-John Greenleaf Whittier, Maud Muller
Knock, knock.
The sound of someone's knuckles tapping wood started Elmore's day. He ended the previous night with a movie, and downing a six-pack of "Raging Bitch" IPA. With a headache, bloodshot eyes, he saw the time on the clock: 9:36am. The pace of the knocking went faster, with the addition of the doorbell. He gradually began getting out of bed, struggling with laborious effort, sharper pain stabbing in his cranium.
"Who the fuck is it?" Elmore said aloud, sitting up. "It's fucking Saturday. Fucking too early for company."
The knocking persisted as Elmore began ascending the carpeted stairs. After passing the halfway point, he slipped, his ass hitting a step, and sliding the rest of the way to the bottom in front of the double-doors. Not the first time that had happened to him.
"Coming," he yelled at the front door, getting up from the floor, rubbing his aching bum.
His eyes weren't adjusted to the morning light after opening one of the double-doors.
"I am not the owner of this residence," Elmore began saying, "and if you're going to quote Jesus, get it over with. I liked him too."
"Mr. Patric?" a woman's voice inquired.
"His son," Elmore informed, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight.
"You are Elmore Patric?" asked the woman.
Elmore could see who was asking the question. Standing on the patio was a good-looking, brunette woman, wearing black suit-pants, a black suit-jacket, and a black shirt underneath. Her hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Behind her, standing on the cement path right before the two steps leading onto the patio, was a bald man nearly wearing the exact same attire as the woman, with the difference being that he had on a white-buttoned shirt, and a red tie.
The lady asked, "Do you always answer the door in just your boxers?" She was grinning, amused.
Feeling the cool air on his bare chest and belly, he looked down, seeing his exposed hairy stomach, blue boxers, and bare, pale feet. The mouse poked a bit outside the house.
"Sorry," Elmore uttered, adjusting his boxers to cover the tip of his penis, "I usually don't expect people knocking on the door this early. Plus, I'm hungover. Not all my wits are with me."
"I'm Detective Tumblar," said the lady, holding up her badge with photo I.D. She then gestured to the man behind her who did the same. "This is Detective Wilson."
"Hello," Elmore greeted.
"If you don't mind, we'd like to have a conversation with you."
"About?" he asked. His head still ached, not knowing what to make of this scene.
"We can discuss it at police headquarters," Tumblar said.
"Why not here?" Elmore inquired. "I haven't had breakfast yet."
"Like every great police station," said Detective Wilson, "we've got coffee and donuts."
"Okay, fine," Elmore said, opening the door wider. "Come on in while I get dressed."
Elmore turned around, and before the Detectives entered the house, he let out a silent fart, a beer-pizza-hotdog infused whisk in their wake.
"Goddamn," Wilson said from downstairs as they waited for Elmore, who couldn't keep himself from smiling.
Elmore ascended the stairs a minute later wearing a black leather jacket, a red 'Slayer' t-shirt underneath, black jeans, and a pair of black boots.
"Nice jacket," Tumblar commented.
"Thank you," Elmore replied.
Driving away from the house, Elmore noticed more cars parked on the street adjacent to his than usual. They seemed to be mostly in front of the Palmer residence.
Elmore looked at the Detectives from the backseat, and asked, "Something happen to the Palmer's?"
Detective Wilson turned halfway in the passenger seat, and with a stoical expression said, "We'll talk at the station. In the meantime, sit back, and try to un-hangover yourself."
"I'll start doing that once I get the infamous coffee and donuts you mentioned," Elmore said, lightly slapping his belly.
They arrived at the police station. The Detectives led Elmore to a private room. It seemed tight and confined, having one table, an office chair nearest to it, and two more a little further away.
"Please, sit here," Detective Wilson said, gesturing to the chair closest to the table. "We'll be back with your coffee and donuts."
Wilson left, closing the door behind him, leaving Elmore alone. He lightly tapped and rubbed his face to wake himself up more, then began scanning the room: bare white walls; brown table; gray carpet; fluorescent light bulbs in the ceiling; a security camera in the corner, pointed right at him.
Shit, he thought, his eyes widening, I'm in a fucking interrogation room. He began thinking why cops would want him in that room. What did he do? He had an answer: stayed home, got drunk, wrote a little, and then watched movies. And when he wasn't home, he was at work. That was basically his routine for the past few months since-
The door opened. Tumblar and Wilson entered, their suit-jackets were off. Elmore's brow furrowed, baffled over his predicament. Wilson sat in the office chair, rolling himself up to the table, placing a yellow legal-pad on top of it, and writing something on it's header with a pen. Tumblar sat in the other chair, not rolling any closer to the table, but seemed to move back a bit towards the corner of the room. She had a black folder, and was about to open it.
"Uh," Elmore uttered.
"Oh, yes," Tumblar said, "the infamous coffee and donuts. I'll be right back." She placed the folder on the table before leaving the room.
