by Brian Hodge
I stood in the lineup room for a few minutes. Then they said I had to stay. It must have been the people in that piece-of-shit minivan. How did they see me when I was so far back in the trees? I didn’t get it. They must have recognized me.
I was back in the same room. After a long while of me being bored, they asked me what I wanted for dinner. I told them to pick me up a couple of cheeseburgers and some fries and a Coke. Man, I was really craving an ice-cold Coke.
It took them almost forty-five minutes. By the time they got it to me, the drink was all watery from the ice melting. Plus, it was diet. And when I opened up my cheeseburger, it was a chicken sandwich. Can you believe it? A chicken goddamn sandwich. Not some kind of tasty, fried chicken either. It was grilled—some kind of skinless thing with no breading or spices or anything. How could someone mess up an order that badly? If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d have thrown it back in their faces.
One of the cops from the lineup came in and sat down with me, just as I was slurping up the last of my disgusting diet soda. He flipped his chair around and sat on it backwards, trying to be hip. I wasn’t going to fall for that. Cops do this thing where they pretend they’re your friend, just to get you to tell them stuff. I shouldn’t tell them anything.
“You ever ride the bus, Mikey? Can I call you Mikey?” I nodded my head at him and he went on. “You take the bus?” I told him I had a car and wouldn’t be caught dead riding around on a city bus. He looked toward the mirror, as if I didn’t know there were people on the other side watching us.
Another guy walked in with a handful of plastic bags. He laid them all out on the wooden table in front of me. Each one had a single bus token in it. At that moment I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating. Everything went dark and quiet. Then it got loud. Crazy loud. My head felt like it was full of TV static. Black, white, and jumbled, loud and scary. Bus tokens. They knew. They knew everything about everyone. What was I gonna do now? I thought I should tell what I did. I should tell them I wasn’t right in the head. I bet they’d believe that.
“Hey, Mikey,” the first cop kept on talking after the other one had left. “You ever like to go to the zoo?” I told him my ex-wife had kids, and I used to take them to the zoo. I don’t think he believed me. How could anyone know about that? That must be why they were in the woods at the vacation house. That’s how everything got ruined.
“Your ex-wife, eh?” Every question he asked was a total accusation. “And where is she now?” This was all so unfair. I told the cop about Dami and how she died in the fire. Even when I told him the God’s honest truth, he acted like he didn’t believe me. This was so fucked up.
It took hours and hours for me to tell them everything. First they made me talk into a tape recorder, while they asked tons of nitpicky questions I could barely remember the answers to. What street was I on when I met that heathen hooker? Did I follow that redheaded girl from her house? They even wanted to know about sex things—personal things. I told them everything, even the stuff that was none of their business. It felt good in a weird way. They were listening to me. They wanted to write down everything I said. These cops had an appreciation for what I’d done and why I had to do it. They understood me, finally. It really felt … fine. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
(Our Narrator)
From Passive to Active
I never told anyone I saw Mikey that day. Not my dad, my wife, or the police. The more I thought about it, the worse it was. How could I say nothing and let him get away to do who knows what? Ever since that day I’d felt like—there’s no other way to describe it—complete shit. I talked such a good game of being a good person and protecting my family. But when it really counted, what did I do? I chickened out. I went totally yellow. Showed no spine, no backbone.
Soon enough, news of Mikey’s exploits was all over the internet, the news, even talk radio blathered on and on about him. Everyone was talking about the sick sonofabitch who’d murdered a little girl. Caught red-handed at some kind of truck stop out of state.
My wife couldn’t get enough of the story. It was like nine-eleven all over again with her. Endless goddamn news. She read everything they put out about Mikey, a zillion different websites, some updated five times a day. I think she blamed me for bringing him into our lives in the first place. It wasn’t like I had any choice in the matter. I’d known Mikey all my life.
