Seven Suspects

by Renee James

  Cecelia goes into a harangue about my safety.

  “I’m safer if I see the bastard coming,” I say. “And safer yet if we meet when and where I want to meet.”

  “Get Phil to go with you,” she insists. I told her about my encounter with him, and my promise to check in with him after I saw Andive.

  “Not this time,” I answer. “I don’t want him to know anything more about Lover Boy.”

  “You don’t want him to know you tried to seduce a pig?”

  “I’d rather tell him about it than have him see for himself.” It hurts to say it, but that’s the truth.

  “I can understand your point of view,” says Cecelia. “Too bad you didn’t think like that before you invited him home.”

  “Stop it. I don’t need a lot of moral judgement right now. I need your help. Can I have it?”

  “I don’t want to do anything that will get you hurt,” she says.

  “I can handle Lover Boy,” I say. “And forget about the sex thing. I’m so disgusted with myself I may never take another lover.”

  Cecelia laughs, a good-natured expression of disbelief. She agrees to help.

  As part of her advocacy for young transgender women, Cecelia has made it her business to know every bar and club where they hang out, every bouncer and bartender, and legions of the girls working in the sex trade and on its fringes. She calls back twenty minutes later.

  “His name is Michael Albrechti,” she says. Right to the point. “He has a Skokie address.” She gives it to me.

  “How did you get this?” I’m stunned that she could learn so much, so fast.

  “Lover Boy used a credit card to pay for his drinks,” she says. “I know the bartender.”

  A few minutes past seven in the morning, Michael Albrechti exits the back door of his apartment building and walks to his car. I’m in a rental car, parked in a space that was vacated by a tenant when I got here forty minutes ago. I’ve been watching the place wake up ever since then, waiting for Lover Boy to begin his day.

  He slides behind the wheel of a nondescript midsize sedan. I have no idea how old it is or what make, but it looks modest. Lover Boy is wearing a trench coat over a suit. The garments look modest but presentable—not Armani-class, but definitely not Dollar Store. I’m a little surprised he’s wearing a suit. I pictured him as a blue-collar type, maybe a mechanic or a sewer worker. Now I’m thinking insurance adjuster or car salesman.

  Whatever he is, he will get his due today. By the process of elimination, I have determined that this foul-smelling, foul-mouthed, potbellied asshole is the person who has been terrorizing me and today he is going to learn that I will not be terrorized.

  I follow him through a maze of side streets, then west on Oakton. A few miles later, he turns into a high school parking lot. He parks in the faculty section. I swear under my breath. How could such a vile man be charged with shaping the lives of young people?

  I continue past the school and look for street parking. I end up a mile away, but it’s a nice morning for a walk, cool and crisp, sun shining, the leaves of the hardwoods turning yellow and orange. Before I start walking, I find the phone number for the school and dial it. A woman answers and asks how she can direct my call. I tell her I need to make an appointment with Mr. Albrechti. She asks what it’s about.

  “I’m the mother of one of his students,” I say. This is as far as my plan goes. I pray she doesn’t ask which one.

  There’s a momentary silence on the other end of the line, then a hesitant response. “Mr. Albrechti is a guidance counselor, ma’am,” says the lady.

  I blanch for a moment. I had assumed he was a teacher. I recover.

  “Yes.” I say it like, of course he is. It works.

  “What time would you like to come in?” she asks.

  “The earlier the better. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She explains he’s busy now, but gives me an appointment for nine o’clock. Under less serious circumstances, I would be rejoicing at the fact my telephone voice passes for female. It has taken a decade and countless “sirs” and too many “Oh, really” responses to count. But I’m playing a bigger game here, and I focus all my concentration on making it up as I go along.

  I meander to the school thirty minutes early. The doors are locked, a symptom of an America where mass shootings of students and teachers has become a constitutionally protected blood sport for maniacs. I signal the uniformed cop who sits inside. He nods to me and comes to the door, his face friendly enough.

