JASON STARR - Panic Attack

After what seemed like at least an hour, Clements and Marissa’s dad returned, and Clements said he wanted to talk to Marissa, alone this time. Marissa was exhausted and just wanted to get into bed and crash, and she didn’t see why she had to answer the same questions all over again.

She went back into the dining room with Clements and sat across from him at the table.

“I know it’s late,” Clements said, “but there are a few more things I need to run by you.”

“Okay,” Marissa said, crossing her arms tightly in front of her chest.

“Your friends,” he said, “any of them have a criminal background?”

“No.”

“I’m not necessarily talking about jail time. I’m talking about anyone who might’ve stolen something in the past, or talked about wanting to steal something, or-”

“If you think one of my friends broke into our house with that guy, you’re crazy.”

“What about drug users? Any of your friends do drugs?”

Of course her friends did drugs. Well, some of her friends. She was twentytwo years old, for God’s sake- but what was she supposed to do, rat out her friends to some cop?

“No,” she said.

He seemed incredulous. “Sorry,” he said, “but you’re gonna have to answer these questions honestly.”

Thinking, Yeah, right, I’m not under oath, she asked, “What do my friends have to do with our house getting robbed?”

“Where do you get your pot, Marissa?”

Now, not only was she upset, but she was starting to get seriously scared. She had a bong in her room and a dime bag of pot in the back of her underwear drawer. She didn’t know if Clements had been up to her room yet, but he probably had. Still, she wasn’t dumb enough to admit drug use to a police detective.

“What’re you talking about?” she asked.

“I was in your room,” he said.

Her heart was beating so fast and so hard, she felt like it was making her rock back and forth.

“Look, I’m telling you,” she said, “none of my friends had anything to do with this, that’s crazy.”

“I’ll ask you one last time. Where do you get your drugs?”

She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. “I don’t do drugs,” she said.

“I saw the bong in your-”

“A friend left it here, okay? I’m just watching it for her.”

“Watching it, huh?” He smirked.

She was a shitty liar and knew she couldn’t keep this going, so she said, “It’s mine, okay? What’re you gonna do, arrest me for having a bong?” “Possession of marijuana is illegal.”

“It’s not mine,” she said desperately.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you,” he said. “Where do you get your pot?”

“My friend Darren.”

“How do I get in touch with him?”

This guy was such an asshole.

“Why do you have to-”

“What’s his phone number?” he asked.

Darren was a guy she’d gone to Vassar with- an on- again, off- again boyfriend- who was now back living with his parents on the Upper West Side. If he got busted, he was going to fucking kill her.

She gave Clements Darren’s number and said, “But please don’t call him. I’m telling you, he has nothing to do with this.”

Clements ignored her and asked, “Have any of your friends committed any crimes or talked about committing crimes or served any time for a crime?”

Immediately she thought of Darren who’d once spent a night in jail in Poughkeepsie when he’d gotten pulled over and the cops had found a joint in his car, but how much trouble was she going to get the poor guy into?

“No,” Marissa said. “No one.”

“I know we’ve been through this already, but did you ever meet Carlos Sanchez?”

“Never.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I just know, that’s why.”

He put a small plastic bag on the table with a driver’s license inside it. “Look familiar?” he asked.

She glanced at the picture- scruffy guy, kind of ugly, with cold, detached eyes. She’d never see him before in her life.

“No, never,” she said.

Clements didn’t seem satisfied. He asked, “Ever lend anyone a key to the house or-”

“No, I’ve never lent anyone a key, ever.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“What do you think, I gave somebody a key and said come rob my house?”

“Is that what happened?”

“No, of course not.”

She couldn’t believe this.

Then Clements stood and said, “Okay, you’re gonna have to come with me now.”

“Come with you where?”

“Out to the staircase for a second. I want you to take a look at Sanchez.”

Suddenly she felt sick. “You mean look at his body?”

“The driver’s license photo was several years old,” Clements said, “he’d gained a lot of weight. I want you to see if you recognize him.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes you have to.”

Although she’d never seen a dead body before- well, except at a few funerals she’d been to- she just wanted to get to sleep and didn’t really care one way or the other.

She went with Clements out to the foyer. The body was still at the bottom of the staircase, splayed the way it had been before, except now Marissa could see all of it. There were technicians working near the body, maybe collecting DNA evidence or looking for fingerprints or whatever, and there was blood- it looked purple- on the bottom stairs and on the floor in front of the staircase. There was much more blood than Marissa had expected to see, which made her queasy enough, but then as she got closer, she looked at the dead guy’s face. His eyes were half open, and there was blood leaking out of his nose. Something looked weird about his mouth, and then she realized that most of his jaw was missing.

“Oh my God,” she said.

Misunderstanding her response, Clements said, “You recognize him?”

Starting to back away, she said, “No, I have no idea who is. Can I go now? Can I just go?”

When she returned to the living room, Clements wanted to talk to her mom, so she and her dad were left alone.

First he hugged her and assured her things would return to normal soon- yeah, right- then he asked, “So how’d it go in there?”

She didn’t answer right away, then said, “He made me look at the body.”

“What?” She could tell he was seriously upset. “Why the hell did he do that?”

She didn’t feel like talking to him about it. Things had been tense and awkward between them, well, for years, but since she’d graduated from college their relationship had become even more strained, what with him constantly on her case about getting a job and moving out on her own. Her plan had been to live at home temporarily, until she could support herself, so she’d gotten a part- time job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art through a contact from an art history professor. But she didn’t like her boss, and the job had had practically nothing to do with art- her main duty had been renting out tour head – phones- and after about a month she couldn’t take it anymore and quit. She’d been sending out rйsumйs and going on interviews, but her father wouldn’t let up about the “big opportunity” she’d blown, and it was hard to even be in the same room with him sometimes.

“He wanted to see if I recognized him,” she said. “Whatever.” She was exhausted and really didn’t feel like talking anymore.

But her dad couldn’t let it go and said, “This is getting ridiculous now. There’s no way he should’ve made you do that, I mean what’s the point of that?” He shook his head, brooding, then asked, “Did he ask you about your bong too?”

God, Marissa didn’t want to be having this conversation right now, especially not in the middle of the night when she was so exhausted.