Full Release

by Marshall Thornton

  In a week or so, I’d have enough money to hire a lawyer. I hadn’t called around to price them yet, but I figured a lousy defense attorney was going to want a retainer of at least twenty-five hundred. A good defense attorney would want five grand. That seemed reasonable, and actually do-able.

  Wearing my black suit, I got into the car at ten after ten. I’d already broken out into a nervous sweat that I hoped the air conditioning in the car and my cologne would get under control. It had been years since I’d interviewed for a job, and it had never been one of my favorite things. I wasn’t terribly good at small talk.

  Traffic was terrible, and I didn’t get to Monumental Studios until quarter of eleven. The studio was about five miles from my house, which made my average speed on the way something like ten miles an hour. Los Angeles was becoming unlivable, and I wondered sometimes why I stayed. That was a silly question, though. I loved my house. I liked my job. And up until last year, I had a boyfriend who thought he needed to be here.

  The weather, though, was what had brought me to Los Angeles in the first place, and I still loved it. I’d grown-up back east, and even as a child had hated cold and snow. I loved that this November day was bright with sunshine and warm enough to wish I was wearing a pair of shorts instead of my suit.

  I got onto the Monumental lot without a problem. The security guard was nice enough to point out the building I was going to. I hurried along as quickly as I could. I was only two minutes late when I finally found Bobby Sharpe’s office. His assistant, an absurdly tall young man with red hair, asked me to wait a moment.

  The office was different from what I was used to. It seemed to be made of leftover bits of furniture rejected from nicer offices elsewhere. I knew from talking to the old timers that international television sales had kept the studios afloat in the nineties, but now countries were experimenting with their own product. Yes, American movies were still big in theatres and on DVD, but audiences were no longer content to watch recycled American sitcoms on TV. I wondered if I was making a mistake to even consider moving over to this end of the business. The assistant came out of Bobby’s office and told me I could go in.

  Bobby was near forty and had nearly-natural blond hair. His face was weather beaten and his eyes were stormy gray. He stood up and extended his hand over his desk. His grip was tight and strong. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matt. Have a seat.”

  I considered chatting about the weather for a moment, but Bobby took control of the meeting. “So, have you known Peter long?”

  “We met about a year ago.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask how. I really didn’t want to admit to dating Peter that one time. It didn’t seem professional.

  “And your current position. You want to leave it, because...?”

  “Re-engineering.” And the temporary leave I’d just been forced onto.

  “Ah,” said Bobby.

  “I mean, I’m not being re-engineered. It just means there won’t be much opportunity for me there. I could end up spinning my wheels for years.” It was good to sound ambitious in an interview.

  “So, where do you see yourself in five years?”

  Hopefully not in prison, was my first thought. But I’d played this game before, so I said, “Interviewing for your job.”

  Bobby laughed. Then he glanced down at his desk. The resume I’d faxed over lay in front of him. I was expecting questions about my experience, but when Bobby looked up he smiled and took me on a verbal tour of his department.

  They collected information on all accounts receivable due the studio from clients throughout the world. This information was then provided to various executives and, of course, a centralized department much like the one I was currently in where it was combined with information from other divisions and disseminated. They also dealt with taxation issues as required by the various countries the studio dealt with. It didn’t sound quite as interesting as the department I was currently in. I liked participating in creating an overview of the studio’s financial health. But I was sure I’d find something about the job I liked, besides the salary increase.

  “It’s actually very boring,” Bobby said.

  “Not if you like numbers. I like numbers.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like an idiot savant.

  Unexpectedly, Bobby’s computer pinged and he glanced over at it. He’d been IMed. A worried frown passed over his face. He glanced at me uncomfortably. “You know, I’m going to have to cut this short. I am sorry. I’ve got your resume, and it was terrific to meet you. Tell Peter I said ‘hello.’”

  I was confused. Something had happened to sink the interview, and I wasn’t quite sure what. As he ushered me out of his office, I glanced over at his assistant’s desk. On the kid’s computer screen was an article about Eddie’s murder. The one that identified me as a person of interest. I turned to Bobby.

  “There’s no point in my doing a follow-up call, is there?”

  “Of course there is. I mean, we haven’t made a decision and, well, why don’t we see what happens?” Bobby turned red. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere in the world but standing in front of me.

  “Whatever,” I said, and walked to the elevator.

  Driving home, I could barely contain my anger and humiliation. The idea that people were innocent until proven guilty might apply in the courtroom, but it certainly didn’t apply anywhere else. It occurred to me that I might never be arrested, that I might have to live under this cloud for the rest of my life. How in the world would I do that?

  Even though I’d taken my jacket off when I got in the car, I still managed to sweat through my shirt. It was a nervous sweat, an angry sweat, and I probably smelled like a trip to the vet. When I walked into my house, the first thing I did was strip off my clothes and head to bathroom to take another shower. I knew I wouldn’t be able to wash away the awful feeling left by the interview, but at least I’d be clean. Somehow, I had to prove my innocence, not just to the police, to everyone. I couldn’t live like this. I couldn’t have Eddie’s murder cutting off my opportunities.

