Work Text:
POV
by Fannie Feazell aka Scribe
poet77665@catlover.com
It wasn't even nearly the first time that Homicide Detective Phil Knoll had been called to this particular building, and you could always tell when something really juicy had happened. Most of the residents in this building were either fresh from the penal system, or heading for it, and it took a lot to get their interest. A simple shooting or a few screams--they'd just turn up the volume on the tee-vee. An officer directed him to an apartment on the third floor, and almost ever door he passed on the way up was cracked open an inch or two, avid or suspicious eyes peering out at him.
He didn't need to check the door numbers--the one he was looking for was clearly marked by several offiicers, arms folded, glaring around sternly, and an older, balding man in a suit, who was making notes on a clipboard. Phil noticed that there was what looked like a very fresh puddle of vomit near the shiny shoes of the youngest patrolman--who was looking a little green--and he became even more certain that what was inside was going to be 'special'.
He introduced himself to the officers, flashing his ID. The older man didn't even look up, continuing to scratch on the form he was filling out, shaking the pen every now and then, muttering about how they had invented marvels, but still couldn't make a pen that didn't clog up. After a moment he glanced up at Phil and nodded. "Yeah, you're at the right place. Subject in there is sure as hell dead. One of the deadest ones I've seen in a long time."
"Good to see you, too, Marvin," said Phil dryly. "So, have we got an artifact that someone left us two or three weeks ago, and no one noticed the stench because it always smells like that around here?"
"Oh, no, no. Fresh meat this time. Blood hasn't even really had a chance to start drying. Forensics is in there now, gathering their bits and pieces. It shouldn't endanger any evidence if you go on in. We wouldn't have been notified so quickly if the landlady hadn't come looking for the rent--occupants had been late four times in a row. Anyway, when the woman who holds the lease..." he checked his notes, "Miss Cookie DeMarco..."
"Real name, Marvin. Street names don't do us much good. Every other hooker out there is Cookie or Candy."
"It's Cookie on her driver's license, and I suspect that it's Cookie on her birth certificate. God, the things parents do to their kids. Anyway, this cookie is a bit stale--somewhere in her mid-fifties. When Miss DeMarco answered the door for her irate and under paid landlady, said landlady took off like a bat out of hell, screaming like all the banshees in Ireland. I understand some of the local boys are still looking for her. Anyway, someone actually called 911 and the two uniforms outside came to investigate."
"Victim?"
"Live in boyfriend, now exboyfriend." Marvin smirked. "Angel Juarez. Twenty-seven. Been out of the pen not quite long enough to get off his probation--if he'd been following the rules and hadn't had it extended."
"A guy half-her age?"
"I talked to her a little. It was one of those penitentiary pen-pal things. You know, 'I've been a bad boy, but I've learned the error of my ways and all I need to go straight is a good woman..." Marvin's voice turned sour, "...who'll support my lazy ass."
"Well, this is already an unusual case. Usually it's the con who does, and the correspondent who get's done."
"Oh, it's unusual, all right." Phil gave him a questioning look, but Marvin shook his head. "Uh-uh." He waved the form. "You'll have to wait for the written version. I don't think I could do it justice just talking about it." He slapped Phil in the chest with the paper and said, "Get this to you as soon as, but you know what it's like at the morgue when the heat index rises. We've got so many stiffs we look like we're a store dummy factory." He walked away, stuffing the paper in a thin briefcase as he went. One of the officers opened the door, and Phil went inside.
It wasn't quite what he'd expected. The occupant was obviously trying to do the best she could with what she had. No carpet, but the rug underfoot had been vacuumed recently, and not, he thought, by forensics. The furniture was cheap and rather flimsy, but it all matched, and was new enough not to look shoddy. A lingering chemical smell told him that at least part of the apartment had been painted within the last few days. He glanced around quickly, and all flat surfaces and knick-knacks were dust free.
The woman sitting quietly on the couch looked as if she fit this place perfectly, except for one thing--her face and hands were streaked with blood to the point where it almost looked like she'd been spray painted. For a second Phil thought that she was a second victim who'd survived, till he remembered what Marvin had told him.
A forensic investigator, dressed in the department's beige 'clean overalls' was carefully swabbing a smear of blood off the woman's lower lip. When he was done he sealed the swab in a plastic tube and gathered up several others that were sitting on the coffee table before him. Phil said, "Got everything you need here?"
