Donahue nudged Randal. “Now she gets cagey.”
Randal grinned. “No worries, Jessica. There’s actually going to be a press conference in about an hour, so there’s not a whole lot you’ll be able to tell Mr. Al Holder that we won’t cover ourselves.”
“Although, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to set the record straight on one particular thing.”
“What’s that?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t know how the term gouging got picked up by the press, but far as forensics go, it’s not what we’re dealing with.”
“What are we dealing with?”
“Gouged is more of a press. Like fresh squeezed orange juice. Castle’s eyes were cut. Sliced right out of his sockets…” Donahue paused, gave Jessica a chance to keep her coffee down.
She welcomed the opportunity. “How did someone cut his eyes out and his tongue without his screams waking up half the –”
“Save it for the conference,” Randal interrupted pleasantly. “Will we see you there?”
“Don’t think they’re going to send an intern on that particular assignment.”
“You’re a smart one, Jessica Kincaid,” Donahue told her. “Wish you were playing for our side.”
Jessica had a sip of coffee.
“You sure you don’t remember Eli’s last name?” Randal asked.
“No idea.”
“Then it probably doesn’t matter,” Donahue countered, parading his own dishonesty.
From the other end of the apartment, Jessica heard the back door open. The sound of Dinah dropping her purse on the counter, followed by a customary call: “Jessica? You awake?”
“In here, Blondie!”
Dinah’s footsteps preceded her, and both detectives stood, folding their hands politely before them.
Upon entering, Dinah froze.
Brought the living room down to a solid seventy-three degrees.
“Ms. Dinah Titus, I’m Detective Donahue –”
“I know who you are,” Dinah interrupted. She crossed her arms over a faded Lucky Charms T-shirt. Stuck out a defiant, denim hip. “Read about you two in the paper last year. That kid who did a swan dive off the Verona Hilton.”
“Yeah,” Donahue shifted his weight, as though the memory were still strapped to his back. “That’s us.”
“Hope you guys didn’t do anything too stupid like search the premises. I know my rights.”
“Just gleaning.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with the Plain View Doctrine.”
Jessica smiled. “See, every now and again, Blondie here learns a little something from me.”
“Not funny, Jessica…” Dinah removed a hair-tie from her wrist, methodically bundled her curls into a bun. She marched to the front door, swung it wide. “I’ll be more than happy to talk to you some other time. But not today, and not in my apartment.”
Randal raised a polite hand. “Actually, we’re parked round back, so if we –”
“Too bad. You’re leaving through the front.”
Donahue reached into his coat. Took out a card and placed it on the table.
“In case either of you think of anything…” He turned to Dinah. “Or if maybe you just want to talk.”
Dinah pointed to the threshold. Closed the door behind them, even put her ear to the peeling paint.
“OK, Blondie.” Jessica stood up, scooped her mug off the table. “You do realize the peephole works far better if you use an eye, right?”
Dinah abandoned the door. “Not the smartest move in the world, Jess.”
“How’d it go at the Prescott-Pantheon?”
“Who cares how it went at the Prescott-Pantheon?”
“Well, I just got a copy of our lease renewal…” Jessica removed the papers from her back pocket. “So part of that agreement’s probably going to involve paying rent at some point –”
“I talked to Evan Stern, the hotel manager. Talked to my guy in the restaurant. We got an interview tomorrow with Nora, head of F and B. Now what the hell were you doing talking to those guys?”
Jessica followed Dinah into the kitchen. “Seriously, what is wrong with you –”
“Seriously, how can you ask seriously?” Dinah poured herself the rest of the coffee and placed the pot in the sink. “Jason Castle is undersecretary of health and human services for North Carolina. He was politically appointed, that’s what you told me. Political, right? The man’s got to have more enemies than you, girl.”
Jessica leaned against the fridge, right shoulder destabilizing a stanza of magnet poetry. “So?”
“So with all the possible suspects they might have, it doesn’t seem strange they came talking to you?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
Jessica pointed towards the hallway. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you all about Angry Jonny.”
By the end of their conversation, Dinah wasn’t feeling any better, time wasn’t passing any slower, and Jessica had to tune into a press conference that wouldn’t make things any clearer.
Chapter 7: Too Good to be True.
Her day thus far: Jessica was out of work, out of touch, and under suspicion for the assault on Jason Castle.
Worries that melted away as she walked through the doors of the Verona Observer. Footsteps echoing, buoyed by the cool air as she strode past security.
The guard smiled, gave her a wave. “Afternoon, Jessica.”
“Hey, Scott.”
“Gonna take ‘em to school today?”
“Gonna try.”
“Make us proud, beautiful.”
The elevator doors were open and waiting. She stepped in, entirely at home within the grinding, industrial hum of her slow ascent.
Jessica breezed through the third floor, unable to remember what it had looked like on her first day. She fielded greetings, waves, hasty smiles from people she had already come to think of as equals. A world away from the poisonous halls of her school, accusing eyes of her own classmates.
A little too good to be true, but she was willing to run with it.
Run with it all the way to Al Holder’s office.