When you’ve known someone for that long, they seep loyalty out of you, even if you don’t especially like them. Knowing so much about a person, any person really, it humanizes them. It makes them difficult to outright hate unless they do something really gruesome. At that point, we still didn’t know there was so much gruesomeness.
We stayed at the vacation house for much longer than we’d expected. I wanted to guard the place, though it didn’t seem like Mikey could ever come back here. Maybe I just didn’t want to go home. Maybe I thought if we stayed here long enough, this would all blow over. It would turn out to be some kind of ghastly mistake and we could all go back to our normal lives. Maybe it would turn out that Mikey hadn’t really done it.
There are some parts of everyone’s lives they’d just as soon forget. I made myself forget the time I saw Mikey shoot a whole litter of kittens with his dad’s shotgun. It wasn’t long after his dad died, in fact. My mom had told me Mikey might be acting “funny” for a while after his daddy “went up to heaven.” Killing kittens, though, it was awful. I didn’t tell. I kept Mikey’s secrets just like always.
My oldest daughter never failed to jump into my lap whenever I sat on the sofa to watch TV. I certainly didn’t want her to see Daddy’s friend Mikey on the news for killing a young girl. She shouldn’t have to know yet how much evil lurks in this world. I’d keep it from her forever if I could. That inevitable lesson would come soon enough. The world can be a terrible place, even if you do everything right. Even if you intend to be the very best person you can be, and live each day like that—evil can and does find good people every day.
A few days after all this began, with Mikey on the news and being accused of murder and all, my wife was in the kitchen with her laptop open. She never seemed to close it anymore. She spun it around at me, gesturing at the screen like a Price is Right model.
“I knew it,” she said. My eyes scanned the story for key points. I absorbed more and more of the horrific, impossible news. Sickness. I ran from the room with a hand over my mouth.
Mikey had confessed. He’d done it. He was guilty of unspeakable acts. Lots of them. Not just one. Not some kind of accident or horrible mistake. He was a murderer. A multiple murderer. When I saw him here in his car, he’d had a girl with him. The last girl he murdered. She was with him when he came here. It was literally my own silence that killed her.
According to the internet, Mikey had confessed to six murders, including that bookstore woman he was engaged to. They found her remains at the zoo. He took her body to the zoo and fed it to the animals. I always knew Mikey loved the zoo, but I’d never imagined anything so ghoulish and sinister. That was probably made-up internet garbage. How did it even occur to a person to say such a thing? This wasn’t a joke.
My plan was the morally correct one. I went over it and over it, always reaching the same conclusion. Before I did anything, though, I needed to write down everything I could remember about Mikey. That was a fair amount. When this was all over I thought I might even sell it. My family deserved to get something out of this after all Mikey put them through. And people needed to know.
I used to think a sane man could never justify murdering someone. Now I knew better. Sometimes murder was the sanest thing you could do. An eye for an eye. Biblical justice sounded very satisfying right about now. I thought about that for a good, long while, when I was driving out to buy the ceramic knife. Mikey had no wife, no children, not even a cat. I was his only friend so far as I knew. Only his batty old mama cared at all for him. ‘Course if she really cared, she wouldn
’t have raised him to be a monster.
I spent one hundred and fifty dollars on a single, ceramic utility knife. It was very, very sharp with a pointy tip. It should go in easily. The mental picture of it all made me retch as I drove home to my family. I knew it would be just horrible. I deserved it though. It was my penance for what I’d done. Mikey would be my blood sacrifice. I could make my peace with God for my part in that poor girl’s death. And if He forgave me, it’d just be a matter of time before I could forgive myself.
Chapter Sixty
(Mikey)
Return of an Old Friend
You wouldn’t think it’d be easy to fall asleep in a jail cell. I had no problems at all. In fact, it seemed like I slept better than at home, even though this “bed” was not particularly comfortable. It reminded me of the time I’d visited my buddy at his college. They had really thin mattresses with springs that poked out in places. It was hard to sleep on them even drunk as I was. At least my buddy had some decent blankets he’d brought from home. This blanket was so thin you could practically see through it. Luckily this jailhouse wasn’t very cold.
