by Harper Kim
Cabinet drawers were skewed, some of the doors were off their hinges, and the finish was peeling. Rust surrounded the faucet and streaked down the sides of the sink. A mini fridge grumbled its discontent and I wondered briefly what it was the Boogeyman ate. I mostly wondered how Elizabeth survived here as long as she did.
There was a door set ajar against the far wall, which must have either been Pete’s room or the bathroom. I chose not to go there. My exploration stopped here. I was wasting time; stalling.
I crossed toward the stairs.
The first stair tread creaked beneath my worn tennies. I went still and held my breath. If I wasn’t sure before, I was sure now that Pete heard the noise, but there was no change in movement upstairs. Looking up, the faint glow from the loft that most likely served as Elizabeth’s room created an eerie halo.
My senses heightened as I continued creeping up the stairs; each step seemed harder than the last. Saliva thickened in the heat of my mouth and a wave of nausea addled my balance. My heart leaped with each muddled grunt emitted behind the closed door. The thudding in my ear reverberated like a booming freight train moving through a tunnel.
The door was now within arm’s reach.
Tensing, I felt Pete’s threatening presence. He’s waiting for me.
There was a slim chance that Pete hadn’t heard the floorboards creak or my labored breathing. There was an even slimmer chance I wouldn’t be caught with my hands stuck elbow deep in the cookie jar, but I knew better. My brain was just trying to reassure me, like when a mother tells her child there are no such things as monsters. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I knew just how real monsters were.
With every second that passed, my worry for Elizabeth grew exponentially. Instinctively I braced for the worst. I took a few deep breaths to control the prickly heat that rushed through my body and when that didn’t work, I gritted my teeth and swallowed the film that coated my mouth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt adrenaline pumping through my veins as I rested one heavy hand on the greasy knob.
My calming efforts were futile, but when I heard a stifled scream, all reason and fear evaporated and I rushed in. My head pulsed from the shot of adrenaline and my eyes raged in fury. I didn’t even remember turning the knob and stepping inside the room. But there I was, fucking center of attention.
The next few minutes blurred in a mind-numbing haze.
Elizabeth’s matchstick legs were poking from under the monster’s hairy legs—all boulders, ropes and rawhide. Her plain pink underwear dangled helplessly around her ankles like loose-fitting shackles. And her long brown hair was sprawled in knotted clumps against her pink pillow. In the corner of the room, I spotted her thin blanket; rumpled and carelessly tossed aside, as well as the stuffed turtle I had won for her at the County Fair.
If he didn’t hear before, he heard now. Pete turned.
Pete’s dark eyes, red-rimmed and dilated from an afternoon of drinking, whirled around to hone in on his prey. What Pete saw was probably a scared and quivering boy. Pete’s red cut-off T-shirt, drenched with sweat, exposed a tattoo—a spider catching its prey amidst an intricate web—inked just above the elbow and over the bulge of his animated triceps. You could just feel the hairy insect crawl.
With flat eyes, Pete recoiled from his crouched position and stood with authority, every muscle flexed and ready. He was not wearing anything besides the cut-off shirt; his erection looked to be as ready to go as every other part of him. Fuck or fight, that’s my motto. If I ain’t a-fuckin’ I’m a-fighin’. The corners of Pete’s lips curled in an anticipating snarl.
I gulped. I could smell the beer on Pete’s breath.
For what seemed like an eternity, no one moved, as if locked in a menacing trance. The raised scar pulsed as Pete clenched his jaw and fisted his hands, wringing them in a tightening motion. Elizabeth let out a nervous hiccup that caused me to jump out of my skin; the trance, broken.
Pete bellowed a throaty chuckle that made me wince.
“Well, whado we have here, my lil’ Lizzy? Huh, babygirl?” Narrowing his blood-shot eyes, Pete sneered. “Fuck, it’s just a stupid kid.” To Pete, I was a pestering fly that had no business acting like a falcon. “Think ya got balls? Nah. Whoya fool’n boy. Just get, willya, whileya still have puny legs to carryya,” Pete said, as he air-swatted me away.
