The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “Forensics has determined that the same gun was used to kill Cordell.”

  Checkmate. Clarissa has thought of everything to cover herself.

  Armstrong barely suppresses the urge to laugh, but I catch it.

  “Do you think this is funny, Detective?”

  “Mrs. Gaines said you were obsessed with black culture and it was all you wanted to talk about when she bumped into you in town or in the neighborhood.”

  “Of course I was interested in her culture, but not to the point where it consumed me. I was simply trying to express my solidarity with the plight of black Americans in this country. The way they’re discriminated against and harassed by law enforcement.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Social justice is something I’ve been passionate about for years.”

  “I hate to get on my high horse, Mrs. Daniels, but based on the statistical evidence, your assumptions about police brutality are completely misguided.”

  “If you’ve forgotten, Detective, it was I, and not the police, who tracked down Mycah Jones and discovered her holed up in that dilapidated house.”

  “And it never occurred to you to inform us about her whereabouts?”

  “The girl was scared. She believed Russell was out to kill her. She believed he killed Cordell. I was waiting until I had all the facts before I came to you.”

  “I think you had an obligation to tell us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, near tears.

  “Why did she believe Russell wanted to kill her?”

  “She was his student and having an affair with him.”

  “That seems odd, considering that she was never formally enrolled in any of his classes. Of course, in his current medical condition, we may never learn the truth.”

  “Then why don’t you go over there and ask Mycah yourself? I have the address in my purse if you need it.”

  “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Daniels.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mycah is dead.”

  The word “dead” reverberates in my head. My entire face flares up as if I’m gazing into a crackling bonfire on Alki Beach.

  “We found her this morning, a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “No, I don’t believe you.”

  “We found her boyfriend in the apartment too. It appears they had a fight just before she died, evident by the cuts on his scalp. She also had his skin and blood particles under her nails.”

  “But that can’t be true. Russell was at my house this morning.”

  “It wasn’t Russell, Mrs. Daniels. It was your husband.”

  CLAY

  Monday, October 26, 3:03 p.m.

  AFTER THE DOCTOR STITCHES UP THE CUT ON MY HEAD, THE POLICE lead me to a solitary cell. I fall back on the cot and stare up at the stained cinder-block wall. They’ve confiscated my belt and all my personal belongings. I’m depressed, yes, but not that depressed. Not enough to kill myself. In some ways, I feel a sense of relief. My lies have finally come full circle. Two negatives multiplied always equal a positive. Now the truth can come out.

  I’m tired but can’t sleep, thanks to the trace remnants of beer still circulating in my brain. Time passes in a vague and indeterminate manner. My mind races beyond control, in shuffle mode, stopping randomly wherever the roulette ball of memory lands. At some point I notice an officer standing outside the cell, watching me, making sure no harm comes to my person. It feels like an intrusion at first, but then I simply ignore him, forget he’s even there. He becomes invisible to me. A ghost of the future. I don’t want to die just yet. Not when I feel perversely freed from all social conventions. Freed from the bonds of marriage and raising a family and paying off the Twin Tower–like stack of bills.

  Occasionally, I hear someone shouting inside the facility. I stay calm until the sound of keys jangling stirs me. The door swings open and a burly officer appears. He beckons and I find myself being led in handcuffs down a narrow hallway and into a spacious conference room.

  “It’s been an interesting day,” Detective Armstrong says, clutching his tie as he sits across from me.

  I ignore him and sit quietly, listening to the rush of blood pounding against the golf ball teed up on my brain.

  “You want to tell us what happened?” he asks.

  I laugh. “You want a confession? With no lawyer here to represent me?”

  “I didn’t say confess, Clay. I asked if you want to tell me what happened.”

  “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”

  “Or your version of it.”

  “At least what I can remember, which isn’t much.”

  “Sampling too much of your own inventory lately?”

  “Not nearly enough, but that’s another story.”

  “You can certainly call your lawyer if you like.”

  “I’d be crazy to talk to you without my lawyer present, but then again, I’ve done worse things in the last few months.”

  “That’s because you have nothing to hide. Or so you believe.”

  “Oh, I have plenty to hide, Detective, but murder isn’t one of them.”

  “I’ll wait until you call your lawyer.”

  “Forget about it. I’m waiving my rights.”

  “You absolutely sure?”

  “Positive. I want to get my story out.”

  “Okay then. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “As I previously told you, Mycah did things in the bedroom that you only see in movies. It’s why it was so hard to break it off with her.”

  “I suppose you know that she’s dead.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you and say I’m all broken up about it, but the truth is I didn’t do it, unless I blacked out and killed her in a fit of rage.”

  “You don’t strike me as a particularly violent person, Clay. Then again, I’ve seen other scorned men kill for less.”

  “I tried repeatedly to break it off with her, but she kept pursuing me.”

  “So you felt compelled to see her one last time?”