"There's someone else gathering evidence in the kitchen. I'm going to get this back to the lab and start it through the system. You know how long that takes." Phil nodded wearily. Despite what the popular police television programs showed these days, you didn't just pop down to the lap, slap the evidence in a machine, and stand around for a few minutes, then get an incredibly detailed result that automatically solved the case.
As the forensic investigator headed for the front door, Phil took his place on the couch beside the woman. "Miss DeMarco?" The woman, who had been staring down at her hands, lifted her eyes to his with a questioning look. This woman had obviously been through some sort of trauma, and even though she was at the moment the prime suspect, Phil carefully kept his voice even and non-judgemental. "Miss DeMarco, your friend--Angel Juarez--is dead, and..."
"Husband."
"I beg your pardon? I was told that..."
"We hadn't had the ceremony yet. I was planning it." Her voice faded a little. "I was going to carry ivory gladioli in my arms, instead of a plain bouqet."
"Miss DeMarco..."
"You can call me Cookie. I guess we're going to be talking to each other a good bit."
Phil drew in a deep breath. This wasn't anything new--suspects often wandered all over the map when they were being interviewed the first time. Still, he needed to get an account NOW, before the woman had a chance to plan out a story that would put her in the best light. "Thank you, but that wouldn't be professional. Perhaps later. Miss DeMarco, Angel Juarez IS dead..."
"Oh, yes." Her voice was matter-of-fact.
Phil decided on a straight ahead, shock tactic. "Did you kill him?" She looked at him as if she suspected him of being a little dense, then nodded. "You have to say it out loud, Miss DeMarco."
"I killed Angel at about..." she dragged out the last word, squinting upward thoughtfully, "Seven. No, it was at least ten after seven because we talked a little after he came in the kitchen. Gosh, now that I think of it, that seems like awful early in the morning to get murdered. He hadn't even had his coffee. Still, I suppose someone gets murdered about every minute of the day."
"Miss DeMarco..."
"I wish you'd stop doing that. It makes me feel like I'm back in school, and roll is being called." Her face twisted briefly into something that didn't look at all bland or normal. "I didn't like school." Then it was gone, and she was watching him expectantly.
"Okay... Cookie. Just tell me what happened."
She nodded. "Well, I guess you already know that Angel was in prison when we met. I found him through the Caged Souls pen-pal program." She smiled slightly. "I wrote to several of the men, but Angel was the only one who responded, and his letter was just so warm, and full of gratitude that someone on the outside was taking an interest in him. So we started writing, back and forth, and it went on for several months. Then..." It was hard to tell under the blood coating her face, but Cookie blushed. "I... I stopped signing the letters 'your friend', and started signing them 'love'. He noticed right away. Oh, he wrote the most beautiful letter saying he'd had strong feelings for me from the start, and now he dared tell me. He was coming up for parole soon, and we started planning our life together."
"Interesting background, but I need to know what happened TODAY."
She gave him an annoyed look. "You'll just have to be patient. I know I'll have to tell you all this sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner. I rode all the way up to the prison for his parole hearing, and I testified to his rehabilitation, and promised them that he'd have a permanent address. I promised to help him follow the regulations and find a steady job. You know..." she frowned, "I think some of those people on the panel rolled their eyes. Rude. But he had an excellent conduct record, and since he hadn't been convicted of a violent offense, they granted him parole." She wiped at the edge of her eyes, and the now tacky blood smeared. "It was the happiest day of my life."
"It was so wonderful," she sighed. "He was so gentle, and thoughtful. He'd take me out to dinner. I had to pay, since he hadn't found a job, but other than that it was just like a real date." She frowned. "I don't know why he couldn't find a job. He'd leave every morning, and wouldn't come back till late afternoon. He said that the only jobs he was offered were demeaning--serving french fries, or scrubbing toilets, and he'd had enough of that in prison. He was looking for a... a POSITION."
