Two Wolves For Lizette

by Jessica Miller

  “Detective Hunt…” she murmured, “what time is it?”

  “Just about 8:00,” the detective replied. “Listen, we need you back at the station. How soon can you be here.”

  “Oh uhm… walking so I’ll see you in a half hour.” Andy managed to reply. She sat up in the dark of the room. She would have to shower now. It had been almost two days since she had last been home, and her rumpled clothes smelled of sweat and anxiety. As she showered, she turned the events of the day over in her mind. She resolved to tell the detective of her brief liaison with her student. She thought about Jack’s persistence. She hadn’t encouraged him, so surely she couldn’t be in trouble for that? Andy shook her head, a cold feeling of emptiness settling in her chest in spite of the hot water. She couldn’t believe he was dead.

  Later that evening, when Andy reached the station and gave her name at the front desk, she had the distinct impression that they had been waiting for her. A uniformed officer brought her into the same room she had met Detective Hunt in that morning. The station seemed even busier at this time of night, almost 9:00 pm, than it had in the early morning. It was a matter of minutes before the door opened, and Detective Hunt was there. She looked much the same as she had that morning. Perfectly poised, each blonde curl immaculately positioned. Crimson lipstick as brilliant as ever. But her demeanor was very different. The detective seemed stiffer—gruffer as she approached the table with an unreadable expression.

  “Andrea… Ms. Garvey. I’m afraid we have a lot to talk about.” She looked down at the women. “This is going to be a formal questioning, so we’ll be recording it. You’re not under arrest, but you do have the right to council if so desired.”

  Andy froze in her seat. Her face drained of color as she stared at the detective. “Formal… But I haven’t done anything.”

  “We’ll see about that,” replied the detective ominously. She seated herself at the metal table, and pressed the record button.

  “The date is May 25, 2016, current time 9:14 pm. Interviewing Andrea Garvey for the Deluc murder case.”

  Andy watched the woman, feeling more and more helpless as each word of the introduction alone rang in her ears as an accusation.

  “You told me off the record earlier that the extent of your evening with Jack Deluc included drinks and an evening stroll back to the library. But you failed to mention this.” She presented Andrea with an iPad, upon which was a video. The detective pressed play. “Can you identify the two figures in this video?”

  Andy stared. She already knew what it was: footage from the entryway of the library showing her and Jack before she escaped to the stacks. Color flooded to her cheeks as embarrassment overwhelmed her.

  “Well that’s me,” she pointed, “and that’s Jack.” She was almost whispering. She didn’t want to see any more.

  “It is, isn’t it.” Detective Hunt scrutinized Andy’s face carefully. She could see that the other woman was uncomfortable, but it was difficult to determine whether the source of her shame was her omission, or the content of the footage. She couldn’t help but find the blush of the woman’s cheek rather beautiful. The thought flitted across her mind in an instant before she could stop it. “Tell me though, why is it you didn’t mention this incident this morning.”

  “Because I…” Andy swallowed and stared at the detective. What if she didn’t believe her. “Because it was a mistake,” she finished lamely. “I mean I should have told you, I don’t know why I didn’t.”

  Detective Hunt nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “I guess because he is—was my student, and it was wrong,” she fidgeted, “it seems kind of selfish to say now that I was worried about the professional repercussions.”

  “I’m not here to judge you, I just need to know the details of exactly what happened between you and Mr. Deluc.”

  “There wasn’t anything really,” Andy replied quickly, “I mean, I wasn’t even… I mean it seemed like a good distraction from all of the papers I had to grade and so I went to the Raven with him and honestly I don’t even really like boys that much.” The last of her statement came out in a rush. She blushed deeply at the admission. She had barely even admitted to herself that she might be gay, and now here she had said it on the record and to Detective Hunt, no less.

  The detective involuntarily jerked her hand in response to Andy’s confession. She was intrigued, but it was necessary to stay on task now. The killer was still at large, and it was very possible that as the two women sat in the interview room he—or she—was looking for their next victim. The detective realized that she was already excluding Andy as a suspect, even in light of the CCTV footage. This was getting dangerous.