  “Someone struck me as soon as I walked into that house. When I came to, I saw her lying in a pool of blood, a bullet wound between her eyes.”

  “How did you know she was staying there?”

  “She sent me a text saying that she was holding Leah hostage and that my wife had made a life-changing confession.”

  “And she told you what that confession was?”

  “She must have recorded it and then played it back for me over the phone. I recognized Leah’s voice instantly.”

  “Where’s your phone, Clay? It wasn’t in your possessions.”

  “I smashed it against the wall after hearing Leah’s confession.”

  “And that confession was?”

  “That as a child she drowned her twin sister by pushing her into the family pool.”

  “Is it true?”

  I shrug.

  “And you never knew this about your wife?”

  I laugh. “Do you really think I would have married her, had kids with her, had I known she was a murderer? Someone sick enough to kill her own sister?”

  “A child killing a child,” he says, shaking his head. “There must have been a reason why she did it.”

  “Even assuming that’s true, what difference does it make what her reason was?”

  “Every story has another side.”

  “And you’re going to sit here and charge me with murder?”

  “Honestly, Clay, as bad as this looks for you—and it does look bad—I don’t believe you killed her. I don’t think you’re foolish enough to kill someone, nor do I think that you’re prone to violence. Moral failings aside, you’re like most other guys out there.”

  “Does that mean I’m free to go?”

  “Unfortunately not. The DA is not as convinced of your innocence as I am. The evidence against you is strong, almost too strong for my liking.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re not in the clea
r yet. Besides, you have lots of other things to worry about.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s a media shit storm out there waiting to ask you about the two crimes that occurred today.”

  “Two crimes?”

  “This is going to come as a surprise, Clay, but your wife came very close to killing Russell Gaines a few hours ago.”

  “Come again?” The words come as a shock to me.

  “She shot him in the stomach.”

  “Are you screwing with my head? Leah would be the last person on earth to use a gun. She wouldn’t even let me buy a rifle to shoot trap.”

  “The facts are the facts. She shot him as he entered your house and then claimed self-defense. When we arrived, she made up this convoluted story that the entire scenario was set up by his wife. Russell couldn’t back up her story because he was unconscious when we arrived on scene.”

  “Bullshit!” I slam my fist down on the table. “Russell Gaines wanted to have sex with her.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because we went over to their house for dinner one night and he asked if we would swing with them. He grabbed Leah’s hand during dinner and wouldn’t let go.”

  “So you think he went over there to have sex with your wife?”

  “Why else? Leah would never cheat on me.”

  “You’re certain about that?”

  “Detective, my wife barely wants to have sex with me, never mind our African-American neighbor. It’s probably why I was unfaithful to her.”

  “Maybe she just didn’t want to have sex with you.”

  “I doubt that very much. She’s one of those women who are puritanical about sex.”

  “Then why is she blaming the shooting on the victim’s wife, saying she orchestrated the whole event?”

  “Because my wife is a bleeding heart liberal and forgiving to a fault, especially when it comes to people she feels have been historically oppressed. As for getting a gun, I have no idea how she obtained it.”

  “She’s claiming that she was fearful for her life and believed Russell might attack her.”

  “Then that asshole deserved it. But I still have no idea how she got that gun.”

  “She said his wife gave her the gun and encouraged her to shoot him.”

  “But why?”

  “Your wife is claiming that Clarissa was being physically abused by him, and that she witnessed this abuse one day while staring out her bedroom window. But then after she shot Russell, he told her a completely different story.”

  “Wait a minute. All of this is confusing the hell out of me.”

  “She said Russell admitted to her that he was, in fact, the one being abused in their relationship. He told your wife that Clarissa forced him to participate in an open marriage, and that’s why he engaged in the affair with Mycah Jones.”

  “You mean to say that Mycah was screwing him as well?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “And screwing that lacrosse player too?”

  “Girl got around.”

  “Maybe I’ve been played more than I realize.”

  “It’s certainly starting to look that way.”

  LEAH

  Monday, October 26, 4:17 p.m.

  “YOU MUST BE MISTAKEN. THERE’S NO WAY CLAY WOULD EVER cheat on me, Detective. I know him better than anyone else in the world,” I say.

  “He confessed that he was seeing Mycah Jones while you and the kids were living in Seattle.”

  “No, I don’t believe you.” I shake my head, tears at the ready. “Clay is no cheater. He would never do that to me.”

  “He admitted to being lonely and said that the two of you had been having some marital problems. He also admitted that he’d been drinking quite a lot during that time.”

  “He’s a brewer. He needs to be constantly sampling his beer.”

  “He was doing more than sampling.”

  “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. We’ve been happily married for years. Clay would never go out and chase a girl nearly half his age, never mind a black girl.”

  “You don’t think he found black girls attractive?”

  “Please don’t twist my words, Detective. You know what I mean.”

  “According to your husband, she pursued him.”

  The folly of this makes me laugh. Now I know it’s not true. “What would a twenty-year-old black girl from the ghetto see in Clay? He’s in his late thirties, for goodness’ sake.”

