by Eric Wilson
“Are you getting that feeling?”
“Look, it’s not been an easy week.”
“The Elliston shooting,” he said. “I’m well aware.”
“Anyway. I’m not really reporting the lock of hair. I’m reporting a burglary, I guess.”
“You guess.”
“Somebody must’ve broken in. We don’t have an alarm.”
“Was everything locked?”
“Far as I could tell. We keep things tight, deadbolts and all.”
“Any windows left open?”
“There was one. In the bathroom.”
“Big enough for a person to crawl through?”
I nodded. “If they squeezed, I guess.”
“Is there any evidence of an intrusion? Footprints? Things disturbed?”
“Besides the missing handkerchief? No sir. But I’m not the detective, am I?”
“Is it possible the handkerchief may have been misplaced?”
“No way.”
Meade steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lower lip. My eyes wandered to a mole on his neck that was the color and size of a small raisin—something to remind me that he was human, that we were equals.
“Where does your brother work?”
“Ryder Transportation. He dispatches for them.”
“Do either of you attend Vanderbilt University, Mr. Black?”
“No.”
“Is either of you a student?”
“Johnny was in the summer music program at Belmont, and I’ve signed up for classes at Lipscomb University in the spring.”
“When’s the last time you were on the Vandy campus?”
I paused, not sure I liked this new direction of questioning. “A week ago last Friday. A friend invited us to a party.”
“A student?”
“Think so. He’s one of my customers at Black’s. We went and had a few drinks. Danced. Mingled.”
“We?”
“My brother and I. But I was out of there before eleven, Detective. Had to open shop in the morning.”
“Did your brother return home with you?”
“No. He called me a boring old man.”
Meade nodded as though familiar with such accusations.
“Listen,” I said. “Why the twenty questions? This doesn’t seem to be getting me any closer to finding my mom’s handkerchief or the person who stole it.”
“Jessica Tyner.”
“Excuse me?”
“Name mean anything to you?”
“Not offhand.”
“We’ll have to run some tests for verification, but we have reason to believe, Mr. Black, that this hair belonged to her. Ms. Tyner was assaulted on the Vanderbilt campus ten days ago. On a Friday night.”
I could feel the intensity of his eyes watching, assessing. He’d planted his feet on the linoleum with his knees pointed at me.
“Yeah, I did see something about it on the news.”
“She was at a party, Mr. Black, right before the assault.”
I measured my words. “With all due respect, Detective, it doesn’t make sense. How would … I mean, why would someone stash her hair in my mom’s keepsake?”
“Here.” Meade opened a file on the table and produced a case-numbered Polaroid. The victim’s face was turned, her eyes closed, her straight, brunette hair gouged. “Take a look, then tell me if we don’t have a potential match.”
In the photograph, the remaining pigtail was intact and neat, gathered in a matching hot pink scrunchy.
And I remembered Jessica Tyner. We had, in fact, been at the same party.
That girl, the brunette with the belly ring—she was into you, and you blew it.
“One last question.”
I shifted in my chair, sat up straight. “Yes?”
“By chance, you haven’t come across any other specimens, have you?”
“Others? I don’t understand.”
“Little trophies, Mr. Black. Evidence to help us establish a criminal pattern.”
A cold sensation curled around my ribs. “No,” I said. “Definitely not.”
Vanderbilt University’s police department can’t monitor all activities that occur in what amounts to a small city. I understand that.
A girl sexually assaulted on campus, though? Wasn’t anyone watching?
As the largest private employer in Middle Tennessee, the school is a monument to Cornelius Vanderbilt’s original million-dollar vision. In 1873, he may never have imagined that thousands of students from around the globe would converge on this site for a first-class education—at a first-class price, it’s pertinent to note. Undoubtedly, his dream has been surpassed.
Situated not far from Black’s on the other side of West End Avenue, the university comprises ten schools, ranging from arts and science to engineering, law, and divinity. The on-campus population hovers around twenty-five thousand.
Crime on campus? Don’t get me wrong. I know that no school’s immune.
It sickened me, nonetheless. The thought of Jessica Tyner’s helplessness. Her disgrace. It’s true, the Vanderbilt police provide a shuttle service for safe escort, but she never called the Vandy Vans. Who knows why.
I remembered the story from the news. A lively sophomore with lots of friends, Jessica Tyner left a Kappa Sigma party and told her best friend she’d be back soon. When she failed to return, a search party was organized.
They found her hours later in the bushes near the Alumni Lawn, raped and unconscious, partially clothed.
Chief Serpas gave assurances about Metro’s commitment to solving this heartless act. He asked for calls from anyone with potentially helpful information.
I hadn’t called. I hadn’t known her, not by name.
Detective Meade promised to check around, find out if anyone suspicious had entered our brownstone, but he seemed unsure of my story. I didn’t blame him. I’d never imagined my life would be intertwined with Jessica Tyner’s, never realized I might offer a clue.
The discovery of her bunched, brown hair in the ebony box changed all that.
Why hadn’t the authorities continued splashing details of Jessica’s assault across the headlines? Were they withholding information to use later as leverage in their pursuit of the rapist? Perhaps they wanted to curtail any panic on campus.
