by Conrad Jones
“So, tell me what’s going on,” I whispered. I felt like I was about to watch a film that I didn’t know the name of. Peter was either too preoccupied to fill me in or he didn’t want to. I was beginning to sense that I wasn’t welcome. Why invite me here at stupid o’clock in the morning if I was an inconvenience?
“Basically, we need to know how old she is and if she is sane before we can proceed to interview her about the murder,” Peter answered. “She could be a minor.”
“Hello Jennifer,” the detective grunted.
“Hello, I’m feeling a little strange; nervous, I mean. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” the young girl said to the doctor ignoring the policeman. She shrugged and I noticed for the first time that they had handcuffed her hands in front of her. The shackles hadn’t changed my impression of her. She looked nervous and frightened.
“I’m going to record this interview, it’s easier than making notes,” the detective explained as he pressed the record button.
“How come he hasn’t introduced himself on the tape? That’s the usual procedure right?” I wanted to know why basic procedure wasn’t being followed. I didn’t know why, but I was on her side from the first second that I’d set eyes on her. The police had the wrong suspect and that was that.
“He’s one of our murder team detectives, but this isn’t an interview under caution. We just need to know if they can actually interview her on tape first.”
“Do you mind if we begin?” The doctor asked the detective. He looked hassled, like he didn’t want to be there. “I’m going to ask you some questions. They are quite simple. I need to ascertain your state of mind.”
“Why would you need to do that?” The girl frowned and her lips quivered. She looked close to tears. “Am I in trouble? Do you think I’m mad?”
“I have no preconceived perceptions about you, Jennifer.”
“Then why have I been chained up?” She asked raising the cuffs as far as the restraints allowed. Her voice was quiet and her tone polite.
“Apparently you were very distressed at the police station,” he smiled thinly. His tone of voice was patronizing. “I believe you bit someone?”
“Oh that!” she giggled nervously. I could tell that she was close to tears. I felt like hugging her and telling her that everything was okay. “I was frightened and he was rude. I thought that they were going to hurt me. Am I in trouble?”
The doctor shook his head, “That’s not for me to judge.”
“Whatever you need to do let’s get it done. I want to go home,” she said. Her accent was akin to the south. It sounded like she said, “Whateva.” She was wearing a white paper jumpsuit, which I guessed the police had given her. That meant that they had sent her clothes to forensics for tests. I noticed dark smears on her black skin. She looked so fragile and vulnerable.
“Your name is Jennifer Booth?” he asked, but she ignored him. He smiled thinly and tried again. “You have to answer the questions, Jennifer. The quicker we do this, the better for you.”
“Whatever,” she said, nodding her head. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He looked over the top of his glasses, “And you are Jennifer Booth?”
“Medical, measles type of doctor or loony type?” she ignored his question again and looked at the floor.
“Both sometimes.”
“But right now you’re a loony type.”
He nodded and shrugged off the question. “Yes I suppose I am. This man is a detective and he would like to ask you some questions but first we need to know more about you. How old are you?” he asked. She didn’t answer at first. She turned to the mirror and seemed to look directly into my eyes. It chilled me to the core. She smiled at the mirror.
“She can’t see us can she?” I asked.
“No.”
“You know she looks like…” I started to say.
“Pauline Holmes,” Peter said, finishing off my sentence. “It’s her eyes.”
It was her eyes. It was uncanny how much she looked like the murdered prostitute I had read about earlier. She turned to the mirror again and her eyes stared into my soul. Her black skin shimmered with perspiration and there was a hint of a smile on her thick lips. She was stunning, but there was fear in her eyes too. Her face and hands were smeared with something dark. As I stared at her, I realized it was blood.
“Jennifer, how old are you?” the doctor asked irritably. He was wearing green scrubs over a white vest. He looked like the police had called him off his rounds to complete the interview.
She grinned at the mirror mischievously, ignoring the doctor. Her demeanour changed and the frightened girl was gone for a moment. “How old do I look?” she said. Her jet black eyes looked into me. She didn’t take her eyes from the mirror. I would have put her face at about seventeen. She had smooth, dark skin and gleaming, white teeth. The victim’s blood was smeared across her right cheek as if she had wiped it roughly with the back of her hand. They had taken her underwear from her because when she shook her head I could see the shape of her full breasts under the jumpsuit. Her nipples pressed against the paper.
“It’s a simple question. I’m not here to play games with you.”
“Moody bastard,” she snapped. Her face darkened momentarily and then she smiled again. “How old do I look?” she asked again.
“Has she been charged yet?” I asked Peter.
“Not yet,” he said. “We need to establish how old she is and her state of mind first. She keeps telling us that Satan made them kill her.”
“Satan made ‘them’ kill who?”
“We don’t know yet. She was rambling when she flipped out.”
“Satan has a lot to answer for,” I said jokingly. I had no idea back then how right I was.
