Joe Victim: A Thriller

by Paul Cleave

  That doesn’t mean anything, she told me. Every TV show on these days has teenagers screwing. It’s what soap operas are becoming about. They’ve gone from adult story lines to children story lines, giving the children adult lives. Forty years ago they were about differences between people, struggling to run pubs and businesses; these days it’s all about fucking. Do you know how long your Uncle Neville has been dead?

  Have you forgotten? I asked.

  No. No, of course I haven’t forgotten. He’s been gone six years now.

  Then why did you ask me?

  It doesn’t matter, she said. All that matters is I miss him. I miss having a man around the house. Things tend to be let go. She lowered the crossbow. I wondered how far through the floor it’d go if she pulled the trigger. It was more relaxing than wondering how far it would have gone through me. How much money have you got there, Joe?

  I don’t know.

  Count it.

  I counted the money. I had to count it twice because I was nervous and messed up the first attempt. I had grabbed all the notes, but left all the coins. I had three hundred and ten dollars. It was a good amount. I figured I could get through most of the school year with that amount.

  That means you owe me three hundred and ten dollars’ worth of work. There’s plenty of things around here that need taking care of. The house hasn’t seen fresh paint in ten years. The vegetable garden out back is a jungle. You’ll come here when I need you and you won’t ever say no to me. Ever. Do you understand me, Joe? You help me, and I help you by not telling your parents I caught you here. Deal?

  I have to work off three hundred and ten dollars, I said. That’s what? A few weeks’ worth of work?

  No, Joe, it’s worked off when I say it’s worked off. I have to figure out an hourly rate. It might be five dollars an hour. It might be one dollar an hour. I’ll let you know when everything is done that I want done. Of course it’s up to you. We can run with the alternative and I can phone the police right now and see where that leads.

  I couldn’t see any other option. Mowing lawns and painting walls were going to make up my immediate future—and they did. So would the Big Bang—only I didn’t know it then. At least she didn’t emasculate me by having a poodle I would need to walk and clean up after.

  I suppose so, I answered.

  You suppose so? You need to sound a little more enthusiastic than that.

  It’s a deal. I said, trying to put some heart into it.

  Good. Lock the door behind you on your way out, Joe, and I’ll call you on the weekend.

  I didn’t move. I understood everything she had said, but I still felt unsure about it. I can go?

  You can go.

  Umm . . . thank you, I said, unsure what else I could have said.

  “And then I left,” I tell my psychiatrist, having just relived the whole scene with my auntie for her.

  Ali has a puzzled look on her face. “That’s it?” she asks. “That’s the traumatic experience you had when you were sixteen? Almost getting shot by your auntie?”

  “That was only the start of it,” I tell her.

  “Then what?”

  Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door, and a moment later a prison guard, one I haven’t seen before, comes in.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” he says.

  “I know,” I answer, shaking my head at his stupidity. “She’s sitting opposite me.”

  “No, not her, another visitor.” Then he looks at Ali. “I’m sorry ma’am, but you’re welcome to wait here—should only be fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” she says.

  The guard uncuffs me from the chair and I behave just like any model citizen would behave. He escorts me down the hall. I’ve already figured out who I must be going to see, so when I’m put into another room and sit down opposite the former detective, I already know what it is I’m going to say.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He hates being here. In many ways, Schroder knows he’s lucky, damn lucky, not to be an actual guest of the prison. The last case he worked got about as bad as it could have gotten. He and his partner, Tate, were forced to make a decision. A guy was starting to cut up a little girl. He gave them an option. Do his bidding, or the cutting would continue. He’d already cut that little girl’s finger off, and there would be more. That’s where the old lady that Schroder killed came into it. That was the guy’s bidding.

  The crime was covered up. If it hadn’t been, he’d be in here, probably in the same damn cell group as Joe. He’d know a lot of people too. Others he’d arrested. Santa Suit Kenny is one of his. Edward Hunter. Caleb Cole. There are others too who would love the chance to see him every day in here. He would be joining them for fifteen years.

