Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) Page 5

  I saw myself caving in the reflection of his round, wire-rim glasses. He took my hands out of my pocket; blew on them with his warm, moist breath; and lowered them to his chest, his heart. “Bea, I told you, I’m clean. I’m not using. I love you. I miss you so much.”

  Pang #6.

  TKO.

  I fell headfirst into those piercing, dark, hypnotic eyes—believed every word he uttered. Believed that he wanted, needed, desired me, like no one else ever had, and I disregarded the four months of sobriety I’d trudged through; said screw you to the months, the days, the hours, and to everyone who loved and cared about me. Chucked it, like a measly, melting ice chip into a snowdrift, only to be shoveled away by the approaching snowplow.

  We ended up in Marcus’s hobbit-like room at the top of a frat house on the University of Michigan campus. He majored in pharmaceutical medicine, and was, aptly, a campus drug dealer.

  I woke up, lying in his bed. Glimpsed at the clock: two a.m.

  Oh no, no, no, no, no. What have I done?

  Whistler, his Maine coon cat, was curled up on my feet. He yawned, stretched, circled, and settled himself on Marcus’s legs. I sat up, and the room started to spin, so I put one foot down on the cold wooden floor, grounding me. Marcus was asleep—mouth open, drool dripping. Stale, boozy-smelling snores. A bong sat on the side table. A half-empty bottle of tequila was lying on Marcus’s naked belly, moving in sync with his breath.

  The spinning stopped, but my brain felt heavy, thick with substance—as if it were coated with itchy alpaca wool that I couldn’t get at and scratch.

  I pulled the covers off my naked body and stood. Marcus groaned, rolled over, and faced the wall, away from me.

  A window in his room was cracked open, and a gust of cold November air swept through, rustling the blinds. I started to shiver, and my stomach churned, sending a wave of nausea up through my body. My knees buckled. I was wasted. I stumbled to the john. Hung my head over the toilet and puked up tequila. It pooled in the toilet, spilled down the sides, splattered on my new mukluk boots which I’d kicked off earlier on the black-and-white tiled floor.

  I hurled until my stomach was empty—but the smell made me dry heave—it felt like a hand had reached down my throat and yanked, tearing away at my intestines, bringing up my soul . . . whatever was left of it.

  And then—a loud knock on the door. Sergeant Daniels’s voice. “Bea. Are you in there? Bea. Answer me!”

  Shit. I grabbed a towel hanging from a rack and wrapped it around myself.

  Marcus stirred.

  Another loud knock. “Open up, or I’ll kick this door in!”

  Marcus jumped up. “Fuck.” He leaned over the bed, tried to grab his jeans—but not in time, as the sergeant did what he promised and barreled into the room.

  Whistler hissed, ran under the bed.

  I was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, the towel barely covering me. Marcus stood naked next to the bed.

  Sergeant Daniels scanned the room. Looked at me, looked at Marcus. I thought I heard a throaty, growling noise—I wasn’t sure if it was coming from Daniels or the cat.

  Marcus grabbed a pillow and placed it over his limp dick and crouched, anticipating what came next.

  I held out my hand. “Dan, don’t . . .” But my words went unnoticed—flew out the window.

  A good four inches taller, the sergeant placed his large, leather-gloved hands on Marcus’s skinny shoulders, lifted him, and with teeth clenched, threw him against the wall.

  Marcus crumbled to the ground and groaned, rolling into a fetal position.

  “Stop it, Dan!” I screamed, but I was immediately silenced by the sergeant’s raised hand.

  “Stay away, Bea,” he ordered.

  Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudged Marcus, rolled him toward the bed, snatched a blanket, and tossed it on top of him. He then knelt down, flashed his police badge in Marcus’s face, and seethed, spat, “You’re going to leave today. Pack up all your shit, all of it, and you’re going to get the hell out of Ann Arbor. Never come back—not ever to my city. And if you do, and believe me, I’ll know if you do, I’ll get a warrant and have your sorry, wimpy ass busted—locked away for good, for the rest of your miserable life. Do you hear me?”

  Marcus coughed, moaned, and nodded.