  “Okay, let’s stay on task here,” Claire said, as much to herself as to Andy. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “It was everything I said before, except that when we got to the library, Jack kind of… Well, he did what you see there,” she swallowed, feeling humiliated. “He uh, pushed me up against the column and then tried to get… erm, intimate with me…”

  “But you spurned him?” Detective Hunt finished her sentence. “Was he upset?”

  “Not at all,” Andy shook her head. “He made a joke about what might happen when he wasn’t my student anymore, and that was all.”

  “So you weren’t aware that he followed you into the building afterwards?” Detective Hunt looked intently at the woman across the table, reading her reaction. The color had drained from her face again. She looked confused and upset. She was dressed down, but still beautiful.

  “No… He, I... I had no idea,” she frowned.

  “You didn’t notice anything unusual. Strange noises, for example?” the detective pressed harder.

  “No,” Andy confirmed. There had been no sign of another person in the library. Unless, of course she had been too focused on her own research to notice… Was it her fault that Jack had been in the building? That someone had killed him? She shuddered involuntarily, fighting back tears.

  “Okay, let’s take a break. Time is 10:02 pm. Taking a break in the interview of Andrea Garvey.” Detective Hunt rose from her seat and left the room without a backwards glance. She was having trouble focusing. She pushed open the door to her partner’s office without knocking.

  “I don’t think she did it,” she said, by way of a greeting. The man looked up from his desk. Grant Duffy was every bit the stereotypical detective: divorced, mid-forties, hard drinker, cheater—it was a wonder that he and Claire Hunt worked so well together. Perhaps it was that they allowed each other to pursue separate lines of inquiry without interference that made them such a good team.

  “You’re just saying that because she’s pretty,” he replied, before breaking off to cough vigorously into his rolled-up shirtsleeve.

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on.”

  “Come on nothing! You almost wet yourself when she said she wasn’t that interested in boys. I was watching,” he peered at her over his glasses as he fumbled in his breast pocked for a pack of cigarettes.

  Claire shrugged. “It’s not like she’s the first. You’re just wishing we’d get into some kinky shit in there so you can get it up for the first time in a decade.”

  “Oooh, harsh,” the man sighed, leaning back in his chair. The springs creaked ominously, but he seemed completely at ease. “Anyway, there’s some stuff,” he jerked his head towards the desk, “you’ll be interested in.”

  Claire pushed aside an empty carton of Chinese food and extracted a now completely duck sauce stained folder. “Disgusting.”

  “Yeah, yeah, this is why you don’t date men, blah, blah. blah.” Grant feigned a yawn. “Just look in the folder. Analysis of all of the footage from around the building, plus an extra fun autopsy bonus.”

  Claire leaned on the edge of his desk and flipped the folder open with the aid of some napkins. She thumbed through the folder in a matter of minutes. “So basically he was killed by someone in the building.”

  “Bri
lliant deduction,” her partner drawled. “So your little crush in there might be a murderer. And what else?”

  Claire pulled out a picture of the dead boy and held it up. “The tattoo.”

  “Of course.”

  “He was a member of Scroll and Snake?” Claire was struck by surprise by this. Usually it was only the rich frat-types that got involved with secret societies. Jack’s history didn’t suggest any of the usual markers. Yet here on his pale chest, inked in black above his heart was the latin phrase ad utrumque paratus, and the insignia of the organization: a snake wrapped around a furled scroll.

  “It means ‘prepared for both’,” Grant said, sitting up, “And did you notice that he’s been branded? Every body part has been burned with the same mark.”

  “Prepared for both what?” Claire asked, “And yeah, I did…So we’re sure that this is some kind of ritual killing?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied annoyingly. “Why don’t you go ask your little bookworm in there.”

  “Why don’t you do something useful like start interviewing Scroll and Snake members?” she shot back.

