“What is your excuse this time, Burn?” Officer Farrell snaps, his lips a thin line. “Huh?”
“Sir, she started it.” I point to Overdone who sits across me and snarls like a rabid Rottweiler.
He turns to her. “Did you?”
“Fuck you!” she spits. “Fucking racist cop.”
Farrell seems shocked at her words. I know I am.
“Hey, watch your mouth!” he says to her.
She flashes her palm at him.”Whateva!”
“I don’t care who started it. I have so many pressing cases to handle without … blah! blah! blah! we have a five-year-old missing girl and we have to handle your stupid …”
I groan and zone out. I have scratches on my arms and face and I suspect I have a shiner. She too has scratches on her face and arms, so I say all-in-all, we’re pretty even ass-kicking-wise.
Because of Overdone’s snarling, they march us into another room. As I shuffle along, I pass a room with a window. Seated in the room are two detectives and a man with a beanie who looks like he hasn’t had a bath in days – scraggly beard, hair sticking out from under his beanie, brown teeth and stained clothes. Even though he looks like shit, what catches my attention is the smug look on his face.
She’s in the cupboard chained like a dog but you’re neeeever gonna find her.
The words I hear give me goose bumps. I stop walking and look at beanie, who’s now smiling and drumming his fingers on the table.
“Give us something,” the detective says. “You’ve had your fun and now it’s time to let it all go. She deserves …”
Same place I kept the other girls, assholes, but you’re never gon find her ’cause you’re too stupid.
“Where’s her body? In some makeshift grave? The family needs closure. Give them that, man.”
Beanie shrugs. I wouldn’t call Marine Palms a make shift grave.
Officer Farrell ushers me forward. “Move it, Burn!”
“Wait!” I say. “That man … is he being questioned about the missing girl?”
“Yeah, but that’s’ none of your …”
“Wait! I might know where she is!”
He stops and eyes me curiously.
“Marine Palms? Do you know where that is?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s where she is!” I whisper.
“And how would you know this?”
“I just do. Check it out.”
“No!”
“Farrell, listen! She’s there. Please, check it out.”
“Burn, are you yanking my chain?”
“No, no, no! I swear.”
“How do you know?”
“Bitch, move yo ass!” Overdone shouts, distracting us.
Ignoring her, I look at the floor as I focus on the man’s thoughts. For added measure, I place my fingers on my temple and close my eyes.
“What the fuck?” Overdone cries. “You meditating now? Here?”
Ignoring her and under the curious gaze of Officer Farrell, I zone in and stay with the man’s thoughts. After a few moments, I look up at Officer Farrell. “She’s there and she hasn’t eaten for four days ‘cause he ….he ….” I focus again. “’Cause … ’cause you’re watching him and he didn’t want to take a chance and go to her. But she’s alive!”
Officer Farrell peers at me. “You’ve been smoking weed, again?”
“Sir, please! Just check. Please!”
Reluctantly, he walks over to another police officer. After a while, he returns to me and the look on his face tells me that he doesn’t believe me.
This is so frustrating to me. “Okay, okay, okay … tell you what – just go inside and talk to the man. Mention the address and watch his reaction? Please! I beg you, please!”
With great reluctance, Officer Farrell walks into the room and whispers in the detective’s ear. The detective nods and talks to the man.
I wait to exhale.
“You a voodoo chick or something?” Overdone asks, eyeing me curiously.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I got a doll that looks like you. Gonna stick needles into it the moment I get home.”
She stares at me, then takes a step back.
Ignoring her, I focus again. I smile when I hear the man’s thoughts: I want a lawyer.
The detective and Officer Farrell rush out of the room and bark out instructions. After that Farrell turns to me. “If this is a prank ...”
“No, no, no, no! I swear. ”
He grabs my arm and Overdone’s and leads us into a room. “Sit down and don’t move.”
“Wait! Is a cop car …?”
“It’s on its way there, Burn.”
About ten minutes later, I hear, “They got her!”
“Yes!” Officer Farrell fists the air and a whole lot of back-slapping takes place.
Farrell looks at me and nods, his face frown-free for the first time.
“You’re a damn smart cop,” I whisper, then wink, relieved that I was able to save the little girl.
He wags his finger at me as he backs out of the room. “You and me, we need to talk.”
I sit down and rest my feet on a chair. Overdone doesn’t say a word to me. She looks straight ahead but I catch her nervous sideway glances.
About ten minutes later, Officer Farrell walks over to me with two detectives in tow. They look mean and bad-tempered – like they haven’t had a good night’s sleep in one hundred years.
“Burn,” he says, taking my arm and leading me out of the room again. “These detectives want to question you, but you can choose to have a parent present or you can ask for a lawyer.”
“For assault? Oh, this is so Law and Order. Do you guys have a female officer here like Detective Benson? Mariska Hargitay?”
He shakes his head, a look of regret on his face. “Aiding and abetting.”
“Aiding and abetting … who?” This doesn’t sound right. Two school kids fighting and detectives, fugly ones at that, want to interrogate me?
“The man in the room.”
“The man in the …” I glance towards the kidnapper in the room, then at Officer Farrell. “Him? You gotta be kidding!”
“I’m not, Burn. This is serious. But you’re underage so you’re entitled to an attorney at no cost.” Frown lines age Farrell before my very exhausted and probably black eyes.
I sit back in a chair and stare at the two sleep-deprived detectives in front of me. Detective Conan is skinny, with a bad case of adult acne. Detective Fartmoor (That’s a name? Who names these people? Surely there’s a governing body to prevent babies being saddled with scarring names?) is about …twelve months pregnant and his belly threatens to pop the buttons of his shirt. His comb-over is amazing – rivals Donald Trump’s.
Both eye me with total disdain. I mean, that’s what I think – it’s hard to tell, with my one eye swelling and my nose hurting like crazy.