  Only a few people know what Schroder really did. Theodore Tate. A few other cops. And Caleb Cole, because Cole is the person who made him shoot that woman. There are two things Schroder is counting on. First, nobody would believe Cole if he told them what really happened. Second, Cole agreed to keep his mouth shut in order to stay out of general population. Cole had spent fifteen years in general population and it had not gone well for him. He would do anything to stop going back. Plus Cole has a somewhat fucked-up moral system, a real sense of what’s right and wrong. Making Schroder kill that old woman was right. Talking about it was wrong. Cole had wanted that woman to pay, and Schroder had made that happen. So Cole was indebted to him. In some weird way.

  Schroder stands while he waits. He’s tired. His baby boy woke up every two hours, and his daughter crept down into their room around three a.m. for cuddles. Before he had kids, he never thought it possible to like them. Sometimes, like last night, he sees he was right in thinking that.

  Joe is finally brought in. He doesn’t look healthy. Not many people in jail do. He can still remember last year when the Carver investigation was wrapping up. He was also dealing with another case that involved Theodore Tate and a bunch of corpses found in a lake at the cemetery, and he was dealing with being a dad. When the pieces all fell together at the end in the Carver case, he simply couldn’t believe it. He felt sick. Betrayed. For a few minutes he refused what the evidence was telling him. They all did. Joe Middleton wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be. There was a mistake. Only there was no mistake. Not only could Joe Middleton be their guy, he was their guy.

  Joe sits down in the chair and is handcuffed to it. Schroder doesn’t see any point in pleasantries. He’ll save small talk for the innocent.

  “Okay, Joe. What’s your answer? I have other places to be, so don’t jerk me around.”

  Joe holds his hand up. “Slow down, cowboy,” he says. “We’re still waiting for my lawyer.”

  He wasn’t expecting to hear the L word. “What?”

  “If we’re going to agree to anything, I want my lawyer to be here. I think you’d want that for me, to make sure my rights aren’t being tackled over.”

  “It’s trampled over.”

  “What is?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Schroder says. He had seen Joe’s lawyer out in the waiting area. A guy by the name of Kevin Wellington. He had just assumed Wellington was waiting to speak to another of his clients—why he assumed that he doesn’t know. Just bad detective work, he guesses. One more reason to suggest his firing wasn’t such a bad thing. Well, at least he doesn’t have rainwater dripping off his clothes today.

  It takes another minute, but then Wellington walks into the room and sits in a spare chair next to Schroder. He’s wearing a cologne that for a few seconds tickles the back of Schroder’s nose. They don’t shake hands.

  “Why am I here, Joe?” Wellington asks, and it’s not hard hearing the contempt in his voice. He wonders if it’s that contempt which has kept Wellington alive. Joe’s first two lawyers were full of bravado, they were keen to make names for themselves and it didn’t end well for them. The body of the first lawyer still hasn’t been found.

  “Because Schroder has a deal for us, don’t yo
u Schroder?”

  “What kind of deal?” the lawyer asks, sounding interested, but only barely. Schroder is starting to warm up to the guy.

  “First of all, let me start out by saying I don’t remember killing anybody,” Joe says, and Schroder glances at the lawyer and the lawyer has the same look Schroder must have on his own face, and he bets Joe hates being the subject of that look. Is it possible that Joe, somehow, can really believe people are going to buy his story? If so, then perhaps he really is insane.

  “Come on, Joe,” Schroder says, “don’t waste our time.”

  “What kind of deal are you offering?” the lawyer asks. “No, wait, are you still even a cop?”

  “Not anymore,” Joe says. “He was fired. Why don’t you tell us why, Carl?”

  “I’m not here in the interests of the prosecution,” Schroder says. “I’m here with a private deal from Jonas Jones.”