  I dressed conservatively this morning, so I wouldn’t stand out in what I assumed would be a business environment. It works here, too. I look like a soccer mom with a day job. I’m wearing a crisp trench coat, and beneath that, a gray, pinstriped business suit, worsted wool, and a conservative white blouse. I opted for the suit’s skirt rather than slacks this morning, knowing I would be among strangers, wanting to help them recognize me as a woman. My legs are clad in black hose and I’m wearing Mary Jane shoes so conservative they could pass for dowdy. I hate dressing like this, but it works.

  The guard asks my business, and I tell him I have an appointment with a counselor. He uses a two-way radio to confirm with the administration office that Ms. Logan has an appointment. He lets me in and points me in the direction of the office.

  As I step into the office, one of the people working inside rises from her desk and meets me at a counter. I introduce myself and explain that I’m early for my appointment.

  She gives me a businesslike smile. She’s petite but seems bigger, a lithe woman in her fifties, short salt-and-pepper hair that looks pert and sexy on her. She moves with vitality and self-assurance. There are bigger titles in this office, but she runs the place.

  “Welcome,” she says. She confirms that I’m Ms. Logan and invites me to wait in the chairs provided.

  “By the way,” she says, “which student is yours?”

  Which indeed? I’m tempted to give her Roberta’s name and gamble that the school’s so big she wouldn’t expect to know it, but my hairdresser’s sixth sense is, this woman knows every kid, every teacher, and every maintenance person in the building. Besides, she’s asking because she has read me. Despite my conservative attire and trained voice, she can see that I’m a transgender woman. The recognition is written in her face. She’s asking me the question because she knows there are no students here with a transgender parent.

  “I’d rather keep that between Mr. Albrechti and me, if you don’t mind,” I say. “I’m the stepmom. The stepmom to be. I’m not here officially. I just want some advice for a smooth transition.”

  So much for my life of truths. The lie has blossomed spontaneously, rolling off my lips with a kind of ease that makes me worry about who I’m becoming.

  She nods, holds me in her gaze for another beat or two.

  “May I use the ladies’ room while I’m waiting?” I ask. I’d like to remove myself from her withering gaze, not to mention the fact that my bladder feels like a bowling ball, which often happens when I get tense about something.

  I follow her directions back into the hallway. Two girls occupy the bathroom when I enter. They are lounging, one sitting on the floor, her back against a wall, the other perched on the counter that holds the sinks. They must be cutting class. In my day, they’d be smoking, but that doesn’t happen anymore, I guess. Drugs maybe. Or just kids being kids.

  I say hello and smile. They are momentarily thunderstruck, thinking I’m a teacher, here to bust them. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m just visiting.” I go into a stall and do my business. When I come out, they’re curious.

  “Are you here for a job?” one asks.

  I smile and look at her in the mirror while I wash my hands. “No, I’m here to talk with Mr. Albrechti. Do you know him?”

  “He’s okay,” she says.

  Her friend nods. “He got divorced last year.”

  I ask her how she knew that.

  “My mom and his ex are friend
s from high school,” she says. “They try to keep it quiet, but it always gets out.”

  The other girl giggles. “Besides, all the signs were there.”

  “What signs?” I ask.

  “He started dressing better and he lost a lot of weight.”

  “It’s amazing what you can learn in the bathroom,” I say as I head for the door. “Have a good day, and don’t get caught.” Their laughter trails me into the hall. I slip back into the office and slide into a chair, hoping not to draw the attention of the gatekeeper. I have no more slick answers for inquiring minds.

  Michael Albrechti sweeps into the office at ten minutes to nine, moving briskly, a man on a mission. The office manager tells him I’m waiting for a nine o’clock appointment. He barely glances at me as he murmurs that he’ll be with me in a minute. He doesn’t recognize me. He has other things on his mind.