I thought again about the lackluster security that had failed her—then remembered my own inability to protect a customer. Transferring guilt did little to make me feel better.
They’re coming for you next … That’s what Darrell Michaels had told me.
Was his warning connected to the disappearance of my mother’s handkerchief?
It was time to reconsider the Elliston shooting and its connections to my family’s past. This wasn’t just going to go away.
In the back of my shop, I roasted coffee into the early morning. I scooped the beans, pale green and raw, into the rotating drum, and set the time and temperature for my house blend, a mix of Guatemalan, Colombian, and Kenyan coffees.
I call it the Back-in-Black Blend.
The routine was good. Work. And caffeine. Worthy antidotes for the darkness swirling through my head.
I called Johnny early to remind him to secure all windows and doors before he left for work. I didn’t want anyone browsing through our things again.
Once hostility enters your world, it hangs stubbornly in the neighborhood. Some friends of mine don’t understand. Their fathers’ hands were instruments of compassion and love. I listen to their stories and wonder what it’s like to have a soul still soft in all the right places.
Why couldn’t my father have kept his mouth shut while he slugged me in the nose and let me bleed? On the bad nights, he’d beat me with a piano-moving strap that produced welts as thick as slugs.
That much I learned to handle.
It’s the words that still ring in my ears. The verbal blows. Long after the visible evidence fades, you still hear the rage in a parent’s voice; you still see the loathin
g that lurks behind the eyes.
I tugged at my shirt sleeves and brought my tattoos into full view.
Bring it, I thought. Let me know who I’m fighting, and let’s do this!
FOURTEEN
Here they come,” said Mrs. Thompson. She was in her usual seat near the window, a romance novel spread open next to her caramel latte.
“Who, Mrs. Thompson?”
Her eyes ran along the sidewalk, beyond my line of vision. “A camera crew, I think. Yes, they’re aiming for your front door.”
“Just what I need.”
The morning rush was over, Brianne was in the back prepping soups and salads, and the lunch crowd was a good hour away. I swiped a paper towel over a coffee ring on the mahogany. I flashed to the Polaroid of Jessica Tyner and wondered if the police had released information regarding the clump of hair.
“My, you’ve had your share of trouble recently, haven’t you?”
“It’s gotta stop soon.” I lowered my voice. “Or I’ll make it stop.”
“Oh, look.” Mrs. Thompson leaned closer to the glass. “Isn’t he a handsome one in his suit and tie? He’s carrying a clipboard. And here comes a redhead in heels. Honey, how’re you ever going to walk in a skirt that tight?”
I had to see this for myself.
Drying my hands, I went around the bar. The sun’s heat met me there, oozing and thick against the windowpane. To her credit, the lady in the skirt was balanced quite nicely, approaching in a fluid motion that swept her hair about her shoulders. Its color was subdued, a richer version of the fiery leaves in the trees that served as her backdrop.
An unmarked white van gave no clues about this group’s intentions.
The door chimed as the cluster of five entered: two smooth-faced guys bearing television cameras on their shoulders, another dude corralling cords and a battery pack, a man holding a clipboard, and the lady in her dark blue blouse with matching heels, a cream jacket and skirt, and nylons.
“Good morning,” I said.
The lady’s smile came on like an electronic device. “Hello.”
Normally I stay behind the bar so as not to intimidate. No up-selling. No pressure. Customers appreciate this casual approach, and they come back.
With hands on hips, I stepped forward. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“Mmm,” the lady purred. “Nothing like the aroma of fresh coffee.”
One cameraman said to the other, “I’d rather have Starbucks any day.”
I’d have to fight this battle with the weapons at hand. I tightened my green apron strings and circled back to my glistening espresso machine. Started the grinder. Dispensed the coffee into the porta-filter. Tamped down and twisted.
“What can I make for you?”
The three crew members settled down in a corner booth while Mr. Clipboard and Ms. Watch-Me-Walk-in-Heels nudged toward the counter.
“A tall, nonfat latte, please,” the lady said. “Extra hot, no foam.”
“Whipped cream?”
“No thank you.” She smiled again, full voltage. “We’ll have three SoBes for the crew—any flavor’s fine. And Greg here, he’s the showoff. He’ll take a venti house coffee, black.”
“For here or to go?”
“For here,” Greg said. “Thank you so much. Speaking of which, we’re looking for a Mr. Aramis Black. Is that you? You’re shorter than I expected, but I must say the photograph did no justice to your eyes.” He touched the lady’s wrist. “See, Carla. Aren’t they much greener than you thought they’d be?”
Carla’s bold stare was meant to stroke my ego. A year ago it might’ve worked; now I simply turned my focus to the milk frothing in the metal pitcher.
“Yes,” she said.
“So you’re Mr. Black?” Greg tapped a finger on his trimmed goatee.
“In the flesh.”
Carla said, “If you haven’t noticed, Greg, this man’s not on your playing field.”
“You don’t know that.” He glanced at me.
“She’s right.” I handed him a mug of Back-in-Black Blend. “Sorry.”
