There were several TV trays on the floor by the couch, and I cleared them to the kitchen, washed them off, loaded one with tacos. I folded the blankets on the couch, stacked the pillows, and poured Lloyd a drink. Pictures of him and Janice were everywhere hung on the walls, magnetized to the refrigerator, framed atop bookcases. Wedding portraits with awkward Lloyd, all big ears and blond curly hair, clinging to Janice's arm as if he still couldn't believe he'd landed her. Janice smiling from a lime green Gremlin, her feathered hair poofing beyond the frame. The standard fifteen-year anniversary shot, arms around shoulders, before the Eiffel Tower. I'd never met Janice, but I noted with some sadness that the most recent picture of Lloyd was at least five years old. She'd been dying since I'd met him.
I turned off the TV and sat in the reading chair, listening to the house creak, imagining Lloyd's split life, divided between the couch and the bedroom. How he probably stayed out here to breathe a little easier. How he'd shored himself up to make that walk to see his wife. How he probably spent his nights creeping from this end of the house to that seam of light.
Staring down the dark hall, I realized that I feared, greatly feared, what that bedroom might look like.
Fear of death. It's what we share. We ward it off in ineffectual ways, practice brushing against it, swimmers in dark waters. The obsessive bodybuilder. The weekend stunt pilot. The pool-hall slut. We drink too much. We put off surgeries. We whistle past old folks' homes. When it comes down to it, we all fear what's behind that door at the end of the corridor. That's why I write dark little potboilers. To pretend I'm poking at death with a stick. That's why people read them on subway trains and airplanes and think they're facing their deepest and darkest.
The seam in my head, the seam in Genevieve's lovely pale skin, the seam beneath that door. All cracks in what we think we're holding together. I'd never felt so attuned to the vulnerability around me, the chinks and fissures. They're everywhere. You just have to pause. And look.
The hall lightened briefly, and then I heard Lloyd's approach. I handed him his drink. He set down his knapsack, sank into the couch, took a gulp, and emitted a sigh. "Thanks, Drew. This is nice."
"Tacos and Bacardi. Old family recipe. How's Janice?"
He waved me off. "It's back. Other breast now. Third time through, make or break."
"Where's she being seen?"
"Cedars."
"I've heard they have a great onc team." The longer my remark hung in the air, the more hollow it seemed.
The glow of the lamps blacked out the nice view from the back windows. Lloyd finished his drink and said, "Pour you one?"
"I'm still on water."
"Oh, yeah." He filled his glass again, unwrapped a taco, took a bite, and set it down. "I'm real sorry for what you've been through, Drew, but I'm not allowed to talk to you. You're a suspect."
"I haven't been charged. I produced proof that I had nothing to do with "
"I heard."
"Look, Kaden and Delveckio already revealed a fair amount to me. I just want to talk through what I already know. We can start with Genevieve, even. I have the murder book, the trial's over. No way for you to misstep there."
Halfway through his second rum and Coke, Lloyd blinked heavily, suggesting a nod. "Don't you remember it all from the trial?"
"It's blurry. I'd like to hear it again from you."
There was an awkward pause, and then Lloyd said, "Pretty damning, Drew."
"You thought I was going away for it?"
"I couldn't imagine a jury convicting you with a brain tumor in a jar, but the evidence . . ." His long fingers gripped the mouth of his glass, tilting the dark liquid beneath. He contemplated the rum mix. I knew how that silent conversation went.
I said, "Your report showed that Genevieve had no defensive wounds, no skin beneath her nails."
"Katherine Harriman argued that's because she knew you."
"But Katherine Harriman, unlike me, didn't know Genevieve. Genevieve was tough to surprise, especially if she was up out of bed with an intruder in her bedroom. She wouldn't be one to embrace the knife. If she'd seen the blade, she'd have gone down clawing and biting."
"It was a forceful thrust. Death would have been pretty much instantaneous."
"Prints on the knife?"
"Besides Genevieve's and her kid sister's? Just yours."
