Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“I just want out of here, so ask me what you need to and I promise I’ll lay straight with you.”

“Okay,” T.J. said. “Let’s test that promise. How do you earn a living?”

“I don’t have a regular day job. I go to garage sales and estate sales. I don’t buy nothing expensive. But if I can pick up a lamp for ten bucks and sell it for fifteen, I’m happy. I paid my dues though. Lost my ass on lots of stuff. But then I learned what things I can turn for a profit and what ends up in the trash. It’s a real art. I’m sure you heard the saying, ‘One man’s junk is another’s treasure’.”

“So,” Dupree said, “buying and selling odds and ends generates enough income to pay your rent, buy food and clothes, drive a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car, and pay for insurance?”

“Except for buying the car, I live a pretty simple life. I have a little money set aside and that gets me through the rough times.”

“And of course,” T.J. said, “as a model citizen, you file a tax return every year and pay your fair share to the feds and the state, right?”

Tesler didn’t utter a sound.

“You know what I think?” T.J. said. “I don’t believe that one truthful word came out of your mouth all day. So, I’m going to ask you one very simple question, and I want you to think long and hard about the answer, because if any more bullshit comes out of your mouth, you’re going to get acquainted with the inside of a prison cell for a long time.”

Dupree had witnessed T.J.’s interrogation tactics many times. It amazed her how he could turn a hard-ass suspect into a sniveling crybaby.

“Okay, Mr. Bad Ass, here’s the question: Who hired you to tail Dr. Lauren Crawford?”

Tesler’s body froze; his eyes were wide and he was blinking furiously. Dupree watched him closely and could see his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he forced one swallow after another.

“Um… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of no Dr. Crawford.”

Tesler was noticeably anxious, frightened actually. Dupree wasn’t sure if he was rattled because of the legal consequence or something more sinister.

“Well, partner,” T.J. said to Dupree, “I think we’re done for the day.”

“What about me?” Tesler asked. “Are you releasing me?”

T.J. laughed out loud. “Oh, we’re going to release you all right.” He looked at the wall clock. “In about sixty-eight hours when you’ve had some time to ponder your pathetic future, we’re going to release you to an IRS special agent. And when they’re finished with you, they’ll toss you to the New York State Department of Taxation.”

T.J. stood, slammed his palms on the table, his face inches away from Tesler’s. “When the tax folks are finished reaming your ass, believe me, you’ll never be constipated again. Say goodbye to your apartment, furniture, whatever money you’ve got socked away, and that nice shiny car. But here’s the best part. After they’re done with you, we get to charge you as an accessory to murder.”

Tesler popped up like a jack-in-the-box, almost stumbling backwards. “Accessory to murder ? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We know that you were tailing Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said. “And reporting back to the killer. That connects you to the crime as an accessory.”

T.J. eyed Dupree. “What do you think? Ten, fifteen years?”

“Actually, considering the stature of Dr. Crawford and the incredible loss to the scientific and medical community, I think the D.A. will go for twenty-five to life.”

“We’ll send in an officer and he’ll show you to your new quarters. See you in a couple days.”

As soon as they stepped into the hall, Dupree softly clapped her hands. “Bravo, partner. I think you just earned a nomination for an Academy Award.”

“Don’t nominate me yet. Not until we get a name out of Mr. Bad Ass.”

As if God Himself had waved His hand and ended the oppressive heat wave, the morning of the Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk was nearly perfect. The temperature hovered at seventy degrees, the humidity surrendered to dry, refreshing air, a light breeze blew out of the northeast, and the sky was blue and cloudless. The relief from the gripping heat could change in a heartbeat, but Dupree hoped it would remain comfortable at least until she crossed the finish line.

The crowd, spirited and energized, appeared to be the biggest Dupree had ever seen. She stood in front of the portable stage, side by side with other supporters, and watched cancer survivors one by one hold a microphone, take center stage, and tell a brief story about their journey from cancer to remission. As each survivor ended her speech, the roar of the crowd and robust applause was nearly deafening. The height of the frenzy came when a man stood on stage and reminded everyone that breast cancer did not play favorites. When he announced that he’d been cancer free for nine years, the crowd howled with cheers.

Dupree struggled through the walk with greater difficulty than years past, but made it to the finish line. When she got back to her apartment, she drank a quart of Gatorade, picked up her two cats, set them on her bed, and curled up next to them.

She couldn’t stop thinking about T.J.’s story, unable to imagine what it must have been like for him to discover that someone had raped and strangled his wife. And even worse, to learn that it wasn’t just one assailant. What horrific images did T.J. have to deal with every day of his life? How did he find the strength to move on after experiencing something so unimaginable?

Although nowhere near as traumatic as T.J.’s ordeal, Dupree knew all too well what it felt like to be wounded by the loss of a loved one, to lie in bed every night wishing that she could go back in time and make peace with her mother long before cancer had swept her away. And of course, not a day went by that Dupree didn’t think about her daughter, how foolish she had been to give her up, not knowing anything about her, what she looked like, or if she was healthy and happy.

Today, yet another painful 4 thof July, it took Dupree ten minutes to cry herself to sleep.

In the middle of the night, just about three a.m., Dupree, parched and dehydrated, made her way to the kitchen for some water. She filled the tall glass from the plastic jug in the fridge, and nearly guzzled the glass empty. As she poured another glass, Ben wandered out of the bedroom. Attracted to any unfamiliar object, he went into the foyer, and sniffed something sitting on the carpeting, just inside the door. From where she stood, it looked like a letter-size envelope, one of those cardboard envelopes with a little tab at the top to zip it open.

Dupree walked over, picked it up, and carefully examined the front of the envelope. It had been delivered to her through a company called Express Delivery Service. It was addressed to: Detective Amaris Dupree. Across the bottom of the envelope in big, bold letters it said: URGENT MATERIAL ENCLOSED.

Obviously, the courier had delivered it to the front desk in the lobby and when one of the staff members saw that it appeared to be urgent, instead of calling her in the middle of the night, someone had slipped it under her door. About to zip it open, she noticed the sender’s name in the upper left hand corner.

She froze.

Shocked, alarmed, and utterly perplexed, Dupree gawked at the name with teary eyes. Her hands were trembling so severely, she almost lost her grip on the envelope.

The sender’s name was Mary Dupree, her dead mother.

Disoriented and overwhelmed with alarm, she wrapped a robe around her shivering body, put on a pair of slippers, and took the elevator to the lobby, envelope in hand. Mirrors were mounted on the back wall of the elevators, and when Dupree saw her reflection, she did her best to tame her wild hair, but it proved hopeless.