by M. Leighton
I thought about the student directory. There was a possibility I could pick Lisa out from a list. I’d know her by her picture. And surely there couldn’t be that many girls named Lisa to sift through, especially in this day and age. Now if she’d been named Brittney or Brook, it’d be a whole different story.
I hurried home, knowing I needed to be quick and get out of there before my parents got home. They weren’t necessarily suspicious parents per se; they were just incredibly nosey and interested in all things that pertained to me. They’d been that way my whole life.
It had always been more of an inconvenience than a tragedy. Not that it mattered either way. There wasn’t a thing I could do to change it. I’m sure the overprotected thing is common among adopted children, which is what I was—adopted. Or “chosen” as my parents liked to call it.
When I got home, I logged in to my school account and hunted Lisa down. It was harder than I expected, as there are seventy-four girls named Lisa actively enrolled in my school right now. I found that surprising for some reason. But, I committed her last name, Bauer, to memory and readied myself to go to the police station.
I sat on my bed, keys in hand, thinking about what I could say to the police and how I could say it. No matter how I twisted and turned it, there was just no way to approach them without coming off as a total nut job.
Laying my keys aside, I decided I’d mull it over a little while longer and then go. Maybe I’d come up with something soon.
When my belly started growling, putting off my trip until after supper wasn’t a difficult decision to make. Plus, it’s not like the police station closes at six or anything.
After supper, I thought about the butt load of assigned reading I’d been given at school. I certainly didn’t want to get behind this early in the semester, so I decided to wait and go after I’d done some of my homework.
By the time I’d completed about seventy-five percent of my reading, I’d managed to completely talk myself out of going. I’d somehow rationalized that it was better to do nothing. Not tonight anyway. I reasoned that the chances of her getting killed tonight were probably pretty slim and that I’d be much better prepared for a visit to the Arville Police Department after a good night’s sleep.
I got ready for bed and slid between the sheets, the decision I’d made sitting in my stomach like a lump of karmic road kill. I lay there staring at the ceiling for a long while, dreading the next day when I’d have no choice but to make the trip downtown. I was going to have to swallow my pride and make a fool of myself and there was just no way that I could think of to avoid it.
********
The next morning, I woke feeling depressed and angry. I was depressed because the daunting task that should have been behind me was now lying in front of me instead, just hovering out there on the horizon like an intimidating storm cloud. And I was angry because I’d compromised myself, put off doing the right thing, just to avoid a little ridicule. I was afraid people would think I’m crazy. In fact, I was sure of it. Now, not only had I not solved or addressed any of my problems, I’d somehow managed to take selfish pride to a whole new, alarmingly despicable level.
Well, never again, I told myself. I was determined to conquer my cowardice and go to the police station as soon as my classes were over. With that in mind, I got up and launched headlong into the day.
When I stumbled into the kitchen for some much needed caffeine-induced energy, Mom was already up. Of course.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” she said in her sing song way. She’d greeted me that way every morning for as long as I could remember and it always made me smile.
“Mornin’,” I said as I reached into the cabinet for a mug. I couldn’t suppress the yawn that forced my jaws wide.
I don’t know how she even knew I was there. I thought my approach had been completely silent when I’d stopped in the kitchen doorway. But evidently her maternal spidey sense was highly attuned to me; she always seemed to know when I was around.
Walking to the coffee pot, I poured myself a cup of brew and watched her as she read the paper. My parents hadn’t been able to have children, so when one of Mom’s friends had told her about me, they’d jumped on the chance to be parents, even though they were both in their early thirties at the time.
Mom still looked great, though. The bob of her short brown hair was perfectly coiffed even after a full night’s sleep. Her sparkling blue eyes scanned the daily news from behind half-moon reading glasses that were perched on the end of her nose. Her pajamas were color-coordinated and seemed to be without a single wrinkle. I could even smell a hint of the sweet gardenias in the perfume she wore…from yesterday.
I shook my head in amazement, thinking of my own rumpled mass of auburn curls, sleepy caramel eyes and ratty t-shirt and shorts. It was times like this that it was painfully obvious that we were not biologically related.
Mom peeked at me from behind the paper. “How’d you sleep?”
I shrugged. “Eh, I’ve had better nights.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Just a lot on my mind.”
Mom put the paper down and gave me her full attention. Little warning bells sounded in my head, alerting me to the fact that she was getting ready to snoop. “Like what? Is it school? Did you meet a guy? Did something happen in one of your classes?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, Mom. None of the above.” Then, when I saw the out she’d inadvertently given me, I nabbed it up before it was too late. “Well, actually, I did meet someone. Sort of.”
A smile crept across her face and she was all but salivating over the prospect of me sharing some juicy tidbit of my life with her. It was kind of sad really. Moms get the short end of the stick—all the aggravation, none of the satisfaction.