  Daniels stood. “Bea, get dressed.”

  I dropped the towel, quickly threw on my clothes, and crossed to the splintered door. I took one last look at the broken mess of Marcus on the floor and left the devil’s den.

  The sergeant drove. Made no eye contact with me.

  My head pounded. “How did you find me? How’d you know where I was?”

  His nostrils flared, steaming up the windows. “Spotted your car alone at St. Anne’s. A snowplow was circling the lot. He said he saw a girl leave with someone in a Prius.”

  “How did you know it was Marcus?”

  “That punk has been on campus police radar for a while. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  “So you were following me again?” I shivered.

  “I wanted to know if you could check out a perp for me—draw something out of him.”

  “You mean a case?”

  “Yeah. But never mind.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I eyed the sergeant—his profile, his jaw set in a determined clench. I willed him to look at me. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t face me. “It’ll never happen again, I promise.” I dropped my heavy head in my hands. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

  “Yeah. I am, too.”

  Oh my god. They’re going to send me back to rehab. I panicked. “Please don’t tell my parents, please. They think I’m with Willa.” I grabbed on to the sleeve of his nubuck jacket. “I don’t want to go back to rehab. I can’t go back to that place. Please.”

  He turned into a subdivision, past rows of modest ranch houses—every one, just like the last—pulled into a driveway, and stopped the engine.

  Sergeant Daniels spoke as if he were talking to himself, convincing himself. “You’re going to spend the rest of the night at my house. Max is with his mother, so you can sleep in his room. I’ll take you to your car in the morning, and you’ll drive straight home. Yes, I will follow you. And you’ll do a thirty/thirty. Thirty AA meetings in thirty days—no exception—starting tomorrow. You agree to that and I won’t tell your parents.”

  I blubbered with gratitude—snot ran down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you . . .”

  “Okay. Let’s get in the house. Take your boots off first. They smell like vomit.”

  I did—I stepped out of the mukluks, and holding my arm, he walked me into his dark house, brought me to his son, Max’s, room. I sat on the bed. He took off my coat, gave me four saltine crackers, a glass of water, and two aspirins, and placed a puke bucket near the bed—just in case, he said.

  The sergeant lifted a Spider-Man quilt, tucked me under it, and made eye contact for the first time. His sad green eyes bore through me, etched my brain.

  “This is just a blip, Bea. Just a blip on the screen. It’s not going to happen again, and no one needs to know about it. It will be our little secret.” Then he kissed my forehead and left the room.

  That night I dreamed of my superhero, Dan Daniels.

  The next morning I found my boots sitting on the floor by the bed—clean. And I started one day, one hour, one minute . . . all over again.

  I take a deep breath, unzip my sweatshirt, shake out my hands, and watch Sergeant Daniels enter the room, pull up a metal chair, and sit across the table from the kid, his back to me.

  “So, Junior . . . may I call you that?” I hear his voice through the speakers imbedded in the wall.

  Junior shrugs. His head hangs low—he doesn’t make eye contact with the sergeant. His right knee rapidly jiggles up and down underneath the table.

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult—prolonged. Just give me the 411 on your OG. Who set you up?”

  Hah. Quick study, Daniels, I think t
o myself.

  Junior’s voice cracks, straddles high and low. “I already told the other cop. I fessed up—it’s all there.” He points at a manila folder. “I called the shots—nobody else. There’s nothin’ more.” His jaw sets in a grimace, and he shoots a well-rehearsed tough-guy look at the sergeant—but it doesn’t fly. The look falls flat.

  “Okay, whatever you say.” Daniels leans back in his chair and reads from the folder.

  I chew the tip of my pen, waiting for something to pop up.

  Junior’s left leg joins in on the dance with his right, both legs jiggling so high they graze the underside of the table.

  Daniels gets up from his chair and starts circling Junior. “You know what you’re looking at, right? You’re not considered a minor here in Michigan. They’ll throw you in the big house, and I’m not talking about U of M’s football stadium, we’re talking years—maybe life. You’re a good kid. No priors—squeaky clean record. I can throw that folder away—your confession—in the trash, right now, you know that, don’t you?”

