Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

No, Fire said.

Water shook his head.

As far as you know, has anyone in your family ever had any problems with mental health?

The twins shook their heads. One head was where it should be, at eye level; the other, hanging halfway off Water’s side, made the otherwise banal action disconcerting.

Do either of you suffer from any hallucinations — visual or otherwise?

No, Fire said.

Water shook his head.

Would you tell me if you did?

Neither brother spoke.

Were you trying to commit suicide at the lake and, if so, have there been any previous attempts at suicide, Sunil asked.

No, Fire said. No, he repeated emphatically.

If you weren’t trying to commit suicide, what were you doing in the lake?

Swimming, Fire said.

Did you tell the police that you were swimming?

No.

Why?

Neither twin spoke.

Would you say either of you is impulsive, Sunil asked.

Hard to be impulsive when you are chained to someone’s side, Fire said.

Right, Sunil said. What about you, Water?

Water shook his head.

Can you explain the blood the police found?

No, Fire said.

You’re being completely honest?

Fire shrugged. He looked like a shuddering rat.

You know, Sunil said, in my experience it never pays to play with the police.

I thought you were evaluating our minds, Fire said. Now you just sound like you’re trying to solve the case for the police. We plead the fifth, Fire said.

In a medical exam, Sunil asked.

Fire drew his fingers across his lips, mimicking a zipping motion. Water copied him.

Sunil changed tack.

If I let you go now, would you try to harm yourself or anyone else?

Who can say, Fire said.

You can, Sunil said.

Fire looked away. Water was examining his nails.

Even if you didn’t kill anyone, attempted suicide is an extreme measure, Sunil said, voice softening. I am not convinced that it is in your best interest to release you. I think that a combination of medication and counseling could really help you. It is important that you are well enough to help the police resolve this matter.

So you think we are crazy, Fire asked.

Crazy is not a useful term. Now, at least for tonight, I’m going to recommend that you be put on a forty-minute-interval suicide watch. This is a county hospital; I am afraid that their facilities are limited, so I am having you transferred tonight to the institution where I work. The police, I am sure, will find that acceptable.

Anything has to be better than county jail, Fire said. I knew you weren’t a state employee, he added.

I work for the Desert Palms Institute. It’s a very nice facility with the best doctors. We’ll take care of you. Sunil hesitated for a moment. I can’t imagine how hard your life has been, but I do think that we can help you.

Neither twin spoke.

I am going to set up your transfer. The next time I see you will be at the institute, he said.

Tonight, Fire asked.

No, tomorrow morning, Sunil said. I’ll check you in tonight, but I won’t be there until tomorrow.

He stepped out of the cubicle, then went looking for Salazar to make transfer arrangements and to tell him to check out the motel. The curtain fell behind Sunil and the irregularly shaped stain that Fire had noticed before seemed to suddenly fill the green field of it.

I wonder if it is dried blood, Fire said, pointing at it. County, he scoffed.

A dark tree, Water said.

It was well after ten that night before Sunil finally left County Hospital.

Birds on a wire, a drunk leaning up against a Dumpster, a homeless man sprawled on a stained mattress in the corner between the drunk, the Dumpster, and the wall. Salazar slammed the car door and the birds took off. The wire dropped water in benediction. Fucked neighborhood, Salazar said under his breath, crossing the street to the run-down motel. THE PINK FLAMINGO, the sign said. A lone flamingo grew out of the roof of the office building. These kinds of motels had once been so important to the city. Now they were reduced to being long-term residences for those on welfare or otherwise down on their luck. A sign outside the office window offered free lunch with a room. He shuddered to think what the lunch was made of. It was already past ten at night and he hadn’t had anything to eat, but he wouldn’t touch it.

The clerk behind the desk didn’t look so much old as resigned, his expression giving him the appearance of the archaic.

Hey, Salazar said, and put his shield down in front of the clerk’s face.

Hey, the clerk said, taking in the shield, expression unchanging.

Are there Siamese twins staying here?

The freaks? Yeah. Room 12, the clerk said. He took a key down from behind him and handed it to Salazar, in anticipation. That way, he pointed, losing interest. As Salazar turned to leave, the clerk looked up with what seemed like extreme effort. They checked out two weeks ago, though, he added.

Salazar stopped. Then why did you give me the key?

The clerk shrugged. Nobody’s been in there since, except the maid. I thought you police types like to do your forensics shit.

Salazar shook his head and handed the key back. The room would yield nothing and the CSI team would not come out for this. If there had been anything unusual, like a decomposing body or stuff like that, the clerk would already know. He walked back to his car. An old black man leaned against it, smoking. Salazar ignored him, got in and gunned the engine, and the old man moved off reluctantly. As Salazar drove away he reached for his cell and called Dr. Singh.

Have the twins talked yet, he asked.

Sunil struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice: Nothing you will find useful. How are your investigations going?

We haven’t turned up a body yet. But I am at the address you gave me.

Did you find anything interesting?

No, it’s just an old motel.

Did you find anything in the old motel?

No, they checked out of here two weeks ago. Fuck, Salazar said. Do me a favor, Doctor. Get them to explain what the fuck is going on.

All in good time. Good night, Detective.

Good night, Salazar said. Then under his breath, Fuck you very much.

He decided to head back to the station. Maybe he had overlooked something. He just needed to go over everything repeatedly until he found it.

It was cold when Sunil got home. Desert cold was the worst. Hot all day, with the temperature dropping by so many degrees at night that he went from sweat to shivers. The fact that the central air was on all the time probably didn’t help. He crossed the room and flicked a switch to turn on the fire.

This was his routine: set keys into the valet on the sideboard in the hall, briefcase down next to it, sift mail collected from doorman before putting it down next to the briefcase. The only variations today: a piece of candy from the bowl laid out for trick-or-treat, popped into his mouth; and tucked under his arm, the envelope containing a research file on twins from the institute, also handed over by the doorman. He meant to read it that night. Tomorrow was Saturday but he intended on interviewing the twins in the morning. No one worked a five-day week at the institute.

Sunil lived in a soft loft in one of Vegas’s modern, hip buildings. He argued to others that the incredible architecture of the place was the draw, but its location just five minutes off the Strip probably had more to do with its appeal for him. He could be near all that noise and energy, and just distant enough to remain a voyeur — all of the excitement, yet no risk.

The soft loft was one of those real estate terms for condominiums with high ceilings and an elevated but open sleeping area. Since the ’80s nobody had bought or wanted to buy a condo, so real estate brokers got creative. It was nice on the inside, noise- and weather-insulated blue glass walls on the far side. Cut stone floors, an immaculate kitchen, a den hidden behind sliding wood doors, and a second bedroom just off the front hall.