3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (4 page)

Cal squints his distaste at the role
reversal. Ray takes a deep breath and says, “Twenty-four year old
female.  Has been renting the house from the Clemens –
who spend half the year in Florida – for the past three
months. Craigslist post. Fifteen hundred bucks a
month. Steep, but they gave her a good deal. No Facebook.
No Instagram. Very little credit history. No next of
kin. Parents unknown.”

I'm left trying to synthesize all this
information, pondering how and when she met the President of the
United States, when Ray asks me for a glass of water.

I nod at the kitchen and say
help yourself.

A cupboard opens and shuts and she asks,
“Where?”

I walk into the kitchen. 

“
Funny thing,” Cal says
behind me. “We never did find Callie Freig's cell phone.
And even funnier thing, last night, my partner said she heard two
phones ringing, after you — and this is the funniest part — after
you said you only had the one.”

I pull a glass from the cupboard, fill it
with water, and hand it to Ray.

“
And you think I stole her
phone,” I say, trying to buy myself some time.

Cal grins.

“
I'll be right back.” I
head to the bedroom.

It is 3:57 when I exit the bedroom. I have
three minutes to get them out. Three minutes to convince them that
I didn't kill Callie Freig.

I hold out my hand to Ray. “I still use it
as an alarm. Check it.”

She takes the original iPhone from me and
clicks on the alarm clock. It is set to 3:55 a.m. She hits it and
chimes play. It isn't exactly the same as the ring on Callie's
phone, but it is a close enough approximation.

“
Why do you have an alarm
set for 3:55 a.m.?” scoffs Cal.

“
Tokyo markets close at
4:00 a.m. I set the alarm so I can remember to get my last trades
in.” I have no idea what time the Tokyo markets close, but as Tokyo
is on the other side of the globe, it seems
rational. 

“
Why not use the alarm
clock on your new phone?” asks Ray.

“
Uh—” I stall. “I made a
lot of money while I had that phone. Good luck charm I
guess.”

It is 3:58.

“
Speaking of, I have to
make a last minute trade. Thanks for stopping by.”

The two reluctantly head towards the
door.

“
Oh, another thing,”
remarks Ray. “We found a bunch of cat food across the street, but,
well, no cat.”

I look at Lassie sitting on one of the
chairs at the table, curled in a ball.

“
And, while I was looking
at that lease of yours, I happened to notice there was no mention
of a pet.”

“
Just trying to save fifty
bucks a month,” I say with a smile.

“
Really,” says Cal. “With
all that money you made with that lucky phone, you're worried about
fifty bucks.”

I glare at him. Take a deep breath.

“
Lassie.”

He jumps off the chair and sits at my
feet.

I take a deep breath. Please work. Please
work.

“
Lie down.”

He lies down on his belly and wags his
tail.

“
Roll over.”

He rolls onto his back.

“
Play dead.”

He extends his legs, closes his eyes, and I
swear he sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth.

“
Do a backflip,” I say,
knowing I'm pushing my luck.

Lassie doesn't do anything and I look up at
the two detectives – Cal whose eyebrows are scrunched and Ray whose
mouth is slightly agape – and say, “We're still working on that
one.”

I open the door and the two detectives grab
their shoes and leave.

It is only when Lassie and I are lying in
bed, when I realize my mistake and jump up.

The glass Detective Ray was drinking out
of.

It's gone.

And my fingerprints with it.

I expect to wake up in jail. I don't.

And when I still haven't heard a knock on
the door at 3:25 a.m., I decide that one of three things has
occurred: 1) It takes longer than twenty-four hours to
match up fingerprints. 2) I hadn't left any fingerprints
(which is a possibility as I had been very conscience of this
and had tucked my hands into my sleeves.) Or 3) There had
been a break in the case and even though they had matched my prints
to those found at the scene, it didn't matter, because now they had
their eyes set on the most powerful man in the world.

But according to the internet, the
President was meeting with last year’s NFL Champions, the Denver
Broncos, at the White House. He wasn't being accused of murder. So
that left 1) or 2).

“
Shall we go for a run
buddy?”

Meow.

Lassie scampers behind me for about a
mile, then disappears. I'm just starting to loosen up
when a car turns onto the street. I haven't seen a car on the road
since the Ford Focus, the one driven by the Connor Sullivan en
route to strangle Callie Freig. 

The car is a Crown Vic.

It pulls to the side of the road ten feet in
front of me.

I pull out my ear buds and stop.

Ray steps from the passenger side and says,
“We need you to come with us.”

Cal clamors from the driver’s side and pulls
open the back door. “NOW,” he says.

I climb into the back seat.

They both get back in and we drive away.

It is 3:33 a.m.

…

“
Did you ever go into the
house across the street?”

I'm sitting across from Cal. Ray is leaning
against the wall, parallel with the steel table.

“
No.” I'm guessing that
they're bluffing. If they had my prints I would have been arrested.
Instead, I am in Interview Room B having a voluntary – which didn't
feel very voluntary – chat.

“
So you never went inside
the house?”

“
Never.”

“
Not once?”

“
No.”

“
Never was invited in,
never had a sandwich, never opened the refrigerator?”

My stomach tightens. “No. Never.”

“
What time is it?” I ask.
Cell phones aren't allowed in “voluntary” interviews. I would get
it back, I was reassured by the lady who took it. It had
been 3:43 when I'd signed the form and handed it over. That had
been more than five minutes ago.

The door opens and a cop walks in. Hands Ray
a piece of paper, who in turn hands it to Cal. Cal's
goatee stretches wide. “Well, well, well.”

I lean forward.

