Copyright © 2016 Alby Stone
The balding man is becoming impatient. ‘Look, do you want a lawyer or not? You waived that right when we read you the Miranda. It’s on the video record. But you say you thought you’d only been arrested for public drunkenness. Well, it’s a different ball game now. So let me repeat, for the tape or whatever the fuck this is being recorded on: do you want a lawyer?’
The other man pulls at the tight, washed-out white vest, shifts uneasily in the jogging pants that are two sizes too large for his lean frame. His feet are bare. His hands shake. His face is haggard. He doesn’t look in great shape for a man not yet thirty years old. ‘I don’t need a lawyer. I haven’t hurt anyone. I would never do anything like that.’
The balding man taps the table. ‘Tell us what happened at the party.’
‘I can’t remember. Only that it was in Bel Air.’
‘Try.’ The woman at the other side of the table wears her dark blue pant-suit well. She is poised, elegant, strong. Looking only a little older than the trembling man opposite, she is a world away in terms of confidence.
An unsteady hand pushes back tousled brown hair. ‘Man, I was really wasted. It’s just flashes, like someone taking pictures at random intervals in a dark room. Little segments of sound and motion, like those video loops you find on the internet. Then blanks. Blank, flash – blank, flash.’
The woman’s partner, balding and bellied in a suit from the cheap end of the rack, takes over. ‘We’re not asking you to give details of the whole night. Just tell me what you can remember – who and where, what was happening. Look, we’ve all been there. I know you probably can’t even order those flashes into anything like the correct sequence. You were shitfaced. I’ve been shitfaced. Everyone I know has been shitfaced and it’s always the same, like bits of the night have been flushed down the can. Just tell me what you can. No hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘Uh, can I get a coffee? Maybe a sandwich? Cheese and ham on rye?’
‘Sure, in a minute,’ says the woman, leaning back in her chair. ‘But talk first. Someone will take your order. Could do with a bite myself, tell you the truth.’
‘Right. So I’d had a drink too many, like I said.’
The balding man barks out a short, tired laugh. ‘Don’t forget the coke and the weed. They found the wraps in your pocket. Empty. But we’re not concerned with that. Just be honest with us.’
A shrug. ‘Yeah, okay. So, sure, I was off my face. Up to around nine it was a pretty good evening – the party was shaking, know what I mean? All the gang from work, some of their partners, a lot of people I didn’t know. Then she came along, that bitch who’d been giving me such a hard time.’
The woman leans forward, interested. ‘Just to be clear, you are referring to your ex-girlfriend? Astrid Maria de Santos? Tell me about her. For background.’
Another shrug, a brief darkening of the face that could be embarrassment or anger. ‘What’s to tell? Thirty years old, five three, short curly hair, dark. Gorgeous. Grew up in Beverley Hills, parents moved here from Brazil when she was two. Daddy owned coffee plantations, interests in rubber and minerals. Super-rich. We met at a charity dinner two years ago, hit it off, became an item. Then, six months ago, she dumped me. Out of the blue, no explanation. Just called me one day and said it was over.’
The woman nods, her features understanding, sympathetic. ‘You were upset?’
‘At first. Yeah, who wouldn’t be? But shit, I’d been dumped before and I knew I’d get over it. Besides, I was half-expecting it. Things don’t last, know what I mean? Not in her circle. Not if you’re not what they want. I wasn’t from money and I had no connections. Her friends looked down their noses at me. And there was no way I’d have been welcomed into the family. It was sure to happen sooner or later. So I swallowed it, began to put it behind me.’
She nods encouragement. ‘And how exactly did you do that?’
‘How do you think? I went out. I partied. I dated. I started having fun again, real fun. But then she started calling, sending texts, e-mails, postcards. I’d see her waiting on the street corner when I left for work, outside the office when I went home. I’d see her in bars and movie theatres, the ball game – everywhere I went, she was there. Watching, looking like she hated my guts.’
‘She was stalking you?’ The woman raises an eyebrow in a way that might signify scepticism but her voice is soft, almost maternal.
‘I guess so. But she never approached me. If I went to confront her she would just melt into the crowd.’
The balding man homes in on a detail. ‘Did you keep any of the messages she sent?’
‘No. Everything was deleted or went into the trash.’
Frowning, the balding man tries another tack. ‘Did any of your friends or associates see her when you were out with them?’
‘You’d have to ask them. I never mentioned it. No one said anything to me.’
‘Okay, let’s move on,’ says the woman. ‘What happened when you saw her at that party? What did you do? What did she do?’
