Читать книгу A Justified Bitch - H.G. McKinnis - Страница 7

By the time the patrol car pulled into the parking lot of the Clark County Detention Center, Helen was almost crazy from itches hopping around her body. She rubbed her cheek across the headrest as Stone turned into the sally port and stopped next to a gray door. “I’m gonna have to sanitize this whole goddamned car.” He still sounded cranky. Perhaps, Helen thought, he needed to sit quietly and think about his day.

Detective Madison came around to unbuckle Helen’s seat belt and remove the cuffs, before guiding her into a room marked PROCESSING, a government-gray cave tiled with industrial-grade linoleum. The room reverberated with noise: phones beeping, footsteps rushing, and doors crashing. People hurried past, men explaining, women whining, and an unhappy child wailing. The detective took Helen’s hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her to a gray Formica table, its surface scratched and inked with names and graffiti. Helen examined the scrawls. No message there.

A woman wearing a khaki uniform and Rockport shoes stepped forward. “Oh boy.” She scrutinized Helen for a moment, then her voice softened to a tone of jaded amusement. “Where did you find this one?”

“This is Helen Taylor,” Madison answered. “She’s a possible witness in the dismemberment case, and we’re having a problem getting a coherent statement.” He gave Helen’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Helen, this is Officer Maria Fine.”

Officer Maria pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”

“Why?” Helen asked, not wanting to commit herself to a chair in this unfamiliar place. She examined the table, which held a computer, a slightly darker shade of gray than the surroundings.

“Officer Fine needs to get your personal information,” Madison explained. “For our files.” He glanced at his watch, a water-resistant Timex Indiglo that went for no more than fifteen dollars at the swap meet. “I need to start the paperwork. You know how fritzy the lieutenant gets if every ‘I’ isn’t dotted.”

“I’ll process her as a material witness,” Officer Maria said, gesturing toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Helen.”

Detective Madison gave Helen’s shoulder a pat, then was gone. Officer Maria offered a professional smile. “What’s your full name?”

Bobby sauntered around behind the desk. And how does that differ from your empty name?

Helen suppressed a laugh. “Helen Eileen Taylor.”

“Date of birth?”

“August 11, 1965.”

“Address?”

Bobby leaned over the woman’s shoulder, reading the screen. What’s this? Their personal version of Trivial Pursuit?

“5573 Tsunami Avenue,” Helen answered. The streets in her neighborhood were all named after natural disasters, events that seldom took place in that part of town. Hurricane and Tornado were the cross streets. Why they weren’t called Tow-Away and Drive-By she couldn’t imagine.

“Occupation?”

“Vendor.”

“Business address?”

“Broadacres outdoor swap meet.”

“Education?”

“Yes.”

Officer Maria sent an admonishing look back across the table. “I meant what level of education. Did you graduate high school?”

Bobby hopped onto the table and crossed his legs, assuming a haughty pose. Graduate! We taught high school.

“My husband and I taught at Western High.”

Officer Maria nodded. “So you graduated from college?”

“I have an Ed. E in educational psychology from Berkeley.”

“An Eddy? What’s that?”

“A doctorate in education.” Helen traced the initials on the table with her index finger. “An Ed E”

The questions kept coming and Helen answered them to the best of her ability, but she could feel time slipping away. The gates to the swap meet opened at seven o’clock sharp every Saturday morning, and at the rate the interview was proceeding she wouldn’t have enough time to pack her truck. “I need to go home.” She shot a pleading glance at the officer, hoping for an understanding nod. “I have to load my truck.”

Officer Maria flicked her eyes away from the screen for a moment. “We’ll see.” She spoke as if she were the mother and Helen the child. “Detective Madison still has a few questions. Lucky for us we have your finger prints from your background check when you were teaching.” the officer explained. She turned toward Helen. “Please take off your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“We don’t allow laces or sharp objects in the waiting area.”

Helen hesitated.

Might as well go along, Bobby said. She seems determined.

Since Bobby had no problem with it, Helen decided to humor the woman. As the officer held out a plastic bag, Helen pried off her high-tops, a fabulous find from a dumpster behind Smith’s grocery. Booth value, five dollars; cost, nothing. The woman dropped the shoes in the bag, printed out a label, slapped it onto the plastic, and dropped the bag into a wire basket behind her chair. Then, taking Helen’s arm, she led the way down a hallway to a caged room. Inside, three women sat hunched forward on steel benches, looking bored and miserable.

Bobby hung back. What is this, a petting zoo for people?

As Officer Maria opened the gate, a petite blonde wearing Dolce&Gabbana ran forward. “Has my attorney come yet? I called half an hour ago. I know my rights. You have to let me out when I make bail.”

Officer Maria ignored the woman. “You’re only going to be here a little while, Helen. Detective Madison will be back to take your statement.” She gestured toward the bench along the far wall. “Try to get some rest.”