Turning, he resumed the throttling position and slapped Elizabeth just for spite.
The anger, violent and deadly, ripped through me with unadulterated force. The challenge to my manhood did nothing to curtail my desire to flee, but the abuse he inflicted on Elizabeth robbed me of all reason. Instead of shrinking back like Pete assumed I would, I attacked.
Clumsy and awkward, my body lurched forward as my hands flew up forming practiced lines in the stifling air. In a singular moment I thought of striking the lockers, of the many textbook diagrams I memorized, soaking my injured hands and all the months I spent nursing my plan, and I struck.
With all my might, I struck.
I struck hard.
And with that strike, my hand missed, hitting Pete’s upper back. I just made the epitome of all oh-fuck moments.
A deadly hiss escaped Pete’s lips, like a rattlesnake curled and ready to strike. And just before Pete’s thick arm wrapped around to eradicate the flea that nicked his back, I managed to swing a second forceful knife-hand strike to the base of his skull.
When Pete crumpled in a heap on top of Elizabeth’s shivering body, the silence in the room thundered to life. My blood pounded against my eardrums with pneumatic force as I stood convulsing in breathless spasms. The oxygen returned to my lungs and I felt sudden pain permeating my hands. Stunned, I stared at them with sickened awe, as if examining them for the first time.
“N-Neil?” Her small voice whimpered.
“Elizabeth!”
Without worrying about my broken hand, I pushed the crumpled body off Elizabeth and pulled her into my limp arms. She was shaking so hard, she slipped from my grasp. Tightening my hold, I tried reassuring her that she no longer had to be afraid.
Brushing the damp hair off her face, I said, “You’re safe now. You’re safe. Safe. You’re safe.”
Her face was wet with streaks of mean tears, a purplish bruise started to appear on her bare shoulders, and her clothes were ripped and disarrayed like her hair. She burst into a fit of noisy sobs.
“Shhhh. Shhhhh. It’s okay. Everything will be okay. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.” I held her tighter until the sobs became strained from the pressure. Once her sobs mellowed, I reached for a new shirt and dressed her.
“Is he dead?” She turned and pressed her face in my chest. How many times did she wish her father dead? How many times did she hope this would be the last time? I hoped she’d be able to look at this day with relief and not grief. A part of me worried that she’d feel regret and distance herself from me.
Without looking at the motionless body below my feet, I continued to stroke her hair. She wasn’t the only one in the room who was scared. “Elizabeth, I think we should call the police.”
Chapter Fourteen:
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
3:24 P.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
When the Lieutenant notified me of Michael’s willingness to talk without representation I had a hard time rubbing the stupid grin off my face. Maybe I just caught a lucky break. I know I’ll have to keep the questions direct and quick before his parents get wind of the impromptu meeting.
When I step into the station, Michael Cobb is already squirming in a metal seat with no scrap of cushion to protect his pricey bum from the cold steel. Nervously he runs his fingers through his coiffed nest of brown hair. His hair is a bit long, allowing the ends to curl. Part of the growing up, pre-college-man-style, no doubt. A UCLA Bruins ball cap rests on the seat beside him. He seems a little on the lean side.
The kid is on summer break, should be at the beach surfing or playing sports with friends. This should be the best tim
e of his life, the in-between time where he is still a kid yet about to be an adult. He shouldn’t have to deal with death so soon.
The kid has a whole new future ahead of him and he doesn’t even know it yet. He’ll attend UCLA, probably forget all about Loral Holmes, dive into his classes, probably join a frat, meet a new girl, and bulk up. They don’t call it the freshman-fifteen for nothing.