“Something you want to tell us?” Fartmoor asks.
“Yeah, Judy always says, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’”
“Judy?” Fartmoor asks.
“Judge Judy.”
The roll their eyes anti-clockwise. I think.
“And your point is?” His eyes are piercing.
“Man, this is so fucked up,” I mutter.
“Hey watch your mouth!” Conan barks, sending a blast of doughnut breath my way. Hasn’t this guy ever heard of Listerine?
I fold my arms across my chest, my left eye starting to throb. “I’m not talking without my lawyer present. Or I want a burger and a Coke. No, make that Diet Coke. And make sure it’s cold. Oh, and can you ask them to hold the lettuce. Please?”
They exchange exasperated glances. “In your dreams,” Conan says.
“Then, I’m not talking.” I shake my legs.
“You know what? We’ll call your aunt.” His voice is threatening.
“Oh, please, don’t do that. Please!”
A look of fierce determination appears on Conan’s face as he storms out of the room to call my aunt.
Fartmoor follows him.
Alone, I get a little scared. What if they are serious? I need help here. “Hawk?”
He shows up right away.
“I don’t want this gift, Hawk. Look what it’s done? I’m in trouble, yet I was just helping.”
“Burn, just hang in there. You’ll get through this.”
“Hang in there?” I look at the ceiling.
“I didn’t mean that.” He smiles and sits across me. “They’re doing their job and soon you’ll be on your way. It’s all part of the process.”
“So, what do I say? How did I know where the little girl was?”
“Be vague. You’ll think of something.”
“Why should I have to think of something? This gift is …”
“Relax. If you get into trouble over the gift and you have to spend the night in jail, we’ll orb you home and leave your body here. The next morning we’ll orb you back. You won’t really be in jail. We help you, Burn. Always.”
“Right. So where were you guys today when I was getting my ass kicked by Overdone?”
“It wasn’t over the gift.”
Mff.
Carlene is ushered into the room an hour later, so Hawk vamooses. Conan and Fartmoor sport a now-you’re-gonna-get-it smirk.
Mff. They don’t know my aunt.
Carlene is dressed in Daisy Duke type burgundy boots, a short denim skirt and a red-and-white, checked, tie-up shirt. Her hair is long and loose and she looks pretty good. All the officers stop to look at her.
She looks at me and gasps. “What the hell, Burn? The cops did this to you?”
“Yes,” I say and manage a sorrowful look on my face.
Detective Fartmoor jerks his head to look at me. “What?! That’s a downright lie, Burn!”
“My God! How terrible!” Carlene says, her hands on either side of her face. We can get money for this. Whoohoo! “How could you guys do this to her? She’s seventeen, a baby.”
“Baby? She was in a street fight,” Detective Conan says. “She’s no baby.” More like a baby elephant.
“Yeah and she’s a suspect in a kidnapping case,” Detective Fartmoor adds.
Carlene’s jaw drop. “Street fight and kidnapping. Is that how I brought you up, Burn?” Did you ask for money for the kidnapping? Hope it was a lot. I could really do with some bucks.
“That’s not true,” I say. As if she brought me up. If anything, I probably brought her up.
Carlene whips out her iPhone and starts photographing my facial bruises. Then she frowns. What the …? Memory full. Delete some images. I can’t delete any of Bobby’s and my videos. Damn! Oh well, I’ll just pretend like I’m taking pictures.
“Tell Mrs. Rowe the truth.” Detective Fartmoor glares at me, appearing worried that Carlene is taking photos and accusing them of police brutality.
Carlene stops photographing, rolls up like a cat, thrusts out her silicones and looks at the detective. “That’s … Miss Rowe, detective.” She drops her voice and bats her eyelids. “And please … call me Car…lene.” Her tongue stays out of her mouth long after she finished talking.
The detective’s eyes flit between the two of us. Fruitcakes. Both of them. He glares at me. “Tell her!”
“Okay …” I look at Carlene. “I … I fell as I was walking up the stairs.”
Fartmoor groans and shakes his head. “Moving on …” He sits with his pen poised over his little notebook. “How did you know where the little girl was?”
“I read people’s minds,” I answer truthfully.
“Burn!” Hawk’s voice booms in my ears. I ignore it.
Carlene giggles behind her hand.
Conan slaps his pencil on the desk. “You think we were born yesterday?” He wags his finger at me. “I will lock you up and for the weekend. Do you want that?”
“No, of course not. It’s the friggin weekend and I wanna have me some fun.” I bite my lower lip as I think of an answer. “I … eh, I saw him come out of the building a couple days ago. Bumped into him. He looked suspicious.”
He nods and picks up his pencil. “That’s more like it.”
Carlene fans herself with her hand. “This place is so hot,” she says and jerks her top, drawing all eyes to her cleavage. “I get so hot so easily,” she says in a breathy voice.
Both detectives’ eyes are glued to her chest.
Fartmoor tears his eyes away from her cleavage to look at me. “What were you doing there? That’s a distance away from where you live?” Bet you were buying crack.
“I was buying drugs.”
“Oh, ok … ay.” That’s more like it.
They ask more questions, I tell more lies. Finally, they let us go.
Carlene has both their cards in her hand as we exit the police station.
We drive for a while, before she pulls up outside a liquor store and hands me a fifty. “Get me some Heineken, will you?”
“I’m underage,” I remind her. “I’m not allowed to buy alcohol.”
“Use your fake ID.”
“I don’t have one.”
“What?” She shakes her head and gets out of the car. “That’s just crazy.”
When we get home, she cracks open a bottle of beer, hands it to me, then cracks open another one for her.
We clink and swig in unison.
Doncha wish your auntie was cool like mine?
Doncha wish your auntie was a freak like mine?