  Climbing out of the shower, I heard pounding on my front door. What now? Wrapping a towel around my dripping body, I ran to the front door. I swung it open and came face to face with Detective Tripp. Fortunately, he was alone. The last person I wanted to see was his unpleasant partner. Not that Tripp had been much nicer to me lately, but at least he was fun to look at.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he said angrily.

  “I think I’m standing here in a towel.” It was one of the few truthful responses I could come up with.

  “I went to see Sylvia Navarez this morning. All she could talk about was a missing massage table.”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I lied. It was in the trunk of my car, of course. I wondered how long the search warrant was in effect.

  “Your movements over the last few days have been very erratic. Out of pattern.”

  “My movements?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a murder suspect. You’re under surveillance. The men you see are being questioned.”

  “Oh,” I said. I probably should have realized they’d do something like that, but it hadn’t even occurred to me. Didn’t budgetary concerns prevent them from following people around? Of course, with pressure from someone like Carlos Maldonado, they were probably putting more money into arresting me than they might usually.

  Tripp opened the screen door and stepped into the house. I wasn’t sure I wanted him in the house, so I didn’t move out of the way. We stood very close.

  “We need to talk about this,” he said. He kept his eyes on mine, almost as though he didn’t want to look down at my damp body.

  “Look, this isn’t really any of your business.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I realized how silly it was. He was investigating me for murder. Everything about me was h
is business.

  “I found your ad on massageformen.com. What do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?”

  I shrugged. “You won’t look for the killer, so I have to.”

  “So you’re doing massage to try and meet him?” There was a condemning tone in his voice.

  “Bingo.”

  “That’s so stupid.”

  “Why stupid? You and your partner seem to think it was some kind of sex crime. If I can attract the killer, then I can tell you who he is.” I was acutely aware that he was standing inches away from me, and I was wearing only a towel. I knew I should move away from him, but I didn’t want to.

  “My partner thinks you’re looking for victims.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe it. “She thinks I’m a serial killer?”

  “She thinks you got a taste for it, yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you made a mistake that you’re not willing to own up to.” He paused for a moment. “Or you might be innocent.”

  Relief flooded through me. I know he only said I might be innocent, but still, it was something. After facing the fact that everyone in the world just assumed I was guilty, the idea that someone might think I was innocent, and that that someone one was Detective Aaron Tripp, was an amazing sliver of hope.

  “Why do you think I’m innocent?” I was curious. It seemed like something had changed.

  “I don’t have anything solid yet. Maybe I’m being an idiot, but something’s not right with the Navarez woman. There’s too much money there, and she won’t say where it comes from. I called the priest to see if you were lying about him telling you to get out of town, but he won’t call me back. And I think if you were a serial killer the last thing you would do is set yourself up as a masseur. You’d visit them. You wouldn’t become one. The only logical reason to do what you’re doing is to find the killer.”

  I liked listening to him. His voice was deep and molasses thick. When he finished, I said, “Thank you.”

  All at once, I felt ridiculous blocking his way into my house. I took a step away from the door, meaning to let Tripp into the house, but he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me close to him. I looked up at him. What was he doing? Why had he--

  Then he was kissing me. His lips were as soft as I’d fantasized they’d be, but somehow the experience was so much stronger, so much more intoxicating then I’d imagined. Tripp reached around me, his hands caressing my back, sliding down and groping my ass.

  The towel began to slide off. I was so close to him that I could feel his dick stiffening in his slacks. My own cock stood erect, slipping out of the towel and saluting. He reached down and took my cock in his hand. He kissed my neck, licking behind my ear as he flicked the head of my dick with a finger.

  Suddenly, I heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of my house. I turned to look out the screen door. “Shit,” Tripp said.

  I didn’t know what was going on until I saw Detective Hanson getting out of the beige Crown Vic. Clearly, Tripp wasn’t expecting her. I scrambled to pick up my towel and wrap it around my waist,

  When she got to my front door, Tripp asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t get to ask that. I get to ask that. This is my lead. What are you doing here without telling me?”

  I saw real anger between them. This wasn’t some good cop/bad cop show for my benefit. This case had driven a wedge between them.

  When Tripp didn’t answer, Hanson turned to me and said, “We found Eddie’s suicide note in the glove compartment of his car.”

  Apparently, they’d gotten around to searching his car.

  “We also found the file on your computer,” she continued. “You wrote that note, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “We found it on your computer.”

  “Whoever came in here and killed Eddie wrote it.”

  She smiled at me sweetly. “I love shaggy-haired strangers. You know why?”

