by John Hunt
“He just walked into the station? Right in the front door?”
“Yeah,” Earl chuckled, “scared the crap out of Stephen. He fell out of his chair and hurt his back.”
Owen turned to Earl, his eyebrows raised in a question.
“No. He hurt his back for real this time. Well, so he says.”
Owen nodded toward Taylor and said, “He talk to a lawyer yet?”
“Yup. He didn’t want one, at first, but we got him to talk to one. I mean, this is as serious as it gets.”
“We’d have a helluva time getting his statement heard in court if he didn’t talk to one. The defence would somehow imply we engineered him not talking to a lawyer or something stupid like that.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
On the monitor, Taylor dipped his head into his hands and his body shook. They could hear him crying through the speakers.
Earl said, “For a badass murderer, he sure cries a lot.”
“It could be show. He knows he’s on camera. Did he say anything? When they arrested him?”
“He sure did and I bet you can guess what it was.”
“Shit. He said he didn’t do it?”
“That’s right,” Earl said. He snapped his gum.
“Well, I better get in there and see why he thinks he didn’t kill four people over the past two days.”
“You probably should, it being your job and all. I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”
***
Owen stepped into the interview room and Taylor lifted his head. A trail of snot from his upper lip glistened on his hands. He didn’t notice. Owen offered a polite smile and took a seat opposite Taylor. Owen noticed the cuffs were on their biggest setting. Maybe two teeth in the grooves left? Were they secure? Taylor dwarfed him on the other side. Owen wasn’t a small man. Just over six feet, he kept in shape by running five kilometres three times a week and lifting weights twice a week. He had darker skin, like he always had a tan, even in the winter and for the most part he was a calm guy. It was hard to get angry at him, which was why he was such a good interviewer. Taylor made him feel small. Six-five? Six-six? And not just tall, but thick. And he looked crazy. Red-rimmed eyes, hair sticking straight out from his head as though seconds before he was trying to pull it out and every so often his mouth would open but no sound came out. Like a fish drowning on land.
“Hey Taylor. I’m Owen Graham. I’m a detective here. Have you talked to a lawyer?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Perfect.” Owen pointed and said, “See that? That’s a camera and those little white pucks on the wall are microphones. I want you to know you’re being audio and video recorded ok?”
Taylor nodded.
“Ok. Do you know what you’re under arrest for?”
Taylor nodded again.
“Can you tell me?”
“F-four counts of murder.”
“Are you cold? You’re shivering.”
“Not cold. Nervous. Scared.” Taylor sniffed and his bottom lip jiggled, “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Now?”
“Now. Later. I don’t know, just, what’s going to happen?”
“I’m going to talk to you, ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer but I’m going to ask them anyways. And then, when that’s done, we’ll get you before a judge and they’ll decide if they’ll let you out before trial.”
Taylor shook his head, “I won’t get out. They won’t let me out.” A tear slid down his cheek. He raised his hand to wipe and clink, the cuffs stopped him. He leaned his head down to his hand and wiped his cheek that way.
“You’re right. They won’t let you out. Not before the trial anyways.”
Taylor whispered into his hands, “I didn’t do it.”
“What didn’t you do, Taylor?”
He glanced at Owen, his eyes watery and about to spill over and said, “I didn’t kill anyone. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.”
“Do you wanna talk about it? I’m here to listen.”
“Bullshit. You’re here to put the final nails in my coffin. You’re not my friend. Don’t act like my friend.”
“You’re right. I’m not your friend. That has nothing to do with why you are here, talking to me. This is my job. And my job is to gather the truth, give it to the Crown attorney and that’s that. They decide what to do with it after. But I am after the truth. I don’t lie or manipulate. It’s as simple as that.”
“No. No you’re not. You’re here for whatever truth you think fits your facts. You want to mold the truth so it complies with your version of events. You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’m definitely interested in what you have to say about this. This is as unique a situation for me as it is for you. It is not every day I get to speak to a suspected mass murderer.” Taylor flinched when he said mass murderer and Owen thought maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Language was important in here. It could shut an interview down real quick. Euphemisms always worked better because they softened reality. No one wants to face the terrible actions they are capable of because no one thinks of themselves as the bad guy. Owen continued, “Four people are dead here, Taylor. If, in any way you can help me understand that, then, I’m all ears.”
“I wish I could believe you. I want to believe you. I want to feel like I have a chance even if there isn’t one. That if I told you what happened, you could help me.” Taylor glanced at his cuffs and jerked them against the eyebolt. He said, “But I’m too old for fairytales.”
“I can’t promise you anything here. There is nothing you could say or do here, right now, that would get you out of jail. There is a process we have to go through and this is part of it. The judge decides if you get out. That part of it has nothing to do with me. I gotta say, Taylor, it doesn’t look good for you. But if you got a story, something you think can clear you, we will investigate it. We have to. We couldn’t ignore it.”
