

  Sharon frowns, showing sympathy for Hersh. “Oh, you poor thing. You must have had a hard life climbing the ranks to Detective when you can’t read English.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sampson asks, grabbing the report from Hersh.

  “As you can see,” Sharon says, “Although they need to do a full autopsy, the coroner at the scene clearly states that the time of death for poor Ms. Moore was between 9:30 and 10:00 PM this evening.”

  “Okay?” Sampson says.

  I shake my head, feeling sorry for Sampson.

  “Did you check out my client’s alibi at the Frog Bar this evening?”

  Sampson turns to Hersh who studies his hands.

  “Yeah, we checked it out,” Hersh says. “She was there at around 8:30 and wasn’t kicked out until 10:15 and before that time she was engaged in a violent confrontation with a patron and a few bouncers.”

  Sharon crosses her arms, glares at me, and shakes her head. “Really, Miki. That wasn’t very mature what you did to that poor man’s testicles.”

  “Oh, my God. You know very well why I aim for them,” I snap back.

  She turns back to the cops. “Therefore, I believe you have no grounds to hold my client and why isn’t someone taking those cuffs off her. Clearly she’s too young for your kinky sex games, Detective Hersh.”

  “Wait a second,” Hersh says. “What about the fact that she has details of the victim’s wounds that coincide with the coroner’s prelim report while she claims that she did not touch the body or a weapon.”

  “Let me guess, you think my client had previous knowledge and was in cahoots with the perpetrator. Then the murderer divulged the facts to her? Even the D.A. outside doesn’t believe my client would have enough time to get such detail before she fainted. Plus, why the hell would she even report the murder to the police if she was involved?”

  Sampson lowers his head in the coroner’s report and says. “The comparison with the butterfly knife and the wounds doesn’t match.”

  Hersh huffs and crosses his arms.

  Sampson stands up and frees me from the chair.

  “So I’m free to go?” I ask.

  “As a bird,” Sharon says, packing away her file.

  “Miki, wait,” Sampson says. “I’d still like to ask you some questions.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You know a lot about the details of the murder. I’d like to know how you know it.”

  “Cause she’s guilty as hell,” Hersh mumbles.

  I turn to Sharon. I would like to help, but I’m so not in the mood right now. Besides, the woman is dead and I don’t know much about the murder besides experiencing it, which is something I don’t want to get into with them.

  “It’s up to you, sweetie. You just pay me. But I will be with you.”

  “Listen,” I say to Sampson. “I’m tired. Can we do this another time?”

  Sampson throws his hands up in defeat and Hersh exhales his aggravation as he stands and walks out of the room.

  Sharon holds the door open for me. I glance at Sampson sitting at the table and flipping through the papers. He looks as beat as me and I can’t help but feel guilty about it.

  THE MEN OUTSIDE

  Sharon escorts me to the window to retrieve my confiscated possessions. The cop behind the window passes me an envelope filled with my personal items and a clipboard to sign. I open it and take out my wallet, cigarettes, Zippo lighter, a little cash, and my cell phone. I give the cop a dirty look and ask, “Where’s my knife?”

  Sharon pulls her attention from her Blackberry and reviews the list of possessions.

  The elderly cop tilts his head. “Did they arrest you with a knife?”

  “Uh, yeah. A 5-inch butterfly. Perfectly legal in this state.” And the one my uncle gave me before he went to jail.

  The cop checks out his copy of the list. “It’s not here.”

  “Of course it’s not there.” I turn to Sharon. “The cop took it out of my pocket after he cuffed me.”

  She frowns. “Then he probably logged it as evidence.”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone. God, people are so stupid.”

  “I know, sweetie. Just calm down. Once the medical examiner completes their report, we should be able to get it back.”

  “Anything else?” the cop asks, looking at me as if I’m wasting his time.


  “Fucking’ unbelievable.” I flip him the bird and stomp off. The cop calls after me, but I just give him my back.

  Sharon walks at my side. “I know. I know. But that’s the system. I’ll look into it.” She slips her arm around my shoulder as we weave through the mixed crowd of cops, civil servants, and criminals. “Focus on the positive now. You don’t have to spend the night in jail and perform bowel movements in front of a group of desperate women.”

  I nod and try to go along with her reasoning until I step into the downstairs lobby of the police station. To the naked eye it would appear that an old Italian man in brown pants and a worn, black wool overcoat is fighting with a fifteen year old, skinny Southern black boy in baggy jeans and a skintight, black denim jacket. But to the trained eye like mine, this is business as usual.

