Crime Rave

by Sezin Koehler

  Your flight back to America leaves at noon. This gives you just enough time to walk the ashram grounds and gather as much of its energy as you can. You’re going to need every drop this sanctuary can spare to get you through this new ordeal.

  Asha is okay, you tell yourself. Asha is okay. Asha is okay.

  And you’ll be okay, too.

  2:30 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

  Raised voices from room 416. A crash. Smoke billows from the doorway. Red Feather tears the fire extinguisher from the wall and barrels in, spraying the curtains and part of the bedspread. Nurse Pratchett hurries in after.

  “What on Earth is going on?”

  “That bitch,” Cherie Beauxden says in a thick Georgia accent, pointing to the nurse, “is hurting me on purpose.”

  Nurse Underwood, a stocky woman with a definite resemblance to Kathy Bates in Misery, huffs. “I did no such thing. She has very hard veins.” She crosses her arms over her chest, challenging.

  “I do not, you horrible witch. Look, it’s right damn here!” Cherie’s considerable bosom heaves as she slaps her forearm. Nurse Pratchett walks over and does the IV herself, getting the needle in one try, noting the bruises and multiple entry points that were nowhere near the vein.

  “And the fire?” Pratchett asks.

  “She did it!” Nurse Underwood barks. “Freak.”

  “Nurse!” Pratchett’s face is stern. “Excuse yourself and wait for me at the nurse’s station.”

  Underwood moves to protest. “Now,” Pratchett warns. Nurse Underwood waddles out of the room.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Miss—”

  “Cherie. Beauxden. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so worked up. And I have no idea how that fire started.” Her southern accent lilts in confusion. She looks down at the marks on her arm and winces. “I don’t like it when people hurt me.”

  “Nobody does, Cherie. I’m sorry.” Nurse Pratchett calms her.

  “Who the hell is he?” Cherie points to Red Feather, standing in the corner, still holding the fire extinguisher.

  “Excuse me. I’m Detective Atticus Red Feather, here from the LAPD to ask you some questions about last night.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. I’m sick to death of orderlies coming in here and staring at me like pervy lechers.” Cherie settles back down, her bosom still straining against the silk of the blue hospital gown that matches her eyes.

  “Let me just see if my partner is ready.” Red Feather moves to leave the room.

  “Thanks for putting out the fire.” Cherie has a charming smile, and vibrant eyes, but Red Feather feels his stomach turn and blood rushes to his head in a bad way.

  “No problem.” Red Feather leaves the room, itching all over.

  In the hallway Günn walks toward Red Feather with the legal pad in her hand filled with Asha Kinsella, aka Galactic Canary, aka Marilyn Monroe’s daughter’s notes. “Crazy stuff. I’m sure you believe every word of it.”

  “And I’m sure you don’t. Nothing new. Let’s go, Cherie is waiting for us.” Red Feather’s curtness has everything to do with the splotches breaking out over his face. Günn feels that hormonal rage rise up her shackles like a sleeping dragon. Be cool, mama, be cool.

  The room smells of smoke and something else Günn cannot place, like a sophisticated version of patchouli. Sexy. Günn relaxes immediately.

  “We’re Detectives Red Feather and Günn,” she says, wanting to be nearer this woman. Günn walks over and shakes her hand. The spots on Red Feather’s face deepen as he fiddles with the video camera. Günn, he notices, looks at Cherie like she’s sex on a stick.

  “Detective Red Feather, you’re not looking so good,” Cherie says in her southern drawl. “I’m menstruatin’ and I tend to have a strange effect on men especially.”

  “Why is that?” Günn looks smitten.

  “I’ve got this condition, three wombs and pheromones. And I’m gay, so I reckon that’s why men get sick. You know, since I’m not much of a fan?” Cherie giggles and smoothes her hair, an act not to incite sexuality, but exudes it nonetheless. “The doctors explained it all to me, but I really didn’t understand it. Science weren’t never my strong suit.”