“I think he’s in us all. Some people choose not to listen to him.” Peter was fixated on the girl, but he looked at me as he spoke.
“That’s very poignant,” I laughed. “When did you become a philosopher?”
“You have to be in this job.”
“Occupational hazard, I suppose?”
“It grinds you down sometimes.”
“Have you ever regretted joining the force?” You could never tell what Peter was thinking because he wore a constant frown. I was trying to break the ice because I felt like an intruder. I thought bigging-up his profession might help to lower the barrier, although I didn’t understand why it was raised in the first instance.
“Yes,” he replied, still looking at me. I was surprised. When we met socially, he always raved about how much he loved the job. “I regretted it the first time I saw a murdered kid.” He wasn’t joking. “His name was Charlie Howard. His stepfather had beaten him to death with a cricket bat because he spilt a glass of coke on his Xbox.”
I felt bad for making light of the situation. Murder is never funny, never amusing, but sometimes we make fun because it scares us. Peter had a three-year-old son, so a case like that would have hit him hard. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take the piss,” I said.
“No problem. When you do this job, you learn just how evil people can be.” He looked me in the eyes and nodded towards the mirror. “I’m telling you now that this bitch is evil. Don’t be taken by the little lost girl act.”
“I can’t see it,” I disagreed. I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut. I speak first and think about the consequences later. “She looks terrified.”
Peter frowned. “You’re looking at a pretty face and nothing more. I have to look at murderers every day and make sure that they’re locked up for life. They don’t all look like Freddy Kruger. You get a feeling for it, an instinct. We do it for a living.”
“I know you do. You should be proud of what you do, Pete.” I wasn’t blowing smoke up his arse. I’ve always admired people who join the police, fire service, ambulance service or the forces. They are brave men and women, far braver than me. I used to be a fighter in my youth. I was an accomplished Muay Thai boxer, and I never
lost a fight. Friends often comment how brave fighters are to step into the ring, but they are wrong. Most fighters don’t have the fear gene. I don’t anyway. I was never scared of a fighter because I convinced myself in training that I was better than my opponent – fitter, stronger, faster and technically more skilled. That is different to the men and women who go to work every day and face human suffering week after week. How do they go home and switch it off in their minds every day? That is bravery. They are life’s true heroes, but Peter was driving the point home and I couldn’t fathom why. I decided to change the subject. “What are they going to do if she keeps being awkward?” I asked.
“Well, we need to know if she’s capable of answering questions. If she doesn’t play ball, then they’ll section her and wait on the DNA.”
“She seems calm enough.” I looked into her eyes. Despite the fear, they sparkled beneath the lights. “She doesn’t seem bothered about being here.”
“She was bouncing off the walls at the station. The evil bitch bit a lump out of the desk sergeant’s face.” Peter shook his head. “Poor bastard only has a week left until he retires. It took six officers to restrain her; she’s stronger than she looks.” Once again my initial assessment was way off.
“She looks athletically built,” I commented. She did look strong beneath the paper suit, but I couldn’t see her biting a police officer.
“You mean she’s fit as fuck,” he laughed.
“I hadn’t noticed.” I smiled and blushed a little. She was very attractive, but the fact that she looked so young was off-putting.
The doctor was tiring of her reluctance to give a straight answer. He stood up and spoke to her. “I need to ask you some important questions, so I need your cooperation, okay?” He took off his glasses. “If you don’t want to answer them, that’s fine, but I haven’t got time to waste. Will you answer my questions?”
“What about?” She smiled disarmingly. She seemed to be distracted by the mirror. Her eyes darted towards it every few seconds.
“I need to make sure you are well enough to speak to the police.”
“I’m fine. I’m speaking to you aren’t I?” the timid, young girl returned.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you are in sound mind.”
“So you have to find out if I’m sane or insane?” She smiled sadly again.
“We need to know if you are in sound mind to be interviewed,” the doctor replied matter-of-factly. “And we need to know how old you are, so let’s start there.”
“How old do I look?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the doctor sighed, and rolled his eyes. “We need to know if you require an adult to accompany you during an interview.”
“How old do I look?” she repeated.
The doctor sat back and decided to indulge her. “I would say you are late teens.”
“You’re miles away. I’m thirty four,” she said bluntly. She looked at her nails as she spoke. “I know that I look younger.”
“No chance,” I whispered to Peter. The doctor and the detective exchanged surprised glances.
“She’s a barm-pot,” Peter agreed. “She’s never thirty-four.”
“We’ll get to your real age in a minute,” the doctor said, looking at the detective. Their faces said that they didn’t believe her either.
“So you don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Fuck off!” she hissed through clenched teeth. Her face changed again and the contrast was dramatic. “Either be honest with me or fuck off!”
“Okay,” the doctor sighed. “You appear to be much younger than you are telling me, that’s all.”
“Oh, right, whatever,” she said, and her manacled hands went up to her mouth and touched the smear of blood. Although I realized it was dried blood, I didn’t believe she was a killer. It was all over her hands too. She smiled at the mirror again, and I swear she was looking directly into my eyes.