‘I was angry. I went out into the garden, sat by the pool, snorted some coke then rolled a jay to calm myself down. Had another drink. I figured that if she followed me out there I’d confront her, ask what the hell she was playing at, tell her to leave me the fuck alone. I didn’t want to get heavy about it, but I was sick of her game and just wanted it to stop. While I was smoking the weed she came out, stood in the doorway, just staring, saying nothing.’
The balding man wants corroboration. ‘Was anyone else out there?’
The younger man shakes his head. ‘Not then. It was too soon for most of them to get started on the dope or go skinny-dipping. Yeah, a lot of my friends are into that. Not my scene, though. Nudity’s for the shower and the bedroom, know what I mean? Anyway, she turned round and walked back indoors. I had another drink and followed her. By then the place was jammed and at first I couldn’t see her. Then I saw her on the other side of the room, still looking at me like I was a piece of shit. As soon as I moved in her direction, she was off again. I must have followed her through every room in that big old house, never managed to catch up with her.’
The woman breaks in. ‘And all this time you were still drinking?’
‘Yeah, I was knocking back anything that came my way. Then I needed a piss. Snorted some more coke while I was in the bathroom. When I flushed and unlocked the door, there she was, looking back over her shoulder at me as she went downstairs and into the crowd.’
‘Can you remember what she was wearing?’ The woman smiles, opens her eyes wide, just another girl after fashion tips.
‘A white dress, short, tight. Gold hoop earrings and a matching necklace. I never saw her shoes and I couldn’t say if she had a bag.’
‘Did she stop and speak to anyone?’ The question is half-hearted. The balding man is sure by now that witnesses are going to be in short supply.
‘Not that I saw. But after I followed her downstairs I started thinking. What was I doing? Exactly what she wanted. I was noticing her. I was getting angry. So I thought to myself, fuck her. I’m finished with this shit. Let her stare and hang around all she wants, I’ve had all I can take. So I had another drink and started talking to this blonde chick, Chrystal, who works in the legal department.’
‘What happened then?’ The balding man rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. His narrowed eyes suggest this may be important.
‘A blank. By then I was seriously out of it. Then a flash – I’m in the garden smoking weed with Chrystal. She’s laughing at something I said. Then another blank. Then I’m out in the street outside the house and I can hear sirens. Blank. Flash – me and Chrystal are in a dark corner of the garden, making out. Blank. Flash – I’m back indoors, getting a bottle of wine, very chilled. Blank. Flash – I’m on the ground and someone’s trying to haul me up. Blank. Flash – in the garden with Chrystal, she’s got her skirt up round her waist and my pants are round my ankles, and we’re screwing. Blank. Flash – I’m in an alley somewhere, throwing up. Someone says something in a language I don’t understand. Blank. Flash – me and Chrystal are getting dressed. Blank. Flash – she says she wants to leave and asks me to go home with her. Blank – I’m running, afraid. Someone’s chasing me. Blank. Flash – I’m at the party again and Astrid’s staring at me. This time she’s smiling. Blank.’
The woman nods further encouragement. ‘Next flash?’
‘The next thing I remember is waking up here, in a cell, feeling like fifty shades of shit.’
‘So you and Chrystal had sex? Consensual sex?’ The balding man sounds bored but his eyes tell another story.
The young man is indignant. ‘What are you getting at? Of course it was consensual. She wanted me to go back to her place, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Just covering all the bases,’ says the balding man. ‘Are you still sure you don’t want a lawyer?’
‘For being drunk in public? Are you crazy?’
The balding man grins. ‘The jury’s still out on that one. But, like we said, this is about more than you getting juiced. You may choose to believe otherwise, that’s your prerogative. And you can always change your mind. In the meantime, tell me – how did you and Chrystal get on before last night? Were you friends? Had you dated before?’
‘I knew her to say hello to, that was all. In our company legal and commercial paths only cross at the higher levels. Quite honestly, I doubt she remembered me from one day to the next. I sure didn’t think about her very often.’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you no one else remembers you speaking to Chrystal at the party?’ The balding man stretches his legs, relaxed. They are on solid ground now. This is where he does have witnesses.
‘No. Why would they? It was a party. I would expect everyone to have their own things going on.’
The balding man has witnesses here, too. ‘And if I said no one recalls seeing Astrid de Santos at the party? A – how did you describe her? – a gorgeous girl like that? I’ve seen pictures and I agree that Astrid was a very beautiful woman. The kind men remember and women try not to.’
‘I can’t answer for them.’
‘No, of course,’ the woman agrees. ‘But Chrystal – would you say she was gorgeous too?’