  “You look like Jean Harlow,” Günn says, her breath turning ragged. Though, in reality Cherie more resembles an auburn-haired Dolly Parton.

  “Gosh, thank you, Detective Günn. Am I saying that right?”

  “You can say it any way you want,” Günn says.

  Red Feather’s throat closes up like anaphylactic shock and he begins choking.

  Cherie’s concern turns to fear. “Oh my Lord, get him out of here! Right now!” It comes out Raht nah.

  “Holy fucking hell.” Günn grabs Red Feather, putting her arm around his waist and his arm over her neck, dragging him out to the nurse’s station where Nurse Pratchett fixes him up with an oxygen mask. The splotches and hives begin subsiding and his throat opens up enough for him to croak, “You’re on your own with this one, kid.”

  Nurse Pratchett gives Günn a facemask, just in case. She returns to Cherie’s room wearing it.

  “I was gonna suggest you get a mask. I can’t barely answer your questions when you’re all eying me up like a het cat,” Cherie teases.

  Günn has never been so mortified in her career, and she worked vice for God’s sake.

  “First, let me apologize for my behavior,” Günn says through the mask. Her eyes belie her extreme case of embarrassment.

  “Oh, detective, it’s not even your fault, no apology necessary. Since the condition began I have to be real careful. I usually can control it better, but for some reason my tricks ain’t workin’. I hope your partner is okay. He seems real nice, I’d hate to hurt him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Günn says, setting up the camera and going to sit near the bed with Red Feather’s notebook.

  “What can you tell me about the rave last night?” Günn blushes under the mask, unable to meet Cherie’s frank gaze.

  “Well,” Cherie draws the word out in her twang. “I remember dressing up as a Powerpuff Girl with my two friends. Oh my Gawd, please tell me they survived, too?”

  Günn hands over the stack of Polaroids. Cherie looks over them, scrutinizing each one.

  “I remember her!” Pointing to Lily, the one-eyed girl. “Sweet thing. Way too young to be at a rave party, though.”

  “And how old are you, Cherie?”

  “I’m twenty-one, thank you very much.” A defiant looks settles on her face and her intoxicating aroma intensifies into a burning heat. She deflates. “Okay, fine, I’m nineteen.” She returns to the photos, squeals with delight at two faces.

  “These are my friends! This one with the red hair and all the freckles is Una O’Doole. The other one is Tashi Lhamo, isn’t she just gorgeous with those purple eyes?”

  Not as gorgeous as you, Günn thinks, dreamy.

  “I never met someone from Tibet in my whole life. I never even knew about Buddhism or nothing. Her family is amazin’. They started the first Buddhist temple here in LA after her dad escaped from the Chinese invading Tibet. Ain’t that something? Met her mom here, got married. Been in LA ever since.” Cherie shakes her head. “Lord Almighty, I’m so glad my girls are okay.”

  “So, what else can you tell me about last night?”

  Cherie furrows her brow. “Oh my, nothing really. Just a big ol’ blank space. I sure am sorry. I want to help.”

  Günn nods. “What about before the rave? Did you know there’s a lawsuit pending against you in the state of Nevada?” Please don’t be a criminal, please don’t be a criminal.

  “Pending? They threw that cockamamie case out months ago. Joe Bobby, that pervert. That bastard wanted to sue me? After how he treated all of us there? Mandatory blow jobs? Constant pressure
to sleep with him? I should have sued that asshole myself!” Cherie is all worked up again. Günn feels lightheaded.

  Cherie takes a breath and calms. “Anyway, nobody would believe all that pheromone stuff and so far as anyone was concerned, it was a freak accident. I sure did feel sorry about all those men dying, though.” She pauses. “Sort of.” And winks.

  She’s not lying. The only thing Günn smells at the moment is this woman’s incredible sex appeal. Why are you so inordinately relieved she’s not a liar?

  “If it was so horrible why did you stay at the Tiger’s Tail, then?” Günn asks.