"Suspect profile?"
"You know, the usual. Left-handed male, hundred eighty-five pounds, diabolical gleam in the eyes."
"Left-handed from the angle?"
He glanced at the watch on my right wrist. "Uh-huh. Slight slant."
"Male?"
"Power behind the stab."
"Body moved?"
"Yeah. A bunch." Another awkward pause. "By you. Your seizure started as a complex partial. Not the thrashing kind, more of a break in consciousness with automatisms lip smacking, repetitive finger movement. People can walk around, even. Complex partial seizures have been used as a defense in shoplifting cases, though that's pushing it. But you would've been functional enough to manipulate Genevieve Bertrand's body. Until your seizure generalized into a grand mal."
"Would I have been able to stab her in that state? The complex partial?"
"Not likely. I agree with Harriman that your break probably occurred after the murder." He studied my face, then said softly, "I'm sorry, Drew."
I sat back, rubbed at the soreness in my eyes with the heels of my hands. "I had a dream my first night home. I was driving over to her house that night. In a frenzy. She kept a key under a plant pot on her porch. I cracked the clay saucer getting to it. When I woke up, I drove over to her place." Would I tell him the rest? Could I? Lloyd's house was so still I thought I could make out the faint sigh of hospital equipment from the other end. "The saucer was cracked. It wasn't cracked the last time I remember seeing it. I think I dreamed a piece of memory. I think I'm starting to put together fragments of what happened that night."
He frowned severely, taking this in. "What do you mean when you say you were in a frenzy?"
"I was sweating a lot. Feeling panicky."
"Do you recall any unusual smell?"
The band of skin at the back of my neck went cold. My voice tangled in my throat, so I nodded.
"Bitter? Like burning rubber?" Lloyd didn't have to wait for an answer; he could read my face. "It's called an olfactory aura. They often occur just before seizures."
I remembered hearing about auras, but I hadn't put the information together with my dream. "Can I ask you about something else?"
"The question is, can I answer?"
"I want to know about sevoflurane," I said.
Lloyd pulled on his glasses, as if they helped him think better, and said cautiously, "What about it?"
"You found traces in Kasey Broach's bloodstream."
"Kaden and Delveckio revealed that to you?"
I couldn't tell if he was shocked or angry. "The night of the dream, when I woke up, I was really groggy and I had blurred vision. I also had a cut on my foot I think someone might have knocked me out and stolen blood to frame me."
Lloyd let out an unamused cough of a laugh. "Drew "
"Just hear me out, Lloyd. I did some research on sevoflurane today. It's a perfect drug for that. Easy to inhale, quickly induces anesthesia, nonpungent odor. It leaves the bloodstream quickly, so it's hard to test for. No strong aftereffects, so I wouldn't know I'd been drugged."
"Did you know?"
"Well, the killer had a running start, because I mostly figured I was insane to begin with. But here's the thing sevoflurane also produces amnesia."
"So you're thinking . . ."
"I'm thinking the gas dumped me back into the same memory wasteland of brainspace as my tumor did. It helped me retrieve part of that night." My voice was loud, excited. Lloyd started to say something, but I held up my hand. "I found out sevoflurane also gives a 'good duration of action,' but I think I woke up early. I might have seen the intruder in the street in front
of my house, which means I came to sooner than he wanted. I'm wondering why. Maybe I have a higher tolerance from my checkered past."
"It would be the opposite, actually. If there's liver damage, it would make you more sensitive to sevoflurane. But you're stacking an awful lot of assumptions here. Even your memory loss, to begin with you can't know what caused it. The tumor? The surgery? The anesthesia?"
I mused on this a moment. But there were too many moving parts to get a handle on now. "How's it administered? Sevoflurane?"
Lloyd shifted on the sofa, swirled his drink around. "Face mask."
"I figured. So maybe I woke up because it was imperfectly administered. Maybe at my house the killer wore an oxygen mask and let the gas loose in my bedroom, near my face, while I slept." I snapped my fingers, leaning forward. "Remember, there were signs of a struggle in Kasey Broach's bedroom."
