Sociopath

by Victor Methos

  “FBI,” Melissa shouted. “If you do not open the door I will be forced to apply for a warrant and come back with SWAT.”

  Melissa looked to me and grinned.

  A few moments later the door opened and a skinny man with red-rimmed eyes stood at the door. He was wearing a blue tank-top and a silver chain dangled from his neck into a puff of blond chest hair.

  Melissa pulled out her badge and flashed it before replacing it. “We need to ask you some questions about Tiffany Ochoa.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know who dat is.”

  “Fine,” she said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Tiffany Ochoa.” She grabbed his wrist and spun him around. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say—”

  “Yo! Murder, what! I ain’t done nothin’, man. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You’re not being honest with us. It’s easier to just arrest you and deal with you at the precinct.”

  “Nah, man. I’m on parole, man. Don’t do me like this.”

  Melissa let him go. I asked him, “What’re you on parole for?”

  “Burglary, man.”

  “Then tell us the truth and this visit stays between us,” I said. “You sold weed to Tiffany Ochoa. How often did you do it?”

  “Couple times a month, man. Nothin’ big.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “We went to high school together.”

  I paused. “You heard she died, right?”

  “Yeah, I heard, man. And it fuckin’ sucks. She was a good chick.”

  “Did she have any enemies that you knew of?” Melissa asked.

  “Nah, man. She was cool. Everybody liked her, you know. She used to be in this band with like six black dudes and there ain’t that many black dudes up here. But she would take ‘em back to her house and her mom would cook ‘em dinner and they’d play music, man. She was like that. Kind ta everyone. For real.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “Few weeks ago, man. She bought a dime-bag from me.”

  “Was she into harder drugs?”

  “Nah, man. Not if yous in Heber. You wanna just chill, you don’t wanna be all tweeked out’n shit. People’ll know.”

  I glanced back to the cigarette with the lipstick. It was in the middle of the ashtray with several others on top of it, suffocating it. Black-gray ash dotted the table and the cement underneath. A few cigarette burns were on the cushions of the chairs.

  “I saw her closet. She had nice clothes.”

  “What’s that?” he said.

  I looked to him. “She had a lot of nice clothing. But our information says she was unemployed. Was she working for you?”

  “She wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t ever sell to nobody ‘cause she’d feel bad if they got hurt or somethin’. She worked as a waitress, under the table’n shit. Didn’t have no papers.”

  “Waitress where?”

  “Café right here, man. Café Molisse. It’s down on Main.”

  I looked to Melissa, gesturing if she had anything else.

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “I can’t,” he said. He put his leg out and revealed a blinking ankle monitor.

  “What do you think?” she asked, when we were back in the car.

  “He’s telling the truth. I need to go to that café.”

  “I’ll head down.”

  “I’d like to go by myself if that’s okay.”

  “Oh. Sure. I guess.”

  “I’m about to confront her employer and reveal that he’s a tax cheat. I think it’d be better alone without law enforcement there.”

  2

  Café Molisse was on the corner of the western entrance to Main Street in Park City across from an art gallery. I had to park up the street and paralleled between a truck and an Escalade. I got out and felt the afternoon sunshine on my face and stood for a while and breathed the clean air.

  Walking down the main strip, I glanced into the various shops. I passed a new age store that advertised for in-house psychic readings and an ice cream parlor with a 1950s style soda fountain behind the counter. Intermingled with the quaint and small was the luxurious, stores where a single shirt cost over nine hundred dollars and a suit could run into the tens of thousands.

  Park City was a town centered on one event: the Sundance Film Festival. Any other time it was quiet and had a small-town charm. But during Sundance movie stars and rock stars and porno queens and writers and directors and poets would descend and turn the city inside out. Nightclubs and bars that didn’t exist during the rest of the year would open up, parties would occur every night, and the streets would be mobbed with tourists and locals trying to hob-nob with celebrity. As if a chance encounter in the street were a story they could tell their children years later.

  I had gone once and it was overwhelming, the noise and the crowds and the desperation hanging in the air. I left early after watching only one film about a disturbed filmmaker who was attempting to document his slipping sanity with a film crew following him around at every moment of his life.

  Several cars sped by and didn’t stop for me. I waited until it was clear and sprinted across the street as a red Lexus nearly clipped me.

  The café was dimly lit and smelled of coffee and pastries. It appeared more like a coffee shop that happened to serve food than a restaurant. The space held a lot of bookshelves overflowing with paperbacks and the walls were lined with soft recliners and fake leather couches. The hostess was flirting with one of the waiters since there was only one couple and a single man seated in the entire place. She saw me and came over, smiling at the last possible moment and saying, “Hi, how many in your party?”

  “Just one.”

