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THE KNOCK ON CLARICE’S DOOR sounds distant and far away. Half asleep on the sofa in her living room, she’s not sure if she’s dreaming or if the sound is real.
There it goes again.
She rolls over abruptly and sits straight up, staring at the door, as the knocking sounds a third time.
Hmmmmm. Must be real.
She shakes off the sleep and pads over to the door lightly, peering through the peephole at two police officers.
Opening the door just as far as the safety chain will allow, she looks at them quizzically.
“How can I help you?” She asks, casually pushing a handful of long red hair behind one ear.
“I’m Officer Corrigan and this is Officer Harris. We’re investigating a body that was found ...”
“I already told the police everything I know about that,” Clarice interjects. “That woman had probably been dead for over 50 years. What more could I possibly tell you? We were digging around in the basement of that building and there she was in old man Setzler’s storage unit...”
Officer Corrigan raises his hand. “Miss...”
Clarice falls silent and turns her eyes towards his. “Yes?”
“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, although your story does sound interesting. You must be the one that found the mummified girl in St. Peter’s, I take it?”
“It was me and my...uh...friend…Saul, who found her, yes.”
“That’s not what we’re here to talk about.”
“Oh?”
“May we come in?”
Clarice reaches for the safety latch and slides it back.
“Sure.”
Corrigan is short and extremely muscular — almost stocky — with African features and medium brown skin. His partner Harris is tall and thin with brownish blond hair — probably of German-Irish ancestry.
“We’re investigating a possible homicide,” says Corrigan. “A body was found in Elmwood Cemetery and we’re talking with all the residents in the area to determine if anyone might know this man or why he was in this neighborhood.”
“This part of town is growing increasingly popular for bodies,” Clarice quips. “Who is it?”
Corrigan and Harris remain stone-faced, seemingly unmoved by her attempt at humor. Harris pulls out a picture of the victim presumably postmortem, although he looks as though he might just be sleeping. His eyes are closed and there are no visible signs of trauma to his face.
“Do you know this man?”
“It’s kind of hard to tell who he is, actually. I mean the shaved head and closed eyes. I take it he’s already dead in this picture.”
“That’s correct.”
“Got anything of him alive?”
Harris digs in to the folder and retrieves a handful of printouts from the Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s website that show a few mug shots of a trendy looking man — one in a leather jacket, another in a black t-shirt and yet another in a sharkskin suit and turtleneck.
“May I?”
Harris hands the folder to Clarice.
“I have seen him before, yes. But I don’t really know him. He showed up at gallery crawls and some of the dance clubs around town, like The Forum. I think I saw him one night late at Scorpio.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“Nothing his rap sheet right here doesn’t already tell you. I had heard that he was a cocaine dealer, but I don’t do the stuff so I never had any occasion to interact with him on that level. I didn’t even know his name.”
She looks at the heading on the folder. “Robert Zucker. Hmmmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Thanks for your time,” says Corrigan. “If you think of anything else, you’ll give us a call?” Harris hands Clarice a card.
“Of course.”
MARSHALL DROPS HIS KEYS and a bag of groceries on a small table just beside the hallway that leads to the kitchen. His phone’s been ringing since he put the key in the front door lock and he’s trying to answer it before it rolls over to voice mail.
He grabs it on the last ring.
“Hello?”
“Marshall?”
“Yeah Clarice. What’s goin’ on?”
“You’ll never believe what just happened.”
“What? You forgave Saul and welcomed him back into your life with open arms?”
“Are you kidding? Not a chance.”
“What then?”
“Remember that guy I used to date a couple of years ago? I only went out with him for a few months before we broke up.”
“The coke dealer?”
“Yeah. Same one.”
“What brings him up?”
“He’s dead.”
“Seriously? What happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure. The police were just here asking me if I knew him. They told me his body was found in Elmwood. They’re unclear as to whether he was killed there or if somebody dropped him off there after he was killed.”
“That’s bizarre. What did you tell them?”
“I told them I had seen him around at gallery openings and clubs but that I didn’t really know him.”
“Clarice — why did you lie? Why didn’t you just tell them you used to go out with him a few years ago very briefly but you stopped dating him because you found out he was a drug dealer?”
“Because I don’t want to be sucked back into anything closely resembling the scene he was involved in again. I did break up with him because of the drugs — but there was more to it than that. It’s stuff I’ve never told anyone that nobody needs to know and if I told them anything more than I did — it would all have to come out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable even talking to you about this — it’s embarrassing and I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Clarice, there’s nothing you can ever do, or have done, that will stop me from being your friend. I’ll never think less of you for anything …”
“It’s not anything I did, really,” Clarice interjects. “But I feel like it’s what I allowed to happen to me.
He would get really drunk or fucked up on something and he just turned in to this completely different person. He would go crazy. The next day he would apologize over and over and say how much he loved me. Then he would swear he’d never do it again. I let it happen. Four times I let it happen before I finally tried to put an end to it.”
“You’re saying he beat you?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“Why didn’t you ever ask for any help?”
“Because I was embarrassed. I’m supposed to be this strong, liberated woman. At the time I was too weak to stand up for myself.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You stood up for yourself when you were able.”
“He stalked me for months after that. That’s why I eventually moved out of Dilworth and into a secure building — I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“It’s kind of bizarre that he would end up dead outside your apartment.”
“With all the hell he put me through and whatever other unlucky soul he sank his clutches into out there, he’s lucky to have lasted this long. Robert Zucker had a gift for making enemies. The list of people who would have been happy to pull the trigger is longer than a reservation list for Table. To be honest, I’m glad I never have to worry about him again.”
~ David Moore |
