Breaker (19 page)

When I drive up to the apartment building there are police everywhere, yellow tape and flashing lights, a circus. I am sick to my stomach, having listened to the radio all the way up, talk of the murders, of Natalie's abduction.

I park a few blocks away, the money hidden under the spare tire, a desperate measure taken in haste. I run up to the scene. Cops block off my building, their hands up as I rush forward, motioning for me to slow down.

“I live here. Delmar and Williams, they're expecting me,” I say, out of breath, my stomach in knots.

“Hold on, buddy,” the officer says. “What's your name? You Nelson? Ray?”

“Yeah, that's me,” I say. The cop stares at me, looks me up and down, and I'm suddenly aware of my size again, my pale skin and large hands. Yes, the circus has indeed come to town—I can see it in his eyes. He speaks into the microphone at his shoulder, clicking the button down and releasing.

“Okay, Mr. Nelson, Officer Paulson will escort you up,” he says, as another uniform comes over and takes me by the arm.

“Just come with me, sir,” he says, walking me in the front door, into the foyer, and up the stairs, every neighbor standing in their doorway staring at me as I walk past, so many policemen with notepads out, writing things down, squinting neighbors shaking their heads as I walk by, an old Romanian woman spitting on the ground as I turn the corner, making a hissing noise, muttering the word
diavol
under her breath as she makes a sign with her finger in the air.

When we get to my floor I see the door to Natalie's apartment is open, men filing in and out, some in uniform, others with cameras taking pictures. Then I see that the door to my apartment is open as well.

What the hell?

“Ray, Ray, come in,” says Delmar, and he and Williams walk toward me, their faces flushed and sweaty. “We've been waiting for you to get back.”

“What are you doing in my apartment?” I ask.

“Both doors were open when we got here, Ray,” says Delmar. “Her parents are dead, she's missing—we need to talk. Here, sit down on the couch.”

A man in a rumpled button-down shirt and a loosened tie is on the couch, his eyes darting to me, a scowl slipping over his face as he types away at my laptop, which is open in front of him.

“Jacobs, give us some room,” Williams says, and the man scurries toward the kitchen, but not before turning the laptop away.

“We need to ask you some questions,” Delmar starts in, this time standing, as I sink into the couch, Williams sitting down next to me.

“Sure, whatever I can do to help.”

“So, where were you again, for the last three days, Peoria?”

“No, Bloomington, I told you that on the phone, a hotel down there just outside of town. Comfort Suites or something.”

“You got a receipt for that stay?” Delmar asks.

“What?” I ask. “I told you I was leaving so we could avoid something like this. He must have seen us talking, or maybe this was his plan all along.”

“Your father?” Williams asks.

“Yes.”

“I know, Ray. Can you humor me, the receipt?”

“I…don't have one. I paid cash. I don't have a credit card, so I paid for a week in advance. But if you call down there I'm sure the receptionist would remember me.”

“Sure, Ray,” Williams says. “That's what, two and a half hours away?”

Delmar nods his head. “Yeah, he'd have time.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask them, turning my head from one to the other.

“Ray, is that your laptop sitting there on the coffee table?”

My head is spinning as the police go in and out of my apartment. All of the activity in here, all of these policemen, it doesn't make me feel safe, it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

“Yes, it is.”

Williams leans in to me. “So, why didn't you take it with you?”

I pause for a moment. “I don't know—I never use it. I was traveling light. Thought I might not come back. I'm not big on technology.”

They nod their heads.

“Or, maybe,” Delmar says, “let me try this theory out. You were never really planning on leaving. You knew you'd be back. Didn't take much with you, Ray, right? Lots of personal items left behind, things from your mother, the computer, is that it? Were you always planning on coming back, not gone for long? Assuming you really did drive down to Bloomington, assuming you didn't just stay right here, drive around the block a few times, park a few streets over maybe? So you could hide from ‘your father,' ” Delmar says, making air quotes.

I stare at him.

“I don't know what you're getting at,” I say.

Williams leans in again, and this time his teeth are bared. “On the computer, we found photos, Ray, and videos, pornography.”

“Um, okay. Not sure how that got on there. I mean, but that's not against the law, is it?”

“It is when the kids are ten years old, Ray,” says Williams through clenched teeth, turning the laptop toward me, scrolling through a folder of images, one after another, of naked children.

“Oh my God,” I say, turning away. “I don't know what or how…”

“And then there's this,” says Delmar, stepping over to me, dropping three Polaroids on the table, one at a time, all showing a naked girl sleeping on a large bed.

Natalie.