  “I don’t know what--”

  “I love shaggy-haired strangers because juries never believe them.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was beginning to get the gist. Claiming a stranger came in and did it was not a very strong defense. Unfortunately, that was what had happened. I didn’t have the option of a better defense.

  Hanson looked from me to Tripp, taking in the situation. I tightened the towel around me. She opened the screen door and forced her way in. Tripp and I stepped backward.

  “I didn’t invite you into my home,” I said to Hanson. “And I’d like you to leave. I’m done answering questions.”

  “We have enough to arrest you right now. You know that, don’t you?” From the glance Tripp gave her, I doubted that was true.

  “No, I don’t know that. And I think if you did, you’d go ahead and do it.”

  Her face turned red. This wasn’t the way she was used to suspects acting. “You killed him, didn’t you? And if you get the chance, you’re going to kill again.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at her. Hanson stepped over and slapped me in the face. I jerked my head away, but it was too late. I stood there, clutching my towel, half my face stinging, humiliation turning my whole face red.

  It occurred to me that she did this a lot and got away with it. A whole lot of guys out there wouldn’t want to complain that a woman got the better of them. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was one of them or not. I was sure I just wanted this whole thing to go away, and filing a police brutality complaint wouldn’t make that happen.

  Tripp pulled her back. “Stop it, Lucinda. He’s asked us to leave.”

  “Are you going to answer me, or what?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” I insisted.

  From her jacket, she took out a folded packet of paper. It was several Xeroxed sheets. She handed them to me. Quickly, I scanned them. It was a copy of a witness statement from Jeremy taken about an hour before. In it, he detailed my long-standing interest in hurting people, particularly my interest in strangulation. He claimed that when we were together I would frequently cover his face while having sex. That I would deliberately cut off his oxygen.

  Of all the shitty things Jeremy had done since our break-up, this was the worst. The final betrayal. I couldn’t see why he’d do something like this. I couldn’t imagine it was that important to save a few thousand dollars on a house. Or was it?

  “This is nothing but lies,” I said quietly, not expecting either of them to believe me. “Please go.”

  Tripp led Hanson out of my house by the arm. As he was closing the screen door, he gave me an unreadable look. What would he think when he read Jeremy’s statement? Would he still think I might be innocent? And when had what he thought become as important as whether I went to jail or not?

  Things were getting out of hand, and I decided it was time to start looking for an attorney. After throwing on some clothes, I Googled “defense attorney Los Angeles” and came up with Kathy Odom. The website was attractive and showed her to be a good-looking, middle-aged, black woman with a matronly air of authority. When I called her office, she took the call quickly. I began to explain who I was, but she stopped me.

  “I know who you are. I’ve been following the case.” There was an unpleasant excitement in her voice.

  “I think it’s time I got a lawyer.”

  “You should have gotten a lawyer last week,” she corrected me. “Tell me what they have on you.”

  “Well, you know...honestly, I’m not sure I can afford you. How much do you charge?”

  “I charge four hundred dollars an hour. We’ll start with a twenty-five thousand dollar retainer. If we go to court, I’ll need another twenty-five thousand.” This was worse than I thought it would be.

  I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Th
at’s insane.”

  “Mr. Latowski, this isn’t the time to be cheap. You could go to prison for a very long time.”

  “I’m not being cheap. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Everyone says that at first, but people who want to stay out of prison manage to find it.”

  “I’m not lying to you. I really don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Do you have parents? Relatives? Friends? Someone you know must have that kind of money.” Her voice was sweet, but all I could think was that she was a vulture picking at my carcass before I was dead.

  “I’m innocent,” I said stupidly.

  “Everyone is.” Of course, she meant exactly the opposite.

  “I’ve only got a thousand dollars.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice turning disdainful. “I hope you enjoy Pelican Bay.”

  After she hung up, I hoped over to the Internet and found out that Pelican Bay was a maximum-security prison reserved for the most violent offenders. Even if I did go to prison, I doubted I’d be sent there. But she’d made her point.

  I was shit out of luck.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next few days, I expected to be arrested at any moment. My frame of reference was television shows. Even though I was only a studio accountant, I felt like I should watch everything at least once in case I had to hold an intelligent conversation at the office. By the standard of cop shows, the police had more than enough evidence to arrest me. I expected them to burst through my door, guns drawn, at any minute.

  Instead, things were quiet. Even the Los Angeles Herald was quiet. There weren’t any stories about Javier’s murder, or me, the prime suspect. I was a little surprised. I expected bits of Jeremy’s statement to make their way into the paper. But then, maybe Alan Moskowitz was doing just what I was doing -- waiting for my arrest. Jeremy’s statement would have more impact if I was behind bars.

  I did my best to go about my business. I saw the clients I’d scheduled. Unfortunately, none of them turned out to be the killer. I bought groceries. I went to the gym and did a really lame workout. I filled my car with gas. I wracked my brain for other things I could to do to prove my innocence; I didn’t come up with much.