  “I’ve got Reeves on it. And, you know, I would offer to help you with Ms. Andrea Garvey, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure of grilling her alone…” he smirked, obviously very pleased with his little joke.

  Claire rolled her eyes extravagantly and turned on her heel, slamming the door satisfyingly as she strode back to the interview room. She paused for a moment before entering, ensuring that her lipstick was perfect, and that her blouse was tucked in. She checked her red stilettos for scuffs before pushing open the door. No matter what Grant assumed, she still didn’t feel that Andy would be capable of a brutal murder. Plus, how could a woman that petite rip a body apart like that? She strode into the room and seated herself at the table.

  Andy looked up at her, attempting to catch her eye, but the attempt went unrewarded.

  “Resuming interview with Andrea Garvey in the murder case of Jack Deluc. Time is 10:22 pm.” Claire set the folder carefully on the metal table top. “Can you confirm to me that you did not murder Jack Deluc.”

  Andy’s brown eyes widened behind her glasses, “Of course I didn't!” she exclaimed more loudly than she had intended.

  The detective ignored her subject’s response, plowing on with the facts.

  “And you can confirm that as far as you were aware you were the only one present in the library when you arrived the night of May 24.”

  “Yes, I told you… It was as quiet as it always is there.”

  “But you fell asleep.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could someone have entered the premises without you knowing?”

  “Yes, I suppose…”

  “But you weren’t aware of anything.”

  “No,” Andy confirmed, feeling slightly sick at the pace of the questions.

  “You see the problem, Andrea, is that the only people who entered the building that evening, were you and Mr. Deluc.” Claire flipped the folder open to the images of the footage, flipping through until she came to the autopsy photograph. Jack Deluc’s torso, missing its arms and head. “Know anything about this?”

  Andy stared with horror at the photograph, tears filling her eyes as she fought the urge to be sick. She took her glasses off and covered her face. “W-who could have done such a thing,” she whispered into her palms.

  “You’re saying you don’t know?” Detective Hunt asked relentlessly, raising her voice just enough to throw a person off balance.

  “N-no!” the woman cried. “I don’t know, please!”

  “Okay then, and what about this tattoo? Come on now, look at it. This is a murder investigation. No one has time for your feelings.” Claire knew she was being harsh, but it was necessary. Sometimes it was necessary to break even the sweetest of library graduate students.

  Andy took a deep shuddering breath. “The tattoo… It says ‘prepared for both’.”

  “Okay, we got that far, but do you know anything about the image.”

  Andy shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Now that the shock had worn off, it was not so different than the medieval manuscripts she spent so much time pouring over.

  “And does the saying mean anything to you beyond the obvious?”

  “I’m not sure,” Andy replied cautiously. “It sounds familiar, but…” she trailed off, into silence.

  “Well let me know if you come up with anything in your research. That’s all for today. This concludes the interview with Andrea Garvey. Time is 10:43.” Claire slapped the folder closed and got briskly to her feet. The other woman stayed seated. “You can go,” she stated.

  “Oh, sorry, I…” Andy scrambled to her feet.

  “But don’t go far. Don’t leave the area, and be prepared to answer your phone when I call,” the detective injected a tone of warning into her voice. She was convinced, from Andy’s performance when confronted with the gruesome image, that she had not committed the murder. But she didn’t want her going anywhere. At the very least she was a key witness.

  Andy nearly ran from the station. She didn’t want the detective to drive her home. That morning she had felt protected by the law, but now it seemed she was being labeled as a suspect. She didn’t trust herself to avoid blundering into a turn of phrase that would somehow implicate her in the murder. She hailed a taxi and clambered into the back seat. She knew she was innocent, but what if, somehow, she became the accused? The thought washed over her in a cold sweat. The cab driver was saying something about the weather. The radio was on. She heard snatches of the announcer saying “campus” and “murder”. It was as if she were trapped in a terrible nightmare.