“What the fuck?” I say, standing up, Williams shooting up with me, his hand on my shoulder, Delmar moving his hand to his hip, his gun, every eye in the room on me now, none of the cops moving.

I feel as if I may throw up.

“Sit down,” Williams says, pushing me back down. “Sit down, Ray.” He plops down next to me, his hand on my shoulder, his fingers digging into me. I look up at Delmar, his face dark and his eyes red with rage.

“This wasn't me. I had nothing to do with this, I swear….”

Delmar steps over to a side table and picks up a few things.

“You were missing a knife out of your little cutlery set, Raymond, in the kitchen. Can you guess where we found it?” He holds up a plastic bag, the word
EVIDENCE
in large letters across the plastic, a chef's knife with blood across the blade. He sets it back down and holds up another bag, this one filled with tiny glassine packages of what looks like cocaine or meth or speed—white powder, in a hundred tiny packets.

“These, we found in your cookie jar, on the kitchen counter, hardly even hidden at all, Raymond, sloppy work, buried under a bunch of Oreos.”

“But, I…”

A voice from the kitchen startles me, an officer yelling in our direction.

“Delmar, you better come see this!” the cop yells.

“What is it?” Delmar says.

The young cop walks into the room holding up a Tupperware container that is filled with ice, something nestled into the center of it, the lid in his left hand, the icy block in his right tipped toward us. In the middle of the block of ice is what looks like a finger, a small finger, belonging to a young girl maybe, the fingernail painted a bright shade of pink.

“Ray Nelson, you're under arrest—stand up,” Williams says, pulling me to my feet. “For the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Morales, for the abduction and possible rape and murder of Natalie Morales, for drug possession, child pornography, and whatever else we can find,” he says, handcuffs clicking over my wrists, digging into my flesh.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Williams says.

I can't speak.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

I've been set up. There's no way out of this.

“You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned….”

There's no saving me now. He's going to win.

“If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer,” Williams continues, spitting in my face as he speaks, pushing me toward the front door of my apartment, leading me outside, “one will be appointed to represent you, before any questioning if you wish….”

Down the stairs and the neighbors are screaming at me, calling me a monster, telling anyone that will listen that they knew I was trouble, a fucking freak, a devil.

“You can decide at any time,” Williams continues as he pushes me down the steps, “to exercise these rights, and not answer any questions or make any statements….”

I can't think straight.

“Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you, asshole?” Williams says as we walk across the front yard toward his car, lights flashing, a crowd gathering now. “Having these rights in mind, is there anything you'd like to say to me now, Ray? Anything at all?”

“I hope she's still alive” is all I can think of to say.

“Yeah, I hope so, too, motherfucker,” he says, and shoves me into the back of his patrol car. I am numb, praying that Natalie is okay, closing my eyes as my head throbs, my stomach turning in knots, and the car surges forward.

The booking process is a blur. I'm fingerprinted again, although I'm sure I'm on file; the yammering of the police as I'm taken from one room to another, eyes staring daggers into me, and I can hardly hear anything at all, as if I'm underwater, their voices like gargling salt water, murmurs and curses hurled at me, bouncing off as I walk stone cold through it all, convinced that this is how it ends, how it all goes down. I should have stayed away, or maybe I never should have left. I've failed Natalie in so many ways.

They leave me in my cell. I collapse onto the concrete bed, the thin padding on top of it, and close my eyes. I have resigned myself to this being my new home, never seeing the outside world again, never seeing Natalie alive, and then the tears come, and shortly after that I find myself kneeling at the metal toilet bolted to the far wall, throwing up whatever is left of the McDonald's, the Steak 'n Shake, the Taco Bell from the last three days.

Several hours later there is a bolt unlocked at my door, a handle turned, screeching, and the metal door slides open.

“Get up, Ray,” says Delmar, looming in the opening, his shadow cast out over me, as I lie on the cold concrete. “Your lawyer is here.”

“What?”

“Your lawyer, douchebag. I don't know how he even knew you were here—what, do you have him on retainer, does he just hover at the periphery waiting for you to fuck up?”

I don't know what to say. I don't have a lawyer.

Delmar leads me out of the cell to the same room we were in before and sits me down at a table, in a cold metal chair, and leaves, closing the door behind him. In a few minutes the door opens back up and in walks a tall man in a dark blue pinstripe suit, a mustache over his upper lip, glasses on, and he extends his hand to me.

“Nelson David, attorney at law,” he says, grinning, as the door closes behind him, the cop walking away, giving us a private moment to talk.

It's my father.

He holds his hand out, smiling, but I don't move.

“Do you want to see her alive?” he whispers, leaning over.