  She sat me in the back near the kitchen and I had a view of the entire café. A bar was on the far side with a bartender in a black vest and white long-sleeved shirt. He was cleaning the bar and stocking liquors and checking the napkins and straws. At the other end of the café was a lone man in a sports coat with a laptop open and stacks of cash that he appeared to be cataloguing.

  “Hi,” the waiter said, “my name is Richard and I’ll be taking care of you today. Our menu is mostly soups and sandwiches but our pastries are made fresh every morning by Chef Joshua.”

  “No, thanks. Just a grilled cheese if you have it.”

  “We don’t, unfortunately. We have primarily artisan sandwiches but we can probably get you one of our sandwiches without the meat.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Great, and did you want a side salad with that?”

  “No, and just water to drink. Thanks. One question, though: is that the manager over there?”

  “Oh, that’s the owner but, yeah, he manages the place too.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Your food will be out in a minute.”

  I waited until he left and then stood and walked across the restaurant. I sat across from the owner and his brow furrowed.

  “That seat’s taken.”

  “I just had a quick question for you,” I said. “Did Tiffany’s parents know she was working under the table for you?”

  The man froze. It would have almost been comical if it wasn’t the context it was.

  “I’m not with the IRS and I don’t really care that you were paying her under the table. I’m trying to find the man that killed her.”

  “So, hypothetically, if I did employ her, what would that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to rule everything out.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then I don’t have to talk to you, do I?”

  “No. But if it matters you don’t have to talk to the actual police either.”

  “I think I’d like you to leave.”

  “There’s no reason for her to work under the table, is there? She wasn’t a felon, so it wouldn’t be against policy to hire her, and sh
e was able and capable of working. She could have worked part time and you’d avoid benefits.… It’s funny, I just can’t imagine why an owner would risk federal tax fraud charges just for one employee? Can you?”

  He glared at me and I held his gaze. I didn’t need to say anything. Silence was often the most effective form of questioning.

  Whatever they had going on was implied and I could be wrong or right, but he wouldn’t know. The question was, would he risk it?

  “What do you want to know?” he said evenly.

  “She didn’t have a car. Was it her boyfriend that picked her up every day?”

  “She didn’t work every day. She just worked Fridays and Saturdays. And yeah, it was her boyfriend that would come and get her.”

  “Did she ever say anything to you about being afraid of someone? Maybe receiving hang-up calls or running into the same person in different places?”

  He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Any customers that paid her too much attention?”

  “Every customer paid her too much attention. Did you see any pictures of her before … well, before all this?”

  “No.”

  “She was a knockout. Pure and simple. I was the one that kept telling her she had to go to California and use her looks for something other than serving fat tourists ham and Brie. She was really shy though, and insecure. I don’t think she saw how good-looking she was.”

  I thought of my own ex-wife. “They rarely do.”

  “Yeah,” he said, tapping a pencil against the table. “So we done?”

  “What was her shift?”

  “Noon to four.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

  I ate and, surprisingly, the sandwich was delicious. After I finished I left a twenty percent tip and nodded to the owner as I left.

  Stepping back out into the sunshine, I glanced up across the street to an office building—though the office buildings here didn’t look like office buildings. They looked more like log cabins with multiple stories. At the top of the building was a sign for Helix Financial & Commodities with a simple black and white logo which didn’t seem to fit the building.

  Next to that building was a hotel with a ski store on the ground level. I went inside and perused and bought some sunglasses. The clerks were both condescending and rude but they certainly accepted my money quickly and without fuss. I thanked them and they didn’t say anything as I turned and left.

  Today was Thursday. Tomorrow, I would be back here and sitting in the café. He had met her somewhere. So much of the killing seemed planned that he had to have thought about it before. Somewhere, he had daydreamed about her. About the things he would do to her. And I thought this café was as good a place as any.

  THOMAS FISCHER

  I woke not knowing where I was. Occasionally that would happen without cause. I turned over in the bed and looked out the patio glass doors that I had left open and onto the forest that I knew surrounded my home. Nude, I rose and went out onto the patio and urinated over the side to the ground ten feet below.

  The party the night before had been quite the fucking bore. People mingling forcefully, all attempting to think of something witty to say to each other, something that convinced others that they indeed had value aside from the size of their bank accounts, most of which had been inherited from parents.

  My date, a brunette with short hair and wide, crimson lips, withstood the onslaught of the old rich douchebags hitting on her the entire night by having an air of insolence. I glanced over several times and saw her sipping champagne and ignoring men who were attempting with all their might to convey with a single sentence not only their ivy league educations, but the number of companies and employees they had under them.

  I left her alone, careful to show her I was indifferent. At one point she came up to me and I put my arm around her waist and she pushed me off without looking at me. The bitch would pay for that.

  “Can you just take me home?” she asked, after receiving a text. No doubt from the artist boyfriend I knew she had.

  “Sure.”

