Alan Russell - Burning Man

In my gut I knew it was Rose’s mother sitting in the car. She was ready to be spooked. Most people are freaked out by visiting cemeteries at night. Don’t be afraid, I thought. All is well. I tried to breathe normally and keep my racing heart in check. I didn’t want to put the vibe out there, didn’t want to scare her away. I’m superstitious that way. I kept thinking soothing, calming thoughts.

The door finally opened, and as she stepped out I snapped off a few pictures. I was working without a flash and operating the camera in its night mode. After clicking, the shutter exposure was so slow it seemed to be on a time delay.

She began walking toward the Garden of Angels. Her face was obscured in shadows, but she looked young. She was wearing jeans and a black jacket. I wondered if she’d already burned her CSULA eagle sweatshirt.

Halfway down the walkway, she stopped and raised her hand to her heart. She looked like she was scared, or uncertain, or both.

If she got cold feet, I’d have to be prepared to intercept her. I eased out of the car, moving as quietly as I could. Sirius was awake now, but I whispered to him to be quiet and stay behind. I crept forward, keeping to the shadows, drawing closer to the woman. Along the way I stopped to take some shots of her car and its license plate.

I turned my attention back to the garden, but it took me a few moments to make out where she was standing. She had come to a stop among the crosses and was standing so still she could have passed for a statue.

And then the statue started crying.

Being a witness to anguish is a part of every cop’s job. During my career I’ve seen too much suffering, but this was emotion at its rawest. Some people need to emote to an audience; it’s almost like their pain can only register if seen by others. Rose’s mother wasn’t like that, and her misery seemed all the more profound because she thought she was alone.

Her body shook as she cried, and each wail was worse than the last, even though I didn’t know how that could be. As I heard her talk to her dead baby, as all her despair poured out, I silently backed away. Her confession was too painful to hear; her pain was too painful to bear.

I made it back to what I thought would be the safety buffer of my car, but even though I couldn’t hear I could still see, and that was bad enough. I was forced to watch as Rose’s mother beat on her own head without mercy, and just when I thought I’d have to intervene for her own safety, she fell exhausted to the cold ground, done in by her own hands. But even then she wasn’t through hurting herself. I saw her hand rise and fall, and I realized she was pulling out clumps of her own hair.

Finally, her hands full of hair, she crawled over to Rose’s grave, and there on bent knees she prayed. Her prayer took a long time. Most of the time she was shaking so hard it was a wonder that she managed to keep from falling over.

I was clothed in rectitude, and I tried to tell myself that her sorrow did not change the situation, but her misery hollowed out my beliefs and made them feel brittle.

At last she stood up. Through binoculars I watched as she touched her daughter’s memorial cross and then saw her fingers pause on my card. She brought her head closer to read the writing and see what was there. Then she freed my card from the gravestone.

As she made her way back to the car, she passed several spots that were well enough illuminated for me to get a good look at her. It was a face I wouldn’t ever forget, even if I wanted to. My face bears the scars from fire, and it has turned many an eye away. The hurt that showed on her face, the pain that registered there, was much harder to look at than my scars.

It was time to intercept her before she reached her car. It was time to make the arrest.

Maybe I’d be doing her a favor. It was clear that she needed to pay for her sins. That’s what I told myself the whole time she was walking to her car.

Wasn’t I the one who said the law was the law? It wasn’t my job to judge. I was supposed to uphold the law, and that meant processing this woman through the system.

She reached her car, and I didn’t stop her. I watched as she drove away.

By the time I got home my body was hurting, and that gave me an excuse to take my pain and sleeping meds. I didn’t want to think about what I had seen and what I had done, or not done, and what I would do.

The horns of a dilemma were deep into me, and no solution seemed right. I was afraid what I’d seen was going to bring on my burning dreams, but that didn’t happen. I slept through the night and woke up at a quarter to six. Without my dreams I had no second sight, and the new day did not bring me any resolution to my problem.

I had witnessed how distraught Rose’s mother was, but in this world, tears don’t count.

My cell phone started ringing. The display said, “Caller unknown.” Whoever was calling me didn’t have caller ID.

I answered the phone, and a second later the caller clicked off. It could have been a wrong number, I knew, but I was betting that Rose’s mother had been on the other line.

I decided to take my own bet. If the mother came to me and didn’t force me to go to her, I would take that as my sign. If she gave herself up, she had to know she was looking at jail time. Her coming forward also meant that she was willing to accept the rest of the consequences. She would be a pariah, shunned by friends and family. The community would look upon her as a monster.

Most people would do anything to avoid that.

She had taken my card from Rose’s grave marker, though. And she had come to the grave. I had seen her suffering. The responsibility for her actions weighed heavily upon her. But would she call the cop? Would she confess her sins?

My cell phone was mute.

Fear usually trumps any and all motives. Everyone professes to want to do the right thing; doing it is another matter. It is the rare murderer that offers up a confession that hasn’t been coerced one way or another.

My cell phone rang again. “Detective Gideon,” I said.

No one said anything back, and just as I was convinced the caller had clicked off she said, “This is Inez Vargas. I’m calling about…”

She started crying, and the harder she tried to talk the more she failed. Her speech was high pitched and unintelligible if you didn’t know what was behind it. I knew what was behind it.

“I know what you’re calling about, Inez,” I said, “and we need to talk. Is there a place we can meet? How about a coffee shop near to where you live?”

It took her a few seconds to clear her throat and be able to speak. In a little voice she was finally able to say, “Do you know the Twelfth Street Coffee Shop?”

“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes,” I promised.

Inez was sitting at a table in the corner. She wasn’t looking up, and made no motion in my direction. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the table in front of her. Only when I sat down did she look up. Her face was pale and drawn, and dark circles dominated her features. She wasn’t wearing makeup and had on the same clothes she’d been wearing the night before.

“I’m Detective Gideon.”

She nodded but said nothing. My appearance didn’t frighten her or interest her. She was already in prison.

A server came along, and I ordered coffee and toast. When the server left, Inez’s eyes briefly met mine. “I think I should kill myself,” she said, “even though it’s a sin, but that will be just another sin, and maybe it will make up for what I did.”

“Don’t say anything else to me. Let me talk.”

Inez was on the heavy side but had a pretty face-or it would have been pretty had the murder of her daughter not weighed upon her. At that moment, she appeared as if she was nineteen going on ninety.