“You can’t investigate this.” Tears leaked out of Taylor’s eyes. His skin had red patches on it, as though blood had seeped into his pores. The tears made a clear trail down his cheeks. “You can’t investigate that thing, or whatever it is.”
“Whatever what is?”
“I don’t know. A monster? The monster in the basement.”
Owen leaned back, a line between his eyebrows, and said, “A monster in the basement, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s crazy. I know it. But it doesn’t make it less true. That’s why I really don’t see a point to all this. Why would I even bother to talk to you? Why say anything at all? Just stick me in a cell and get it over with is what I want to say.” Taylor leaned forward and said through gritted teeth, “But I didn’t kill anyone. And I fought so hard to stay alive, it would seem pointless to give up now. Fucking stupid really to throw in the towel after everything I went through. So I’ll talk to you. Sure. Why not? I’ll tell you about my crap life with no friends and this fat body no woman would want. Maybe you’ll pity me in the end. Just like everyone else. And if pity is all I can hope for, at this point I’ll take it. So, I’ll tell you all of it.”
Owen frowned and Taylor said, “I know. I’m hard to look at. Being this fat. But you know, I really think it’s genetic with me. My mom, my mom was huge. She could probably eat two of me.” Taylor glanced down at his stomach and said, “Well, maybe just one and half of me.”
-4-
Before all this, Taylor had one shitty year…
When Taylor’s mother died, it made the news. Not in the obituary way, where a loved one puts it in the paper so old friends, people who had gotten out o
f touch, would know and could pay their respects. That would be almost nice. Her death made it on TV and ended up on national news because it had been a bizarre event for the mouth-breathers to relish. For Taylor, that wasn’t nice at all.
Sarah Youngman died while watching TV in the garage. She had a heart attack. She was only forty-four. Her heart attack was caused by obesity. She had to use a rag on a stick to clean herself because she couldn’t physically stand to go to the shower or bath. They didn’t make a walker big enough for her to lean on and those electric scooters were expensive and not practical in a house. Taylor would have to bring a bucket of warm soapy water to her and he would leave her to clean herself. He didn’t like to be there when she cleaned herself. She didn’t get nude or anything. It was the smell. He didn’t like her smell. She would lift a roll, a slab of skin and a smell of sweaty meat would pervade the air and Taylor thought he might vomit. So he let her clean herself even though he knew she couldn’t reach everywhere. She was too big. She filled a queen bed with her girth and had a hard time simply breathing.
On the day she died, she had been waiting for dinner. Taylor had cooked a large quantity of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and brought it to his mother. He put it on the tray that was attached to a swing arm on the wall. He rotated the tray out so it was within his mom’s reach. She ate everything with a spoon, her head propped up on a pillow, so it needed to be close enough for her to scoop it and get it in her mouth without dumping any on herself. More often than not she would drop some of her food but in her defence it was tricky to eat while lying down. He put her dinner in the right position and said, “Here you go mom. Let me know if you want more gravy.”
He wasn’t looking at her face when he said that. He was mixing up her food and concentrating on making sure it had the consistency she liked. When he did look at her face, he yelped. A fly was crawling around on her eyeball. She didn’t blink. You’re supposed to blink when a fly lands on your eyeball.
“Mom?”
Nothing. No response. He thought she looked like wax. Like a fake mom made by some crazy fucker while he cooked dinner in the other room. Taylor frowned and almost called out to her again, louder this time, in case she was hiding somewhere else, giggling at the funny joke she pulled on her son. Stupid thought. Not an elaborate mannequin. It was his mom and she was dead.
The fly drifted to the meatloaf and investigated it. Taylor listened to an episode of Breaking Bad in the background. He recognized it as the one where Walter White killed Jessie’s girlfriend (just let her die which was pretty much the same thing). He thought his mother smelled worse than usual. That’s because she’s dead, you idiot. The fly touched his cheek and he raised a hand to shoo it away. His hand came away wet. His face was damp with tears. When did he start crying?
He called the police and they showed up with an ambulance. The paramedics came in with the police, checked his mom and said, yup, she had died and then they asked him a bunch of questions about his mom’s health history and someone said the coroner was coming by and the police stood in the background, their shoulder mikes squawking while they smirked and talked behind their hands, sneaking glances at his mom. Taylor wanted them to go away. He knew what they were thinking behind their eyes and knew what they were saying behind their hands. He wanted them gone. He really wanted to eat his meatloaf and he didn’t want them watching him, judging him. It had gotten cold. He knew he wanted to eat it because he was nervous. It was what he did. Or bored, or tired or who did he think he was he kidding? He wanted to eat all the time.