“Who is he? What’s his name? Does he go to school with you? What does he look like?”
“Gees, Mom. Calm down,” I said, softening my words with a smile when I saw a dash of hurt flicker across her face. “His name is Jake and yes, he goes to school with me.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s tall and kind of athletic looking, he has blonde hair and blue eyes,” I described, picturing Jake as I did so. “Oh, and he has a great smile. He’s actually pretty hot.”
“What’s his major? Does he play sports?”
“I just met him. I didn’t ask for a resume.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“I’m sure, but it’s not like he asked me out or anything. I just met him.”
“Well, I’m sure he will. If he’s smart he will, anyway,” she said, winking at me.
I rolled my eyes again and Mom turned her attention back to the paper. I guess she assumed that my excitement over meeting a hot guy was the reason I couldn’t sleep, which was fine. It saved me from having to hedge any more questions.
I was fiddling with my granola bar wrapper when I heard the wrinkle of the paper. Mom was peering at me over the top again, her spidey sense obviously twitching. “Is there something else you want to talk about?” Her brow creased in concern. Unfortunately she was one of those moms it was hard to hide stuff from without an out-and-out lie.
“Nope.” I took a sip of my coffee and before I could stop them, the words were out. My lack of sleep was affecting my natural tendencies toward secretiveness. “If you thought you could help someone, but it meant telling people something that would make them think you’re crazy, and I mean really crazy, would you do it?”
Rather than jumping right in and seizing the opportunity for a teachable moment, Mom gave my question careful consideration. “That’s kind of hard to answer without knowing the details. I guess it would depend on what kind of trouble the person you’re helping is in and who it is that would think you’re crazy. For instance, I’d hate to see you make a bad impression on any of your professors and compromise your grades.”
She was still assuming, filling in blanks that I was purposely leaving empty. And, again, it was
working out to my benefit. This way, the things I wanted kept private stayed private. And boy, was she ever barking up the wrong tree.
I just nodded my head. She was no help at all, but I wasn’t about to tell her the details she’d need in order to give me some real advice. I looked up at her and smiled, trying to look relieved, as if she’d solved all my problems. “I didn’t think of it like that. Thanks, Mom.”
She smiled one of her super sweet smiles and reached over to squeeze my hand. “You’re welcome, honey.” She should’ve been thanking me since I probably just totally made her day.
By the time I’d finished my coffee and had a shower, I was feeling a little more human. I went to my closet and picked out my most responsible-looking outfit. I was determined to do what I needed to—whatever I needed to— in order to help Lisa.
Before I left for school, I looked at myself in the mirror with a critical eye. My long, auburn curls were gathered in a clip at the nape of my neck, a very severe, no-nonsense look. My brown button-up shirt was tailored so that it was professional yet feminine and my jeans were completely free of holes and ragged hems. I slid my feet into brown flats, grabbed my messenger bag and headed for the door.
Though I despised the thought of walking by Lisa’s would-be murder scene, I hadn’t picked out a new route to school yet and I hated to drive such a short distance. I’d have to fight for a parking spot and that was no way to start the day.
I looked for Jake when I reached the sidewalk I’d first seen him jogging on. Much to my disappointment, however, he was nowhere to be seen. Irritated with myself for even looking, I pushed the thoughts aside and turned my attention to the area I was approaching.
When I got near the spot where I’d seen Lisa die, I walked way around it so that the vision wouldn’t be triggered. Sometimes I’d only see them once, no matter how many times I walked over the same spot, but there had been the odd occasion that I’d see the murder every time I came within a couple of feet of the site. I wasn’t taking any chances that I might see Lisa again; I had enough of a guilty conscience already.
With my ironclad determination firmly in place, I pushed through my Tuesday-Thursday classes and, thankfully, they sped by without incident (and by “incident” I mean talking myself out of going to the police). By the time I was leaving my last class, however, I had managed to work myself up into a near-breakdown fit of nerves that was the result of almost four hours of dwelling on dread.
On my way home, I ran through dozens of scenarios in my head, rehearsing what I could say and how I could say it to avoid looking like a lunatic. Well, as much as possible anyway. There was a certain amount of that I’d have to expect. But it goes without saying that the less crazy I could manage to come across, the more help I would be to Lisa.
Once I got to my house, I dug my purse out of my messenger bag and pulled out the keys to the red 1997 Jeep Cherokee that my parents had bought me after graduation. I unlocked the door and hopped in behind the wheel. It started up quickly, thank God (I’d been having trouble with the battery) and I threw it into first gear and sped out of the driveway.
CHAPTER THREE
Arville is a fairly small town on the northern outskirts of Baltimore. It functions more as a bedroom community for the big city so the crime rate isn’t nearly as bad here as it is further to the south.