"Why am I here?" Elmore asked Wilson.
Wilson put a hand up, saying, "We'll start when my partner comes back with your fuel. And keep in mind, we'll be asking the questions. Okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Elmore confirmed.
Wilson leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers.
"She's a hot number, ain't she?" Wilson asked, nodding towards the door.
"Um, sure," Elmore replied, looking down at the table. "She's got a nice figure."
Detective Tumblar came back, placing a styrofoam cup of coffee, and a small styrofoam plate with two donuts - one glazed, the other old-fashioned - on the table in front of Elmore. She then retrieved her folder, and sat back down. Elmore took a sip of the coffee.
"So lets begin, Mr. Patric," Wilson said, his pen ready to write on the legal pad. "Where were you the last two nights?"
"Thursday I was home alone after work," Elmore began to say, "either watching a movie, reading, or writing. Last night the same with the addition of drinking beers, hence the reason I'm hungover."
"Were you home alone both nights?" Wilson asked.
"Yes," Elmore said.
"Where are your parents right now?"
"They're vacationing right now in Australia. One of many trips they take every year since they've retired."
"Is there anyone that can confirm you were home the last two nights?"
Elmore was getting bored, as well as pissed that he agreed to be in that room. He wished he declined the invitation, and answered questions at home.
"My pet turtles can confirm it. I fed them last night."
"Hey," Wilson blurted, commanding, "don't be a smart-ass. Answer the question. Can any person confirm you were at your home the last two nights?"
Elmore took the glazed donut from the plate, took a bite, and in muffled speech, said, "No."
Wilson leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, and pointed a finger at Elmore.
"Now I can be a gentleman, or I can be a harsh bastard," Wilson said. "Either way we're getting the answer's we want."
Elmore finished eating the first bite of the donut.
"Then get to the point," Elmore said. "I have no clue of the reason I'm here. All I know at this point is that you're intimidating me by your current stature, leaning forward, elbows on your thighs, and a pissed-off expression. T.V. cops don't do that. They walk around a possible suspect in a bigger room, acting as if they'll punch the dude. I'm in a small room, a camera's on me recording our conversation, which means at this moment I'm a possible suspect. Now I've answered your questions. Please, just get to the point."
"What do you know?" Wilson said. "You're a twenty-five year old college dropout still living with your parents. You know, I left the nest when I was eighteen."
"As did I," Tumblar put in.
Elmore dropped the glazed donut back onto the plate, then started clapping.
"Good for you," Elmore cheered. "You two want lolly pops?"
"No need for the sarcasm," Tumblar said.
Wilson scoffed.
"And no need telling me who I am," Elmore said, picking back up the donut. "No one knows me better than I."
"What do you do for work?" Wilson asked, leaning back in his chair.
"I work at a warehouse. I operate a forklift, unloading and loading big trucks," Elmore replied. "Simple work." He took another bite of the glazed donut.
"You drink on the job?" Wilson grinned.
"No," Elmore said, chuckling. "I may drink, but as of yet, not a drunk."
"You said something about writing," Tumblar said. "What do you write about?"
"I've written some short stories. Haven't been able to get any published. At one point a few years ago I started a novel that didn't get too far. Nowadays I'm writing a book titled: Words of Wisdom." Elmore took a sip of coffee.
"What's it about?" Tumblar asked, writing in her folder.
"Honestly, I don't know," Elmore replied. "Life, I guess. How I myself see life."
There was a moment of silence. Elmore finished the coffee, and then began to finish off the donut. Wilson glanced over at Tumblar, who then gave him a nod.
"Mr. Patric, early Friday morning Lilian Palmer was found face down on top of two garbage cans behind Trev's Bar & Grill," Wilson stated.
Elmore stopped chewing on the donut, and seemed to stop breathing. Tumblar had her eyes on him, observing his reaction from the corner of the small room.
Wilson continued, "She had been beaten and raped a few hours before."
Elmore's eyes were on the table. He began to breathe heavily, slowly chewing the donut as his mind digested what he was just told.
Wilson again continued, "Do you know -"
Elmore cut him off, asking, "Is she alive?"
"Yes," Wilson replied, scratching his nose. "She took a bad hit in the head, knocking her out, hopefully before the rape. She's in the hospital now. Could wake up today, or tomorrow the Doctor told us."
Elmore put the unfinished donut back on the plate. He couldn't find himself to speak, nor think at that moment. Tumblar took note of this.
"Now, Mr. Patric, as we began our investigation this morning, interviewing people that live in your neighborhood if there were any suspicious characters around recently, they all seemed to point our attention towards you," Wilson said, pointing a finger at Elmore. "Why is that, Mr. Patric?"
Elmore did not answer immediately, but stared down at the table, remaining still.
"Mr. Patric," Wilson said, snapping his fingers. "You with us?"
Finally Elmore spoke.
"Sometimes the truth does not suit the preferable lies," he said, his eyes still on the table.