*Right,* Phil thought. *His 'position' all those days was probably on a bar stool, or behind a pool cue.*
Cookie was continuing. "I did everything I could to help. I bought him new clothes and shoes, so he'd look good for interviews. That wasn't easy, because I'm on a fixed income. A little extra money coming in sure would have helped. Then I started to suspect... Well, I decided that he hadn't been completely honest about himself. Money disappeared from my purse several times. I asked him about it once, and he admitted to taking it, but only to pay bills. I guess he was lying, because the electricity was shut off once, and the landlady said she didn't get the last month's rent. I didn't even have the money to pay for my medicine this month. I tried to tell him it was important, and he promised he'd get it for me as soon as someone paid him back a loan. I asked him how he'd been able to loan anyone money if he hadn't gotten a job, and he got this really mean look on his face, so I let it go. He never did get the medicine." Her expression hardened. "Then there were the phone calls. When he answered he'd speak Spanish so I couldn't understand, but he kept laughing and looking at me like he had some kind of secret. When I answered the phone someone would say something in Spanish that was probably 'sorry, wrong number'" Her tone grew very cold. "But it was a girl's voice, and she sounded like she was laughing about something."
"I knew I was going to have to have a very serious talk with Angel. This morning I got up early to fix his breakfast, as usual. He likes... He liked a hot breakfast every morning--eggs and ham or sausage or bacon. One morning I fixed oatmeal, and he just dumped the whole pot in the sink and stomped out. He didn't come home till almost midnight, so I never did that again. I was just about to turn on the stove when he came in. I was so surprised that I almost dropped the frying pan. He NEVER got up until I called him before. But he strolled right in, wearing nothing but that teeny little red thong he insisted on buying. I've ASKED him not to do that before. It's just unsanitary. Anyway, he said I didn't have to cook breakfast this morning, because he wouldn't be here. I thought for a minute that he'd found a job and had waited to surprise me. Then he opened the cabinet under the sink, saying he needed some garbage bags to pack his things in."
"I couldn't believe it," Cookie continued softly. "I mean, I knew that we weren't really as close as I'd hoped we'd be. But he kept talking about our future together, and all that time he was... he was..." Phil felt the urge to put a comforting hand on Cookie's arm when her face twisted again into a grimace, teeth bared, "He was screwing me every way but in bed. I tried to get him to sit down so we could talk. He said there was nothing to talk about--when something is over, it's over. I said I'd do anything he asked to make him happy--I already HAD. He said that I just didn't understand--I COULDN'T understand, because I couldn't see things from his point of view. He kept harping on that. 'Try to see things through my eyes. You can't see my side of it. You need to learn to look at things realistically, like me.' Over and over, those same phrases. Finally he said 'you'll never see things as they really are', and started to leave." She looked down at her hand. "I was still holding the frying pan. He was taller than me, but it wasn't hard to reach, though I DID have to aim for the back of the head, instead of the top." She smiled shortly, and Phil had a feeling she was fighting down a giggle. "I've always heard that expression 'dropped like a sack of shit', but that was the first time I understood it."
Phil was releaved that they'd finally reached the meat of the subject. This woman was beginning to creep him out, and with his record in homicide, that wasn't easy to do. "So you killed him with a blow to the head."
"The first one was probably enough," she said absently, "But I hit him again to be sure. I've seen enough horror movies to know that you'd better be damn sure the monster's dead before you bend over to check. Then I sat down and had some coffee, and tried to decide what I should do. I finally made up my mind, and..."
"Detective Knoll?" Another forensic investigator was standing at the door that had to lead to the kitchen. "I'm about to bag up the last of the evidence before the meat wagon boys come in for the corpse. I thought you ought to see this."
"Just a minute, Cookie," he said, standing up and heading for the kitchen. She kept speaking behind him, murmuring softly, as if she wasn't aware he had gone." Phil came to the kitchen doorway. "Whatcha got?"
"This is gonna become one of the legends that they use to scare the rookies."
"What? Some poor, deluded woman get's herself conned by a con, and finally has enough and pops him over the head?"
"Marvin really DIDN'T give you the details." The other man held up a pair of forcepts--something that they used to pick up the evidence that was too big for tweezers, but they didn't want to touch, even with gloves.
"He killed her cat?" said Phil, looking at the limp clump of long, black, blood dripping hair.
"Nothing that simple." He turned his hand.
Phil caught a glimps of raw red, then tan. The thought *Halloween mask* ran across his mind for a split second, till he realized what he was actually looking at. Next to one of the ragged holes under the thick, dark eyebrows was a tiny blue tattoo of a teardrop--the kind that cons often got to indicate the number of terms they'd served.
Behind him in the living room he could hear Cookie. "Try to see it from my point of view, he kept saying. Well, there was only one way I could do that..."
The End