‘Chrystal is very pretty and she has a great figure. I don’t understand this line of questioning. I thought you were just trying to help me piece together what happened to me last night?’
‘Oh, we are,’ says the balding man. ‘Is that vest comfortable by the way? Looks a bit small to me. Your clothes were in a bit of a mess. Had to take them off you while you were out of it. We didn’t have much else in the locker room. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. When I threw up in that alley I must have got puke all over me. Thanks.’
The balding man waves it away. ‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Can I have that coffee and sandwich now?’
‘Already ordered,’ says the balding man. ‘They’ll be here soon. Tell me, that flash you had, the one where you were being picked up off the ground. Think hard. Can you remember anything more?’
‘Only that the ground seemed uneven. Oh yeah, I tripped when they got me upright. I think my feet were tangled in something. Some kind of fabric maybe? I don’t know.’
The woman nods, but this is satisfaction, not encouragement. ‘Okay, let’s backtrack. When was the last time you saw Astrid de Santos to speak to?’
‘Six months back, the day before she dumped me. She was at my apartment. We were talking about a trip we were planning to make, to Europe, London. Well, I thought we were planning to make it. Guess I was wrong, huh?’
The balding man writes something on his notepad. ‘Did you argue?’
‘No. Everything was fine. She had to go home early because of something her folks had arranged. A birthday dinner for her younger sister, that was it.’
‘And you weren’t invited?’ The woman says this in a manner that makes it clear she already knows the answer.
‘Like I said, I was never going to be welcomed into that family. As far as her parents were concerned, I didn’t exist.’
The balding man sighs. ‘What if was to tell you that Astrid’s mother and father haven’t seen or heard from her since that morning?’
‘I’d say you were crazy.’
The balding man sighs again. ‘And if I said that Astrid’s car was found abandoned in a car park in Brooklyn two days ago – and that Astrid was in it?’
‘Well, she gets around a lot. Always driving somewhere or other. She loves that Lexus. Wait, what are you saying? Is she – is she okay?’ The young man is alarmed, confused.
‘Her body was in the trunk,’ says the woman. ‘It’s been warm lately, but the coroner thinks she’s been dead a while, maybe six months.’
‘But that’s impossible. I’ve seen her so many times over the last few months. She sent me messages, about stuff only I would know. She can’t have been dead all that time. What the fuck’s happening here? Are you trying to set me up?’
‘Please calm down,’ says the balding man, half-rising so the younger man can see just how big he is. ‘Thank you. Astrid was badly beaten and eventually strangled to death. Just like Chrystal Moore. The only difference is that the assault on Chrystal was interrupted. Your little flashes weren’t in chronological order. When your colleagues from the party pulled you off Chrystal, while you were throttling her, your feet got caught up in her dress. You remember the ground as uneven because it was in fact Chrystal’s body you were lying on, and you had your hands round her neck. There’s no doubt. One enterprising partygoer filmed it on her phone. Before she called 911, naturally.’
The young man shakes his head vigorously, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief. ‘No, I don’t believe you. There’s no way I’d do anything like that. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. It must be a mistake.’
‘No mistake,’ says the balding man. ‘Like I said, we’ve got the end stage of your assault on Chrystal on video. That woman from – accounts?’ He checks his notes, nods. ‘Yeah, accounts – she took a lot of footage. At first they didn’t even recognise Chrystal, you’d beaten her so badly. And we took your clothes because, as well as some high-end puke, they’re covered in blood. Same group as Chrystal, and we’re sure the DNA will confirm that. Are you sure you don’t want that lawyer now?’
The young man can’t speak at first. He seems to be looking inward, searching desperately for a truth that’s just out of reach. In the process he appears to notice something he doesn’t like very much. He shudders, takes a deep breath and pulls himself together. ‘I suppose I’d better. Shit, this is not happening.’
‘Unfortunately for you, this is indeed happening,’ says the woman, not unkindly. ‘Fortunately for Chrystal, she’ll live and will probably make a full recovery. Traumatised, probably scarred, but alive. But poor Astrid – she’s dead. Tell us what happened that day she dumped you. Unless you want to call your lawyer first. Your choice.’
‘I don’t remember hurting either of them. The last thing I remember about Astrid is her putting her shoes on. After that, I swear I don’t know. It’s just a blank.’
*
‘He’s a tough nut,’ says the woman. They are standing outside, in the unlit, empty car park, smoking and drinking bad coffee from paper cups. It is dark. Nothing is visible beyond the yellowish glow from the windows.