"Kaden and Delveckio told you that, too?"
"Broach would've woken up when the killer pressed the mask over her face, but he figured he was strong enough to hold her down until the gas took effect. She's a petite woman, looks what? a buck ten?"
"A hundred and thirteen pounds," Lloyd said quietly.
"Right. But I doubt he'd want to take his chances waking me up by pressing a mask over my face. So he released the gas into the air while I was sleeping."
"Do you have any proof you can hang this theory on?"
"Not a scrap. Maybe this points to someone with medical expertise. Is it hard to get? Sevoflurane?"
"It's controlled, but not like an opiate."
"Can you tell from Kasey Broach's blood level how long she was kept unconscious?"
"Nearly impossible to determine."
"Can you tell when my DNA got on her body? Or the plastic drop cloth?"
"There's no way to put an age on DNA. Only that it was there during analysis." Lloyd held up his hands, thin fingers spread. "Let's hold on a minute. Slow down. You're not working off facts "
"How else did my DNA get on Kasey Broach's body?"
"For the record, we didn't get you on DNA. This isn't a TV show we need at least forty-eight hours to DNA type. We did a traditional ABO. You're AB negative, which puts you with less than one percent of the population."
"They SWAT-raided me off that?"
He rooted in his knapsack and came out with a report, which he tossed at me irritably. "The hair follicle. I matched the cuticle and medulla with a known sample we had for you."
"How about these?" I pointed at four samples farther down the page. "These don't match."
"That's because one's mine and two are from Ted McGraw, who helped me examine the body." He studied my expression and shook his head. "A simple contamination during processing, happens all the time. Don't go putting poor Ted in the conservatory with the candlestick."
"How about the fourth hair?"
"Unidentified. No match in the databases. We're holding it, but it's probably nothing. Frankly, I'm surprised we didn't pick up more strays, the way the wind was blowing."
"So one hair for me, one for Mr. Mystery. But my door gets the battering ram."
"Between your hair, the blood-type match, and the similarities to Bertrand's body, Kaden and Delveckio were ready to make a move on you. At this stage you're the only link between the victims." Lloyd's gaze was steady. Not judgmental, not accusatory. Just steady. "The blood DNA comes back tomorrow. I wouldn't hold your breath that it'll exonerate you."
"It could be someone inside. Kaden and Delveckio said the killer posed the body like Genevieve's, in ways that weren't released to the press. And a cop or detective might want me to go down for Genevieve's killing."
Lloyd looked at me as if I were paranoid, which I was. "So badly that they'd murder an innocent girl? Come on, Drew. Crime-scene photos leak." He leaned over and snatched the paper back from me. "Unlike criminalist reports. Plus, given the trial, there were a lot of lawyers and reporters poking around the Bertrand case files. The specifics were hardly kept as state secrets. Kaden and Delveckio were probably just trying to rattle you."
The crime-scene photos I'd stolen reinforced Lloyd's point. Kaden had grown touchy when I'd pushed for more information on what they'd gotten off the body. Ah, here it is: None of your fucking business.
I led him a bit with my next question. "What about the other key piece of evidence?"
"The rope? It's an all-cotton brand used for bondage. Probably bought at an erotic specialty store."
"Why tie rope around the ankles but tape the wrists?"
"Easier to transport a body. Easier to throw it out a vehicle. No limbs flapping around."
"No, I mean, why use different restraints on the same body?"
"You ever bind someone's wrists with rope?"
"No. Have you?"
He guffawed I'd forgotten about his great, unruly laugh. "No. But it's difficult. You can squirm your hands free easier than you can your feet."
"So why not use electrical tape on both the wrists and ankles?"
"I don't have an answer for you, Drew. But we're looking into it. This and more." He set down his glass and yawned. I could only imagine his exhaustion working long days, caring for his wife every spare waking hour. He walked me to the door. "It goes without saying that you can't mention to anyone and I mean anyone that I saw you today."
"I won't. And don't worry you didn't tell me anything that hasn't already been disclosed to me." I felt like a heel. This was a guy who, when asked to confirm an autopsy detail for me, would fax me a two-page essay. Now he'd stepped away from work and left his dying wife to help me, and I'd manipulated him, then lied about it. Not the first time I'd lied in pursuit of something I wanted, but I told myself I wouldn't let it come back to bite him in the ass. We shook hands, and I said, "I'm very appreciative that you took the time to talk with me. I know you're on overload."
He nodded, pausing in the doorway while I walked up the gravel drive. He didn't seem eager to head back down that hall. I got to the gate and turned around, and there he was, still silhouetted against the faint light from the kitchen.
"Leave it alone, Drew," he called after me. "This isn't one of your books."
I raised a hand and slipped through onto the street.
The hell it isn't.
Chapter 14
I stared again at my latest chapter, now pockmarked with Preston's notes.
.
Someone was out to get me. Someone had broken in to my house, drugged me while I slept, stolen my blood, and dripped it onto a corpse. Creeped out (1). I rose from bed and moved room to room, inspecting the doors and windows. All secure. Then I checked the garage, the closets, behind sofas and under beds. I was alone in the house.
I'd covered over the shattered panes in the front door with acrylic packing tape (2). Though guarded by shards and tape, the apertures may have been big enough for someone to reach through to the dead bolt a few feet below. Before returning upstairs, I layered over the windows yet again, figuring that if I left my bedroom door open, I'd be able to hear the tape being peeled back by an intruder.
.
Not 1: Use something here that is not a cliche.
Note 2: Why not hammer a piece of wood across the holes. We're talking about your life--let's not be fastidious about the architecture.
Note 3: I went to one of those meager, inopulent feasts just last week. it pisses me off that they call them feasts, y'know?
I lay atop my sheets, sweating despite the January chill, images and conversation snippets crowding my mind. The crime-scene photos, spread across the interrogation table like an opulent feast (3). Kaden and Delveckio freezing me out of the investigation. We don't have anything we can disclose at this point in time (4). Cal's offering me only a denunciation and my own image (5).
Note 4: Point in time? why must these guys talk like Dragnet? Their self-important language is embarrassing, since the narrator seems not to notice it.
Note 5: Why did you go to Cal without any concrete goal? Go to people when t
hey're required for something as with Lloyd or else the plot drags. And you'll unnecessarily deplete human resources you may need later.
.
reflected back from his mirrored lenses. Preston's incessant heckting. A writer's job, perhaps more than any other, is not to be afraid of possibilities. What was I afraid of? What was I still not considering?
Perhaps that there were more variables in play than I cared to look at. The fact that I hadn't killed Kasey Broach hardly retroproved that I was blameless in Genevieve's death. Though I could count few people I knew who would have been willing and able to kill another woman and frame me for murder, perhaps an unhinged member of the TV-watching public a crusading vigilante, a pushed-too-far militiaman obsessed with society's deterioration, an angry husband who'd lost his wife to a similar crime had gone after me, seeking vengeance.
Someone was out to get me. And now I was out to get him (6).
.
Note 6: You're focusing on yourself becauseyou've heard the movie-trailer voice-over tell you "This time its personal" about a thousand times. Open yourself up to more narrative possibilities. This might center on you without being about you. Life is fucked up enough you generally don't need diabolical plots. They just happen. Factor in the 310 area code, you got more coincidences than a Dickens plot.
.
I glanced up from the red-marked pages. Preston was sprawled on my sectional, editing some other victim and looking characteristically pleased with himself.
"I'm in the 818 area code, actually. Just over the crest."
Preston's eyes flicked over to me. "I was giving you the benefit of the doubt." He finished his morning cup of rum, leaving it on the coffee table for the housekeeper I could no longer afford. He fanned himself dramatically with the manuscript pages, then cast them aside. "It's hot in here."
The Crime Writer (aka I See You) (2007) Page 10