They had been bluffing. They hadn't gotten
the results back yet. Apparently it
takes exactly twenty-four hours to match
fingerprints.

“
Guess whose prints are
all over that house?”

Shit.

“
A partial on the hood of
the car. A partial on the tire of the car. A partial on
the handle of the refrigerator. A full on the closet door in
the guest bedroom. A full on the sliding glass
door.”

“
How did you get my
prints?”

“
Were you not listening?
They were all over the house.”

“
Yes, I was listening,” I
grunt. “How did you get my prints, the ones you matched those to?
I've never been arrested. I have nothing on file.” I glance at Ray.
“If by chance you took my prints off a cup that you illegally stole
from my house, you'd better believe that won't hold up in
court.”

“
Of course that wouldn't
hold up in court.” Cal laughs. “We got your prints off your cell
phone. You know that form you signed that you didn't
read.”

Crap.

“
So
I'm gonna ask again, have you ever been inside the house
before?”

“
Yes.”

“
Were you in the house
three nights ago?”

“
Yes. But she wasn't
murdered three nights ago. She was murdered four nights
ago.”

“
How do you
know?”

“
Because I heard her
scream.” 

...

“
Connor Sullivan?” scoffs
Cal. “As in the President of the United States?”

I nod.

He looks at Ray. She shakes her head.

“
I swear, I heard a loud
scream and then a minute later a man walked out the front door and
directly underneath the streetlamp. It was Connor
Sullivan.”

“
Getting into, what did
you say, a Ford Focus?” Ray says chuckling.

I nod.

“
Where's his Secret
Service? How would he get out of the White House?”

“
I don't know. Ask
him.”

“
Why did you kill her?”
asks Cal.

“
What?”

“
Why – did – you – kill –
Callie Freig?”

“
I didn't. I'd never seen
her before, until I went over there that night.
Seriously.”

“
Yeah, you said that
before. And guess what, I didn't believe you the first time. Your
window looks out on her house. You never go to check the weather
and see her walking to her car. Bullshit. You were in love with
her. Watched her every chance you got. Then one night you go over
there and strangle the shit out of her.”

“
I have Henry
Bins.”

“
What?”

“
You are Henry
Bins,” quips Ray.

“
Yes and I have Henry
Bins. It's a sleeping disorder. I'm only awake for an hour a night.
From 3 a.m. to 4 a.m.”

Both shake their heads like Parkinson's
patients.  And here I was, the one with
the condition. 

“
Google it.” I look up at
Ray. “Seriously, Google it. Or you can just wait and watch what
happens to me in what I'm guessing is probably four
minutes.”

“
And what happens in four
minutes asshole?” asks Cal.

“
My body will crumple like
JFK and I will basically be in a coma for twenty-three hours. Then
I will wake up at 3 a.m., be awake for an
hour, then repeat.”

He pushes back from the table, his laughter
riotous. “Well, if that isn't the biggest load of shit I've ever
heard. Are you getting this Ingrid? Are you listening to this
shit?”

I stand up. “That's why my prints are on the
closet in the guest bedroom, I had to find somewhere to sleep. I
got stuck under the car trying to get her phone out and I didn't
have time to make it back across the street.”

“
You mean the cell phone
you threw in a dumpster three blocks away?”

“
What?”

“
Yeah, idiot, you busted
it up, but it still logged its last known GPS. Took two hours going
through some trash, but we found it.”

My brain is whirring.

I lean against the wall.

Ray has been quiet for the last minute and I see
her fiddling with her phone. “Um, Cal, you might want to come read
this. I think this Henry Bins thing might actually be—”

My head is pounding.

I lift my right arm up and touch it to my
scalp. I can feel a clump of hair missing and a patch of gauze in
its place. I lift my left arm to assist in the damage assessment,
but am met with the clink of restraint. I open my eyes. My left arm
is handcuffed to the hospital bed.

“
What did you do?” asks a
familiar voice. “Did you rob a twenty-four-hour bank?”

Sara is a Japanese-American, a nurse at
Alexandria Municipal Hospital, and an ex-girlfriend.

We'd started dating after
my 3
^rd
 concussion. She worked the 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. shift, so
she would just scoot over after work and hang out until my hour was
up. It was fun and casual for six months, but like the others
before her, she realized seeing me for half an hour three days a
week just wasn't enough. After four failed relationships, I
realized the only thing worse than having Henry Bins, was falling
in love with Henry Bins. Luckily, we'd been able to remain
friends.

“
Nope. Murder.”

She laughs and says, “Well the good news is,
no concussion, the bad news is, thirteen stitches.”

“
That puts me over a
hundred. Is my next set free?”

“
I'll see what I can do,”
she laughs, then as if I'd hit the refresh button, her smile fades
and she says, “I have to alert the officers that you're
awake.”

I nod.

She squeezes my calf and disappears behind
the curtain.

Ray and Cal walk through.

I pull my arm up, clinking the cuffs, and
say, “Does this mean I'm under arrest?”

Cal doesn't hesitate and Mirandizes me. When
he's done, I say, “Let me get this straight, you obviously read up
on Henry Bins, you watched me fall at exactly four and crack my
skull open, and I'm sure you've checked with the nurses here and
know that I'm no stranger to the emergency room.”

Ray nods.

“
So you believe I have
this condition and yet you also believe that in this slim window I
get, this hour, that I killed Callie Freig.”

“
Doesn't change the fact
that the window of opportunity is still there, you easily could
have killed her within that one hour,” says Ray. “Your prints are
all over the place, including the car that her body is found on,
not to mention that every single thing you've said, except for this
stupid sleeping disorder, has been lies.”