  Grandpa Blaise shouts and waves his arms at Corey sitting on a bench. Corey shakes his head and plays bored; probably because he doesn’t understand a single word of Italian that Grandpa shouts. I cringe at the scene as embarrassment runs through my veins. Some stare at them either scared or worried that he will break out into violence. Others are amused since Corey has his arms crossed with his head back and his mouth open, faking a horrible death. This is nothing compared to what I’ve seen them get into at home. This time though they’re probably not fighting about Corey’s homosexuality. I imagine Grandpa’s been shitting a cow since Sharon informed him of my arrest. He probably thought another generation of Radiccis would build a rap sheet.

  “Would you two shut up, or you’re going to get thrown in jail,” I approach them and open my pack of cigarettes.

  “My sweet bambina,” Grandpa Blaise takes me into his arms. I rest my head on his chest, press to his potbelly, and inhale his cologne. I smile, wondering why he had to put on cologne when Sharon probably woke him up in the middle of the night. “Did they hurt you, my Michelina?”

  “No, I’m okay.” I kiss his stubbly cheek and turn to Corey. He hugs me and I press to his skinny frame.

  “This is so crazy,” Corey says, showing off his thick Southern accent. “I don’t know how they can think you would kill anyone.”

  “Weeelllll…” says Grandpa Blaise.

  I slap his shoulder and laugh. “I didn’t and that is that. It’s just a big old cop mistake or maybe they’re trying to fill an arrest quota.”

  Sharon hugs me with one arm and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be in touch, sweet Miki,” she says. “Don’t forget we have to go over the details for this week’s show.”

  I light up a cigarette and nod, “Got it. Thanks again, Sharon.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Corey says, rubbing her arm.

  Sharon awaits Grandpa’s thanks. He rolls on his feet and his scared eyes look to the tiled ceiling. I slap his arm. “What? Huh?”

  I make angry eyes at him.

  He scratches his bald spot and says, “Oh, yeah. Thank you, Mr. Or Miss. Er, very nice...of you.”

  Sharon shakes her head, grins, and pecks my cheek. As she walks out, I catch a few guys checking her out. I smirk and roll my eyes.

  “What time is it, anyway?” I ask.

  As Grandpa checks his watch, a cop shouts, “Hey, no smoking in here. Take it outside.”

  I exhale smoke and mumble, “Fucking Bloomberg.”

  “Hey, he’s a good mayor.” Grandpa puts his arm around me and shows me out of the police station. Corey keeps to my other side and rubs my back. I leave the police station with two of the most important men in my life and I have never felt so safe.

  HOME BUT STILL POISONED

  In the cab, I sit between Grandpa and Corey. A million volts run through my veins and my heart can’t stop it. I rest my head on Grandpa’s chest, close my eyes, and try to relax.

  “I was so worried about you,” he says.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry to put you through that, Grandpa. But Sharon took care of it. It’s all over.”

  “No, not the arrest,” he says. “I was worried about the other thing. You never experienced that before. No?”

  I’ve experienced various emotions and pain from other people throughout my life. People getting beaten, hit by cars, stubbing their toes, suffering the emotions of losing a loved one, and even the burn from a relationship break up, to name a few. But have I ever experienced a murder?

  “No,” I whisper. “This is my fist.”

  Grandpa kisses the top of my head. Although he has never suffered the curse since it came from my grandmother’s side of the family, he knows the right amount of compassion to give while also keeping a safe distance and not bombarding me with questions and concerns.

  As soon as we get home to my studio condo, Grandpa Blaise kisses my cheek and tells me for the millionth time how glad he is that I’m all right. He then says good night and heads up to his bedroom loft.

  I walk to the kitchen and grab a couple of bottles of water. I toss one across the room to Corey. He catches it and plops down on the black, cushy couch in the living room. The space is sectioned off by design with a kitchen, a living room, a work area, and a dining room. Most of the apartment is picture perfect with trendy Formica, wood, and paints straight out of a Better Living magazine. My work section – which takes up almost half of the studio - is an artistic mess filled with oil paints, canvases, wood, easels, and piles of sketchpads.

  I stomp over the hardwood floor and sit next to Corey. My body aches too much to sleep and invisible sticks hold my eyes open. We sit, breathe, and listen to the hot water gurgle through the radiator pipes.

  “So how did the date go tonight?” I ask, sipping the water, hoping it’ll ease me out of a hangover.

  Corey turns to me, one leg under his butt. “Horrible to the tenth degree. Ever go out with a rent boy?”

  I smile. “No. But I doubt one would be interested in me since I’m not packing a penis.”