  “We’re not entirely sure.” Armstrong clears his throat. “She did things to him that he’d . . . he’d never before experienced.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

  “Like what?” I shout hysterically. “Tell me what she did to him.”

  He pauses for a few seconds before whispering, “Oral. Role-playing, to name just a few things.”

  I break down at this. “But I’m the mother of his two children.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was good to Clay. I sacrificed and agreed to move all the way across country so he could chase his dream.”

  “Mycah was young and attractive, but we’re now learning that she had a dark side to her as well.”

  I begin to hyperventilate in violent gasps. “Clarissa suspected Mycah of having an affair with her husband. Mycah said Russell harassed her until she finally agreed to sleep with him. But Russell told me a different story. He said that Clarissa was the one who convinced him to date her.”

  “We’re still trying to put together all the details, Mrs. Daniels, but with Mycah dead and Russell in a coma, it makes solving this case that much harder.”

  “Am I being charged with anything?” I ask, wiping my eyes clear. “I need to pick up the children from day care.”

  “No, you’re free to go.”

  I head to the door but stop before leaving. “Do the doctors believe Russell will come out of his coma?”

  “They don’t know yet.” He gathers his files together. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “If only I called nine-one-one sooner.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was afraid to turn my back on him. Then he started to explain what happened, and I realized what a fool I’d been.”

  “Let’s hope he survives. Then maybe he’ll be able to corroborate your story.”

  “You better not let Clarissa in his room or else you’ll regret it.”

  “You think Clarissa might try to kill him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.” I turn one last time. “Are you charging Clay with a crime?”

  “Not at the moment. He’ll be released shortly.”

  “You mean he’s here? In this station?”

  “Yes. In one of the holding cells.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Not yet. Go home and rest, Mrs. Daniels.”

  “What makes you so sure my husband is not guilty if you found him in that house with the gun nearby?”

  “A gut feeling. Also, the ballistics don’t make sense to me. He was struck hard enough to render him unconscious, yet he still managed to shoot her. It just doesn’t add up.”

  I walk out of the police station and see a crowd of news reporters, cameramen, and spectators. They converge on me like a pack of hungry lions. I push them away and struggle out to the parking lot where my car is parked. They follow me, shouting questions, cameras clicking away. It takes me a few seconds to pry the car door open, but once I’m inside, I feel relieved. Slowly, I make my way out of the parking lot. I drive over to the day care, pick up the kids, and grab some fried chicken. To my chagrin, there’s a group of reporters waiting outside my house.

  “Do you people have any scruples?” I shout out to them. “My kids are with me.”

  “Did you intend to shoot Russell Gaines?” a man’s voice says.

  I push the children through the front door and then lean back against it in fear. Is this how the r
est of my life will be? Evading pesky reporters?

  “Mommy,” Zadie asks, looking up at me, “why did that man ask if you shot Mr. Gaines?”

  “They must have made a mistake, honey,” I say.

  “Did you really shoot him?” Zack asks, a devilish grin forming over his face.

  “Go upstairs and clean up, the two of you. There’ll be no more of this crazy talk. After dinner I’ll make some popcorn and we’ll watch a movie together.”

  “Frozen,” Zadie calls out.

  “The Incredibles,” answers Zack.

  “Finding Dory.”

  “American History X.”

  I collapse on the couch, exhausted and numb, but thankful that they’ve hired someone to clean up the bloody mess. There’s no visible signs that a crime ever happened here. Being in this house raises my anxiety to another level, and I replay the shooting over and over in my mind. What if Clay comes home tonight? How will we ever recover from the terrible secrets we’ve kept? Will our marriage survive these betrayals?

  I badly want out of this house. Out of this godforsaken town and state. But will I ever be able to leave Dearborn? Or live with the repercussions of what we’ve done? I need a glass of wine. Maybe an entire bottle. I suddenly can’t shake the long-repressed memory of pushing my twin sister into that pool. Or watching as her wheelchair sank to the aquamarine depths, her arms waving before gently rippling by her sides. I remember feeling at peace when she stopped breathing, knowing that I had relieved my sister of all her pain.

  Or did I?

  CLAY

  Monday, October 26, 5:44 p.m.

  TO MY SURPRISE, ARMSTRONG ARRIVES AT MY CELL AND RELEASES ME on my own recognizance. They don’t have a strong case. Not yet anyway. He tells me not to wander too far. But where am I going to go? I have a brewery to run. A family to raise.

  A huge crowd awaits me as soon as I walk out the door. This is the new way of achieving celebrity in America: commit a crime. Get used to it, I tell myself. This could be the end of my life or the beginning of a whole new chapter. I wave to the reporters as I pass, answering their questions with non-questions, the tone of which is meant to sound vague but pleasant. I admit to having an affair with Mycah Jones and showing up at the house where she was shot dead. But I proclaim my innocence.