The balding man snorts. ‘You think?’
‘Yeah, I think. He must remember something. He killed one woman and nearly did another. “It’s just a blank.” Bullshit.’
‘I think he’s telling the truth. He really doesn’t remember. Maybe it’s the drugs and booze. Or maybe he’s blocked it out – those things don’t fit with his self-image so he’s just convinced himself they didn’t happen.’
‘But we know the asshole did it. We fucking know. We don’t need a fucking confession, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Watch your language. The Chief doesn’t like to hear that kind of talk.’
‘Yeah, but – Jeez, it’s just fucked up.’
The balding man looks around the car park anxiously, then relaxes. ‘Look, you’re right. We know what he did. We have evidence, not that we actually need it. But you know the rules. We need a confession. You can’t punish someone if they don’t know they’ve committed a crime. That’d make it like an accident. No volition, no knowledge, no intent – that equals no guilt.’
The woman drops the cigarette butt, grinds it flat with her heel, lights another. ‘It’s way too easy, you ask me. Shit, all a perp has to do is plan ahead – commit the crime then take a drug so he can’t remember a damn thing about it. Plenty of shit out there that can fuck up your memory. Scopolamine, ketamine, quaalude – mix them with booze and it’s like taking an eraser to a few days. “I didn’t do nothing.” Fucking wipe-out.’
The balding man swills a mouthful of coffee, grimaces. ‘We don’t make the rules – but we have to abide by them. It’s procedure all the way. We screw up, the Chief’ll shit a brick.’
‘Yeah, I totally get that. But it makes me wonder. So many of these fuckers walk on a technicality. Too many fucking loopholes, know what I’m saying?’
‘Sure. But we’re law enforcement. It’s what we do, follow rules, everything kosher and above board. And the rules say we need a confession.’
‘I still don’t get why we can’t call witnesses. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘I hear they used to, way back in the old days. But that was long before I started out in the job, before I even came down to LA. There used to be proper trials, with a judge and jury, witnesses, evidence. The rules changed, seems some bleeding heart liberal started bleating about it being a punishment for the victims to make them come down here and relive their ordeals, and an unnecessary distress for witnesses. Have to admit, he had a point. Why put the poor saps through it again? So now we can tell the accused what people saw or heard, but we can’t bring them here in person. Now we need confessions. And I understand why that is. The perp has to know and understand he or she is a perp. No ambiguity, no doubt. That’s what you need to get a guilty verdict and punishment these days. At least they can still get a lawyer if they want one, that’s something. Plenty of lawyers here in LA. That’s why we do this here and not uptown. Saves on travel. Efficiency, modernisation, whatever.’
‘No ambiguity,’ the woman groans. ‘Give me a fucking break. Hey, all that “blank/flash” crap – do you really buy it?’
The balding man throw his empty cup into a trashcan, hitches up his pants. The waist immediately sags below his belly again. ‘Yeah, I buy it. Before the job, when I was young, I was a real hell-raiser – more lost weekends and blackouts than I can count. Did a lot of things I could never recall. Cheated on my wife, got into fights. Once I beat some poor bastard half to death. OK, I just about remembered that one, though for a while I told myself it was just a bad dream. Thought I’d got away with it, but you know how it goes. So yeah, I think that guy’s on the level.’
‘Can’t imagine you as that type. Still, we’ve all got a past, huh?’ She sighs heavily, stamps out the second cigarette butt, tips the last of her coffee down her throat, pulls a face. ‘Where the fuck do they get this shit? Tastes like its been scraped up from an autopsy room and boiled up with skunk piss.’
‘That’s probably exactly right. Come on, let’s go in. That asshole’s sweated long enough and I need to take a leak.’
The woman folds her arms across her breasts, shivers. ‘Is it me or is it getting cold out here?’
The balding man laughs. ‘It’s as hot as ever, sweetheart. It’s always too damn hot at night in this place. And it’s always night here. That’s why they call it LA.’
The woman smiles and shakes her head. ‘Yeah, I nearly shit myself when they transferred me here. Before that I was uptown, working vice. That was an easy number. Fun, too. This place isn’t what I expected. All paperwork and pampering punks. Christ, it sure is the pits.’
They turn to the station door, but the rectangle of light is obscured as the door frame is filled by a hulking figure, like a blank obliterating a flash. Two red pinpricks glitter angrily in the shadowed face. The car park becomes a shade or two darker.
The balding man whispers urgently to the woman. ‘Shit, it’s the Chief. I told you to watch your fucking language. You just don’t say that name here in the Lower Abyss.’