"Excuse me," Wilson said, bemused.
"It's a quote from my book." Elmore's gaze went back to the Detectives. "Gossip through the Grapevine has its own imagination. Of course my neighbors would point me out when something this horrific happens. They can't think of anyone else."
"Why would they do that, Mr. Patric?" Wilson asked. "Why would they make us think you were a person of interest in our investigation?"
"Because of what happened four years ago," Elmore said. "Something I don't like talking about. But since those gossip spewing pricks have put me in this room with you two, I'll tell you. Four years ago I had a mental break down, a psychosis. Ended up walking around the neighborhood with my shirt off, knocking on people's doors, asking if they were waiting for me, or something like that. One of the doors I knocked on was the Palmer residence. The cops were called. They thought I was on meth and shit. Got fifty-one-fiftied. I am very embarrassed about it. And I fucking hate it when people bring it up. The end."
"How have you been doing since then?" Wilson asked, tapping the end of his pen on his right temple.
"Just fine," Elmore replied.
If Wilson weren't a cop, and if Elmore was an asshole, he would have knocked out that bald fuck then and there. But Elmore kept calm, and let it go.
"We know of that incident," Wilson said, "but it isn't the reason we're talking to you right now. Your neighbor across the street from you, Mrs. Tanen, told us she'd seen Lilian go into your house on more than one occasion in the past year."
"That nosey bitch," Elmore uttered.
"What was your relationship with Lilian?" Wilson asked. "Was it an intimate one?"
"Yes," Elmore replied. "We were both on the rebound. My girlfriend had recently ditched me after three years. Lilian's boyfriend cheated on her, and left for New York."
"When did this relationship start?" Wilson inquired.
Elmore rubbed a hand from his forehead down over his eyes.
"Nearly a year ago," Elmore said. "I was in line to buy cigarettes. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was her. We hadn't spoken to each other since I was eleven. We had lunch together that day. Our relationship ended two months ago."
"She break it off?" Tumblar asked.
"No, it was a mutual decision. Lilian and I both understood rebound relationships never really, you know, mold together well."
"Have you two seen each other since?" Wilson asked.
"Nope," Elmore said plainly. "Not even talked on the phone."
Wilson and Tumblar wrote down notes on their legal pads.
"Is there anything else you want to tell us?" Wilson queried. "Anything that might help us find Lilian's attacker?"
"I've got nothing," Elmore said. His gaze went back to the table. He had no appetite for the second donut. "Can I go back home now?"
"So you had no ill will towards Lilian Palmer for ending the relationship?" Wilson asked, leaning forward again in his office chair, his hands in the air for a moment before slapping down on this thighs.
Elmore's gaze shot back up at Wilson.
"That's a stupid question," Elmore said. "I just told you both that Lilian AND I ended our little affair. I'm not answering any more of your wasting-time questions while her rapist is still out there. I would like to go home now, PLEASE!"
"I'm not satisfied yet," Wilson said.
"Neither am I," Tumblar agreed.
"Too fucking bad," Elmore snapped.
As the Detectives drove Elmore back to his house, he sat in the backseat running his fingers through his hair. He tried his best to hold back tears.
"Hey, if it's not too much trouble," Elmore said, "can you drop me off at the liquor store near my house? I'll walk home from there."
"Okay, Mr. Patric," Tumblar said. "No problem."
The car parked in front of the store.
"Thank you," Elmore said before getting out of the car.
The Detectives watched him walk into the liquor store.
"He was in love with her," Tumblar said.
Wilson sighed, then said, "Yeah, I could tell too. So in love he couldn't have done it."
Elmore exited the store with a bottle in a brown paper bag, and walked down the suburban street toward his home.
"We should've told him the truth," Tumblar said. "He'll be devastated when he finds out."
"Aw shit," Wilson said, his face contorting. "Is the Palmer residence on the way to his house from here?"
"Fuck, it's too late," Tumblar said.
Elmore was too preoccupied with thoughts about what had happened to Lilian he didn't even notice he was passing the Palmer residence. As he was walking on the sidewalk across the street, he heard a screen door swing open, and slam on the outside wall.
"HEY!" a woman yelled. "Elmore!"
He turned and saw Sylvia, Lilian's eldest sister, running across the street toward him.
"You fucking kill my sister, you fucking freak?!" she screamed, grabbing his jacket's collar with both hands, pulling him close to her raging, red face. She had been crying. Elmore gave no resistance. "Did you, you fucking bastard? Did you rape and kill my sister?"
"Kill?" Elmore said, bewildered. "The pigs told me she was still alive."
By that moment the Detective's car stopped in the middle of the street, and they both got out. They ran up behind Sylvia.
"Mrs. Soninberd, please let him go," Tumblar said, lightly placing her hands on Sylvia's shoulders.
"I'll never forgive you," Sylvia said to Elmore, then spit in his face. She let go of his jacket's collar. "Bastard." She began weeping, almost collapsing on the pavement, but Tumblar was there to steady her.