I nod my head.

“Good. Let's chat. Attorney-client privilege, all of that,” he says, sitting down, placing his briefcase on the table.

“What…” I begin. “Why are you doing this? Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” he says. “This is a test, Raymond. I thought long and hard about you, your work, your history, and I decided that I no longer want you dead. What was I thinking? I mean, how many men have you killed? Why not partner up, work together, father and son?”

I swallow.

“Never,” I say.

“We'll see about that. There will be a series of challenges here, Raymond, tests, to see if you're worthy. This is part of the interview, part of my explaining the job, the requirements, the responsibilities.”

“But you've gotten me arrested. I'll never get out of here now.”

“Ah, don't be so sure about that, Raymond. I'm a good lawyer. Or, at least, I play one on TV,” he says, laughing. “The finger in the ice? Rubber. They'll figure that out soon, I'm sure. The white powder that's in the little packets, that's vitamin C. The knife they found at the apartment next door? Even though it's yours, obviously your fingerprints aren't on it—I made sure of that, wiped it clean. Circumstantial at best.”

I take a deep breath.

“The pornography is trickier. They don't like that at all, and I can't say that I blame them. I mean, what sick fuck gets off on kiddie porn?” he says, laughing, beaming almost.

“You're a monster,” I say.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he says.

My head is starting to ache.

“I'm going to suggest that that pornography was not yours, that you are indeed being set up, maybe by the Gangster Disciples, maybe by your old boss from the fight club, maybe by your ‘father' who nobody can seem to track down,” he says, laughing. “They'll see that it wasn't downloaded from the Internet, that it was in fact transferred from a USB drive at the exact moment that you were checking into a hotel in Bloomington. The receptionist will remember you—of course she will, Raymond, how could she not? There are cameras in the lobby, film of you coming and going for three days, to get food, checking in but not checking out, leaving in a huff, hurrying home, because you were so very worried about poor little Natalie.”

He nods his head and smiles.

“Now, the cash and the gun in your car, that was stupid. I know you weren't expecting any of this, but the car was impounded, the cash under the tire something they found in fifteen minutes. The gun, I mean, really, just left in the glove box—what were you thinking, Raymond?”

“I wasn't,” I said, “I…”

“No license for it, no permit, nothing—they'll get you for that, I'm afraid. And with no record of earnings for the money, no gambling receipts, no savings account withdrawal, they may seize the cash and the car, forfeiture it's called, if they suspect these items were used in criminal activity. Which right now doesn't look good. Not until Natalie resurfaces.”

I nod my head.

“You want her to resurface, right?” he asks.

“I do.”

He nods his head.

“Is she okay?” I ask, hesitant, afraid of his response. “You haven't done anything to her, have you?”

“No, Raymond, she's as pure as the driven snow. Couple of photos, drugged her, undressed her and snapped the shots, but otherwise she's fine. For now.”

I nod.

“Depends on what you do, right?” he asks.

I stare at him, and nod my head in resignation.

“So, unfortunately that large amount of cash you had, that's gone. We need bail money, a trial certainly set, but I'll get you out of here today—they don't have any real evidence. Luckily for me I found a shoe box with quite a bit of money in it, in Natalie's apartment.”

He grins at me and stands up.

“You'll be out of here soon, Raymond. And by the time you get home, the cops will all be gone; I'll make sure of that. But you need to think about your future, son.”

I don't know how to respond.

“Think about it. I'm so glad I didn't kill you, Raymond—so many nights sitting at the end of your bed, right on the edge of such dark and permanent actions. And the other day, our little chat, that could have been something else entirely. Why would I waste such an asset? You're good with your hands, Raymond. I could use somebody like you.”

My stomach turns over and I swallow the bile back down. It'll never happen. I'll tell him whatever he wants to hear, I'll do whatever he wants me to do, but when the moment arrives, I'll throttle him, crush his skull, and squeeze the life out of him without a moment of hesitation.

“Your sister was weak,” he says. “Unreliable, an addict, a mess. No, she wasn't going to work out, no matter how much I may have wanted her to.”

I rest my head in my hands.

“Be aware, Raymond, that I set all of this up. And I can make it go away, or I can make it worse. Certain evidence could suddenly be found, charges reinstated. Consider it my insurance policy, my way of getting you to play nice. Got it?”

I nod my head.

“Give me a couple of hours. You'll be home tonight. And then we'll go from there,” he says. “I'll be in touch. And I'll certainly give Natalie your best,” he whispers, and then bangs on the door, picking up his briefcase. “I'm done in here!” he yells, and the officer opens the door, letting him out.