  Junior chews the side of his mouth. His nostrils flare in silence.

  “Are you taking a dive for someone? Maybe a bro? A homey? Someone close to you?” Junior’s legs suddenly stop shaking.

  Daniels glances up at me and then leans in close to Junior, and whispers, “So that’s it. You’re protecting someone you care about.”

  “I dunno know what you talkin’ ’bout.” Junior folds his arms in front of his chest and eyes the stained ceiling tiles as if he’s trying to stop gravity from pulling down the tears.

  Daniels walks around the table and sits. “You’re young; you’re smart. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  Junior squints a pained look at Daniels.

  And I squint at Junior. Trying to force something in my head. But it’s empty—nothing is coming into focus. I drag my chair closer to the scratched glass, breathe on it, and wipe it with the sleeve of my hoodie and gaze into his eyes.

  “Fine.” Daniels doesn’t let up. “You’re guilty. Got it. With that confession?” He points at the folder. “You’re basically toast—so why not? Why not tell me more?” He stands—sits on the table. “Why the hell would you kill a homey and dump him in the river? You got more going on, don’t cha, Junior? What else you dealing? Where’s the rest of the stash? There has to be more, a shitload more.”

  Junior looks right at me. I wait for something to kick in . . . what he’s seeing—what he’s thinking about. And his sad, scared eyes—his pupils start dancing around like he’s suddenly focusing on something, reliving something. And in an instant a series of images start bouncing in my head, too, like a pinball machine. Balls. Dozens of lime-green, fuzzy tennis balls whirl around, slam against one another. My brain pulsates with each bounce. I try to keep my hand steady as I pencil them on the paper and then text Daniels:

  ME: got it.

  The sergeant reacts to the buzz of the phone in his back pocket. He takes it out and reads. “Excuse me one minute, will you? And while I’m gone? Think about everything I said. Think about your future. A cap and gown in June, or the slammer at seventeen.” He exits the room.

  Junior stays seated, blinks a few times, his gaze burrowing into me, as if he sees me through the mirror again—focused in tight, a lone tear wells up and then drips down on his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

  I jump as the sergeant charges in the room. “Why did that take you so long?”

  “Sorry, jeez. I didn’t know I was under the gun. Bad pun, I know.”

  “So? What did you see, draw?”

  I tear out the page in my book, stand, hand it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Looks like tennis balls to me.”

  He flips it around, checks out the back. “Where’s the face?”

  “What face?”

  “The face you saw when you studied him?”

  “I didn’t see a face. I saw balls. Tennis balls.”

  “You were supposed to draw a face—the boss—the OG.”

  “I don’t always see faces; you know that. Sorry. Fire me, why don’t you? I draw what’s in their mind.” I shrug, sit back down on the chair. “Don’t blame me; blame Junior. Damn, my head is hurting.”

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. I have to figure that out for you, too?” I lean my elbows on my knees, lower my head, and rub my temples.

  He studies the drawing—bites his bottom lip. “I’ll give it to Cole. See what he can get out of this . . . maybe send the canines in there.”

  “Not Cole—he’ll screw it up.”

  “Bea, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “I’m not. It’s just that Junior’s scared about something, Sarge. His eyes were, like, crazy scared.”

  The sergeant doesn’t respond for a moment. “Well, I need more than this. I’ve got to get more out of him somehow.”

  I feel like such a failure. “What happens to him now?”

  “We’ll keep him in the holding cell for the time being.”

  “The holding cell? Where’s that?”

  “In the basement.”

  I stand. “Put me in there with him. I can get more out of him, without glass between us, and maybe draw something that’ll help.”

  “Don’t be crazy. That’s too dangerous. And you’re a girl. You wouldn’t be allowed in there with him.”

  “You said I look like a guy.”

  “No way, Bea. No.”

  “Come on. . . . I’m sure there are cameras, right? You can watch. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know about this. . . .”

  “I do. I can draw the truth out of him. I know I can. Give me another chance. Please?”

  We have to play the game again—but this time we switch roles: it’s the sergeant who’s acting tough for an approaching deputy as he shoves me down the fluorescent-lit basement hallway. “I’ve got her . . . I mean him,” Daniels explains. “And believe me, you don’t want to handle him. He’s a biter.”