  For the first time Wellington looks genuinely interested. He puts his elbows on the table and shifts his weight forward. “The psychic? I don’t—” he says, but Joe interrupts him before he can add see where this is going.

  “He wants me to help him find one of the bodies,” Joe says.

  “He what?”

  “In return for fifty thousand dollars,” Schroder says.

  The lawyer tilts his head and frowns. Then his elbows come off the table and his weight shifts in the back of the chair. This is about to get difficult, Schroder is sure of it.

  “I hope you haven’t agreed to this,” the lawyer says.

  “Not yet.”

  The lawyer turns to Schroder. “I get it,” he says. “You want my client to give you the location of one of the bodies for Jones to find—and you want this done quietly, for which my client will be rewarded—and Jonas wants to take credit for it. That’s it, isn’t it? Jones wants to show the world he’s a true psychic.”

  Schroder is shocked at how quickly the lawyer figured that out. And perturbed. If the lawyer is that good, then that could be a problem. Nobody wants to see Joe be given a good defense. “Something like that,” he says.

  “Something? Or exactly like that?”

  “Closer to exactly,” Schroder admits.

  The lawyer turns back to Joe. “If you know where this body is, Joe, this could go toward getting the prosecution to take the death penalty off the table. To sell this information for money you can’t even use in here, well, that would be stupid. Let us use it to bargain with the prosecution.”

  “The death penalty won’t be on the table,” Joe adds. “I’m an innocent man. I can’t remember hurting anybody, and it’s just not in my nature to have done that. I’m going to be released, most likely into a hospital for treatment and medication, and when I’m released from there I’m going to need the money.”

  Wellington stares at Joe, and then he stares at Schroder, and Schroder knows in that moment that if he were ever to play poker, he’d want it to be against that lawyer because he can see exactly what the guy is thinking. Schroder certainly isn’t going to argue with Joe—the psychopath can believe what he wants if it will help get this deal signed. He’s disgusted at paying a single cent to the man, disgusted at Jonas Jones for using the situation for his own gain, disgusted at himself too for taking the bonus. There is a whole lot of disgust to go around, but there’s also a silver lining—Detective Calhoun will be found. He deserves to be properly buried.

  The lawyer starts tapping a finger on the table and he stares at it at the same time, deep in thought. He looks up at Schroder and says, “To confirm, you’re not here in any capacity for the prosecution or the police force.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then what gets said in here is between client and lawyer, and right now you’re privileged to that, which means right now you can’t reveal any of our conversation.”

  Schroder nods. He isn’t sure if that’s true or not. He never really got lawyers. Nobody really does, except other lawyers, and even then he gets the idea half of them don’t know what the other half are on about. He’s happy to go along with it.

  “Fine,” he says.

  “Can’t we all just get along?” Joe asks, and Schroder wants to kick him. “I can’t remember killing anybody, that’s the truth, but I might remember where Detective Calhoun was buried.”

  “Where?” Schroder asks.

  “Well, it’s hard to say really. It’s all so vague. Trying to remember it is like trying to remember a dream. Every time I get a handle on it, it’s whipped away.”

  “But the money will make it clearer, right?” Schroder asks.

  “Like your boss would say, I’m getting a vision that it would, yes.”

  Great. So there are going to be no straight answers. Joe is going to play with them for his money because it’s the only thing in his life he can control right now, and Schroder is just going to have to accept that if he wants this deal to go ahead. Once again he wonders how the hell his life has gone so badly wrong over the last month. Once again he has to focus on the silver lining—on getting Detective Calhoun back.

  “Who buried the body?” he asks. “You or Melissa?”

  “Like I said, it’s all so vague,” Joe says. “I know I didn’t kill him, and you know that too, because there’s a video of it. I don’t know who filmed the video.”

  “The video was in your flat,” Schroder says. “It had your fingerprints all over it.”

  “All so vague,” Joe says, and Schroder wants to punch him.