  I recognize him, though I may not have if we’d met by chance somewhere. The unkempt, slovenly moron I took home with me last weekend is wearing a decent suit and has a professional appearance. His hair is combed, his face is serious. I watch him retreat down a hallway. He is going to be shocked when I walk into his office. Why wouldn’t he be? I already know we’re going to meet and I’m going to be shocked, too.

  Will he be a different person in this setting? The thought plays in my mind, but I’m skeptical. I think a jerk is probably a jerk wherever he is.

  When he’s ready for me, I’m sent down the hall to the third door on the left. He stands when I enter and offers me a handshake, distracted, not really looking at me. I give him a feminine grip, keeping my head down slightly. He gestures to one of the chairs across from his desk. When I sit down, I look him in the eye.

  I expected him to gasp or curse or have some kind of visceral reaction, but he just stares at me with a questioning look on his face. I realize he doesn’t recognize me, but I look familiar to him.

  “Have we met?” he asks. He’s polite and professional about it.

  I sit forward on my chair and loosen the tie that holds my hair in a prim chignon. My red curls fall to my shoulders, and I use both hands to fluff the hair into fullness.

  “Good God!” he gasps. It’s a shocked whisper, not loud enough to be heard next door, but issued with the vehemence of a terror victim. He stares, rigid with dismay.

  “Surprised?” I smile when I say it. The glee I thought I would feel at this moment escapes me. I came in here wanting to humiliate him because I was so sure he was the stalker making my life hell. But seeing him in the outer office, and now in his own room, I’m not as sure as I was. He doesn’t look like the type. Of course, John Strand didn’t either. My mind swims with doubts, first about him, then about me, that my doubts about his guilt reflect my lack of courage and determination, not his innocence.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice is low, but if he were any more anxious, he’d wet his pants. The poor bastard thinks I’m here to out him. A tranny fucker wannabe guiding the unblemished youth of suburbia. Stop the presses.

  “I need to talk to you about a problem I’m having.” I say it as calmly as I can. I don’t want him to have a heart attack or some kind of meltdown.

  His eyes close, one hand comes up to cover his face. “Good God! Is this some kind of shakedown?”

  It’s my turn to be struck dumb. I had never considered that anyone would suspect me of being a blackmailer.

  “No, Mr. Albrechti, this isn’t a shakedown.” I stay calm and professional. The relief on his face is palpable. His body collapses back into his chair, limp with the release of a witch’s brew of angst and adrenaline.

  He breathes deeply once, twice, a third time. “Why are you here, Ms. Logan? Is that your real name? Logan?”

  “That’s my real name,” I assure him. “And I’m here because someone is terrorizing me, and I think that person is you.”

  If the shock that registers on his face isn’t real, he’s the best actor between New York and Los Angeles. His mouth opens a little, his eyes widen, his forehead wrinkles. He shakes his head slightly from side to side, a silent denial while his mind searches for words.

  “Never. I would never—” He can’t complete the sentence. His breathing is too deep, too fast. He’s hyperventilating. I have no idea what to do.

  “I’m not going to scream or embarrass you,” I say. Part of my brain is screaming that he’s not the one and he’s going to have a heart attack before he can even deny it. The other part of my brain is screaming for me to stay the course, hear his denial, see if it’s plausible.

  His breathing finally normalizes, but the fear never leaves his eyes.

  “I would never terrorize anyone,” he says. I pray he doesn’t tell me he’s a lover, not a fighter. He doesn’t. “Whatever you may think of me, Ms. Logan, I have never hurt anyone. I’ve never tried to intimidate anyone. I’m a good person.”

  “Mr. Albrechti, you’re a good person who called me a queer, a cunt, a bitch, and a man with tits because I didn’t want to make love with you.”

  His head slumps and his shoulders sag. He nods his head, yes, a slow, mournful motion. “I know,” he whispers. “I couldn’t believe I said those things. That I acted that way. That’s not me. That’s not who I am.”

  I feel a pang of pity for him, but my inner bitch demands more. “Who are you, then?” I ask.

  “I’m . . . I’m . . .” He doesn’t know where to start. I give him time to collect his thoughts.