His eyes on Detective Wilson, Elmore pointed a finger in his direction.
"You told me she was alive," Elmore said, his hand beginning to shake, and tears flowing down his cheeks.
Lilian's father came outside and hugged his distraught daughter. Elmore didn't notice; all his attention was on Wilson.
"We had to be sure it -" Wilson began to say, but Elmore cut him off.
"It's bad enough to hear what you fucks told me happened to Lilian, and most of my neighbors suspect I would do such a thing. But at least with that version she was alive. Now-" Elmore started breathing heavily, almost as if he was about to faint. "- now I'm in Hell. I'll be at my house getting drunk." He turned and walked straight home.
As soon as the front door closed behind him, he took the whiskey bottle out of the brown paper bag, which swayed to the floor, twisted open the cap, and took a long swig.
"FUCK!" he yelled after that first swig.
He went into the kitchen, ripped a paper towel from the roll, and wiped away his tears as he walked upstairs. In his bedroom he placed the bottle on the bedside table, and then rummaged in his closet, moving his cloths around.
"Where are you, babe?" he said allowed.
Elmore found what he was looking for: a small, gray tank-top.
"Here we are, my love," he said, holding it close to his face, smelling it. "You're still in my heart."
He laid the tank-top on his bed, then retrieved the whiskey bottle from the bedside table, and sat on the floor. One hand holding the bottle, taking another swig, and the other stroking the tank-top's smooth surface.
"I love you, Lilian," Elmore said, weeping.
He took an even longer swig, placed the bottle on the floor beside him. After a half-hour he stopped crying when he passed out, falling back on the floor, his hand leaving the tank-top.
Knock, knock.
For the second time that day Elmore was awakened by someone's knuckles knocking on wood. He heard the faint sound of a woman's voice calling his name.
Struggling, he got up off the floor, picked up the whiskey bottle, and slowly made his way down the stairs.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"It's Sylvia," she said from outside.
"Look, Sylvia, I'm not in the mood to get spit on again."
"No, Elmore, I won't do that again. I'm sorry."
Elmore opened the door.
"I don't blame you," he said. "To be honest, I might have done worse."
Sylvia looked up at him. She was holding a black, leather book.
"Are you drunk?" she asked.
"Yes," Elmore replied, then took a swig from the bottle.
"I thought you should have this." Sylvia held up the book to Elmore.
"What is it?"
"It's Lilian's diary."
Elmore held up his hand, then said, "I don't deserve that."
"Yes you do, Elmore. Take it."
With major hesitation Elmore took Lilian's diary. He held it close to his chest.
"Thank you," Elmore said, his eyes welling.
"Can I come in?" Sylvia asked.
"Yes, please do," Elmore said, moving aside.
Sylvia entered. She asked, "How much whiskey you got left?"
"Half," Elmore informed.
Moments later they were sitting in chairs on the back patio under the awning, drinking whiskey from glass cups.
"The Detective's told us you and Lilian had an intimate relationship," Sylvia said. "How it started and when it ended. I always knew Lilian kept a diary, and where she hid it in her room. Even though I was the only one who knew about it, I never snuck a peak. After the Detectives left, I pulled myself together, and read her diary just so I could know you were telling the truth." Sylvia drank her whiskey in one big gulp, then poured herself another. "After I was done reading, I learned two things: One was that she loved you very much; and the other was you told the Detective's another version of how the relationship started and ended. Why did you tell the Detective's a different story?"
Elmore finished off his whiskey, then placed the glass on the small table between them.
"A year ago I was so damn depressed I was going to kill myself," Elmore said. "I took the train to the city, having a plan to walk to the bridge, and jump off. On my way to the bridge I decided to have one last meal. I went into the first place I found, Tony's Italian restaurant."
"Where Lilian worked," Sylvia said.
"Yes," Elmore affirmed. "She was my waitress. We chit-chatted a little before I ordered. I thought she was simply being nice for a bigger tip. But I had this strange feeling when she smiled at me that maybe she had some interest for me. While I ate I made the choice of giving it just one damn shot. She came to my table with the check, and asked, 'Would you like anything else?' I said, 'Yes, your phone number.' And she gave it to me, then told me what time her shift was done." Elmore closed his eyes, more tears rolling down his cheeks. "To think, if she said 'No,' would I be alive today? She saved my life."
Sylvia put her glass on the table, got up from her chair, moved closer to Elmore, got on her haunches in front of him, and held his hand.
"Why did you break up with her?" she asked.
"She wanted to tell your family about me being with her, and I didn't feel I was good enough for her," Elmore replied. "I'm basically a drunk. It's not even three in the afternoon, and I am drunk. And the way people talk about me in the neighborhood, I didn't want them to do that to her."
"I'm sorry, Elmore."
