...Riley learns the death was intentional...
It was barely light. Riley rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned, watching Susan Fernandez inspect the backpack.
Wearing latex gloves, she lifted it by the straps with her fingers, the left index pointing at the right and vice versa, as if ratting each other out. She unzipped each pocket and probed inside.
A wrinkle formed between the brows of her seamless face, dark eyes inquisitive and lively. Riley thought she looked more attractive in person than on TV.
She zipped the pockets and set it on the coffee table.
“What do you think?” Mara asked.
"Nothing there now, of course. But it held something in the shot.”
Riley looked puzzled.
“The bag had weight to it, so something was taken after he died.”
“It was empty when I found it.”
“I know,” said Mara, reaching out a comforting hand.
“I don’t see what’s the fuss. I’ll take it to the police and that will be that.”
“Riley, it’s a murder case now.”
“What?”
“He was stabbed in the neck. We found out last night.”
He paused to take in the news. “But I’m innocent.”
Susan’s lips slackened as if to mock a bad joke.
“Join the party. The police say they’re innocent of beating him, but film shows them whacking away at the crowd. Nothing shows them not beating him.”
“But you said he was stabbed.” He looked at Mara.
“The public doesn’t know that yet,” Susan interjected. “They’ll announce at a morning conference."
“When they do--“
“It won’t make a difference. Not at first. Those who always blame the police will call for the Chief’s head.”
“What’s that have to do with me?” Riley pressed.
Susan composed herself. Her words were smooth and measured. “You are likely the only lead related to motive. They will hold on to you as long as they can until the public looks somewhere else.”
Riley sunk in his chair.
“That’s why Susan wants to film you at the Hall of Justice. It’s a big story.”
His face flushed. He stammered, “I don’t want publicity!”
His words hung in the air. Susan’s arms were crossed and her lips pressed together. Mara leaned forward and mouthed, “I’m sorry”.
***
“The coroner’s report indicates the deceased died of stab wounds to the neck.”
A flurry of clicks and flashes filled the room, cameras capturing beefy, red-faced Inspector Henderson. He looked at his notes.
“The deceased’s name is Robert Martin, a transient residing in San Francisco. We ask that anyone with information about Mr. Martin or this incident call the police…”
***
Riley watched the news conference from home and wrote down the number to call. Then he took the bus to the Hall of Justice.
He called on his cell from across the street, then approached the imposing granite building, a paper bag in hand. A crowd of protesters had already formed. They chanted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”
Inside, he stood waiting beyond the metal detector as others lined up to pass through to traffic and criminal courts.
From somewhere, Rex was filming. He didn’t like it, but Susan had put in him the fear of a bottomless bureaucracy. At least there’d be proof he’d entered the building of his own free will.
When a sergeant appeared, scanning the lobby, he signaled him and handed over the bag. He motioned him to the head of the line. Riley passed through and followed him down the hallway, sensing another escort behind. Men and women with thick belts and badges gave them wide berth, turning heads, eyes blinking furiously.
The sergeant opened a door to a room with a gray metal table and two chairs. He left him there to wait.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted March 7.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Chapter 2: Backpack
...the backpack's disturbing link...
Riley turned on the six o’clock news. The lead story was captioned, “Death at Protest”. Rex must have shot the footage, because it showed him in the middle of the melee. People ran or tumbled from three grizzled men who screamed and hacked the crowd with sticks. The man whose face would be pushed into the pavement staggered before them. He held out a red backpack, his clenched fists pounding into Riley’s shoulders.
Riley jerked forward, as if struck again. He seemed to push the backpack to him, and now it lay on the floor in the other room. He blushed with shame and fear.
A man died but he was thinking about himself. He felt uneasy being associated with the protest. He’d always hoped his studies would lead to a career with the State Department. Then when 9/11 happened his thoughts turned to things more serious than travel to exotic places. He thought of working with the Department of Defense or the CIA. What would they think about the protest?
He had doubts about invading Iraq. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the attack in New York. But the drumbeat of war obscured the detail, leading the country into action no matter where. He kept those thoughts to himself. It’s what would be expected, he reasoned.
The backpack. He cursed himself for picking it up. He could buy the same thing for twenty bucks. But there it lay on the ground, either lost or discarded. He assumed the attitude of its owner. It served its purpose and wasn’t needed anymore. Or, if lost, it wasn’t valuable enough to make the effort to retrieve. He thought he could put it to use, but now it linked him to the death at the protest.
The TV news moved to other subjects, but Riley tried to conjure the dead man’s image. He saw the expanding pool of blood, his stringy brown hair, long and dirty looking. He wore jeans with holes at the knees and a brown plaid shirt. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t old. The pool of sticky red blood around his head intruded again. He couldn’t see more.