  A biter? Really, I’m a biter? I eye him like he’s crazy.

  The sergeant gives me a hint of a smile and then pushes me into a small jail cell and unlocks the handcuffs—nope, not the last time I had to wear them. He gestures with his head toward a security camera, leans in close, and whispers, “Stand right where you are and turn your cap around on your head when you’ve got something. That’ll be our signal. But make sure I see you do it. I’ll be right around the corner, monitoring, and I’ll get to you within a minute. You got it, Bea?”

  “Got it, Sarge.”

  He slams the steel bars shut. They clang—lock automatically.

  I look around at the cell. Probably six by eight feet. I pace the space and prove my estimation right. It smells of pissy Pine-Sol. Three sterile cinder-block walls painted a drab olive green; a concrete floor; a stainless toilet and sink jutting out of the wall; a worn wooden plank to sit on, lie on, wait on, worry on. Phony amenities, bullshit hope.

  Black scuff marks mar the floor; the words fuck you all, scraped by someone, probably with a fingernail, are etched in the wood on the side of the plank. The metal bars are worn, the finish dulled from clenched fists.

  This could have so been my life. Spent in a cell. Locked away. I was never busted—never had to sit in a hole like this. It was bad enough overdosing—waking up in a hospital, being thrown into rehab by my parents. But here? It’s stupid scary. That’s what it’s meant to do, this place. Shame you. Entrap you. Mess with your head.

  My stomach tightens. I get cold and hot at the same time, and I suddenly start to sweat. My heart does a fluttery thing, like a fish tail flopping back and forth, desperate to free itself from the bottom of a boat. I sit down on the bench, try to breathe deeply, slowly—but it’s not working. I wipe my upper lip with my sleeve. My throat feels as if it’s closing up. Holy crap. I’m having a panic attack. I’ve got to get out of here. Daniels . . . I need him.

&nbs
p; I’m about to look in the camera and turn my hat around when I suddenly hear keys jingling. But not the sergeant’s keys. It’s the deputy escorting Junior—leading him into the cell across from me. Junior complies, his big feet dragging along behind. The bars clang shut, and the now familiar “locked-in-my-brain-for-the-rest-of-my-life” echo bounces off the drab green walls.

  Junior pays no attention—doesn’t even notice me. He starts to circle like a crazed animal, banging, hitting the bars. And my heart slows, my breath softens. . . . And I climb up, taking me out of myself—out of the hole. It’s about him now—not me.

  “What you in for?” I ask, sounding like a stupid line from a TV cop show.

  He ignores me, still circling.

  I try again. “What’s crackin’, homey?”

  He snarls, “I ain’t your homey.”

  Junior walks to the back of the cell—places his hands up above his head, leaning them on the cinder blocks, his legs splayed like he’s about to be frisked, and proceeds to hit his forehead over and over against the wall, repeating the words shit, shit, shit.

  “Dude, chill out, you’re going to bust your head open. And I’m not cool with blood.”

  He stops for a beat and yells, “Shut the fuck up!”

  “I’m just tryin’ to make conversation.”

  “I said, shut the fuck up.”

  I have to get him to stop, sit, still himself, and face me. I have to reach him somehow, read his eyes. Think, Bea.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” I talk through the bars.

  Junior ignores me and continues his slamming. “Hey,” I whisper, hoping the sergeant can’t read lips. “I’m a chick, pretending to be a guy. Wanna see?”

  I figure this will get his attention. And I’m right; it does. He stops his banging, whips around, like, what the hell?

  “Check it out.”

  Junior rubs the red welt on his forehead with his palm and slowly makes his way to me, looks in both directions down the corridor, probably making sure no one’s watching, ready to take on the pending peep show.

  I’ve never been into this before, exposing myself, sexting—but whatever it takes. I step back so the sergeant doesn’t see me in the camera, and slowly unzip my jacket, exposing my wrinkled PE tee, size small, and shrunk in the wash. Even though I’m not exactly well-endowed, no way does it hide the girls.