"No, Sylvia, I'm sorry. I should've been a stronger man. I am weak. It's my fault." Elmore's hands covered his face as he wept. "It's as if I killed her."
Sylvia stood up, leaned over Elmore, hugging him.
"It's not your fault, Elmore," she said, consoling him the best she could.
"Who the fuck is it?" Elmore said aloud, sitting up. "It's fucking Saturday. Fucking too early for company."
The knocking persisted as Elmore began ascending the carpeted stairs. After passing the halfway point, he slipped, his ass hitting a step, and sliding the rest of the way to the bottom in front of the double-doors. Not the first time that had happened to him.
"Coming," he yelled at the front door, getting up from the floor, rubbing his aching bum.
His eyes weren't adjusted to the morning light after opening one of the double-doors.
"I am not the owner of this residence," Elmore began saying, "and if you're going to quote Jesus, get it over with. I liked him too."
"Mr. Patric?" a woman's voice inquired.
"His son," Elmore informed, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight.
"You are Elmore Patric?" asked the woman.
Elmore could see who was asking the question. Standing on the patio was a good-looking, brunette woman, wearing black suit-pants, a black suit-jacket, and a black shirt underneath. Her hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Behind her, standing on the cement path right before the two steps leading onto the patio, was a bald man nearly wearing the exact same attire as the woman, with the difference being that he had on a white-buttoned shirt, and a red tie.
The lady asked, "Do you always answer the door in just your boxers?" She was grinning, amused.
Feeling the cool air on his bare chest and belly, he looked down, seeing his exposed hairy stomach, blue boxers, and bare, pale feet. The mouse poked a bit outside the house.
"Sorry," Elmore uttered, adjusting his boxers to cover the tip of his penis, "I usually don't expect people knocking on the door this early. Plus, I'm hungover. Not all my wits are with me."
"I'm Detective Tumblar," said the lady, holding up her badge with photo I.D. She then gestured to the man behind her who did the same. "This is Detective Wilson."
"Hello," Elmore greeted.
"If you don't mind, we'd like to have a conversation with you."
"About?" he asked. His head still ached, not knowing what to make of this scene.
"We can discuss it at police headquarters," Tumblar said.
"Why not here?" Elmore inquired. "I haven't had breakfast yet."
"Like every great police station," said Detective Wilson, "we've got coffee and donuts."
"Okay, fine," Elmore said, opening the door wider. "Come on in while I get dressed."
Elmore turned around, and before the Detectives entered the house, he let out a silent fart, a beer-pizza-hotdog infused whisk in their wake.
"Goddamn," Wilson said from downstairs as they waited for Elmore, who couldn't keep himself from smiling.
Elmore ascended the stairs a minute later wearing a black leather jacket, a red 'Slayer' t-shirt underneath, black jeans, and a pair of black boots.
"Nice jacket," Tumblar commented.
"Thank you," Elmore replied.
Driving away from the house, Elmore noticed more cars parked on the street adjacent to his than usual. They seemed to be mostly in front of the Palmer residence.
Elmore looked at the Detectives from the backseat, and asked, "Something happen to the Palmer's?"
Detective Wilson turned halfway in the passenger seat, and with a stoical expression said, "We'll talk at the station. In the meantime, sit back, and try to un-hangover yourself."
"I'll start doing that once I get the infamous coffee and donuts you mentioned," Elmore said, lightly slapping his belly.
They arrived at the police station. The Detectives led Elmore to a private room. It seemed tight and confined, having one table, an office chair nearest to it, and two more a little further away.
"Please, sit here," Detective Wilson said, gesturing to the chair closest to the table. "We'll be back with your coffee and donuts."
Wilson left, closing the door behind him, leaving Elmore alone. He lightly tapped and rubbed his face to wake himself up more, then began scanning the room: bare white walls; brown table; gray carpet; fluorescent light bulbs in the ceiling; a security camera in the corner, pointed right at him.
Shit, he thought, his eyes widening, I'm in a fucking interrogation room. He began thinking why cops would want him in that room. What did he do? He had an answer: stayed home, got drunk, wrote a little, and then watched movies. And when he wasn't home, he was at work. That was basically his routine for the past few months since-
The door opened. Tumblar and Wilson entered, their suit-jackets were off. Elmore's brow furrowed, baffled over his predicament. Wilson sat in the office chair, rolling himself up to the table, placing a yellow legal-pad on top of it, and writing something on it's header with a pen. Tumblar sat in the other chair, not rolling any closer to the table, but seemed to move back a bit towards the corner of the room. She had a black folder, and was about to open it.
"Uh," Elmore uttered.
"Oh, yes," Tumblar said, "the infamous coffee and donuts. I'll be right back." She placed the folder on the table before leaving the room.
"Why am I here?" Elmore asked Wilson.
Wilson put a hand up, saying, "We'll start when my partner comes back with your fuel. And keep in mind, we'll be asking the questions. Okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Elmore confirmed.
Wilson leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers.