  Cherie shrugs. “The money was too good. Plus, better a stranger pawing at me rather than my own uncle, am I right? Joe Bobby treated me a heck of a lot better than my uncle, let me just say that.”

  “I’d be happy to take a statement so we can press charges against the motherfucker.” Günn is surprised by the unexpected passion spewing forth from her stoic self.

  “Nevermind all that. Life is too short to spend it looking back. And now, in just two years, I’ve saved enough money working at The Tiger’s Tail to go to school full time. I can be a real college girl, how nifty is that?” Cherie beams in spite of the horrible stories lurking in her past.

  “Good for you,” Günn says, thinking of so many more questions she wants to ask this woman but can’t with the camera rolling. Keep it professional, woman. “Well, thanks for speaking with me and here’s my card. Call me if any memories of the party return, okay?” Günn wants her to call for any reason at all and bites her tongue from saying it aloud.

  Cherie looks at her and smiles, an act that makes Günn’s knees weak and she feels every good emotion that has ever existed.

  “So, hey, can I visit with my friends?” Cherie twirls a lock of hair around her finger. This detective is quite a dish if she does say so herself. Cherie’s always been partial to women with short hair and suits, a butch sort of femme.

  “Not quite yet. We’ll let you know once we’re done with all the interviews, okay?” Günn wishes she didn’t have to leave this room. Now, or ever.

  “Sure thing.” Cherie dazzles with a smile. “Hey, you mind opening that other window before y’all go? Feeling a little stuffy in here.” Cherie waits while Günn turns off the video recorder. “Say, would you be interested in having a drink or dinner with me sometime when this is all over?”

  By the book as she is, Günn has never been tempted to fraternize with a witness, let alone a female witness. Until now. She forces the words out: “I can’t. It’s against LAPD policy.”

  “I don’t imagine you’re much for breaking the rules, huh?”

  “You imagine right.” And in this moment Günn embodies disappointment. Could this be more than pheromones? And why do I get the feeling that Cherie is the only person in the world who could lie to me and I wouldn’t know, or care? “Plus, I’m pregnant. And I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about it yet.”

  Günn did not just tell a witness that.

  “Oh wow. I always wanted kids myself, but the docs say that it’s too risky for me to even try.” Cherie gives Günn a sad half smile. Cherie has a flash of what their future could be together, child in tow. Günn sees the same thing, but her natural suspiciousness rises to the surface like clarified butter.

  “This must happen to you often with women. I mean, with your ‘gift’ and all?” Günn did not just use the word gift.

  “Can’t say it’s ever happened to me before, Detective. You’re officially the first.”

  “Oh.” Günn is a whirlpool inside. Is this what they mean with love at first sight? Is this why I’ve never had a long-term relationship with a man? Am I so detached from my own feelings I didn’t even know that I was gay? Or is it just something about Cherie?

  “You think too much, Detective,” Cherie giggles, watching the questions flash across Günn’s face like a slide show. Cherie’s laugh is the most erotic sound to ever pass through Günn’s ears.

  “Well, feel free to look me up when the case is over then. Baby or not.” Cherie puts her hand out for a goodbye shake. “We can just be friends, I know you’re straight and all.”

  Günn takes it and finds herself not wanting to give Cherie her hand back, lost in this most unexpected of moments with skin on skin. Günn breaks her reverie and removes her hand from Cherie’s warm grasp. She makes a show of packing up the recorder as Cherie watches.

  “By the way, what’s your first name?” Cherie asks.

  “Synthia. With an ess.”

  “Like Syn, the Norse goddess of justice?” Cherie has a real thing for Nordic mythology. “And your last name, Günn, she’s a Valkyrie, total badass warrior goddess. It suits you, Detective.” Cherie smiles, and a zing goes through Günn’s stomach.

  Günn blushes, her face almost hurting from grinning at this radiant woman. She hasn’t smiled so much in weeks, and the last thing she wants is to leave the comfort of this room, return to the madness of today, the mounting impossibilities, improbabilities, all the tallies of things that don’t make sense. I feel safe here. I want to stay.