I found out that the cops already knew way more than I’d realized. They’d found almost all of my pretty girls, and Elise. They even asked about my dad getting shot hunting. I couldn’t believe they were bringing that up after all this time. Mama didn’t even know it was me who did it. I almost wanted to tell her once, but there’s no telling what she would have done if she knew. Mama was what they used to call the excitable type.
The cops told me they were protecting me from death threats. They’d bring me letters from people saying they wanted to do all kinds of horrible things to me. Cutting my balls off and gross stuff like that. They just wanted me to feel shitty. People could be so mean.
Pretty soon they were taking me to all these places and making me talk to all kinds of different people. Mama got me a lawyer who went with me to court. It seemed like I would have to go to prison—there wouldn’t be any way around that. My lawyer said that where and how long I’d be in was totally up in the air. She told the judge about my brain having a defective mental disease or something. She told me to say “not guilty,” even though everyone already knew I’d been with Angel when she died. Didn’t make much sense, but that’s what happened.
Then me, the lawyer, and the cops went around to all the different places where I’d left my girls. I was kind of worried about it. My lawyer was pretty ugly and I didn’t want her to think it was like a date. I noticed she’d put on makeup for the occasion. I told them about all the wild times I’d had with my girls, and about how many times I came back to see them after. I told them all about buying them cheeseburgers and taking them to nice places. One of the young cops ran away and threw up, like a little sissy girl, while I was talking. You wouldn’t think they’d let a guy like that be a policeman, but there you are.
Later I had to see a bunch of different medical people. A lady doctor took pictures of the inside of my head to see if she could tell what made me want to hurt those girls. I told her all about the Red. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. Pretty sly of her, but I knew better. I didn’t go to med school or anything, but I just didn’t see how that lady doctor could look at my brain and see why I got mad. Then they showed me the pictures. You could see the Red all over my brain. It was right there. Now everyone would know it was those girls’ fault, not mine. They’d see the Red and know it was proof of what I’d known all along. These women, they bring it on themselves.
The lawyer told me I could talk to newspapers if I wanted to. She said it was okay to tell them all about how much I loved those girls, and how treacherous and mean they were to me. The lawyer also said it was good for as many people to hear about me as possible. It would affect a jury later if we ever had a trial, she said.
When it was finally time to go to court again, my lawyer brought me a new blue suit. Mama’d helped her pick it out. That lawyer was obviously falling in love with me. She sort of reminded me of Elise, and I sincerely hoped things didn’t go the same way for her. After the trial I’d probably have to tell her I didn’t feel the same way about her. Anyway, I was glad later that I had dressed nice, since there were reporters and cameras and stuff all over the place. My lawyer stopped to talk to them.
“My client is a victim of mental illness. He was diagnosed with a sizable brain tumor and also suffers from a chemical imbalance that causes aggression and poor judgment.” I didn’t really understand everything she was saying. I knew she was on my side, so that was cool. A lady in a red business suit stuck a microphone in my face out of nowhere.
“How many women have you killed?” She totally screamed it at me. It was so rude. “Did you tell the police everything?” My lawyer put a hand up. There were people crowding all around me and we had to shove our way through them. They were all so pushy. There was a group of people holding signs. I squinted at them. I think they were there about me.
Man … I couldn’t believe it. Walking quickly, almost running past the protesting crowd, was my best friend from when I was little. I couldn’t believe he’d come here to stand by me. I should have known he would. He was always such a loyal friend. Even though we hardly ever talked anymore, even though I saw his parent’s second house more than I saw him … he was still here for me. I was totally choked up.
“Hey, man!” I waved to him, my lawyer starting to step between us. “It’s okay; it’s totally cool. I’ve known this guy for fuckin’ ever!”