  “True. Well, let me tell you, girl. If you grow one, don’t do it. We were having a good time over at the Glowing Chair on Christopher and guess what happened?”

  “His dick fell off and you discovered he’s really a she.”

  “Oh, I wish. No, his phone rings. He checks the number and actually answers the phone like one of those Wall Street subway goons. The boy is actually talking to a client and setting up a date…for, like, that moment.”

  I laugh. “You poor boy.”

  “I know. So I confront him about it and he asks me if I would mind that he met up with some married guy for an hour so he can do business and meet me right back here.”

  “And you said yes.”

  Corey glares at me like I want to bang him on the couch. “You psycho bitch, you. No. I told him to fuck off. I’m gonna be seventeen this year. I’m a little too old to be sloppy seconds. I don’t care if the guys are married or I sound like a stuck up queen. I got standards now.”

  I rub his arm and ask, “So you came home early tonight?”

  “Very.”

  “Shit. I should have called you. We could have hung out and I wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”

  Corey moves a strand of long black hair from my face. “Are you okay?”

  I sigh and rub the cold bottle on my head. “Yeah, just…it was fucked up.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  I kiss his cheek. “Maybe tomorrow. I’m beat.” I stand up, hand him the bottle, and then stretch.

  “Are you working in the morning?” he asks, capping off the bottles and placing them on the glass coffee table.

  “Yeah, I have to. Do I have any canvases ready?”

  “No. But I’ll make some.” He smiles. “I’ll be ready, boss.”

  I kiss him good night and walk down the hall under the loft to my bedroom. Closing the door, I take off my jacket and clothes. Standing in my underwear, I inspect the wounds. Purple lines criss-cross my palms and belly where the knife stabbed in my vision. I poke at them and spark tender pain. From previous experiences I have learned that bruising is as far as the damage goes. One time when an
upstairs neighbor was kicking the shit out of his girlfriend, Grandpa was worried that I might have some internal damage to my stomach or ribs. The doctors found nothing beyond foot shaped bruises. It took me a while to convince the doctor that I wasn’t beaten at home. I gave him some story about being mugged.

  I plop into bed under the constellations I painted on the ceiling last year and then close my eyes. All I can see is the shadowed killer swinging that knife and feel the blade slicing through my organs. “God damn it.” I roll on my side and open my eyes. The clock reads just after 3 AM. My night isn’t going to get any easier.

  A CLEANER LIGHT

  The harsh buzz of the alarm startles me out of a deep sleep. I moan and roll onto my back. I can’t believe I forgot to turn it off. The clock reads 7:30 AM. I slam my hand down on the button and the alarm stops. I try to keep my eyes closed, hoping to go back to sleep, but they just shoot open like those old window shades from cartoons. Mustering all my strength I manage to get out of bed.

  After using the bathroom, I stumble down the hall and into the kitchen. Corey saws planks of wood for my canvas, acting the good assistant. I then remember that I’m only in a black bra and panties and quickly look up to the loft.

  “He left for work an hour ago.” Corey glances over. His gesso-stained sweatshirt is already covered with saw-dust. He turns back to his frame and starts nailing the pieces together. Ever since Corey went back to school he’s been fine-tuning his process. His hands move fast, like a machine, sometimes I don’t even catch him looking at his work, but it always comes out perfect.

  “Oh, thanks,” I mutter.

  For some reason, Grandpa thinks that I shouldn’t walk around in my underwear with Corey home for fear that he might attack me. “But he’s gay,” I tell him. Grandpa just grunts, scrunches his face, and leaves it at that.

  In a way I only have my mother to blame. She used to do the same thing when I was smaller. I always suspected she was a nudist at heart and managed to keep the bare minimum for my sake. Maybe I am too.

  I pour myself some coffee and sit on a stool at the kitchen island. The morning paper is spread out, already inspected by Grandpa before he left for work driving a city bus. I spot a story about the murder of Katherine Moore on page two. The picture the press runs is the first time I’ve seen her face. The chick is a pretty, dirty blond girl posing with her chin on her shoulder. Based on the bland blue background, the image could be a school photo or something done in a department store. The article says that her death is tragic since she attended the NYU Stern School of Business. She was active with the International Business Association, Beta Alpha Psi, and the Student Social Venture Fund. Her father, a Vice President at Chase Bank, and mother, a social worker from New Jersey, are deeply distraught over their daughter’s murder. The article builds her up as the next greatest living human being and savior to the economy. And stupid me thinks her death is tragic just because she was a human.