  When the taxi reached her house she paid and practically ran out of the car, slamming the door behind her and scrambling up the stairs. She felt frantic now, as she pulled her clothing off, the anxiety of the day welled up in her and overflowed in a fountain of tears. She cried and pounded on the floor until her downstairs neighbor pounded back irritably. She tried to inhale. Naked and trembling on the floor, Andy was at a loss.

  And so she did what she usually did when she was tired and sad. She ran a bath in her prized claw-foot tub. She let it fill, sprinkling lavender flowers in when the water was hot enough. She stepped in and sunk into the tub, letting the water flow over her body up to her chin. The aroma of the flowers soothed her, and she shut her eyes.

  The vision of Jack Deluc’s dismembered body floated to the surface of her consciousness, but she pushed it away. A lie she had told the detective replaced it. The tattoo. She knew its form like she knew her own flesh. The skin of the arch of her foot was branded with the same. Scroll and Snake. The information sciences secret society on campus—she had been a member since her freshman year. The lie did not concern her, however. Detective Hunt would never be the wiser, and the member rosters of the society were kept intentionally incomplete. It wasn’t relevant, anyway. Her thoughts lingered on the thought of the detective.

  Detective Claire Hunt. How could someone maintain such beauty—such physical perfection and work in such a grueling profession? Andy could picture the woman in her mind’s eye as she ran her hands over her soft thighs. Her body ached mercilessly from the tension of the past two days. Claire Hunt. Tall and perfect.

  Andy’s mind wandered to the memory of the woman detective standing on the rail bridge. Her mouth almost watered at the thought of her breasts. They were perfect—the woman had the curves of Marilyn Monroe. The rain was falling down. The fabric of her blouse stuck to her, leaving nothing to the imagination. As Andy reminisced, the memory transformed into fantasy. They were standing together on the bridge, and the detective was moving closer to her. Her perfect breasts pressed full and soft against Andy’s own meager chest. She brought a perfectly manicured hand up to stroke her cheek, burying it in the smaller woman’s thick hair as she kissed her forcefully. Andy could almost taste the faint sweetness of her lipstick.

  In the b
ath, she stroked her own breasts, ‘small handfuls’ she had once been told, before allowing a hand to slip down her flat stomach to that all-too-neglected place between her thighs.

  Detective Hunt unbuttoned her own shirt, and Andy’s pants. They weren’t on the bridge anymore; they were in Andy’s bedroom. The detective had driven her home. She pulled off Andy’s jeans and pushed her on to the bed. Andy gazed up in awe at her. Her breasts cupped perfectly in black lace, as she slipped her work pants off. Black panties fit the curve of her hips, her ass, the mound of her pussy. Claire straddled Andy and kissed her passionately, pushing her shirt up, her underwear off as she kissed a path downwards, teasing her with skilled fingers and soft kisses.

  Andy let out a soft moan as pleasure flooded her body in the tub. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, savoring the aftershocks of the orgasm before rousing herself. She turned the water on, allowing more heat to flow into the tub, looking around the candle-lit room rather guiltily.

  Was it normal to have fantasies about a detective who had spent the evening trying to accuse you of murder? Probably not, Andy concluded, but there was something about the woman. She was hot. Smart. Irresistibly sexy, Andy thought, and it dawned on her. As she lay there in the bath, Andy Garvey realized that she had developed crush on Detective Claire Hunt.

  The next day was bright and breezy. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Bees buzzed cheerfully around the flowers that the rain had coaxed into full bloom. In her office on the Library Quad, Andy could not concentrate. The events of the day before seemed like a nightmare, and yet the knowledge that they were real—that it was all real haunted her as she attempted to read through the stack of papers before her. None of it seemed to matter now, somehow. If Professor Neal gave her a hard time, she could always use the ‘well I was fingered as a suspect in a murder’ excuse. She chuckled darkly to herself, and then burst into shameful tears. Her emotions had never lived this close to the surface. She wished Detective Hunt would call her, just for the sake of distraction. But her phone sat silent on the desk beneath the academic clutter. Andy had considered texting a friend, or her sister, but how could she explain the situation?