"She's a hot number, ain't she?" Wilson asked, nodding towards the door.
"Um, sure," Elmore replied, looking down at the table. "She's got a nice figure."
Detective Tumblar came back, placing a styrofoam cup of coffee, and a small styrofoam plate with two donuts - one glazed, the other old-fashioned - on the table in front of Elmore. She then retrieved her folder, and sat back down. Elmore took a sip of the coffee.
"So lets begin, Mr. Patric," Wilson said, his pen ready to write on the legal pad. "Where were you the last two nights?"
"Thursday I was home alone after work," Elmore began to say, "either watching a movie, reading, or writing. Last night the same with the addition of drinking beers, hence the reason I'm hungover."
"Were you home alone both nights?" Wilson asked.
"Yes," Elmore said.
"Where are your parents right now?"
"They're vacationing right now in Australia. One of many trips they take every year since they've retired."
"Is there anyone that can confirm you were home the last two nights?"
Elmore was getting bored, as well as pissed that he agreed to be in that room. He wished he declined the invitation, and answered questions at home.
"My pet turtles can confirm it. I fed them last night."
"Hey," Wilson blurted, commanding, "don't be a smart-ass. Answer the question. Can any person confirm you were at your home the last two nights?"
Elmore took the glazed donut from the plate, took a bite, and in muffled speech, said, "No."
Wilson leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, and pointed a finger at Elmore.
"Now I can be a gentleman, or I can be a harsh bastard," Wilson said. "Either way we're getting the answer's we want."
Elmore finished eating the first bite of the donut.
"Then get to the point," Elmore said. "I have no clue of the reason I'm here. All I know at this point is that you're intimidating me by your current stature, leaning forward, elbows on your thighs, and a pissed-off expression. T.V. cops don't do that. They walk around a possible suspect in a bigger room, acting as if they'll punch the dude. I'm in a small room, a camera's on me recording our conversation, which means at this moment I'm a possible suspect. Now I've answered your questions. Please, just get to the point."
"What do you know?" Wilson said. "You're a twenty-five year old college dropout still living with your parents. You know, I left the nest when I was eighteen."
"As did I," Tumblar put in.
Elmore dropped the glazed donut back onto the plate, then started clapping.
"Good for you," Elmore cheered. "You two want lolly pops?"
"No need for the sarcasm," Tumblar said.
Wilson scoffed.
"And no need telling me who I am," Elmore said, picking back up the donut. "No one knows me better than I."
"What do you do for work?" Wilson asked, leaning back in his chair.
"I work at a warehouse. I operate a forklift, unloading and loading big trucks," Elmore replied. "Simple work." He took another bite of the glazed donut.
"You drink on the job?" Wilson grinned.
"No," Elmore said, chuckling. "I may drink, but as of yet, not a drunk."
"You said something about writing," Tumblar said. "What do you write about?"
"I've written some short stories. Haven't been able to get any published. At one point a few years ago I started a novel that didn't get too far. Nowadays I'm writing a book titled: Words of Wisdom." Elmore took a sip of coffee.
"What's it about?" Tumblar asked, writing in her folder.
"Honestly, I don't know," Elmore replied. "Life, I guess. How I myself see life."
There was a moment of silence. Elmore finished the coffee, and then began to finish off the donut. Wilson glanced over at Tumblar, who then gave him a nod.
"Mr. Patric, early Friday morning Lilian Palmer was found face down on top of two garbage cans behind Trev's Bar & Grill," Wilson stated.
Elmore stopped chewing on the donut, and seemed to stop breathing. Tumblar had her eyes on him, observing his reaction from the corner of the small room.
Wilson continued, "She had been beaten and raped a few hours before."
Elmore's eyes were on the table. He began to breathe heavily, slowly chewing the donut as his mind digested what he was just told.
Wilson again continued, "Do you know -"
Elmore cut him off, asking, "Is she alive?"
"Yes," Wilson replied, scratching his nose. "She took a bad hit in the head, knocking her out, hopefully before the rape. She's in the hospital now. Could wake up today, or tomorrow the Doctor told us."
Elmore put the unfinished donut back on the plate. He couldn't find himself to speak, nor think at that moment. Tumblar took note of this.
"Now, Mr. Patric, as we began our investigation this morning, interviewing people that live in your neighborhood if there were any suspicious characters around recently, they all seemed to point our attention towards you," Wilson said, pointing a finger at Elmore. "Why is that, Mr. Patric?"
Elmore did not answer immediately, but stared down at the table, remaining still.
"Mr. Patric," Wilson said, snapping his fingers. "You with us?"
Finally Elmore spoke.
"Sometimes the truth does not suit the preferable lies," he said, his eyes still on the table.
"Excuse me," Wilson said, bemused.
"It's a quote from my book." Elmore's gaze went back to the Detectives. "Gossip through the Grapevine has its own imagination. Of course my neighbors would point me out when something this horrific happens. They can't think of anyone else."