He was seated in his chair. Pressed against the leather like an astronaut at liftoff. Remote control leveled at the television, where that afternoon’s press conference retraced its steps in choppy, digital rewind.
Ethan Prince was resting his ass on the desk, cue-ball head glinting. He gave her a swift, dismissive look. No different than day one, and Jessica doubted that dynamic would ever change.
“You catch the press conference?” Al hit pause. On screen, the speaker was stuck in an unflattering freeze frame. Eyes glued shut, jaw hinged at an odd angle beneath a modest mustache. The caption beneath almost came across as sarcasm: CHIEF OF POLICE JAMES VARGAS.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Leaves a lot to be desired, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Jessica cleared her throat. “Then again, I don’t know how anyone could take much away from these things. Always figured the whole idea of a press conference was to keep people in the dark.”
“Like all things, it depends…” Al held up a finger, pressed play. “Check this out.”
The image lurched forward.
“…The assailant used an unidentified anesthetic agent. Without signs of a struggle, it is more than likely he was rendered unconscious within seconds. If he was taken in his sleep, it is unlikely that Mr. Castle will be able to provide eye-witness identification.”
Jessica swore she could hear the crowd wince at Garcia’s use of eye-witness.
“Crap, wait. Hold on…” Al struggled with the remote. “Hang on… Here, this is what I don’t get.”
Garcia had been replaced with Captain Detective Donahue. He stood at the podium, no less comfortable than he had been sitting in Jessica’s living room. Only this version was far more diplomatic. Not a trace of humor, sentences clocking in at ten words or fewer. It might have been her imagination, but Jessica sensed
he was playing down his intelligence. Statements following each other with little flow or dramatic build. Just enough to appear competent, but sufficiently bland to make his inevitable evasions more believable.
“The words are not our primary focus. Neither is the symbol spray-painted below them. Our concentration will be on forensics. And when it comes to forensics, we must tread carefully. Information will be released as we determine it safe to do so. We are still in the process of sorting the evidence. We also think –”
Al punched the remote, once again.
Jessica was pleased to find that Donahue paused far better than his superior. Eyes half-closed, sure, but below the surface lay a sly smile. A coded message meant solely for the perpetrator.
Coming to get you, asshole.
“Here’s the thing about press conferences,” Al explained. “There’s key information that can hurt their investigation. But if they don’t give enough, taxpayers start to wonder just who’s keeping them safe at nights. It’s a lot like trying to get the most out of a first date, if you don’t mind the expression.”
Jessica shrugged. “Only if you mind me asking what it was like to go to school with Thomas Edison.”
“Ha!” Al laughed, scratching at his mustache. “It’s because I’m old. Got it.”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
Ethan rapped his knuckles on the desk, “Al, I think you need to tell –”
“Let me give our promising young friend a lesson,” Al interrupted, a touch of apprehension in his voice. “Point is, Jessica, these guys are stuck on a high wire. They want an arrest, but in order to get one, they have to keep certain things from the public. So here’s what gets my mind a-wandering…”
Al drew in his feet, swiveled to face Jessica. “They say the focus is on forensics. Didn’t hear much about it, though, did we?”
Jessica nodded. “Nothing about the anesthetic used to knock him out.”
“Got someone at the hospital who mentioned minor burns around Castle’s mouth and nose.”
“Sounds like –”
“Chloroform,” Ethan interrupted, stealing Jessica’s thunder. “Yeah. Until we get verification, we can’t print it.”
“And they’re also mum on all other details,” Al said. “What do they give us? Angry Jonny. The spray paint, that symbol on the wall… And that’s usually the kind of thing they keep to themselves. Helps them identify anyone who comes forward with a fake confession. But they talk it to death. Serving it up fresh from the kitchen… A little too good to be true, maybe?”
“You think they’re trying to distract us? Like a magician with misdirection, sleight of hand?”
“I was wondering what you thought.”
“Maybe there was more than one symbol on the wall. That gives them enough cover to kiss and tell –” Jessica stopped short, blindsided by another image of Jason Castle. Only now, his limp, mutilated face carried with it the spattered words of Angry Jonny. Lopsided crescent moon, just below the signature, topped with a cross. Joined by two other symbols; blurred, out of focus, writhing madly with a pulsating, inner life.
“Detectives Donahue and Randal stopped by my apartment to see me today,” Jessica blurted out.
The two men in the room shared a look.
“Jessica…” Ethan’s voice made a clean break from his standard patronizing. A little too accommodating for Jessica’s taste, a little too good to be true. “Please don’t think we want to put you in an awkward position, but if their investigation has gotten to the point where they’re already talking to you –”
“Hold on a second, there,” Al cautioned.
“– I’m guessing they must have already combed through every other possible witnesses –”
“Ethan –”
“They didn’t mention anything about this at the press conference!” Ethan thundered, clearly reacting to some prior conversation. “I don’t control how these assholes spin it!”
“And I’ll handle this.”