  As we drove, I forced her to give me head. It was arousing in an odd way and it made me laugh several times, particular when I climaxed onto her face and she had to wipe it off with the expensive silk scarf she had wrapped around her neck.

  She sobbed quietly in the passenger seat as we drove, her eye beginning to swell and a trickle of blood coming down over her lips from the puffy nose I gave her when she’d refused to go down. I dropped her off and she got out and slammed the door and stormed toward her home. I could see her boyfriend waiting on the porch. He saw her face and they exchanged a few words and he ran at me.

  Normally, I would have gladly broken his head open, but I was tired and glutted from sex and caviar and champagne, so I figured why bother. I drove away with him chasing me down the street, swearing and looking for something to throw. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  I laughed so much I couldn’t stop and I had to pull over. I kept laughing until my stomach pained me so badly I had to think about something else. Something less humorous. Work. Work always seemed to take the humor out of a situation. So I thought about the various tasks that required completion the next day and soon the humor faded and I was able to drive home.

  I slept in the nude with the windows open, hoping to hear the coyotes that haunted these hills at night. Black bears were frequent visitors as well, but they had developed a deep fear of humans and wouldn’t come near the homes. But I would hear them grunting along their paths on the hillside.

  By morning I didn’t feel refreshed in any way. I’d only had dreams in black and white and they’d awoken me several times. I felt groggier than when I went to bed and thought that perhaps I would have felt better had I stayed awake the entire night.

  I showered and donned an Armani suit with a pink polo shirt and black loafers with no socks. I placed a pink pocket square in the jacket pocket and slicked back my hair with a Parisian sculpting gel I’d had imported from a little store that made the gels and soaps they sold.

  I chose to drive the Cheyenne and went into town. I did one loop around Main to see who was out, but it was ten in the morning and there was hardly any movement, much less crowds. I parked in reserved parking at the entrance to my building and went inside.

  Elevators sounded constricting so I chose to take the stairs to the top floor and saw the massive gleaming sign for Helix Financial & Commodities behind the receptionist’s desk.

  “Morning, Karen.”

  “Morning. How was your night?”

  “As expected. How was yours?”

  “Pizza and Modern Family. What else?”

  “You should go out with me sometime. I can show you the sights.”

  “The sights in Park City? I grew up here.”

  “No, I don’t mean here. I’ll take you to Vegas. That’s where you go to have a good time.”

  “Hmm. I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

  I walked past her through the glass doors into the main foyer. She wouldn’t go out with me. She was a lesbian and thought that somehow I didn’t know. So it was always enjoyable to ask her out and watch her squirm for answers. On the one hand, she didn’t want to reject the CEO of the company. On the other, she felt uncomfortable telling me she was homosexual. Probably because she hadn’t come out to her family yet as she was only nineteen.

  I wound my way past the conference room and saw a meeting taking place. I checked the calendar on my phone: I had scheduled this meeting. Sneaking in through the back, several people turned to me and smiled and I smiled too. The lights were dimmed and Roger, one of my account managers, was going through a PowerPoint about Libya’s interim government’s stance on oil futures and trading with the West.

  I paid attention for only a few moments before noticing Silvia’s slit in her skirt. She was seated next to me and with her eyes turned toward Roger didn’t notice that I was lo
oking. Her legs were smooth and white with just enough tan in them not to be pale. Musculature was visible in both calves and thighs and her ankles were pronounced with a single vein coming around them. They were perfect.

  She glanced over at me and grinned awkwardly and I forced a smile and she turned away.

  I was still staring at her when the lights came on.

  “Any questions?” Roger asked. “Okay, unless Thomas has something to add….”

  I shook my head. “That was great. Thanks for that, Roger. So just a reminder we’re pushing Schiller Exports this week. The price per share is reasonable but the buy-in is thirty thousand minimum. Hit your upper middle-class clients, some of your retirement funds, but don’t pass this on to your big dogs. I have a feeling it’s going to tumble in the next few months.”

  Roger looked around. “All right, let’s go sell some oil.”

  Everyone stood and walked out. Everyone except Roger, who came and sat next to me.

  “You look like shit,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You take melatonin like I recommended?”

  “No, I forgot to pick some up.”

  “It’ll help. Without sleep you’re more prone to disease, irritability, depression, everything.”

  “You don’t want to talk about sleep with me, Roger. What is it you need?”

  He rubbed his forehead with one hand and said, “It’s Mark.”

  “What about him?”

  “He gave me his two week notice last night. He’s leaving for GE in New York.”

  “Why would he possibly want to live in New York?”

  “Thomas, did you hear what I said? Mark is leaving. He’s the best damned account rep we got.”

  “Why’s he leaving?”

  “He says you’re cruel to him.”

  I laughed. When I saw Roger wasn’t laughing as well, I stopped.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Thomas, he says you tease him about being gay.”

  “So what? I tease Jason about being black, I tease Linda about being Muslim …”