1 Twisted Perception

by Bob Avey

“We know trouble when we see it.”

  Elliot nodded. It appeared gender was not the only thing faded and blurred within the confines of Club Gemini. He looked toward Metcalf’s office. In places where the air was caught by the lights, it looked milky blue from cigarette smoke. Lagayle and the unknown man had been in the club. Whether that meant anything or not, Elliot wasn’t sure. He asked the Englishman to let him know if he saw the strange man again, then made his way across the room and walked out.

  Outside it had started to rain again, a cold downpour that sent the street people scampering for any alcove or corner that might offer some protection. What threatened Elliot was not the weather, but a feeling of hopelessness and desperation waiting like an open pit in the darkness. He couldn’t give in to it. He’d been down that road before, and falling in was a hell of a lot easier than climbing out. He made his way to his car, and as he slid the key into the door lock, he caught a faint whiff of perfume, and a strong sensation that he was being watched came over him. He scanned the area but saw no one in the immediate vicinity. He looked inside the car. It was empty. He opened the door and climbed inside, then picked up the mike and radioed in that he was calling it a night.

  8

  After leaving Club Gemini, Elliot called Molly but she didn’t answer. He took a deep breath and relaxed, glad the workday was over. The action allowed him to realize how tired he was. He turned onto the expressway, and a few minutes later he exited, going east on 91st Street until he reached his neighborhood. The peace and quiet it offered made him thankful. He hoped it would always be that way.

  Inside the house, he checked for phone messages then took a shower. Later, he fixed himself a sandwich and watched television, but soon he sank into the cushions of the couch and somewhere between consciousness and sleep he began to relive snapshots of time.

  Elliot jerked awake and looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was eight p.m. He’d dozed off and begun to dream again. He couldn’t go on fighting sleep forever; he had to do something. He went into the garage and flipped on the light, looking around for some tools. When he had what he needed, he sat on a creeper and began removing the bolts holding the front bumper to the Studebaker. The bumper was badly rusted and he’d read in Hemmings Motor News, the book Dombrowski had given him, about a place where he could send it and have it re-chromed. After about twenty minutes, however, he realized his mind wasn’t on the project. He put the tools away and went back inside to call Molly again. When she answered, he said, “Hey, Molly.”

  “I was hoping you’d call,” she said. “It’s been one of those days.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  After a long pause, she said, “You don’t sound like yourself. What happened to that tough cop I know?”

  “He’s still around somewhere.”

  “Why don’t you come over for awhile? We’ll talk.”

  Molly lived downtown in a remodeled condominium. Elliot had no trouble getting in; the doorman was used to seeing him come and go. Elliot strode across the plush lobby and boarded the elevator as the doorman gave him a salute. When he reached the tenth floor, he got off and made his way to Molly’s door. He rang the bell, and though his hands were steady, he felt like he was holding the handle of a running lawnmower. He had an urge to walk away, but before he could, Molly opened the door. She smiled, and after letting Elliot in she left the room, disappearing down the hallway that led to her bedroom. A sitcom played on the large screen television that dominated the living area, the message light on the telephone next to the sofa blinked, and in the kitchen the microwave oven announced the end of its programmed cycle.

  Elliot closed the door behind him, and as he walked across the marble foyer, his footsteps echoing in the high-ceilinged emptiness, the thought that Molly must be lonely living alone as she did went through his mind. Perhaps he was merely projecting the vacuum of his own life onto hers, though the places they called home were nothing alike. Molly’s condo, with its rounded corners, indirect lighting, and just the right shades of beige and moss green, looked as if it had been cut and pasted from the pages of a fashion magazine. High above the city, its expansive windows offered a view of a world much different from the one he knew.

  A few minutes later, Molly returned wearing a bathrobe. She sat Elliot on the sofa then went into the kitchen. When she returned, she switched off the television and slipped a glass of wine into Elliot’s hand. “So, what’s the trouble?” she asked.

  Elliot shook his head. “If there was any, I can’t seem to remember it now.”

  She smiled and snuggled close. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily. You were upset when you called. I’m worried about you.”

  Elliot sank back into the sofa and took a long sip of the wine. It had a bite to it, but it was soothing just the same. “I haven’t been myself lately, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you ever thought about doing something else for a living?”

  Elliot considered her question. While it was true that he’d toyed with the idea of being an attorney when he was younger, police work had so intrigued him that the idea now seemed completely unattractive. “Not really,” he said.

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  “What would I do?”

  She studied his face. “I don’t think you realize the impact you have on others, Kenny. You could do just about anything you wanted.”

  Elliot wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead he let a question slip out. “Do you ever wonder about your past?”

  Molly’s face showed concern. “I guess we all do now and then.”

  “What if it involved things you didn’t understand and didn’t want to remember?”

  Molly reached for the bottle of wine on the side table and refilled Elliot’s glass. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Elliot took another sip. If the wine was intended to relieve his anxiety, it had done so.