Bobby glared. You can’t treat us like this! Tossing us in here like a load of laundry!

Helen waved him quiet. “This will really put me behind,” she said. “I need to make my nut.”

Officer Maria shrugged and clicked the door shut.

Bobby frowned as her footsteps faded down the hall. She doesn’t care about our problems.

Helen looked around, trying to decide where to sit. The stark lighting of the cage threw hard-edged shadows beneath the steel mesh benches bolted to the floor. To the right, a chubby woman sobbed into a wad of toilet paper, shoulders quivering with every exhale. Her low-slung jeans and appliquéd T-shirt failed to cover a large expanse of white abdomen.

Bobby smiled flirtatiously at the woman. Now that’s a cheerful ensemble.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” Helen snapped, shooting him an admonishing scowl.

The Dolce&Gabbana blonde paced nervously back and forth across the front of the cage, cursing with every step and kicking the wire mesh with her purple-pedicured toes. The oversized collar and cuffs on her blouse gave her a waif-like appearance. “Who the fuck is running this place?” She stabbed a perfectly manicured finger through the chain-link as if demanding an answer from some unseen authority. “Do you have any idea how much shit you people are in?” Her voice had a percussive rhythm that elevated her rage to the level of performance art. “I’ll have your jobs, assholes.”

Bobby covered his head, feigning a look of fear. Tinker Bell is pissed.

Helen managed to turn a laugh into a cough, and took a seat next to a girl wearing a tube top and Daisy Duke shorts. The kid stared in open-mouthed fascination at the pacing woman. “Where do you think she got that top?”

“Probably a hotel shop,” Helen answered, “or Saks in the mall.”

The girl looked disappointed. “The security in those places is really tight. You’d need a team . . . never be able to boost that kind of stuff by yourself.”

Helen nodded. The silk batiste blouse probably came out of a California sweatshop and sold wholesale for no more than ten bucks, but it would go for three hundred by the time it hit the boutiques.

The cranky blonde froze, staring up at a bull’s-eye camera in the upper corner of the cage. “You think this is funny?” she screamed. “You have any idea who my husband is? Wait till I get out of here, you motherfuckers!”

Even the crier paused for a moment, staring at the blonde princess as if trying to place her, then resumed her tearful moans as Dolce&Gabbana returned to her military march along the wire. The Daisy Duke kid stuck out her tongue, gray and covered in gum. She tried to blow a bubble, but the gum split with the sound of a wet fart. “This nicotine shit isn’t any fun.”

Helen nodded, wanting to be agreeable. She had never used it herself, but could see it lacked substance.

Officer Maria rapped on the gate. “You.” She pointed to the gum chewer. “Your boyfriend just made bail.” Her tone made it clear the “boyfriend” was a pimp collecting his property.

Bobby jumped off the bench. No way this kid is eighteen. You can’t give her back! Tell them, Helen.

Helen jumped to her feet. “You can’t let him have her! No way!”

Dolce&Gabbana pointed at Helen. “She’s fucking nuts.”

The teenage prostitute sashayed to the gate, her adolescent hips swinging in a parody of sexuality. “Don’t worry about me.” She blew Helen a pouty kiss. “Been doing this for a long time.”

Dolce&Gabbana tried to follow her out the door. “You can’t leave me here.”

Officer Maria sent her stumbling back inside with a well-placed hip bump.

Bobby watched the teenager strut down the hallway. She won’t make it to twenty-one.

Officer Maria returned minutes later for Dolce&Gabbana, a Mrs. Brownswell. “It’s about time,” the woman snapped, then stumbled into the officer. “Get your hand off me, you fucking bitch!” Her shrill voice echoed down the hall, but when the door opened, her voice suddenly softened. “Carlton, darling, I only had one drink. That officer stopped me for no reason. I only flunked his stupid test because I was wearing a new pair of Pradas. There’s something wrong with the heels.” The door slammed shut, the silence deafening in its suddenness, broken only by the soft sniffing of the crier.

Helen longed for a good pair of earplugs, the kind that covered the entire ear—retailing for thirty-five dollars at a sporting goods store—but she would have settled for the cheap, fifty-cent foam style.

Having no Kleenex to soak up her snot, the crier wrapped a big wad of toilet paper around one hand before folding it into a pad and blowing her nose. Between her feet, a large mountain of discarded tissue had solidified into a crusty sculpture of soggy papier-mâché.

Officer Maria reappeared, escorting a strikingly beautiful woman dressed in a gray Armani suit that would go for at least a thousand dollars retail and cheap plastic pumps with three-inch heels that sold for twenty dollars at Payless. The suit stepped to the bars, her eyes moving back and forth between Helen and the crier. “Marjory Johnson?”

The crier sniffed and nodded. “Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Urbane. I was called by Social Services. We need to talk.” She looked at Officer Maria. “Is there some place a little more private?”

