John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said.

‘Playing dumb won’t help you, Rick.’

‘Hi, O’Meara.’

‘Come clean, Rick.’

‘Okay, I’ll come clean. I think you’re a fucking moron.’

A fist emerged from the darkness and caught the edge of my jaw. I bit my tongue when my teeth snapped shut and immediately tasted blood.

‘We know what you’re up to, psycho. There’s nothing mysterious about it, you sick lonely fuck.’

I tried to talk but couldn’t form words. Blood and saliva ran down my chin. The disembodied voices kept talking but I could no longer follow.

‘I bibn’t boo banybing,’ I said.

‘I bibn’t boo banybing,’ said O’Meara, laughing in the dark. And then he said, ‘Work this degenerate over. We don’t need fucks like this walking the streets,’ and fists, many sets, emerged from the darkness and started pounding on my ribs, jaw and kidneys. My eyes shut tight, I gritted my teeth, and then I passed out from the pain.

I woke up, in the dark, still cuffed to the chair. The bright interrogation light was off. I called out and no one answered. I was alone. Immediately I thought of Elaine and felt sick. I pictured her, gagged, hands restrained, like mine, dead from head trauma. She was found in a dumpster, I thought. How’d she get there? How’d someone get her out of the house without me or the officer out front knowing, without making a sound or leaving a single trace? I looked hard into the darkness. I could make out nothing, which wasn’t a surprise. I didn’t kill her, I thought. I said out loud, ‘I know I didn’t kill her.’ How could I? How could’ve I killed her, done away with the body, and made it back to inform the police? What was O’Meara thinking? A horrible buzz sounded and a red light flashed in the corner of the interrogation room. I stared up at it, frightened, and it kept sounding, over and over, and the light lit up again, and the room went red, then pitch-black, then red again, with the buzzing sound. I stared at the painted bulb. There was pounding at the door. ‘Open up, Rick,’ I heard, and the buzzing continued, now relentless, without pause, a solid grating sound, and the light stayed red, giving the room the horrifying atmosphere of a darkroom, where negatives, negatives of unspeakable acts, bloom into being. ‘Open the fucking door, Rick!’ And the pounding and buzzing continued. I tried to speak but couldn’t. I tried to say, ‘My fucking hands are cuffed!’

I woke up, fully clothed, on my couch. My doorbell buzzed loud and hurt my head. My mouth was dry and tasted bitter so I grabbed the glass beside the couch and took a big sip and then spat warm whisky on my floor. The buzzing didn’t stop. ‘I’m coming!’ I yelled. Still, the buzzing continued. I stood up and went and opened the door. O’Meara and another detective stood there, still, and I said, ‘ Benvenuto . I was just dreaming about you.’

‘Don’t play cute, asshole,’ said O’Meara, and they pushed their way into my apartment.

‘Why are you here?’ I said.

‘You tell me,’ said O’Meara.

‘I was sleeping. I have no idea.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Who?’

‘Who the fuck do you think?’

‘Elaine.’

‘Good guess.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘No, really, I have no idea. I woke up and she was gone. I called you.’

‘In her bed.’

‘What?’

‘You woke up in her bed.’

‘No.’

‘You said you woke up and she was gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re saying you were sleeping in a guest room and woke up and then went and checked in on her and she was gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re full of shit. You’re a piece of shit.’

‘Fuck you,’ I said, and the other detective punched me in the stomach. I fell to my knees.

O’Meara said, ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Cuff him and let’s take him in.’

Sitting in the back of an unmarked car, I tried to reason with O’Meara. I said, ‘How could I have possibly killed her, disposed of the body and returned to call the police? The officer out front didn’t see me leave.’

‘He didn’t see Elaine leave, either,’ O’Meara added.

Still, though, I think he was taking my point. Why would I want to murder my client? Why would I want to hurt her, in any way, shape or form?

‘I was duped, too. I’m as interested in solving the case as the police,’ I said, and O’Meara made some disparaging remarks about my abilities as a detective. Then we stopped talking and his lackey drove us to the station in silence. We passed familiar buildings and I became lost in the rambling, nonsensical, relentless thoughts of someone who’s nervous and exhausted. Nothing was coming together.

Then I said, ‘She gave us the slip, O’Meara. She’s disappeared. I don’t know why but that’s what’s happened.’

O’Meara scoffed and said, ‘Thanks, Rick, for your in-depth analysis of the case.’

I stared at the backs of their heads. My goddamn gaolers, I thought, two stupid assholes. They knew I had nothing to do with Elaine’s disappearance, but O’Meara was keeping me captive out of spite; he resented me for innumerable reasons, all having to do with his deep sense of inadequacy, I thought. He was trying to teach me a lesson for sleeping with my client, I thought, a woman he would’ve killed to sleep with, given the chance, which he never would be that is to say, be given the chance despite being a real police detective . I had to say something, as we drove on pointlessly in silence.

‘O’Meara, instead of wasting your time with me, you should be trying to figure out what’s happened to Elaine. She’s probably being held hostage right now being abused and you’re wasting time fucking with me. It’s ridiculous. Let’s just find her!’ I said and kicked the back of his seat.

‘Pull over,’ said O’Meara to his peon.

My downstairs neighbour knocked on my door to complain about my pacing, so I apologized. He thought I had people over. Nevertheless, moments after he left, I was back to pacing, though I removed my shoes. After pulling over to the roadside, O’Meara chewed me out and told me he’d let me go if I’d stayed away from the case. I agreed to his terms. Of course, it’s ridiculous to think I’d stay away from the case — he knew that and I knew that — but I’d definitely try and keep my distance from him, I thought. I stood on the side of the highway trying to hail a cab but there were none. Eventually, I hitchhiked. Back at my apartment, I was upset and I paced. Somehow, I needed to see Elaine again. There was so much to discuss, but then again I wondered if she was even alive. She must be, I thought. There’s no way a third party got past the officer outside and into the house, up the staircase, and stole Elaine away from the bed I was sleeping in, holding her in my arms, without making a single sound. It was an impossibility; therefore, Elaine left of her own volition. She knowingly escaped, I thought, for that was the only explanation that made sense. Why? I wondered. Well, first off, because her husband was murdered, so perhaps she feared for her own life, too, and wanted to make a getaway; however, perhaps she was involved in the murder and wanted to get away before I or the police discovered her involvement. The latter explanation, of course, made the most sense. Still, I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to think that Elaine, this beautiful, funny and tender woman, could be involved in a murder, especially the murder of her own husband, who, presumably, I thought, she once loved. Murdering someone you once loved, however, I thought, makes more sense than murdering a total stranger. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to believe she’d done it, or was involved in any way. By now, I thought, while pacing the long hallway of my apartment, she’s probably fled the country, fled to São Paulo or Buenos Aires or who the hell knows where, with the money she’s been stockpiling over the years, the years she was married to Gerald, after they met at the ski resort in the small town out west.