Riley turned off the TV and sat in the fading light. He wanted to talk to Mara. She probably knew more about the dead man than they could say on the air. The authorities wouldn’t release his name pending notification of next of kin. He thought of calling her. She’d probably be busy. He thought about the backpack. He decided to wait.
***
He heard light footsteps bounding up the carpeted stairs. A thud against the door preceded the scratching of a key in the lock. Mara burst into the apartment, dropping a heavy canvas bag in the hallway and running breathlessly into the front room.
“Did you see it? Did you see?” Her words competed with each other to escape her mouth. Riley imagined he could see her throat swell for the congestion.
He smiled wanly, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Yes, he told her. He had seen it.
“You were right there! He touched you. The dead guy! Look!” She popped a cassette tape into the VCR and replayed the scene in the plaza.
The footage was unedited. He saw himself standing beside Susan and then being thrust into her. His eyes grew wide with surprise then seemed to close. When they opened, they showed fear.
He saw the same look in the dead man’s eyes. He was trying to get away from something but he wouldn’t make it.
“I’ve got to get back. I wanted to show you the tape.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Not yet. He could be a homeless.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“They’re not sure. Some say the counter-protesters, some the police. City Hall’s gearing up for complaints about police brutality.”
Riley was deep in thought.
“What’s wrong, Riley?”
He left the room without a word, leaving Mara amazed at his odd behavior. When he returned, he held up the red backpack. Her jaw dropped.
“The dead man’s backpack!”
Riley nodded.
Mara brushed her brow with her hand, pushing up the brim of her blue cap.
“You have to tell the police.”
Riley nodded. His face flushed, nearly matching the color of the bag he ruefully held.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 21.
Riley turned on the six o’clock news. The lead story was captioned, “Death at Protest”. Rex must have shot the footage, because it showed him in the middle of the melee. People ran or tumbled from three grizzled men who screamed and hacked the crowd with sticks. The man whose face would be pushed into the pavement staggered before them. He held out a red backpack, his clenched fists pounding into Riley’s shoulders.
Riley jerked forward, as if struck again. He seemed to push the backpack to him, and now it lay on the floor in the other room. He blushed with shame and fear.
A man died but he was thinking about himself. He felt uneasy being associated with the protest. He’d always hoped his studies would lead to a career with the State Department. Then when 9/11 happened his thoughts turned to things more serious than travel to exotic places. He thought of working with the Department of Defense or the CIA. What would they think about the protest?
He had doubts about invading Iraq. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the attack in New York. But the drumbeat of war obscured the detail, leading the country into action no matter where. He kept those thoughts to himself. It’s what would be expected, he reasoned.
The backpack. He cursed himself for picking it up. He could buy the same thing for twenty bucks. But there it lay on the ground, either lost or discarded. He assumed the attitude of its owner. It served its purpose and wasn’t needed anymore. Or, if lost, it wasn’t valuable enough to make the effort to retrieve. He thought he could put it to use, but now it linked him to the death at the protest.
The TV news moved to other subjects, but Riley tried to conjure the dead man’s image. He saw the expanding pool of blood, his stringy brown hair, long and dirty looking. He wore jeans with holes at the knees and a brown plaid shirt. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t old. The pool of sticky red blood around his head intruded again. He couldn’t see more.
Riley turned off the TV and sat in the fading light. He wanted to talk to Mara. She probably knew more about the dead man than they could say on the air. The authorities wouldn’t release his name pending notification of next of kin. He thought of calling her. She’d probably be busy. He thought about the backpack. He decided to wait.
***
He heard light footsteps bounding up the carpeted stairs. A thud against the door preceded the scratching of a key in the lock. Mara burst into the apartment, dropping a heavy canvas bag in the hallway and running breathlessly into the front room.
“Did you see it? Did you see?” Her words competed with each other to escape her mouth. Riley imagined he could see her throat swell for the congestion.
He smiled wanly, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Yes, he told her. He had seen it.
“You were right there! He touched you. The dead guy! Look!” She popped a cassette tape into the VCR and replayed the scene in the plaza.
The footage was unedited. He saw himself standing beside Susan and then being thrust into her. His eyes grew wide with surprise then seemed to close. When they opened, they showed fear.
He saw the same look in the dead man’s eyes. He was trying to get away from something but he wouldn’t make it.
“I’ve got to get back. I wanted to show you the tape.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Not yet. He could be a homeless.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“They’re not sure. Some say the counter-protesters, some the police. City Hall’s gearing up for complaints about police brutality.”
Riley was deep in thought.
“What’s wrong, Riley?”
He left the room without a word, leaving Mara amazed at his odd behavior. When he returned, he held up the red backpack. Her jaw dropped.
“The dead man’s backpack!”
Riley nodded.
Mara brushed her brow with her hand, pushing up the brim of her blue cap.
“You have to tell the police.”
Riley nodded. His face flushed, nearly matching the color of the bag he ruefully held.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 21.
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