  “I’m an educator. I’m good with kids. I coach Little League and soccer. I belong to a church. I vote, pay taxes, obey the law. I treat people with respect.” It pours out of him, a stream of the minutiae that defines our lives. I sit in silence, wondering how I would answer the same question.

  “I’m divorced,” he starts up again. “Twenty-three-year marriage down the toilet. Didn’t see it coming. Two kids in college. I pay the bills. I live like a hermit. That was the first night I’d been out in . . . months.”

  He raises his head and looks me in the eye. His face is sad and it seems honest to me.

  “Women don’t like me. I’m not sure why. It’s not abuse, though, honest. I’ve tried all different ways to meet women, a book club, a cooking class—can you believe that? I’ve had two dates in the past year and they were both disasters.”

  He puts his hands in his lap and wrings them.

  “That night with you . . .” His voice trails off for a moment. “You were so hot and you seemed interested in me. Really interested.” Guilt comes over me in waves as I recall that scene. I was interested. If we had been alone, I would have asked him to take me right then and there.

  “I felt like . . . a man.” He puts emphasis on the word man. “I hadn’t been so aroused in years.” He blushes. “I was out of control, you see,” he continues. “I nerved myself up to go in the club by smoking a few joints. Then I met you. It was . . .” He stops again, not sure what to say.

  “Passionate?” I offer. A polite reference to what happens when a man who hasn’t been laid in a year meets a woman who can’t get laid enough.

  “Yes,” he says.

  We lock eyes again.

  “I’m sorry for my conduct, Ms. Logan.” He’s sincere. No doubt about it. “I would never terrorize you or anyone else. I’m a decent person. Dull, but decent.”

  His final words are a confession of sorts, a look at how he sees himself. I’d like to comfort him, but I don’t want to risk reawakening his inner Romeo.

  “I accept your apology,” I say. I put my hair back in a chignon and stand up. He helps me on with my coat. I turn to him before I open his office door. “I apologize, too, Mr. Albrechti. I was rude and impolite.”

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I start to open the door, then stop and turn back to him. “Don’t give up, Mr. Albrechti,” I say.

  He nods and lowers his eyes modestly as I leave.

  20

  IT’S STILL EARLY when I leave the high school, a small blessing accompanied by the
major curse of morning rush-hour traffic. I’ve joined the creeping, bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go traffic on the Kennedy Expressway. I pass the time by engaging in crime—making phone calls on my cell phone while driving.

  The first call is to Jalela to let her know I’m coming in for a while this morning to see how things are going. She assures me everything is fine, but the staff will be glad to see me.

  The next call is to Cecelia.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” That’s how she answers.

  “Desperation.”

  “You’re pregnant?” It’s Cecelia being funny.

  “Not possible,” I answer. “I’ve been as pure as the driven snow for, what, days now.”

  “Well, stay that way,” she says.

  “I will,” I promise. I ask her to lunch, to help me review my stalker list and figure out why they all seem innocent to me. Maybe she can find something I’m missing. She says we’ll make it an afternoon tea at my place and she’ll pick me up at the salon at two. She hangs up gaily and I get back to the mind-numbing stupidity of driving in rush-hour traffic.

  My last thought as I pull the car into the rental agency lot is the law of sevens. I need a seventh suspect. That’s who’s stalking me. A person I can’t even think of, let alone see. That realization sends a shiver down my spine and conjures the image of a dark apparition engulfing me from behind, clawing savagely at my body with a knife as sharp as a razor.

  When I enter the salon, Jalela interrupts her service to give me a sisterly hug. She’s the only person on staff who’s taller than me—only an inch or so, but as one who has always been self-conscious about my size, it’s nice to share space with someone who can look me in the eye without craning her neck or standing on her tiptoes. It helps, too, that Jalela is as beautiful and graceful as she is tall, a source of reassurance to me that it’s possible for a transwoman to be attractive and feminine, regardless of height.