Arville’s police department lies right in the center of town. It’s a newer brick building with a reflective glass front.
When I pulled into a parking space, I saw uniformed people everywhere. Some were standing and talking on the steps, a few were milling around in the lot, one or two were coming and going from the building. I saw only two others dressed in street clothes and they were coming out of the building not going in. For some reason, that made me very nervous.
When I cut the engine off, I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and tried to calm the anxiety that was twisting my stomach into knots.
Though there was absolutely no reason anyone should pay me a bit of attention, I felt like all eyes were trained on me as soon as I exited the vehicle. Self consciously, I tugged at the hem of my shirt to straighten it then smoothed the hair away from my face, making sure that all my curls were still tucked firmly beneath the clip at my nape.
I’d thought the intimidation factor of the exterior of the building was off the charts; little did I know that the interior was exponentially greater. As soon as I walked through the door, the cop behind the desk to my left asked me if he could help me. That should’ve made me feel better, but he was sitting behind a floor-to-ceiling sheet of what I suspected was bullet proof glass. I was too busy being overwhelmed to answer, so I said nothing. I just smiled like an idiot and continued to take in my surroundings.
To my right was another wall of glass, behind which was some kind of collective office space for the cops. There were plenty of uniforms in there, too, but most of those guys seemed to be in plain clothes.
Some were sitting behind their desks shuffling papers and typing on the computer. A few were on the phone, which apparently rang perpetually, as evidenced by the near-constant twitter I heard. The only ones that didn’t appear to be busy were the three men that were standing in a semicircle around the coffee pot.
Behind them at the very back of the room was another wall. The bottom half was covered with wainscoting and the top half was glass. The thin stripe of closed mini blinds gave the glass a patterned look. The large stencil on the door to that room read CAPTAIN R.J. LEVINE.
The scene looked just like what I would’ve expected, just like it did in the movies, and I was terrified. What if they tried to lock me up for being crazy? What if they mistook my attempts to help as some sort of intimate knowledge and tried to charge me with a crime? Or what if they thought I was playing a prank and I got into some kind of trouble for that? I couldn’t go through life branded a criminal.
I jumped when the cop behind me spoke again. He shouted Hey! I thought it was a bit loud, but I guessed he’d been trying to get my attention and I hadn’t responded.
Wiping my palms on my jeans again, I walked to the counter and smiled up at him. His desk sat atop a dais behind the glass.
He was probably well into his fifties and had thinning salt-and-pepper hair. His uniform lacked the tie I’d seen most of the other cops wearing and the first button of his shirt was undone, revealing a triangle of his white undershirt. His ruddy, bumpy complexion would’ve made him look mean even if the frown he was wearing hadn’t. His sharp brown eyes were narrowed on me and Go away! was rolling off him in thick waves.
My tongue was so dry it felt like it was stuck to the roof of my mouth, but I cleared my throat and began as coolly as I could manage. “Excuse me, but is there someone I could talk to about a possible murder?”
He eyed me skeptically for a few seconds before he barked, “Have a seat.” He picked up the phone to his right and mumbled something into the mouthpiece.
I walked to the bench that sat along the wall right beside the counter, between the water fountain and a door that was marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Clenching my keys tighter in my hand, I perched on the edge of the seat and crossed my arms over my chest, careful not to touch anything. It was hard to tell how many prostitutes and criminals the bench had seen before me and my hand sanitizer was in the Jeep.
About ten minutes later, the door to my right opened. A surly looking man with a bushy head of frizzy brown hair grunted my name. I had to purposely keep my eyes trained on his face, as they were wont to stray to the considerable paunch that was straining against the buttons of his sweat-stained shirt. The striped tie he wore rode high on his big belly making it look like a young boy’s tie—way too short.
I got up and followed him through a maze of hallways to a small office with a MISSING PERSONS placard on the door. With one hand, he gestured for me to take a seat so I slid into one of the two functional blue and chrome chairs that sat in front of the bare desk.
“Alright,” he said as he squeeze
d into the chair behind the computer, grabbed the mouse and started clicking. As I watched him, I saw that he wore a tiny black name tag that read LT. J. DISHER. “How long has this person been missing?”
I’m sure I was looking at him like he was speaking Greek. I’d thought it odd that they’d take me to a room for missing persons, but who was I to say anything? I’d never done this before.
“Um, she isn’t missing yet,” I said carefully.
“What?” he barked. “I thought you had a missing person.”
“No, I said a possible murder.”
“Myers, you dyslexic son of a—” He trailed off, rubbing his forehead in frustration. I assumed he was talking about the guy behind the bullet proof glass.
Disher opened a drawer and rifled through it until he found what he was looking for. Then he wet his thumb and pulled out a couple of sheets and stuck them on a clipboard.