“Jennifer, I want you to relax while you answer my questions, okay?”
“Chillax,” she mumbled.
“What?” the doctor frowned.
“Chillax,” she repeated, smiling. “We say ‘chillax’ nowadays.”
“I see. Well, just chillax then.” He cleared his throat nervously and looked at his questionnaire. “Have you ever had any mental health issues?”
“Oh my God!” she laughed aloud. “Very subtle doctor, you don’t beat about the bush do you?”
“We need to know if you are fit enough to be interviewed.”
“Whatever.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Had any mental health issues?”
“Loads,” she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and let her tongue dangle from the corner of her lips. “I’m mad as a box of frogs.”
“Have you ever received any professional care?”
“I’m bored already. I want to go home.” She looked at the glass again.
“What day is it, Jennifer?” The doctor decided to take a different route.
“Friday.”
“What month?”
“November.”
“What year were you born?”
She smiled. “What is this, Mastermind?” she asked.
“Just answer the questions and then I can go home to my wife. When were you born?” the doctor repeated.
“Thirty-four years ago,” she said. “Or thereabouts. I can’t be sure as I never saw my birth certificate.” Although she was a lot older than she looked, her mannerisms were childish. She behaved like a ten-year-old. Her demeanour was infantile. There was no way I would have put her at thirty-four.
“Who is the prime minister?”
“Boris Johnson.” She giggled and put her hands up to her mouth again. There was dried blood on her wrists, too. “Boring.”
“Do you think he is, really?”
“He should be,” she smiled at the mirror again. It was as if she knew I was standing there.
“What’s the capital of England?”
“Los Angeles,” she said. She watched the doctor scribble her answer in his notebook and held up her hand, waving it to stop him.
“Was I joking, doctor?”
“I don’t know, were you?”
She licked at the dried blood on her hand. “I was joking. London is the real capital.”
The doctor sat back in the chair and gave her a stern look. She wasn’t supposed to be making jokes. She didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “This is serious, Jennifer,” he said.
“Whatever,” she sighed. She turned to the mirror and looked at me intensely with her jet black eyes again. “Who’s in there?”
“Where?” the doctor asked uncomfortably.
“Behind the glass.”
“No one.” He looked down as he lied. “It’s a mirror.”
“Fuck off!” she hissed again. “It’s a two-way mirror, doctor. Don’t lie to me. Do I look like a retard?”
“No.”
“Then don’t speak to me like one.” Her personality jumped from terrified teenager to outraged adult in milliseconds.
“I apologize, but some patients are uncomfortable with the two-way mirrors. I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence.”
“Good.” She seemed to relax into the chair a little. “Who is watching?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Is he a doctor?”
“No, I’m the only doctor here.”
“He likes me.” She winked at the mirror as if she could see through it. Her eyes held me with their gaze. She fascinated me.
“Who likes you, Jennifer?”
“That man behind the glass.”
The doctor looked at the mirror. He wasn’t aware I was there. He knew there would be police officers, but not a writer. She smiled at the glass and I felt weak at the knees. It was her eyes.
“Jennifer, forget the mirror please.”
“He’s not a policeman.”
“There may be, indeed, but he’s not one of them.”
“Can we carry on with this please?”
“His name begins with C,” she whispered. She whispered it, but I heard it. So did Peter. He looked at me wide-eyed. She made the shape of the letter C in the air with her finger.
“Now that is spooky,” he said, turning towards me.
“Whose name begins with C?” The doctor humoured her, but he looked concerned.
“The man behind the glass. He likes me. I can feel it.” She stared at the mirror and the nerves in my spine tingled. The doctor scribbled something on his pad. He thought she was showing signs of some mental trauma.
“Okay, he likes you, Jennifer.” He shrugged off her comments irritably. “Can you name three cities beginning with the letter L?”
“Fuck you! I’ve had enough of your game. I want to talk to him.” She pointed to the mirror.
“Jennifer, if you don’t answer my questions, they will section you. You will have to stay here indefinitely.” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He was losing patience with her. The detective looked at his watch, already bored with the exercise.
“London, Liverpool, Leeds.”
“What?”
“You asked for three cities, right?”
“Okay, thank you. What’s your favourite food?”
“Are you going to cook for me?” she said coyly.
“No,” he said.
“Lasagne. What’s the point of these questions?”
“They help me assess your state of mind. What was the last film you saw?”
She looked up at the ceiling, thinking. There was more dried blood on the underside of her chin, and it streaked down her neck to her chest. She lowered her eyes and looked through the mirror again. I was sure she was looking through it at me, straight into my eyes.
“What is your favourite food?” she asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” he sighed, tiring of her games.
“What is my favourite food? What is my favourite film? Are you planning a cosy night in for us, doctor?” She touched her lips again.
“Answer the question, Jennifer.” The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired.