Chapters Ten and Eleven - Can the detective be trusted?

Chapter Ten

Serena’s fourth graders, back from winter vacation, are scattered in small groups for a math lesson on measurement. Snow has been falling steadily for the last few hours and the view from the north side of her classroom is alluring, soft flakes that are large and quiet, unlike the kids. The possibility of a snow day for tomorrow is too great to ignore and they just have to talk about it.

Serena is dressed in a flattering silk blouse tucked into a slender pair of cotton trousers. Her straight blonde hair falls sharply to her chin and her reading glasses reflect a prim look—one well-suited to her new mantra in moving forward. What other choice does she have, really?

According to Detective Hears; Roth’s doctor has been overwhelmed by hospital issues and the likelihood of him pressing the cause of stroke any further is slim. A thorough investigation will cost the hospital more than they care to pay and, besides, there were multiple issues that could have contributed to the stroke.

His blood pressure had been high upon arrival, as was his oxygenation, all of which contributed to the blockages that eventually led to the stroke. Considering such, the ‘mystery guest’ is temporarily lifted off the hook.

Her mind wrapped in this thought, she stuffs report cards into their envelopes while her aide, Ms. Chopra, kneels on the ground with a pair of students, demonstrating how to secure a tape measure strip so that it doesn’t slide away. Serena smiles quietly to the assistant, an eternally positive Indian woman whose long dresses and ponytails are a perk topic of conversation for the girls. Daily, they create homemade cards for her, exaggerating her dangling earrings and brightly colored dresses.

Serena eyes the clock. It will not be long, she knows, before Todd Broder will heckle the classroom’s serenity. He will wait for Ms. Chopra to be engaged with another group, then snap the tape measure to its limit. Some things never change.

She eyes the troubled student from her desk. Seated cross-legged on the floor, he picks his nose while his partner, a gifted math student, mans the project alone. She considers suggesting to Todd that he get busy, but the phrase is as worn out as his sneakers. She hasn’t the energy for Todd today. There is simply too much on her mind

“I’m ready for another group,” Ms. Chopra says.

Madeline, Hailey, and Sara shuffle forward, holding their record sheets. Serena notices that Sara is brooding, clearly ousted from the daily clique.

“My mom has beads like that,” Madeline says, running her fingers along Ms. Chopra’s bracelet.

Ms. Chopra winks and proceeds with her teaching, wise to the girls, to their ever-present social ailments. “I have a question for you, girls.”

The girls stand in attention, their respect for the woman supreme.

Ms. Chopra presses her palms together and says, “Why do you think that it’s important to work together?”

Hailey shoots up a hand. “So we can all get along… like, sometimes even if we don’t like each other, we can work it out…”

Madeline, a classic teacher’s pet, adds, “Yeah…because you need to be able to problem solve to work with people better.”

Ms. Chopra nods and smiles. She’s about to gesture for Sara to offer an opinion, when a violent popping noise resounds throughout the room. Todd has found his window of opportunity.

The classroom is momentarily jarred. Students stop what they’re doing to stare at Todd, to give him the attention he so desperately seeks while Serena casually saunters to his side and removes the tape measure from his hand.

“There’s something wrong with my tape measure,” he lies.

“Go back to you seat, please, Todd,” she sternly orders.

The classroom activity resumes. The children have dealt with Todd’s antics for five months now and he’s become old hat. Stomping back to his desk, he collapses excessively into his chair and yanks out his pencil box, removing a shoddy collection of wood to sharpen. Serena proceeds to return to her desk, sensing along the way that Todd is not quite finished. Her intuition is correct. He speaks to her back.

“This is so unfair because Stacey did the same thing to her tape measure yesterday and she didn’t have to go back to her seat,” he grumbles.

She pauses, takes a deep breath, and turns around. “Do two wrongs make a right, Todd?”

To answer, Todd jams a pencil into the sharpener hole, allowing a significant pile of shavings to fall atop his desktop, a pile that will shape his next move. He will insist that his dirty work-area is a distraction to his learning and get up to clean the surface.

He will squirt an extreme amount of Clorox atop the desktop and trigger a new battle for his group members. The pungent smell of bleach, like Todd, will infect the room’s fresh air all day long. In Todd’s world, two wrongs always make a right.

He sweeps the shavings to the edge of his desk with his left hand and uses the right to contain the pile; a method that, she notes, is surprisingly efficient. Watching him, her mind wanders.

An image of Roth finds her: the pallid face with sunken cheeks and swollen eyes; the supine position on the hospital bed where he lay panting. He had disguised himself as a vibrant ski instructor only days earlier and the irony was, he had seemed in-disguise again—a wasted remnant of his virile self on the mountain. She was dressed up as a nurse. In a way, they both wore masks.

By now, Todd prepares to bleach his desktop. “Only a few squirts, Todd,” she says in preemptive strike.

Is she practicing what she preaches? Were her actions humane in that hospital room? Ethical? Todd had told a lie about the tape measure to avoid punishment. Hadn’t she done the same when notifying the hospital?

Aunt Cecilia was a ruse. She had withheld the truth to get her way, to give him a piece of her mind and, considering what he had put her through, the choice had seemed just.

She sighs to the disorder of her mind and stacks the report cards neatly at the corner of her desk. “Ms. Chopra, I just need to grab some paper in the storage closet,” she says, exiting her classroom.

She scurries down the hallway and takes a sharp right into the storage closet. Inside, there are numerous shelves of colored construction paper, organized expertly. She kneels down, clutches a near shelf and closes her eyes.

Her situation is different than Todd’s, she thinks to herself. Roth took my kid, she whispers. He took my fucking kid, she says, louder, pounding her fist against a roll of contact paper.

“You alright, Mrs. Davis?” A tap on her shoulder.

“Oh, hi Frankie,” she says, standing up, embarrassed. It is one of the janitors, a sweet young man with Down syndrome.

“I’m—I’m sorry about that outburst, Frankie. Just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Frankie is quick to forgive. “Do you want to see my new rolodex?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“I have everyone’s room number in here,” he says, “all in alphabetical order. I’ll show you how it works. You give me the name of a teacher…any teacher.”

“Alright...” she plays along, “how about Ms. Chung?”

“Chung, chung, chung,” he chants, scrolling through the cards. “Chartier, Charles…there you are! Valerie Chung, Grade Two, Room 115,” he reports.
“That is pretty sharp, my friend,” she remarks, smiling widely before averting her gaze to a stack of blue paper.

“I’m applying for head custodian this year,” he says back, more seriously.

“Oh Frankie, that’s wonderful.” She removes her paper, pats him on the shoulder. “No one deserves that job more than you. You’re doing such a fantastic job around here.”

“You know how much money the head custodian makes?” he asks, matter-of-
factly.

“I can’t say that I do, Frankie.”

“They make forty-five thousand dollars per year,” he says with conviction.

“Wow. That is really unbelievable. If you need a reference, Frankie, you let me know, okay? The kids are waiting for me…I have to get back to class now.”

“Give me a hug,” he says, widening his arms to her.

She reciprocates. They hug then face each other for a moment. Frankie’s eyes droop slightly. His bottom lip protrudes like a rose petal and his cheeks are freckled the exact color of his eyes, a golden brown. He has a prominent set of dimples and a stout neck. Frankie, the school janitor, on his way to becoming head custodian, has the most caring face she has ever seen.

“I’ll talk to you later, Frankie,” she says, exiting the closet.

“Bye-bye, Mrs. Davis. And don’t worry about anything…it will all work out. You have to think positive.”

“Thank you, Frankie,” she says, clinging to his words while jogging back to her classroom.

* * *

The bedroom is dimly lit, while the television set murmurs a familiar melody. Snow continues to fall heavily outside and school has already been cancelled for tomorrow. Doug and Serena cozy up to the thought of being snowed in for a few days. A thick down comforter, like the snow on the roof, blankets them.

Doug rests his head on her chest and nuzzles her neck.

“We’ve been graced with a free night to party like we’re twenty again, babe…how’d we get so lucky?”

Though she cannot see his muscles, she can feel them hardening against her body. He begins to kiss her jaw, then her cheek, his breath minty and warm. His hands roam below her waist, over her thighs, and upward. Like a moving squid, his tongue and limbs slide around her body, breathing in the scent of her skin, swallowing her.

The gauze of his taped wrist tickles her skin, a sensation more arousing than not. The only problem is—to Doug’s oblivion—her thoughts are elsewhere. They invade her head like a disease. It is unfair to reject her husband of eleven years this way.

But she has no choice.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, snapping to an upright position, panting.

“Okay?” Doug’s body remains frozen in pose, as though a fantasy creature has turned him into a statue. Then he comes back to life, running his fingers through his hair in irritation.

“Steven Roth has had a stroke,” she spits out. “Detective Hearns notified me.”

His silence is a blend of curiosity and confusion. She offers more. “You know how I went to see him last week…to give him a piece of my mind?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Well, after I left, apparently his heart rate shot up and he suffered a stroke.”

Doug processes the information while scratching his ear.

“There are a lot of reasons why a man in his condition would have a stroke, Doug.” She reaches for her wine at the end table, takes a generous sip. “There were many things going on with his body, many complications. But I think that I may have caused the stroke.”

His blue eyes stare at her coldly. “What the hell did you say to him?”

The question, tinted by his disloyalty, a mild curse, aggravates her. “What the hell did I say to him? Hmm…what might I say to the man who disguised himself as our son’s snowboarding instructor, then kidnapped him? How are you feeling today?”

“I’m just saying, Serena,” he goes on, softening his tone, taking a sip of his coffee, “…what did you end up saying? You never game me the details, that’s all.”

The change in delivery is effective and she answers honestly. “It wasn’t so much what I said, as how I said it, Doug. And you never asked for the details,” she adds.

“So how did you say it?”

“Well, put it to you this way. Let’s just say, I gave him a taste of his own medicine by coming up with my own disguise.” She takes another sip of wine and thinks back to the incident. Would she do the same thing again?
It’s possible, very possible. The thought of this continues to come as a shock, even to herself.

By now Doug is alarmed. There is horror in his blue eyes, in his stiff neck, and in his small ears that seem to redden.

“What are you talking about, Serena? What exactly happened in that hospital room?”

She finishes her wine and tells her husband everything.



Chapter Eleven

Lori Hearns deserts her half-eaten plate of Thai take-out to browse through an article on carpal tunnel syndrome. One of her clients, a software business owner, is investigating an employee’s accusation that his company is to blame for the man’s sorry condition—one caused by excessive typing. Lori is not convinced. His application for workman’s compensation seems bogus and she can hardly wait to dig into the case and expose the jerk for all he’s worth.

To Lori; solving crimes, righting wrongs, is just as much a hobby as it is a profession. Since the age of nine, she’s been detecting lies. When her younger brother’s bike had been stolen, it was she who had prosecuted the villain, following the skid marks to his pathetic house five houses down the hill. Could he have been more obvious?

Pinning him to the ground at his shoulders, she had interrogated the dirty faced thief until he choked up a confession. As if that wasn’t enough, she threatened to press charges against him lest he pay her brother twenty dollars for pain and suffering and perform community service in the neighborhood. He had agreed to both and not a dime was wasted on court fees.

To this day, Lori prefers to deal with crime privately, despite the fact that she can rarely turn down a side job offered by the good ol’ boys as the police department. Since high school, they had allowed her to tag along on cases, credit to the numerous mysteries she had miraculously solved in town following the bike incident.

She’s a natural, McKenzie had deemed, keeping her under his wing right up through college. And now, twenty-five years later, she hasn’t stopped digging for clues. The Chief may choose to retire but one thing’s for sure: Lori Hearns will not stop practicing everything he’s preached.

To the sound of her scribbling pen, Sal flicks an ear and casually looks up at her from his favorite spot by the fireplace. The cat is beyond fat but Lori tells herself, and the vet, and anyone else that dares to ask, that he’s big-boned. Cats are lazy by nature, she decides, and the heated tiles only add to his sorry cause.

The phony gas fireplace, a thing of charm, had influenced her decision to buy the condo six months ago. Why clean up wood chips and soot when the ambience of a fire is only a button away? The outdoor Jacuzzi, pool, and weekly cleaning service had solidified the deal. Financing the joint was another story; also another reason to work tonight.

Midway through her flow chart sketch on pain and symptoms; her vibrating cell phone crawls across the table. She snatches it and checks the caller i.d., surprised to see Doug Davis’s cell number revealed. Typically, it is his wife whom calls.

“Hearns.”

“Uh, hi…Detective Hearns... this is Doug Davis calling…I hope this isn’t a bad—”

“Time to call? Nah. Saturday nights are prime time for me. Betcha thought you’d be getting my voicemail, eh?”

“Well, actually, I wasn’t sure. But I figured you may be out, so I was going to leave a message and let you know…or maybe not…well, I’m rambling now. The thing is…I’m calling about my wife, Serena. I’m worried about her, Detective Hearns, and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk to you in person about it.”
* * *

They are seated at the kitchen table, below a hanging set of silver pendant lights, the aroma of coffee and smoke floating between their breaths. After agreeing to the visit, Lori had changed from a velour jogging suit to a cashmere sweater and pair of khakis, though she leaves her hair down.

“Is Serena still worried Roth’s punishment? I already told her…as soon as that man hits rehab we’re zooming in for his trial,” she says, shaking a cigarette from its carton, lighting up eagerly.

Sal, inconvenienced by her sound, looks up briefly before collapsing on his side.

Doug, seated with his legs crossed, rips open a sugar packet and sweetens his coffee.

“Thank you for all of your hard work, Lori. I have to say…my wife just needs some reassurance that Roth will not be granted a single opportunity to harm another child.” He scratches his neck and gazes about the room, in search of a way to continue. “My wife…Serena,” he adds unnecessarily, “she’s really taking the incident hard, you know what I mean?”

Lori listens, nods.

“So, I figure, if I could get some concrete answers from you as to exactly how this man will pay…I figure she’ll be able to rest her mind.” He sips his coffee.

“Oh, he’ll pay alright, Mr. Davis. But you do know… there are different levels of kidnapping to consider in our legal system and punishments are assigned accordingly. I’ll tell you right now, your son’s abduction will be ranked as a class B felony,”

“Class B? Wait. What are you talking about? Clearly, this man is a criminal. He physically moved my son—against his will—to another place. If that doesn’t warrant a crime and major jail time, I don’t know what does.”

She blows smoke to the ceiling. “There’s no question on the charge, Mr. Davis. Indeed, he kidnapped your son. However, due to the fact that the abduction lasted for only an hour or so and the victim, your son, was not terrorized or injured, first degree will not fly in a court of law. We’re better off exposing his creepy track record…about how he had been watching your son for the past year, in hopes that we’ll discredit his character and persuade a few bleeding-heart parents in the jury. I’ll have to sniff around during jury selection and see what’s out there.”

“It’s likely that my son may be scarred for life, Ms. Hearns. I have no idea, at this point, if he’ll have the desire to get on a snowboard again, despite the fact that it’s probably his favorite thing to do. And you’re telling me that because he was not terrorized or injured…he may get off of the hook? Gosh, I have a right mind to give that jerk a piece of my mind…just like Serena did last week.”

A deep pair of lines creases the space between her brows. Her lips pucker as she draws in a deep inhale and tilts her head. Her voice is filled with smoke. “What did you just say, Mr. Davis?”

“I said I feel like giving him a piece of my mind just like...oh, you didn’t know Serena visited his hospital room. I could have sworn she told me you knew.”

Of course she knew. Detectives always know the truth, even when someone’s hiding it, perhaps especially when someone’s hiding it. They just can’t pinpoint who will confess it. She never would have suspected Doug for this. When information leaks out this way, innocently, without an ulterior motive, the pay-off for a detective is as lucky as finding a four-leafed clover in a bed of weeds.

“So Serena was the uninvited guest, eh? Doesn’t surprise me, Mr. Davis.”

“So then…you know about how Roth had a stroke?”

She drops her cigarette into a paper cup; then, as though ridding herself of her own harmful germs, squirts a dollop of hand sanitizer onto her palms and rubs them together before answering. “Yes. I know about the stroke. But, as I explained to your wife, the hospital is not likely to pay for a medical investigation concerning this. Too many variables.”

She shifts backwards in her chair and hoists the window up a notch, one handed. “I don’t know why I don’t kick this habit.” She waves the smoke out the window. “Anyways, the hospital will not run the risk of losing, trust me.”

Just as he is about to respond, her cell phone begins to vibrate. “Geez, who’s this?” She checks the caller: Bobby. “My brother…I’ll call him back.”

“You sure?” Doug asks, feeling terribly intrusive yet needing answers.

“Yeah. It’s fine. He probably just needs me to bail him out again, long story.”

“Oh…I’m sorry to hear that. But… in regard to this information about the stroke…it’s pretty much just the three of us who know this, right?”

She rests her elbows atop the table, folds her hands. “And I’m guessing you want it to stay that way…”

“I do.” He lifts himself slightly from his chair to dig into his pocket and draw out a few hundreds.”

“Is this enough?”

“Take your money back,” she says, sliding the bills back.

“No, seriously, Lori. Just for peace of mind. Like I said, earlier, I’m worried about Serena. She just hasn’t been herself lately.”

She studies him for a moment. “You can’t buy back information, Mr. Davis. You just have to trust those you hand it to.”

Sal has risen from his fireplace nook and springs up to the couch before coiling himself against a pillow, exhausted again. Doug’s eyes catch a glimpse of the action before resting on Lori’s.

“Can we trust you to keep that information a secret, Lori?”

She smiles without showing her teeth. “You don’t know me very well, do you?”

Doug rubs an index finger across his chin, “Well, that’s kind of why I’m asking you, Lori.”

“You ever hear what the experts say about people who don’t trust other people?”

He pauses, staring at her, waiting…

She finishes, “That they’re not to be trusted.”

He clenches a fist. “I-I don’t understand what you’re talking about…my wife and I are innocent here, Lori.”

She gets up, reaches across the table for his empty mug and sugar packet, and begins to clean up. “Of course you’re innocent. Lighten up, my friend,” she says. “I’m no snitch.”
* * *
She tugs at the curtain at the front window and watches Doug Davis get in his car and pull away, whispering to herself, “They’re all alike…and they all need to be in control.”

She yawns to the thought and makes a mental note to call her brother back and set him straight.