M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

While the cop continued on his way, I paused for a moment before a dented vending machine and thrust my hand into my pants pocket. After rummaging around for a moment, I extracted a small handful of loose change along with my car keys. After picking out the quarters, I shoved the keys and remaining silver back into my pocket.

A quick once over of the large blue and white appliance told me what my options were as I dropped a trio of coins into the slot. An electric hum followed by a hollow cardboard thunk elicited from the device as I held my fingers splayed out against the round buttons labeled double cream and double sugar. After a moment or two of steamy hissing and watery sputtering, the paper cup overflowed onto the stainless steel grill where it sat. I slid back the splattered Plexiglas door and tilted the cup to pour off some of the excess then placed it carefully atop the machine and repeated the entire process.

On the second go around, I was forced to prematurely open the translucent shield and straighten out the cup before the coffee began to dispense. The hot liquid barely missed my fingers.

Drinks in hand, I continued the few steps down the corridor to the bench and placed one of the cups next to Constance before taking a seat a respectful distance away. Remaining silent, I took a cautious sip of the instant java and found much to my satisfaction that it was just as bad as I thought it would be. Even so, it was a cut or so above the tar I’d had in the Homicide squad room earlier in the day, so that was a plus.

“Looks like I’ve got a pair of Kings, Queen high,” I finally announced while holding the paper receptacle at eye level and inspecting the dull image of a poker hand that graced it. “I didn’t look at yours. Wouldn’t have been fair.”

After a moment, Constance leaned back with a sigh, picked up the coffee I’d set next to her, and peered into the muddy brown liquid. “I usually take mine black.”

“Me too,” I said as I nodded. “But it’s been my experience that coffee from one of those machines tastes like something on the order of hot water poured over pencil shavings, so I figured the cream and sugar might help. Just pretend it’s a cheap latte.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

We continued to sit in silence as she sipped at the coffee and absently picked at the rim of the paper cup with her thumb and forefinger. I could still feel a flow of anger coming from the federal agent, though it had greatly subsided and was still decreasing. The waves of emotion appeared now as a dull aura enveloping her petite frame. This was, at the very least, an improvement over the fiery-eyed, vermilion monster that had been gnashing its teeth in the interview room earlier.

“Three aces,” she eventually muttered.

“Guess I should have looked,” I answered.

Again, a less than peaceful quiet embroidered the atmosphere of the hallway. I held my own voice, allowing the stillness to work in my favor.

“Well, I guess I blew that one,” she sighed when the desire to express herself finally surfaced. “I’ll probably be up in front of Bartlett before the evening is out.”

“Your word against Roberts,” I replied calmly.

“You and Storm were in there. You both saw me lose it.”

“Ben says he didn’t see anything.”

“What about you?” she asked in a dull voice.

“Me?” I paused and gathered my words. “I saw a friend in distress is about all.”

“Neither one of you need to be lying for me,” she admonished.

“Look…” I stared thoughtfully into my own coffee cup for a moment before continuing. “Roberts isn’t injured in any way, and I expect by the time Ben gets through talking to him, he won’t be pressing any charges. I’m not defending your actions mind you, but we all have a breaking point. For some reason you obviously hit yours.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “You’re probably right. Still, I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“You’ve got enough to deal with without me dumping on you,” she contended.

“Truly good friends are a rarity, Constance,” I offered in return. “I count you among mine, and I always have time for my friends.”

She allowed a weak smile to play across her lips and shot me an embarrassed glance then brushed her hair back and sighed, “It was the whole lesbian thing.”

“I kind of picked that up.” I nodded then took a sip of the overly sweetened brew. It had now cooled enough to drink without fear of a scalded tongue, so I toned down my original caution. “Does homosexuality bother you?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that,” she explained. “Just assholes like Roberts that get off on watching two women together and make a big deal of it.”

I mulled over her comment before replying, “Okay.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to you, does it?”

“Not entirely. I’ll grant you it’s not my thing either, but I try to be open minded about that sort of stuff. Either way, it’s not my place to judge the feelings and opinions of others, so if it bothers you…”

She let out an exhausted sigh, and I could feel her reluctance to speak fading into the background. Her anger had quelled, leaving only a sad emptiness in its wake. It was a pain dulled by time but still in possession of sharp barbs that, if brushed against, could open the wound anew.

“This stays between us, right?” She stared at me with deadly serious concern glazing her eyes.

“Of course,” I answered.

There was a short interlude where she searched my face and found only truth behind my answer. She then stared at an unseen spot on the floor while nervously fidgeting the rim of the paper cup between her fingernails. Finally, whatever courage or imagined approval she sought within came into being and she spoke.

“I had an older brother, Rowan,” she began flatly. “His name was Brandon and he was gay.”

“Had?” I couldn’t help but notice the emphasis on the past tense. “Was it HIV?”

“No, not AIDS. I almost wish it had been.” She breathed the acronym as if it could have been a welcome friend. “I know that probably sounds insane but in a lot of ways that would have been much easier to cope with…to understand.”

Constance drew in a deep breath then, like taking a bitter dose of medicine, rushed headlong into the explanation. “Around four years ago Brandon was locking up the bookstore he managed. It was late and he was alone… Classic setting for something to happen I suppose-in fact, to this day when I talk about it, it doesn’t seem real. It sounds like a scene from a made-for-TV movie…

“Anyway, before he ever got his key out of the door, he was jumped from behind by a liquored up homophobe who beat him to death with an aluminum softball bat.”

Her pragmatic explanation poured into the quiet hallway, starkly revealing her personal tragedy for me to witness. A simple dissertation unblemished by the heavy emotions she had incarcerated deep within.

“I’m sorry,” I told her after a solemn pause, then as if to add to the surreal cliche of the stories fold, I automatically asked the obvious. “Did they ever find the guy who did it?”

“Oh yeah,” she replied with a quick nod. “They found him. He was too drunk to cover his tracks or even bother with getting rid of the bat. The police followed his bloody footprints right back to his apartment which, as it happens, was two doors down the hall from Brandon’s.”

She paused and looked over at me with the vacancy of cold grief in her eyes then continued, “The one thing that I’ll always remember is what the sonofabitch said when they arrested him. He said that if Brandon had been a gay woman instead of a gay man, then he wouldn’t have killed him. In his words it was because, ‘a couple of hot lesbos are a turn-on but two fags is just sick.’”