Of course I was never cursed with the freshman-fifteen; that was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Training to become a cop kept me in line: early to bed, early to rise, hit the gym while most were still in bed nursing a hangover. But lawyers? If I remember the stories correctly, kids attending UCLA who were studying pre-law invested long hours in Greek Life: hazing, party planning, partying, getting wasted, nursing hangovers. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The buzz around campus was that the craziest parties were always thrown by pre-law students because they could circumvent and neuter the campus police with legal minutiae. For example, one party was thrown on a 150-foot yacht they towed onto campus and parked legally (with all the right permits) in front of the campus residence of the Chancellor. The party raged on, and whenever the campus police arrived everyone would pile inside the boat, kill the music, and hunker down. The mastermind of the party would approach the police with valid long-term parking permits from the City of Los Angeles and UCLA Parking Administration, and would inform the officer that their jurisdiction did not apply to maritime craft and they certainly did not have permission or legal grounds to board (whether or not this was actually true, it worked like a charm). Baffled student rent-a-cops leave, party on. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sure, Michael has a lot to look forward to, but for now he looks genuinely miserable.
Motioning to Malone that I arrived and am fully revved to question Michael, I take a deep breath and cross the room in a few quick strides to my desk. It is the only desk in the room free of clutter and excess cables and wires. The station-issued plain oak desk holds a dated Dell PC, phone, lamp, folders, pens, jumbo-sized Purell bottle, and tissue. Besides the desk lamp, the only other personal item is a photo of Halmoni and Gramps, taken a year after I came to live with them.
When Michael hears the clack of my boot heels, he turns and nervously stands from his seat. Manners; the boy has manners, I’ll give him that.
“Hi Detective. I—I’m here about Loral’s case.”
I nod and extend a hand. He shakes it and sits back down. His hand is cold and clammy, his brow is dotted with beads of sweat. Either he is nervous about what he’s about to reveal or about the scolding he’s going to get from his parents when they find out about this informal meeting.
Assuming the latter, I start by saying, “So Michael, I’m guessing your parents don’t know that you are here.”
He nods, nervously.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
His shoulders dip slightly, relieved. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me quite yet. First tell me why it is you’re here.” Practice keeps my eyes sharp and steady. I had to learn how to observe every move, gesture, change in tone, posture, and flicker of the eyes. I am a cop, through and through.
“I know I should have talked to you sooner, but…my parents…they, well they thought differently. I want to help. Really I do. They just don’t understand. I want you to know that I love—I mean loved Loral. I gave her my class ring and asked that she wear it around her neck…because it’s too big to fit around her fingers. She had lovely, delicate fingers. I even bought her a gold chain and everything. Anyways, I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. Sorry, my dad says I need to work on that if I want to become a great lawyer.”
“No, it’s fine. Continue.”
“Oh right, well, she said she’d wear it and she did wear it, at least whenever I saw her…doesn’t that mean she loves me too…I mean did? She did love me…” He looks up at me, eyes wide and filled with teen angst. There is pain and pleading hope in his rhetorical question. Loral was still very much alive in his heart. He came here for closure. He slumps in his chair and his voice softens. “I keep dreaming about her. Seeing her face…she was so beautiful—”
“Go back to the class ring. You said you gave her your class ring and she wore it around her neck?”
Mike’s moist eyes clear and regain focus. “Yeah,” he shrugs, “on the gold chain I bought her. I gave it to her during Winter Break last year so she knew I loved her. I heard somewhere that women need reassurance. I didn’t want her to worry about that. I wanted her to know. I also heard that women like gifts, demand them. I couldn’t wait to give it to her. I don’t think she knew what to make of it, but she never took it off.”
I lean forward, my heart thudding beneath my chest. “Was she wearing your ring that night?”
He nods.
“You’re positive.”
“Yes,” he straightens his posture, “I always looked out for it. I was nervous she wouldn’t wear it one day so I always checked. But why are you asking me if I’m positive? Didn’t she have it on when you—,” he licks his lips, suddenly dry, “when you found her?”
“No. There was no jewelry found on or near the body.”
Mike gulps and licks his lips again. “What does that mean?”