“Yes, ma’am, we have an interview room, but we thought you might want to talk to this woman as well.” She hooked her chin toward Helen.

With eyes as clear and brilliant as Colombian emeralds, the doctor gave Helen a thorough scan, then turned back to the officer. “You have her jacket?”

Officer Maria handed over a folder and the doctor quickly scanned through the papers. “A doctorate in educational psychology? Now that’s interesting.” She looked at Helen. “Are you on the streets?”

Bobby peered with nearsighted intensity at the woman’s eyebrows. Check those out, they look like they’ve been painted on. Doesn’t she remind you of that thirties actress?

“No, she doesn’t,” Helen snapped, unable to suppress a bit of jealousy. She turned to the suit. “Do you do your own plucking?”

The woman paused, then framed another question. “Do you have a mailing address? Somewhere we can reach you?”

Helen had no idea what the suit was driving at, or why she wanted to send mail. “My address is 5573 Tsunami.”

“How many people live with you?”

The crier, clearly annoyed that attention was being diverted, gave a whiny spin to her convulsive sobs. Helen now understood why the benches were bolted to the floor—to discourage people from clubbing their mucus-y cellmates. “What?” she asked, having lost track of the discussion.

“How . . . many . . . people . . . live . . . with . . . you?”

Bobby grinned. Does . . . she . . . think . . . you’re . . . deaf . . . or

. . . stupid?

“Of course not,” Helen whispered. “She doesn’t even know me.” She turned back to the woman, enunciating just as carefully. “I . . . live . . . with . . . my . . . husband.”

And twenty-four cats, Bobby added. Don’t they count?

“I don’t count the ones that live outside,” she whispered back. “Do you want her to think I’m crazy?”

The woman swiped across her i-Pad—sold only to those willing to sign up for a monthly plan—and used a stylus to record the information. “So you live with your husband. Would you like me to call him?”

Helen motioned to Bobby. “He’s right here.”

“Oh . . . I see.” But she didn’t bother saying hello, apparently having no real interest in anyone else. “How much is your rent?”

Helen watched, fascinated by the woman’s tapping. “I don’t pay rent. I own my house.”

“Well, okay, your mortgage then. What’s that payment?”

Pushy broad, Bobby growled, clearly miffed that the woman continued to ignore him.

“I paid off the house when my husband died.”

Bobby flashed a smug smile. Glad I could help.

“Maybe we can do something for you. Do you have health insurance?”

“Uh . . . no.”

The woman’s perfect eyebrows contracted. “Oh, that is too bad. Maybe we could do some kind of abbreviated treatment.”

Bobby scowled. That doesn’t sound good.

“Treatment?” Helen asked.

“I can’t say at this point, but the trouble you have dealing with the death of your husband could be a sign of clinical depression. My clinic has had a great deal of success dealing with exactly this problem.”

Helen stepped back. If there was a hell on earth, she knew it could be found in a modern sanitarium. “You want to put me away?”

“Oh, no,” the suit laughed. “We want to improve your quality of life. We could have you adjusted and functioning normally in a matter of months.”

Adjusted? Bobby stared at the woman as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.

Helen drew herself up, mimicking the suit’s sophisticated manner. “Thank you so very much for your consideration, but I manage just fine on my own.”

The woman stared straight back. “When was the last time you took a bath?”

“I beg your pardon?” This uppity middle-class bureaucrat had crossed the line! Only the neighborhood kids dared to comment on her ablutions, or lack thereof.

“You’re displaying symptoms of psychotic depression, Helen, also a lack of attention to appearance and personal hygiene.”

Helen pointed a finger at the woman. “I have never been subjected to such—” She stopped, staring at her hand. Her nails, encrusted with dirt, blended into her skin, black lines crisscrossing across the palms. She spread her fingers, noticing them for the first time in years. When had they gotten so wrinkled and rough looking?

“Why don’t I leave my number?” The doctor held out a business card. “When you feel like talking, call my office and we’ll set up an appointment.”

Feeling like she would rather touch a scorpion, Helen jammed the card into her pocket, hoping the woman would immediately forget their conversation.

The crier took advantage of the momentary silence to grab the suit’s attention. “Where’s my little girl? Where’s my Susie? What’s going to happen to me?”

Officer Maria opened the gate, ushering both the doctor and the crier down the hall.

“I don’t know how she got hurt,” the woman wailed. “When I came home, she was like that. All pale and still. When can I see her? Why is this happening to me? I’m the one who called 9-1-1. I’m the one who took care of her.”

Helen stared at the mountain of soggy tissue. Was this real?

Bobby shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. Let me see if I have this straight. You’ve been thrown in with a baby whore, a drunk driver, and a child killer, and you’re the one left in the cage.

Helen leaned back against the wall, realizing she would never get her truck packed in time. She wanted to moan, but it seemed like such a crier kind of thing.