“Al, I really think –”
All summoned his most ferocious stare, teeth clenched below his mustache. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jessica’s eyes had been darting between the two, following an invisible tennis ball sail back and forth across the net. Landing on Ethan, who ran a hand across his naked dome before giving the desk a light punching.
“Whatever,” he said. Stood up abruptly and charged past Jessica. Paused at the door long enough to say, “Been nice working with you, kid.”
“Leave now,” Al commanded.
Ethan slammed the door shut, taking most of the air along with him.
Al turned back to the television screen. He held the remote between his hands, tip resting against his chin. Eyes misting with visible gloom.
And suddenly, Jessica understood. “Oh, shit.”
“Looks like you’ve been expecting this.”
“Doesn’t matter how it looks, does it?”
“I got a visit from your vice-principal today... Mr. Clarence Davenport.” He turned in his chair, tossed the remote on the desk. Rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Not yet.”
“Davenport thought I should know… that your essay is remarkably similar to that of another submission for the Observing the Observer contest. Specifically that of one Cali Jenkins.”
“Hold up…” Jessica held up a finger. “Head cheerleader, Cali Jenkins?”
“She wouldn’t sign my yearbook, so I can’t say for sure if –”
“Cali Jenkins? Really?”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Well, apart from being accused of plagiarism… Cali’s a senior, first of all. She’s already been accepted to Princeton. As a legacy, by the way, so she doesn’t need another line on her transcript.”
“”Nothing unusual about that,” Al reasoned. “Got a lot of seniors interested in working here, for the experience if nothing else. And, cheerleader or not, Cali’s a pretty formidable individual. Straight A’s. Student council. Extracurricular activities. Got more committees to her name than a US senator.”
Al picked up a copy of the damming document, readily available.
The thought that it had been sitting on his desk from the moment she walked in made Jessica’s blood turn molten, cheeks flushing as Al read the title out loud:
“From Black to White: The Evolution of Barack Obama.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Jessica –”
“Why the hell would Cali even care about whether or not people consider the president black enough?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“In the three years I’ve known Cali Jenkins, there’s not a moment to even suggest she has even a passing interest in race relations.”
“And how well do you know her?”
Jessica bit her lip.
Al sighed again. “It’s basically the same essay.”
“Basically, nothing.”
“Cali traces the President’s perception as a ‘black candidate’ to a ‘post-racial’ candidate.”
“And mine goes back to the start of the primaries, when everyone was asking whether he was black enough to resonate. Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, all of the most prominent black leaders and intellectuals in the country were pissed that he wasn’t one of them. White mother, black father, it’s the same shit I’ve had to put up with my whole life! That experience is mine, my argument, it belongs to me!”
“And Cali did the same.” Al kept his voice level. “Only as a white girl witnessing her family and friends coming to recognize the president as one of their own –”
“Culminating in an imaginary, reborn, post-racial America, understood.”
“These essays are basically photonegatives. Black to white, white to black. Substituting two sides of a racial and cultural coin. These are very similar works, Jessica.”
Jessica balled her hands into fists. Trem
bling, unable to stop herself from replacing Jason Castle with visions of vice-principal Davenport. Tied to a chair, beady eyes unearthed, tongue cut clean out of his mouth, no more lies from this little man.
Then she remembered to breath: “May I have a copy of that, please?”
Al picked up his cell, sent a quick text.
Celia walked in, cocooned in a green wool sweater.
“Sir?”
Al offered her Cali’s paper. “Could you Xerox me a copy?”
Celia took it, walked out.
Jessica wasn’t done. “You want to tell me how Davenport could have miraculously missed two identical essays up until now?”
“He puts it on his assistant.”
“I know Brookside is better off than most public schools, but Davenport ain’t got an assistant.”
“David Towne. Another senior. Seems Brookside gives community service credits to teaching assistants. Or, in this case –”
“Long story short, please?”
“Long story short, David dropped the ball. Must have discarded Cali’s submission assuming that it was just an extra copy of yours. By the time it got sent to us…” Al let the scenario play out.
“Do I get to face my accuser in court?” Jessica asked, slowly losing her drive to argue.
“You mean Davenport?”
“I mean Cali.”
“Not as simple as all that…” Al said embarrassed. “Cali and her family are spending their entire vacation on a farm in the south of France.”
“I believe her people call it summering.”
“I believe they do.”
“Strikes me as odd that Cali’s been bragging about her French getaway from the past year. Doesn’t seem like she had any intention of spending her summer working at a hole-in-the-wall like the Verona Observer –”
“I’m going to let that slide for now.”
“My submission was published in your paper. Why didn’t she say something then?”
“Could be she didn’t read it.”
“Didn’t read it?”
“She knew she’d lost. South of France ain’t a bad consolation prize… not to mention that Cali, no matter what you say, hasn’t accused you of anything.”
“Doesn’t that seem exceptionally convenient? Sir?”
Celia let herself in, handed Al his copy and original.
Jessica could smell the Xerox fumes, even from where she stood.
With that courtesy out of the way, it was Jessica and Al. Alone again.
Neither wanting to bring it in for a landing.
Angry Jonny Page 7