  She smiled. “Okay, Mr. Detective. I want you to tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Molly the psychologist again?”

  She leaned closer, playing with his hair.

  “All right,” he said, “but you’ll probably think I’m nuts.”

  “So, what’s new?”

  Elliot studied Molly’s face and suddenly his guarded secret didn’t seem so imposing. “I have this crazy dream,” he said.

  “A dream, that’s what this is all about?”

  “Well,” Elliot said, “it’s a particularly bad one. I had it all the time when I was young. Eventually it began to occur less frequently, until it was gone altogether.”

  “If the dream has stopped, why does it still bother you?”

  Elliot rubbed his forehead. It was wet with perspiration. “It’s happening again,” he said. “And it’s come back with a vengeance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It happens every night. I’m afraid to sleep. It’s beginning to affect my work.”

  Molly pushed her hair back. “When I was a little girl it always helped me when I told somebody about it. You know how dreams are, all in your head. When you try to explain them, put them into words, they don’t make sense anymore. It’s like you expose them for what they really are, a bunch of nonsense.”

  Elliot thought about that for a moment, then began to speak. “In the dream, I’m driving down this country road in the middle of the night. No one else is around; the road is completely deserted except for me. It’s exhilarating and I press the accelerator to the floor, feeling the car surge with power. But it’s not my car. It’s Johnnie’s Mustang.”

  “Who’s Johnnie?”

  “Johnnie Alexander, a friend of mine from high school.”

  “You said you were alone at first. Did that change?”

  “I meant no other cars were on the road. I’m not alone, but it isn’t Johnnie who’s with me. It’s his girlfriend, Marcia.”

&
nbsp; “Go on,” Molly urged.

  Elliot wondered if her curiosity had evolved into an interrogation, but he kept talking, letting it out, as if the memories had been bottled up long enough and had to come out. “I look at her long, tanned legs glowing in the moonlight that flows into the car through the windshield, and I become aroused. Marcia sees this and moves closer, putting her arm around me and sliding the other hand beneath my shirt. I find a secluded area and bring the car to a stop. I pull her close and our lips meet. It’s like fire inside me. But then Marcia pulls away and looks at something, the worst look of fear I’ve ever seen covering her face. I turn to look and I see someone outside the car, peering through the window, watching us. I can’t really see who it is, only their eyes. Then the figure begins to back away and I see that it’s Marcia.”

  “Wait a minute,” Molly said. “Is this the same girl that was in the car with you?”

  “Yeah, only now she’s outside, floating above the ground, wearing a sheer gown that clings to her curves, her feet crossed as if fastened to a crucifix. Her arms are outstretched and she’s calling to me, but no sound comes out. She’s crying, but her tears are droplets of blood streaking down her face like war paint.”

  Molly sipped her wine. “That’s a pretty wild dream, Kenny.”

  Elliot couldn’t tell if she was amazed, or if she just didn’t believe him. “There’s more,” he said. “I look back to see who’s in the car with me and it’s no longer Marcia. It’s Carmen Garcia, my high school girlfriend. Suddenly, I’m out of the car and walking through the woods toward a car. It’s the Mustang.”

  “The same one you were driving?”

  “That’s right, but now I’m walking toward it, coming from behind the vehicle. I’m angry with Johnnie and I mean to confront him, set things straight.”

  “What kind of things?” Molly asked.

  “We had a good football team that year. But after Johnnie got involved with Marcia, he spent all his time with her. The team suffered because of it.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “Carmen is following me as I approach the Mustang. She’s pleading with me to stop. She keeps saying, ‘Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.’ Then, as I near the car, I see that something is smeared across the back window. It’s words, written in blood, and I read it as I go by. The message reads Johnnie Boy was here. It frightens me, but then I see my class ring on a chain hanging from the rearview mirror of Johnnie’s car and I become angry again. I go to the driver’s side and yank the door open. What I see there sends a chill up my spine: Johnnie Alexander, my friend and the best quarterback to ever play at Porter High, is slumped over the steering wheel with blood dripping from the side of his head. And when I look at the passenger seat, I see Marcia Barnes. She’s covered in blood, much of it still seeping out of the holes in her torso.”

  “Jesus, Kenny. You don’t suppose the dream is based on actual events, do you?”

  Elliot wondered if that was a question, or an accusation. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess that’s why it bothers me so much.”

  Molly’s face looked ashen.

  Elliot thought for a moment then said, “Marcia and I did go out several times, parking in a car I’d borrowed. And once we did see someone looking through the window at us.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “Johnnie and Marcia were found dead in his car. It was the same area where we all went to park.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder you dream about it. You were traumatized, seeing something like that.”

  “Well, you see, that’s just it. I wasn’t there, or at least I wasn’t supposed to have been.”

  “What are you saying, Kenny?”

  “Carmen Garcia testified that I’d spent the night with her, never leaving her house during the night. Chief Johnson didn’t seem to have a problem with that, in fact he seemed relieved, glad I was no longer a suspect.”