"Why would they do that, Mr. Patric?" Wilson asked. "Why would they make us think you were a person of interest in our investigation?"
"Because of what happened four years ago," Elmore said. "Something I don't like talking about. But since those gossip spewing pricks have put me in this room with you two, I'll tell you. Four years ago I had a mental break down, a psychosis. Ended up walking around the neighborhood with my shirt off, knocking on people's doors, asking if they were waiting for me, or something like that. One of the doors I knocked on was the Palmer residence. The cops were called. They thought I was on meth and shit. Got fifty-one-fiftied. I am very embarrassed about it. And I fucking hate it when people bring it up. The end."
"How have you been doing since then?" Wilson asked, tapping the end of his pen on his right temple.
"Just fine," Elmore replied.
If Wilson weren't a cop, and if Elmore was an asshole, he would have knocked out that bald fuck then and there. But Elmore kept calm, and let it go.
"We know of that incident," Wilson said, "but it isn't the reason we're talking to you right now. Your neighbor across the street from you, Mrs. Tanen, told us she'd seen Lilian go into your house on more than one occasion in the past year."
"That nosey bitch," Elmore uttered.
"What was your relationship with Lilian?" Wilson asked. "Was it an intimate one?"
"Yes," Elmore replied. "We were both on the rebound. My girlfriend had recently ditched me after three years. Lilian's boyfriend cheated on her, and left for New York."
"When did this relationship start?" Wilson inquired.
Elmore rubbed a hand from his forehead down over his eyes.
"Nearly a year ago," Elmore said. "I was in line to buy cigarettes. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was her. We hadn't spoken to each other since I was eleven. We had lunch together that day. Our relationship ended two months ago."
"She break it off?" Tumblar asked.
"No, it was a mutual decision. Lilian and I both understood rebound relationships never really, you know, mold together well."
"Have you two seen each other since?" Wilson asked.
"Nope," Elmore said plainly. "Not even talked on the phone."
Wilson and Tumblar wrote down notes on their legal pads.
"Is there anything else you want to tell us?" Wilson queried. "Anything that might help us find Lilian's attacker?"
"I've got nothing," Elmore said. His gaze went back to the table. He had no appetite for the second donut. "Can I go back home now?"
"So you had no ill will towards Lilian Palmer for ending the relationship?" Wilson asked, leaning forward again in his office chair, his hands in the air for a moment before slapping down on this thighs.
Elmore's gaze shot back up at Wilson.
"That's a stupid question," Elmore said. "I just told you both that Lilian AND I ended our little affair. I'm not answering any more of your wasting-time questions while her rapist is still out there. I would like to go home now, PLEASE!"
"I'm not satisfied yet," Wilson said.
"Neither am I," Tumblar agreed.
"Too fucking bad," Elmore snapped.
As the Detectives drove Elmore back to his house, he sat in the backseat running his fingers through his hair. He tried his best to hold back tears.
"Hey, if it's not too much trouble," Elmore said, "can you drop me off at the liquor store near my house? I'll walk home from there."
"Okay, Mr. Patric," Tumblar said. "No problem."
The car parked in front of the store.
"Thank you," Elmore said before getting out of the car.
The Detectives watched him walk into the liquor store.
"He was in love with her," Tumblar said.
Wilson sighed, then said, "Yeah, I could tell too. So in love he couldn't have done it."
Elmore exited the store with a bottle in a brown paper bag, and walked down the suburban street toward his home.
"We should've told him the truth," Tumblar said. "He'll be devastated when he finds out."
"Aw shit," Wilson said, his face contorting. "Is the Palmer residence on the way to his house from here?"
"Fuck, it's too late," Tumblar said.
Elmore was too preoccupied with thoughts about what had happened to Lilian he didn't even notice he was passing the Palmer residence. As he was walking on the sidewalk across the street, he heard a screen door swing open, and slam on the outside wall.
"HEY!" a woman yelled. "Elmore!"
He turned and saw Sylvia, Lilian's eldest sister, running across the street toward him.
"You fucking kill my sister, you fucking freak?!" she screamed, grabbing his jacket's collar with both hands, pulling him close to her raging, red face. She had been crying. Elmore gave no resistance. "Did you, you fucking bastard? Did you rape and kill my sister?"
"Kill?" Elmore said, bewildered. "The pigs told me she was still alive."
By that moment the Detective's car stopped in the middle of the street, and they both got out. They ran up behind Sylvia.
"Mrs. Soninberd, please let him go," Tumblar said, lightly placing her hands on Sylvia's shoulders.
"I'll never forgive you," Sylvia said to Elmore, then spit in his face. She let go of his jacket's collar. "Bastard." She began weeping, almost collapsing on the pavement, but Tumblar was there to steady her.
His eyes on Detective Wilson, Elmore pointed a finger in his direction.
"You told me she was alive," Elmore said, his hand beginning to shake, and tears flowing down his cheeks.