  Günn tears her gaze from Cherie and floats out the door, her anger at Red Feather all but forgotten, and only one name on her mind: Cherie. Cherie. Cherie.

  Cherie Beauxden, aka Uteri

  A day of firsts, no kidding. You’ve never been so drawn to someone as you were to Detective Synthia Günn. And just your luck. Not only is she a cop, she’s straight. You wonder who the guy is. The lucky guy.

  Well, she said she’s not sure if she’s keeping the baby.

  Maybe it was a one-time thing.

  Nah, she doesn’t seem the type.

  Maybe it was her partner. Happens all the time in crime shows, don’t it? Cops are married to their jobs, end up spending more time with their partner than anyone else. Sort of inevitable they’d fall into bed together?

  Thinking about it makes you feel so sad. Right down to your bones, rattling your heart.

  But she felt it, too. You’re sure of it. Maybe she’s gay and doesn’t know it yet. Maybe there’s time for you both to find out.

  No sense obsessing over it now. Whatever will be will be, as Doris Day says. What will be, will be.

  You turn on the TV, hoping for a good soap opera to sink your teeth into when the cramps hit. Doubled over, fetal, as your uteri force out more of their three linings. It hurts so bad all you can do is close your eyes and bear down. You haven’t even the strength to ring the call button. Tears stream from your eyes and before the sweet waters of unconsciousness take you away you hear a thud out in the hallway as the nearest male police officer to your door collapses, dead. You’ll never know that cop was under an Internal Affairs investigation for the sexual assault of several prostitutes, not that it would give you much comfort anyway.

  2:45 PM LAPD Hollywood Headquarters

  Charles Wallace Crane’s ex-wife comes to in Deputy Chief Ortiz’s office. “What happened?” Natalie says, rubbing her clammy hand over her face.

  “You fainted, ma’am.” Ortiz hands her a glass of water.

  “How long I been out?” She yawns.

  “A couple hours. Should we take you to the hospital?”

  “Oh no. Oh dear. I’ve got to be going.” Mrs. Crane sits up and starts putting her purse together, and rubs her temples.

  Ortiz holds up his hand. Hold on a second.

  “Just a few more things we need to discuss before you go, if that’s okay.”

  Mrs. Crane looks puzzled. “I thought we were done. And I’m really not feeling well.”

  Ortiz gives a sigh. Not quite. “As I was saying, the FBI’s financial forensics team has discovered that your ex-husband had been squirreling away assets in off-shore accounts.”

  “I don’t care! I don’t want his money. Not now! Not ever.” Nat
alie’s heart resumes racing.

  “That’s fine, but when we release our findings, as we are bound by law to do in cases of mass murder, you’re likely to be hit with a civil suit against his estate.”

  “But I’m not even his wife anymore!” Natalie breathes heavily and those red spots re-appear high on her cheeks.

  “Please stay calm, Mrs. Crane. People will want a scapegoat. There are an estimated sixty-thousand-plus parents, guardians, siblings, who’ve lost someone here because of your ex-husband. Someone will have to pay in the eyes of the public.” Ortiz’s gravelly voice is as gentle as he can make it.

  “So find the money! Give it all to them!” Natalie can’t stop the hysterical edge to her ever-louder voice.

  “Unfortunately, we are unable to do that. We have no jurisdiction in off-shore accounts, that’s why they exist.”

  Mrs. Crane’s breath is labored. She’s on the verge of hyperventilating. Again.

  “Please. Calm down. I might have a solution we can keep on the down low.” Ortiz can’t believe he’s about to do this.

  “I’m listening,” she says, her voice vibrating.

  “Hire a private investigator, a good one. Get him to trace the money. Alert the authorities in those places. The LAPD is bound by national law, but a PI sure isn’t. Once he finds the cash, the FBI can work with those governments to freeze the assets and hand them over in a trust. Special Agent Quatro, who you met earlier, she’ll be on special assignment with this.” Ortiz hands Natalie Crane a business card. She takes it, her hands shaking.