M Sellars - Harm none

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he ventured, looking at me.

“Why not?” I asked, advancing past Ben and Deckert then pulling out the chair opposite him.

“Because of how I acted Saturday night.” He looked at the floor then back at me as I took a seat. “I wasn’t exactly Mister Congeniality… Then, when you shook my hand and I blocked you…”

“I would have done the same,” I replied soothingly. “Hell, I had no business trying to feel you out like that. It was pretty rude.”

“I can understand why you did it,” he told me.

He seemed somewhat calmer than when we first entered, but he still looked around the room nervously, shifting back and forth from me to Ben and Deckert. He wrung his hands, and every now and again, his voice would quaver slightly. I could see, feel, hear and even smell the fear coming from him. The emotion that bothered me most though was the sensation of guilt.

“What’s going on?” he finally asked me. “Why do they want to talk to me about Ariel and the other lady? Am I a suspect or something?”

By now, Ben and Detective Deckert had moved farther into the room. Ben was standing to my right, and Deckert had propped himself in a corner, behind and to the right of R.J.

“Are you sure you don’t want an attorney?” Ben interjected.

“What do I need a lawyer for?” R.J. demanded fearfully.

As he spoke, I felt a sharp, piercing pain in the pit of my stomach. Ben didn’t reply. To an observer such as myself, it was obvious that he was using R.J.’s own fear as leverage against him. It was a wholly unpleasant and ugly side of my friend that I knew was a necessary evil for his line of work. It was a side, however, that I truly didn’t wish to see.

“You knew Ariel Tanner pretty good, didn’t you?” Ben continued.

“Yeah,” R.J. answered, “you know that.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben grunted. “How ‘bout Karen Barnes? You friends with her too?”

“I told you already,” R.J.’s voice implored, “I never heard of her until you asked me about her. Was she the lady that was killed Saturday?”

A ripping sensation tore painfully through my lower abdomen once again.

Ben still refused to answer him. “What were you doin’ at Ariel’s flat Saturday morning?”

“What’re they doing, Rowan?” R.J. begged. “They think I killed her? They think I’m the killer?!”

His voice went up in pitch and grew wilder with every word. He was stricken with absolute disbelief at what he felt Ben was implying.

“Were you there to pick somethin’ up, R.J.?” Ben continued. “Maybe something you forgot?”

“Like I said before,” R.J. explained almost angrily, “I was there to water the plants.”

“Saturday was a little soon, wasn’t it? I mean, you said she was s’posed ta’ leave Friday night. You don’t think she might have watered them before she left?”

“She asked me to keep an eye on her place!” R.J. screamed, jumping up from the chair. “I didn’t know I needed your fucking permission!”

“Now, R.J.,” Deckert’s calm voice expressed feigned concern. “Take it easy. They’re just questions.” He had left his position in the corner and was now resting a comforting hand on R.J.’s shoulder. “Detective Storm just gets a little carried away sometimes.”

Good cop, bad cop. I couldn’t believe Ben and Deckert were playing that tired game. Anyone who had ever seen a cop show on television, good or bad, knew the routine. I could only assume that being in the hot seat made R.J. vulnerable enough to fall for it.

Pain shot through my stomach once again, more intense than before. Extreme enough to make me wince as it hit. I assumed I was simply feeling empathy for R.J., and I took a moment to focus my concentration on blocking the spasms as he slowly lowered himself back into his seat.

“You showed up late at our meeting Saturday night.” Ben began hammering at him again. “Where were you?”

“My mom’s cat got hit by a car,” he explained. “I had to bury it for her and get cleaned up before I could come over.”

Suddenly Dickens’ and Salinger’s reactions to him made sense. A cat’s heightened sense of smell would have detected not only the scent of the other animal but any blood he might have gotten on himself, even if he washed. The cats HAD smelled death, just not the death of a human.

“I assume that can be verified,” Ben retorted.

“You can ask my mom,” R.J. shot back. “And you can dig up the cat if you don’t believe her.”

“We just might.”

Ben scribbled purposefully in his notebook. The scratch of the pen against the paper was the only sound in the room, and it was earsplitting in the silence.

Ben interrupted the quiet. “You mind lettin’ us in on why you were drivin’ around shitfaced early this morning?”

“I dunno.”

“Come on, man.” Ben’s voice took on an accusatory edge. “You’ve gotta have a reason for getting’ hammered on a Sunday night.”

“Sunday’s just like a Saturday to me,” R.J. rebutted, maintaining a modicum of nerve. “Sunday and Monday are my days off.”

“Good for you.” Ben’s words were sheathed in sarcasm. “That still doesn’t tell me why you blew close to the legal limit and had an open beer in your hand when you were stopped.”

“I had a fight with my girlfriend,” R.J. returned. “I guess I just lost it for a little while.”

“What time would that have been?”

“I dunno. Around five I guess.”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“I wanna leave her out of it.”

“C’mon, R.J.,” Deckert’s soothing voice issued from behind him once again. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help you out. We can’t verify your story unless you give us her name.”

The discomfort struck my abdomen again, penetrating the mental defenses I had erected to stop it. A dull, throbbing ache followed and refused my attempts to evict it-so much for mind over matter.

R.J. remained steadfastly silent, displaying a hardened resolve. Even I was curious as to why he was so adamant about concealing the identity of his girlfriend.

Deckert spoke again. “Don’t you think she’s probably worried about you? You never know, she might have called to try and make up.”

“Why’re you guys so worried about who my girlfriend is?” R.J. spat. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“Why are you tryin’ so hard to keep her a secret?” Ben retorted. “I would think you’d be happy to have an alibi.”

“An alibi for what?” R.J.’s confused voice squeaked slightly. “We had the fight yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘exactly’?”

“Another young lady was murdered last night,” Deckert filled in the blank.

“I’m gonna tell ya’ a story, R.J.” Ben pressed on, slowly pacing three steps past him and three steps back. “It’s a story about a sick asshole that likes to torture young women and kill them. Ya’ see, this psycho thinks he has a purpose for doin’ this, but it’s all just somethin’ he dreamed up in his twisted little mind.” He punctuated his statement by pausing and poking his index finger at R.J.’s forehead. “So, every time he kills one of these young ladies, he feels really bad…”

Ben was obviously telling his tale in order to force him to crack. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he started plugging R.J.’s name into the story here and there to turn the screws.

“So when Mister Sicko feels bad, he hides behind a little religious ritual he learned,” Ben continued, “and whaddaya know, BAM! He forgives himself, and everything’s okay again. You know that little ritual, don’t you, R.J.?”

“I didn’t kill anyone” was his measured reply.