Lilian's father came outside and hugged his distraught daughter. Elmore didn't notice; all his attention was on Wilson.
"We had to be sure it -" Wilson began to say, but Elmore cut him off.
"It's bad enough to hear what you fucks told me happened to Lilian, and most of my neighbors suspect I would do such a thing. But at least with that version she was alive. Now-" Elmore started breathing heavily, almost as if he was about to faint. "- now I'm in Hell. I'll be at my house getting drunk." He turned and walked straight home.
As soon as the front door closed behind him, he took the whiskey bottle out of the brown paper bag, which swayed to the floor, twisted open the cap, and took a long swig.
"FUCK!" he yelled after that first swig.
He went into the kitchen, ripped a paper towel from the roll, and wiped away his tears as he walked upstairs. In his bedroom he placed the bottle on the bedside table, and then rummaged in his closet, moving his cloths around.
"Where are you, babe?" he said allowed.
Elmore found what he was looking for: a small, gray tank-top.
"Here we are, my love," he said, holding it close to his face, smelling it. "You're still in my heart."
He laid the tank-top on his bed, then retrieved the whiskey bottle from the bedside table, and sat on the floor. One hand holding the bottle, taking another swig, and the other stroking the tank-top's smooth surface.
"I love you, Lilian," Elmore said, weeping.
He took an even longer swig, placed the bottle on the floor beside him. After a half-hour he stopped crying when he passed out, falling back on the floor, his hand leaving the tank-top.
Knock, knock.
For the second time that day Elmore was awakened by someone's knuckles knocking on wood. He heard the faint sound of a woman's voice calling his name.
Struggling, he got up off the floor, picked up the whiskey bottle, and slowly made his way down the stairs.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"It's Sylvia," she said from outside.
"Look, Sylvia, I'm not in the mood to get spit on again."
"No, Elmore, I won't do that again. I'm sorry."
Elmore opened the door.
"I don't blame you," he said. "To be honest, I might have done worse."
Sylvia looked up at him. She was holding a black, leather book.
"Are you drunk?" she asked.
"Yes," Elmore replied, then took a swig from the bottle.
"I thought you should have this." Sylvia held up the book to Elmore.
"What is it?"
"It's Lilian's diary."
Elmore held up his hand, then said, "I don't deserve that."
"Yes you do, Elmore. Take it."
With major hesitation Elmore took Lilian's diary. He held it close to his chest.
"Thank you," Elmore said, his eyes welling.
"Can I come in?" Sylvia asked.
"Yes, please do," Elmore said, moving aside.
Sylvia entered. She asked, "How much whiskey you got left?"
"Half," Elmore informed.
Moments later they were sitting in chairs on the back patio under the awning, drinking whiskey from glass cups.
"The Detective's told us you and Lilian had an intimate relationship," Sylvia said. "How it started and when it ended. I always knew Lilian kept a diary, and where she hid it in her room. Even though I was the only one who knew about it, I never snuck a peak. After the Detectives left, I pulled myself together, and read her diary just so I could know you were telling the truth." Sylvia drank her whiskey in one big gulp, then poured herself another. "After I was done reading, I learned two things: One was that she loved you very much; and the other was you told the Detective's another version of how the relationship started and ended. Why did you tell the Detective's a different story?"
Elmore finished off his whiskey, then placed the glass on the small table between them.
"A year ago I was so damn depressed I was going to kill myself," Elmore said. "I took the train to the city, having a plan to walk to the bridge, and jump off. On my way to the bridge I decided to have one last meal. I went into the first place I found, Tony's Italian restaurant."
"Where Lilian worked," Sylvia said.
"Yes," Elmore affirmed. "She was my waitress. We chit-chatted a little before I ordered. I thought she was simply being nice for a bigger tip. But I had this strange feeling when she smiled at me that maybe she had some interest for me. While I ate I made the choice of giving it just one damn shot. She came to my table with the check, and asked, 'Would you like anything else?' I said, 'Yes, your phone number.' And she gave it to me, then told me what time her shift was done." Elmore closed his eyes, more tears rolling down his cheeks. "To think, if she said 'No,' would I be alive today? She saved my life."
Sylvia put her glass on the table, got up from her chair, moved closer to Elmore, got on her haunches in front of him, and held his hand.
"Why did you break up with her?" she asked.
"She wanted to tell your family about me being with her, and I didn't feel I was good enough for her," Elmore replied. "I'm basically a drunk. It's not even three in the afternoon, and I am drunk. And the way people talk about me in the neighborhood, I didn't want them to do that to her."
"I'm sorry, Elmore."
"No, Sylvia, I'm sorry. I should've been a stronger man. I am weak. It's my fault." Elmore's hands covered his face as he wept. "It's as if I killed her."
Sylvia stood up, leaned over Elmore, hugging him.
"It's not your fault, Elmore," she said, consoling him the best she could.
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