  “And fifty thousand dollars will help you remember,” Schroder says.

  “That’s the feeling I get,” Joe says, and then he flashes that stupid smile of his that he used to flash back at the police station when he was walking around with a bucket and mop. Back then it was endearing, but now it’s repulsive. “You know, Carl, you don’t give people enough credit. You need to be more positive in life. These bad thoughts—they’ll bring you down.”

  Weirdly, he would have to agree, which in itself is a pretty dark thought—one that brings him down.

  “You have a contract already drawn up?” Wellington asks.

  “We do,” Schroder says, and slides a thin folder over to the lawyer, who doesn’t pick it up, but stares at it, and Schroder wonders if the lawyer can see a future that he doesn’t want to be a part of and if so, then good for him.

  “I’m going to need ten minutes with my client,” he finally says.

  “No problem.” Schroder stands up and knocks on the door. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and one of the guards comes and gets him and leads him back out to the waiting area.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My lawyer is wearing the same outfit and has the same annoyed expression on his face. We sit in the same room and make the same kind of conversation.

  “What’s going on here, Joe?” he asks.

  “It’s simple. I tell them where I think the bodies are. If I’m right, I get fifty thousand dollars.”

  “No, Joe, what you do is risk your entire defense. For a guy who can’t remember anything, this is a stupid ploy. You tell them where the body is, that proves you can remember things.”

  “Doesn’t work that way,” I tell him. “Jonas Jones is going to ‘find’ the body,” I say, and I use air quotes around the word find, and when I do I realize I’ve never used air quotes before and never will again because they must make me look like a complete asshole. “That’s what the contract is for. They can’t afford for the public to find out what really happened. It’s safe,” I tell him.

  “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Joe.”

  “This isn’t a game,” I answer, somewhat annoyed at him. “This is my life. The world is telling me I’ve done these terrible, terrible things, when I really haven’t. Not me, not the person in front of you. A different Joe, maybe, but this Joe doesn’t remember that Joe. When the jury realizes that, when I’m set free, I’m going to need money. It’s that simple.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe a wor
d I tell him. I can tell he’s starting to think that I really must be insane. “Well, it’s your decision,” he says. “Things must be going really well with the psychiatrist for you to be this damn confident.”

  “Things are going okay,” I tell him, confident that this isn’t going to go to trial. I’m going to show Schroder where the body is. And Melissa is going to come and save me.

  “Fifty thousand dollars isn’t going to help you if you’re executed. If you want to make a deal, then we’ll make a deal. If you want to show them where the body is, then we use that as a bargaining chip. We can start by getting them to take the death penalty off the table.”

  “It’s not even on the table.”

  “It will be,” he says.

  “The public won’t vote for it.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. They’re going to vote for it.”

  “I need the money,” I tell him.

  “You need to listen to your lawyer.”

  “I am listening,” I tell him, “but you’re not the one facing life in jail, you’re not the one being accused of these awful things. It’s your job to tell me what you think, but I still get to make the decisions, right?”

  He nods. “That’s right,” he says.

  “Then let’s do this,” I tell him.

  “Let me read this contract,” he says, and he opens up the folder.

  I watch him as he reads it. He’s either a slow reader or a slow understander. Or it’s written by a lawyer who’s never used plain English in his life. The contract is three pages long. I could write it up in two paragraphs. When my lawyer has read it, he reads it again—this time making notes on a pad. I grow impatient. I don’t interrupt him. I just keep staring at him, and after another few minutes I let my mind drift. I start to think about Melissa, and how we’re going to spend our first night together. I have a pretty good idea of what we’ll be doing. Then I drift further into the future—a week, a month, ten years. Then my lawyer brings me back.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Joe? There is every risk it will come back and bite you in the ass.” His face is without any expression. He’s like a man watching a football game who not only doesn’t care who wins, but also doesn’t understand the rules. Or perhaps this is the face of a lawyer who doesn’t give a damn about his client.