I motion to Sean Pickering—my partner since the day I was hired on the force—to bring the kid a cup of water before he passes out. Begrudgingly, Pickering pushes back from his swivel chair and gets up, exhaling the word “fuck” as he stands (it sounds more like an Arabic whisper: “faaaaaaakh”).
Pickering is a short beefy guy at five-six and a solid one-eighty. He claims to be all muscle, but I’m sure there was a little jiggle going on in his midsection the last time I saw him playing for the “skins” on the b-ball half-court in our gym. Also, the way that guy can inhale two quarter-pounders would make anyone second guess his “all-beef” proclamation.
At thirty-nine, his black hair is receding before the gray can set in, accentuating his reddened round face and beady charcoal eyes. Those deadpan eyes can make your skin crawl. He’s a great cop, loving husband, and father of two rowdy sons and one angel of a daughter. I’m lucky to have a partner as dedicated, tender, and headstrong as Sean Pickering. But today, he’s pissed that the kid only wants to speak to me while he is stuck behind the desk with a shit-load of paperwork. Tomorrow I’ll bring him an apple fritter as a peace offering, but right now, I have to focus on the kid’s story.
Ignoring Pickering’s testy body language I take the paper cup from his thick hands and hand it to Michael.
Michael gulps down the cool water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He returns to hunching in his seat, and fixates on crumpling, folding, and unfolding the paper cup. The cup’s wax coating begins to fall in tiny flakes onto the floor. The conversation is wearing on him fast. He looks defeated and uncertain. In my mind I plead with him to hang in a little longer. I need more answers, because right now all I am getting is more questions.
“Michael, look at me. Mike?” He lifts his head and blinks a few times. “I’m not sure what that means, but I can promise you that I’m going to find out.” He nods. “Okay, so after this meeting is over I’m going to have you describe the ring and necklace to a sketch artist. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, again. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I ease back into my chair and offer a smile. “Good.”
“You know,” he says wearily, “I wanted to marry her and have a family with her. I even suggested she live off-campus with me and that I’d support her.”
“And what did she say to that?”
His blue eyes, once bright and cheerful, remain dull and lifeless. He shakes his head, “She said no, but I know she didn’t want to stay with her parents…she was just too stubborn to follow me. I think she was afraid.”
“Why would she be afraid?”
He shrugs. “She was a hard person to love. I think she was afraid of being vulnerable…of loving me back. She was so inde
pendent. Always trying to protect herself. Sometimes I’d wish she’d break down all her barriers and ask for my help. I wanted her to trust me enough to lean on and confide in. Plus, my mom sort of hated her.”
I nod, understanding. Vivien fits the profile of an uptight suburban housewife who cares more about her position in society and how she is viewed by her cadre of high-powered friends than about what her son really needs from his mother. In Vivien’s warped mind, Loral was dragging her son into a sinkhole which would in turn smudge her polished persona.
“But why didn’t Loral want to stay with her parents? Was Loral afraid of them?”
“Oh no,” his eyes widen, frightened he might have said something he shouldn’t have, and then the moment passes. He sighs. “I dunno.” Shrugging his shoulders he adds, “I guess it’s just that she didn’t feel comfortable there. She didn’t talk about it much, but I could sense it. She had issues with her stepdad, but I’m not sure what. He seemed like a pretty cool guy to me, but then again, I haven’t seen him much. And then there’s her mom. I think her mom was having an affair. I don’t know for certain, but there were stories going around, not that I listen to gossip or anything, but near the—near the end…Loral felt distressed and not like herself. I think it had to do with her mother staying out late, dressed…well, dressed in a way that my mother wouldn’t approve of.” Mike looks down, quickly trying to hide the blush that infuses his cheeks.
I am already aware that Tess has a lover. But it is interesting to note that Loral didn’t confide in her boyfriend about the affair. Michael was obviously in love with her, enough to think about long term commitments, and yet it seemed the feelings weren’t mutual. Was Loral too embarrassed about her family to confide in her boyfriend? Whatever the reason, Michael didn’t hold much of an importance in Loral’s personal life, at least not when it came to sharing family secrets.