He put his arms up to hug me. I didn’t usually hug other dudes, especially if there were lots of people around. I dunno, though, I guess I just thought this was a special occasion. He had really come through for me. A true-blue friend. He sort of ran and jumped toward me. I guessed he was really happy to see me. It must have been a relief for him to finally know I was okay. I hadn’t thought about how worried people must have been about me being locked up and everything.
There was a loud bang, like a firecracker. Then another. People started screaming and running, camera guys spinning around in every direction to find the cause of the noise. Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots kept coming. I had totally lost count. Right there in my arms, my best friend in the world, my only friend … he collapsed on the ground. I saw him spit out blood. Gross. There was more blood all over his front. It took me a couple of seconds to realize somebody had shot him. Was it a cop? Did they think my friend was trying to hurt me? Oh God!
He was trying to show me something. In his right hand was … something. Whatever it was, it had shattered and broken on the cement. Had it been a gift? A file to break me out of jail? Did that still happen, using files to break out of jails? He stopped moving after a couple of weird convulsions. He wasn’t dead. His eyes were still open.
There must have been some kind of doctor around. Even one of those dumbass cops should have known what to do for a gunshot wound. I didn’t see anyone until I looked directly ahead of me. Standing totally still and silent, holding a gun in her outstretched hand, was my own little daughter. My sweet, beautiful Chandra was the only one not running around in a panic. She stood there staring at me with pure venom in her eyes. If hatred was lethal, I would have been dead.
Chapter Sixty-One
(Chandra)
Not Forgiven, Not Forgotten
I opened my eyes. People were running, screaming, pointing cameras at me. The gun was empty, useless to me. I was faint. I needed to sit down. All at once men were grabbing me, shoving me. The gun was wrenched out of my hand, my arms pulled roughly behind me. I was handcuffed and dragged away by little men in little blue suits, no doubt determined to avenge the brutal, daylight murder of this child-killing—wait.
He was there. He was right there in front of me, looking shocked and horrified but totally unharmed. Villain. I wanted him dead. Dead for everything he ever did to us. Every leer. Every disgusting comment. Dead for what he did to Mother, and what he did to Meg. It wasn’t so much to ask, that he just die for what he’d
done.
He stared after me. A man forced my head down into the back of a police car. They were “taking me in,” it seemed. It was a grave injustice. After all, I didn’t even hurt him. I’d missed.
How could I have missed? All those clandestine visits to that stupid firing range, rednecks muttering insults every time I walked by them … all of it to no avail. So much preparation for and dedication to this one, single moment, and I’d missed him entirely. Frustrated tears poured out of me. I had failed us all. This had been my only chance to make things right.
“Have a seat here, miss. Someone will be right with you.” It was a very odd thing for a man to say as he was handcuffing you to a table. I had to admit, that for a mindless servant of the American Gestapo, the little man with the little job seemed remarkably polite. It was just a ruse to make me comfortable so they could extract information from me.
There was no clock in the room. I had no way of knowing how long I’d been in here. This was surely some kind of psychological manipulation technique. The interrogators were making me sit in here and worry about what they were going to do with me. No doubt, they wanted to increase my stress level and make me afraid of them. These men didn’t know how strong women could be. I would not submit to their questioning.
A man in a shirt and tie entered the room and sat down. He was reasonably rugged and good-looking, but the tie was hideous, with blue and orange stripes. He reminded me of an ice cream vendor at the zoo, only without the white paper hat. He folded his arms in front of him on the wooden table. I did not meet his eye. He would have to be the one to speak first. I had no intention of giving anything away. Watching television had taught me much about this country and its laws. I’d watched hours and hours of legal dramas, especially after Durga and I moved back in with Grandmother. Those programs illustrated how American laws were applied, which is to say, arbitrarily. And they all taught the same lesson. When a person was charged with a crime, they should tell the police nothing. To insist on seeing a lawyer, and not to let them use their deceptions to force you into self-incrimination. With that in mind, I remembered to stay on my guard. Just like with that Villain, the key to not being victimized was to be alert and vigilant.