“C’est la vie. We’re here on business anyway.”
“Please,” I said, “don’t tell me this has to do with last week.”
“Last week?”
“Never mind.”
“You’ll have to pardon our intrusion. We’re talking network television.”
“Ahh. That clears things up.”
Carla dismissed my comment with a wave of her arm. “We’ve come to offer you an opportunity. It was your brother’s idea, actually. Tell him, Greg.”
“Prime time, Mr. Black. Can you say ‘reality TV’?”
I finished preparing the lady’s latte and set it on the bar along with the SoBes. A few taps at the register gave me a total for the drinks. No matter where this was leading, they would pay for their order. Show business, shmow business—I wasn’t going to start handing out freebies just to get my name in lights.
“That’ll be thirteen twenty-six. With tax.” I smiled. “Welcome to Nashville.”
There was a dose of reality for you.
They weren’t kidding. Joined by the camera crew, coproducers Greg Simone and Carla Fleischmann had flown in from Los Angeles on a red-eye, rented a van, and checked in at Loews Vanderbilt Hotel. Mere hours after their arrival, they’d pushed through the door of Black’s. They were here for me, at Johnny Ray’s request.
“My brother? I don’t get it.”
“See for yourself, Mr. Black.”
I reached into the envelope on the table, found a paper clip holding photographs to an application. My brother’s writing, no doubt about it.
A customer entered the shop. Brianne heard the chime, winked my direction, then stepped to the counter to take the order. I nodded in thanks.
“We represent a reality TV show,” Carla was saying. “Slated for next season.”
“Like we don’t have enough already?”
“Our job as producers,” Greg said, “is to find fresh ideas.” He slipped a packet of guidelines, waivers, and forms into my hands. “And this idea—if I may say so—is wickedly wonderful, appealing to the best and worst in us all.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“It does have its redeeming qualities.”
“This I’ve gotta hear.”
“The show’s called The Best of Evil.”
“Ooh, sounds scary.”
“The premise … Do you mind, Carla?”
“Carry on.” She took a sip of her latte, licked her lips.
“The premise is that we’ve all been wronged at some time, in some way, by someone. What if you could go back to such a person? What if you could pay them back for what they did?” Greg paused. “You with me so far, Mr. Black?”
I shrugged.
“The catch is—and it’s always good to have one—you don’t pay them back in a vengeful way, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That’d be too easy, too predictable.”
“I don’t know. I think justice has a purpose.”
“Oh, absolutely, absolutely. The beauty here is that we provide viewers and participants with a transcendent justice, based on something much stronger than revenge. Instead of getting even with the perpetrators, we give the show’s participants the chance to”—Greg inserted quotes here with his fingers—“get the best of evil by doing good.”
“For example,” I offered, “Hollywood types descend on your store, and you agree to help them out at no charge.”
Carla looked up from her drink. “You know, Greg, I like this guy.”
“Let me give you a scenario, Mr. Black. Say there’s a mother who’d been verbally abusive throughout her daughter’s childhood. The daughter gets a chance to meet her mother face to face, to confront this issue and work through some of the emotions. The show, of course, will seesaw between their two viewpoints leading up to a climax. Beforehand, we will have obtained permission from both parties, and we’ll have heard one of the mother’s lon
g-unfulfilled desires. All part of the interview process. She won’t have any idea where this is heading.”
“Sounds manipulative.”
“It’s television,” Carla said.
“But these are real people.”
“The payoff is worth it.”
“In the ratings, you mean.”
“You’re missing the purpose,” Greg said.
“The purpose?”
“Reconciliation, Mr. Black. Forgiveness. The wronged party takes this chance to bless the perpetrator in a totally unexpected and undeserved way, making a dream come true. It’s beautiful—estranged loved ones coming to terms with the past so that relationships can be restored.”
“Come on,” I said. “That’s just the emotional hook.”
“And a superbly noble one, at that.”
“Isn’t it really about weepy-eyed viewers tuning in weekly?”
“No no no.”
“Maybe just a little bit,” Carla said with a grin.
“You … you two are incorrigible!” Greg crossed his hands over his chest. “This is a theme dear to my heart. Can’t you see that?”
I could see it. And in that moment, I began to like the guy—not in the way he might desire, but as a fellow human being. Greg Simone had genuine passion for the project. He was wearing his heart on his sleeve, fully aware of the ridicule that might be flung his way.
“Where do I fit in? And what’s my brother have to do with this?”
“He submitted your name, along with a brief biography,” said Carla. She gestured toward one of the cameramen, and he lifted the lens in my direction. “We’ll be shooting the show’s pilot at the beginning of next month, and we’re in the process now of narrowing down our selections.”
“So,” I joked, “who’d you round up? Who’s mad at me now?”
“Your story’s a compelling one,” Carla continued. The camera light was on.
“What’d Johnny Ray tell you?” I demanded.
“You can read it there on the form.”
“Who gave him permission? Did he tell you where to find me?”
“Anger’s also normal.”
“He wrote down the name of someone for me to forgive. I bet that’s it, isn’t it?” I turned my palms up and beckoned. “Let’s hear it. Tell me who it is.”