The coroner came, an older man with all white hair, plaid shorts and a golf shirt. He stretched on some gloves, poked his mom here and there and even though he wore a stethoscope around his neck, he didn’t use it. After he left, a firetruck rolled up to the house and a bunch of burly men and women stepped out.
Taylor said to no one in particular, actually he thought he said it in his head at the time, “What are they doing here?”
One policeman, an older, skinny guy, pushed his hat back and said, “We need them to help get her out. By the way, does that garage door open?”
“Yeah. It does.”
“That’ll make it easier. Wouldn’t want to have to tear down a wall.”
“That’s why she moved out to the garage. She was afraid of being lifted out on a crane. She saw it on TV once. Terrified her. It took me weeks to properly insulate it.”
“Yeah?” The officer looked at his watch and said, “Is there anyone else that I should call? Family? Friends?”
“No. There is no one. Only us.”
They watched the firefighters congregate on the driveway.
“The funeral home should be here soon. They had to get a pick up truck with a cover on it. Normally they just use a van, but, this isn’t exactly normal.”
Taylor remembering how waxy and unreal his mother looked said, “No. It isn’t normal.”
The officer said, “You may not want to be here for this part. The getting her out part.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it isn’t going to pretty.”
“I don’t suppose death ever is.”
“All the same, you can go in your living room there, watch the TV for a bit and I’ll let you know when we are all ready to leave.”
“Alright.”
Taylor turned to leave. He felt wooden, like his joints wouldn’t bend properly.
The officer said, “You need any help with funeral arrangements? We have this service called Victim Assistance. I can call them out here and they can walk you through it all. There are also good for having someone to talk to.”
“No need. She took care of all that before she died. Like she knew it was coming. And I’m fine, really. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“Okay.”
Taylor sat before the TV. He kept seeing the fly crawling around on his mother’s eyeball. Nothing on the TV made sense to him. He focused on the screen, intent on following the narrative only he couldn’t. That damn fly. He eyeballed his dinner, wishing everyone would get lost so he could get down to eating.
The voices of the firefighters, paramedics and police became a distant buzz. He heard some chuckling and comments like, “I’ve never seen anyone so fat,” and “did you see the son? He’s a few short years from a heart attack himself,” and worst of all, “how do you fuck a fat woman? I don’t know, how? Roll her in flour and look for the wet spot,” followed by, “Jesus, Dave. What’s wrong with you?” Taylor could hear the smile in the question and wanted to be mad but he had heard it all before. He’d heard it all his life. Fighting and crying never stopped it. Nothing could stop it. He sighed. At this point, this day was up there as one of the worst in his life. He just had to ride it out. Once everyone left, it would be better. He convinced himself of that but then the TV people showed up and ruined the fantasy.
The policeman who spoke with him before stuck his head in the room and said, “Some people want to have a word with you. Well, calling them people might be too kind but yeah, they want to interview you and film the extrication of your mother.”
Taylor nodded, thinking extrication was a nice word, a professional word used by firefighters and police. Fitting that it came from a police officer.
“I don’t want them on my property. Could you handle that for me please, sir?”
“You got it, Taylor. They won’t place one toe on your property.”
“Thank you.”
The officer did keep the media off his property. There was nothing to stop them filming from the roadway and that is what Taylor saw on the news later that evening. A group of burly men and women struggling to get his dead mother in the back of a pickup truck. When they got her in the back the camera
person made a point to focus on the frame of the truck before dropping dramatically to brush the tires. He cried then. Cried until snot ran into his open mouth and his eyes burned from the tears. He fell asleep on the chair in front of the TV. After her death, Taylor’s life worsened.
***
Owen said, “I saw that. On the news. I didn’t know she had been your mother. I didn’t put it together. Those news people. Man, they are a cold bunch.”
Taylor nodded and said, “It was worse than that. I know how pathetic this is going to sound but my mom was really my only friend. I had a friend once, a close one back in high school but that didn’t work out. My mom, she talked to me and I talked to her about everything and after she died there were times when I really could have used her.” Taylor bit his lip and shook his head and said, “This is hard to talk about. It’s really crazy you know? But it happened so it’s not crazy and it’s true and you’re never going to believe me anyway so I…this all seems so pointless!”
“I don’t know if I’ll believe you, Taylor, because I don’t know what you’re going to say. Just start at the beginning and we’ll go from there. That’s all you can do. The rest of it is out of your hands and until I know the whole story, it’s out of mine, too.”
“Ha! None of this is in my hands or your hands. It’s so hard to think right now. My head is pounding. I feel like it is going to split right down the middle and I have this urge to press my hands to my head to hold it together but these damn cuffs!” The cuffs clinked when Taylor jerked them.
“Do you want some Advil? Tylenol? When was the last time you ate? We can get you some food and a drink if you want.”