  Molly’s face grew serious. “Were you there?”

  “I’m not sure. The image of my friends lying dead in the front seat of Johnnie’s car is so real in my mind, yet everything else about that night is a blur.”

  “I’m sure an event like that would have been widely publicized, especially in a small town. You probably picked up the details through the media.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “I’ve wondered about that. You’re probably right.”

  “Could you tell me more about this Marcia Barnes?”

  “She was gorgeous,” Elliot said, “petite and shapely with long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. Every boy in school wanted her.”

  “Including you?”

  “No, not really. I know it sounds crazy, but I was head over heels in love with Carmen. Looking back, it seems ridiculous what I did, but cocky teenagers don’t always behave rationally. I only dated Marcia to anger Johnnie. I had no idea my actions would inflict so much pain on everyone.” As Elliot spoke, tears welled up inside of him, but he held them back. “I’ve never regretted anything so much in my life.”

  “Does anybody else know about this?”

  “No,” Elliot said. “It’s been my secret until now.”

  Molly took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Look at the time,” she said.

  Elliot felt unsure of himself, like a child who’d just copped to a dirty deed while caught up in the throes of childhood confusion. He began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  9

  The melody still played inside his head when Mama shuffled into the room, stooping to keep a low profile while throwing evasive glances here and there, as if that might afford them some measure of protection should Papa actually be there, hiding in some dimly lit corner. “Just look at you,” she said, shaking her head. “My poor baby. You can’t go around like this. What if he saw you?”

  In troubled times, Mama’s eyes seethed with changing emotion, so much so that he never knew which to lock onto. He couldn’t anyway. The changes were too fleeting, a dark thundercloud of emotions as black as oil, churning and roiling, as if made of clay and forced into hideous and distorted shapes by angry and unseen hands. “But you told me I could play,” he said. “You promised.”

  She began to cry. “That was a long time ago. Things have changed. Just look at you.”

  What could he do except agree with her? She was right, after all. Things had changed. He had changed. While she watched without seeing, he obediently took off the nice clothes, folded them neatly and hid them beneath the mattress.

  “Hurry,” she said. “You must hurry.”

  He slipped back into the rags that he usually wore and took his place in the corner, holding his hands over his ears while she closed the door and locked it. He sat there for hours, waiting for the food Mama would hide and bring to him later. But the food never came. He could hear them, laughing while they watched television, the smell of buttered popcorn wafting through the air.

  At some point, he drifted into sleep, only to be awakened by the sound of the jewelry box. It played a tune when opened, the tune that ran through his head like a broken record. But as painful as the sweet melody was, it paled in comparison to the carnal noises that would follow. He dared not make a sound. Now was the worst time to be heard. He held his breath as he got down on his stomach, using the slightest of movements to crawl on his belly across the floor, praying he would not disturb the rotting boards. When he reached the door, he put his face close, straining to look through the cracks. As his eyes adjusted he could see Papa slipping beneath the covers, like an evil gopher burrowing just below the surface of the soil, breathing heavily as he moved about, touching her while she giggled with satisfaction. She didn’t always like it, but sometimes she did.

  ~~~

  Suddenly, he snapped back to the present, realizing with disgust what he’d been doing. He got out of bed and broke the reverie. He had to stop living in the past. It was nonproductive. Now was now, and it belonged to him. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had triu
mphed over her most recent appearance, but she could make a comeback. It was unlikely but not out of the question; it had happened before. And he’d been lulled into complacency, having her nearly catch him off guard. He couldn’t allow it to happen like that again. From here on out, there would be no rest. He had to be vigilant.

  He got dressed and grabbed the canvas bag that held the black-handled knife and other tools then walked silently down the hallway. When he reached the door, he quietly opened it and stepped out into the darkness. She would not catch him napping again.

  10

  Elliot awoke early the next morning, hungry and determined to spend less time worrying about his own problems and more on applying himself to the case. He made a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash brown potatoes, and stuffed himself. He didn’t eat that way often, and he had to admit he didn’t feel guilty about it. In fact, he enjoyed it immensely.

  After breakfast, he checked in at the department then drove to Joyce Roth’s office, the attorney Lagayle Zimmerman had consulted about divorce proceedings. Joyce Roth’s office was on 31st Street, not far from Harrison Zimmerman’s neighborhood. She greeted Elliot with a smile and pointed to an overstuffed chair that looked like it belonged in someone’s living room. “Have a seat,” she said. She sat at her desk.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Elliot put a lot of stock in first impressions, and Joyce Roth made a good one. Her office was neat and organized, and she wore feminine business attire that made the same statement. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your clients, Lagayle Zimmerman. I understand she’d consulted with you about a divorce from her husband, Harrison Zimmerman.”

  The paper had now run the story and Joyce Roth glanced at the morning edition. “I’m sorry to hear about her death. And yes, we talked a few times.”

  “Then I’ll get right to the point,” Elliot said. “Did Lagayle Zimmerman tell you anything that might help us solve her murder?”