Birthdays of a Princess (6 page)

Chapter 14

Monday morning is turning into a social whirlwind for me. As soon as
the detective left, the psycho-doc arrived and I’m sent straight from the
visitor’s room to a small office inside the prison unit for our first session.
To my deep regret, I am not allowed to change from purple to green this time.

“For the time being, there is no need to move you back into IAU,” he
explains. “We’ll do morning sessions only until I’ve assessed your mental health.”

Well, at least I’m avoiding school.

“I guess that’s penalty for my refusal to be tested and probed by
anybody but you?”

“Do you feel guilty about that?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, it’s not penalty. It’s procedure.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Never?”

This is our first real, doc-to-patient, man-to-girl session. I don’t
answer his last stupid question and we do a staring-sparring match for a few
minutes, until I cave in like a sink-hole.

“Stop staring at me!”

“Do you think you lost?” he asks as soon as I have closed my mouth
again. Which of course is precisely what I’m thinking, and when he can read
this in my sulking expression, he says: “Don’t ever think that. When you are
silent, you lose, when you talk, you win!”

I dwell on this for a while and decide he is right. Whenever I talk,
I win. The point is, I got nothing to say. The stuff I do remember by now is nothing
but second-hand. (Second mouth, to be correct). It’s like I have a safety-valve
installed that blocks all of my own memories and only allows passage to
whatever other people told me about my childhood. What good is that?  It certainly
doesn’t explain why I wanted to kill the bitch.

“Are you making progress with your memoirs?”

That’s how clever he is, he makes even the cheapest crap sound
important and classy. Just like Gracie and Mom always wanted to be, and never
were.

“Not really.” Young girl, trying honest and hard, not getting
anywhere. “A murderer ain’t no writer!”

He smiles, which makes him less serious. “I know, just like a
criminal doesn’t have to be a moron.”

Did I mention he has a beard? It’s a fine moustache on his upper lip,
dripping on both sides into the beard on his chin. A white beard in a white
face which nearly swallows this gentle smile of his. Mexican men have those
type of beards quite often, but they are dark-skinned with coarse, black hair
and so very different from my smart, white psycho-dove-doc. I wonder if the
rest of his body hair is as white.

“We shall see about that.”

Oops, did he read my mind—embarrassing—or does he refer to my ability
to express myself? He does.

“You might be a writer after all. I bet you have a talent for it.
You are quite articulate for your age.”

“When I talk.”

“When you talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I relent even more. Sink-hole that
I am.

“What do
you
want to talk about?”

Such a see-through psycho-doc. “How about, why did you come to see
me today?”

“What do you think?”

Oh shit! Not the silly question game. “Because you want to crawl
into my brain. Because you want to know why I did it.”

“Why did you?”

Now, this I can tell with all honesty. “I know, I stabbed that
woman—”

He makes a face like a dog in front of an empty bowl.
When will
you give me something?

“—and can’t for the life of me think of a reason. Maybe she just looked
at me, and that pissed me off.”

“I’m looking at you now. Do you want to harm me?”

 “Maybe. I’m crazy. I stab people for no reason.”

“Have you ever hurt someone before?”

“I don’t hurt! I kill!”

“By the way, I’ve just talked to the doctors at St Paul’s Hospital.
Do you want to know what happened to the woman you stabbed?”

Hallelujah! This round goes to me. I knew he had a know-it-all face
when he came in.

“She is still hanging in there.”

How disappointing.

Chapter
15

The past days had been the worst days of her life. Ever since she
had stumbled through that stupid interview at the police station, she was on
edge. It didn’t help that a small but rabidly excited press mob practically
camped in front of her Eastside building and made it impossible for her to
venture out without being harassed. There was always somebody who yelled out to
her as if she was a celebrity.
Melissa, how is Tiara? Has she confessed yet?
Why did she do it? Come on, Melissa, talk to us.

It was like that since she had come back from the police station.
Louise had offered to keep her company, but she couldn’t handle her mother’s
chirpy insistence of all-will-be-sorted-out-we-just-need-to-be-strong-now.

Nothing would ever be sorted out again.

She couldn’t go back to work, and she couldn’t go outside if she
didn’t want to face the mob, so she spent the days wandering up and down the
hallway, absentmindedly stuffing herself with chocolate chip cookies. Her
little Princess didn’t want to see her! Tiara should be seeking the comfort
only a mother could give. But does she beg the authorities for a visit? No!
Worse, she tells this terrible detective that she doesn’t want her mother by
her side. If she could only see her and talk some sense into her.

If only.

Melissa had not turned on the TV for days, but she couldn’t go to
sleep and needed to distract herself. Of course that was a mistake. Even after
several days, Tiara was still a news item, although this time as part of a
report on the shocking rise of teenage violence. They aired the Starbucks’ clip
again, edited from material they had collected from various eye-witnesses. It
showed the attack from several different angles. Horrific. Merciless. Inhuman
in its brutality. And there was something about the shape of the woman on the
floor, something vaguely familiar. Corn-fed country types, cleaning homes or
chatting on park benches, that’s what came to her mind. Could it be—? No way,
what was she thinking! She moved closer to the screen and tried to make out the
face of the woman but there was either too much movement or Tiara’s arm or the
victim’s hand was in the way. Oh my God, did the knife just poke into her eye?
Melissa couldn’t stop watching—she had to sit through it.

The anchor said, the victim was still listed in critical condition.
The police had not yet been able to identify her, and the alleged suspect could
not be named, being a minor, but their investigative team (Global, not the
police) had learned that the suspect was a 15 year old Canadian citizen who had
lived most of her life with a single parent in the States.

That did it. Melissa turned the TV off.

Sleep was impossible. The clip had been too explicit; her mind ran
it on an endless tape. Over and over again it ran and mocked her. Tiara was the
daughter of a single mom. Tiara was a criminal. So it must all be her single
mom’s fault.

First thing in the morning she would go downstairs and tell that
press mob down there that Tiara’s father would have married her if he hadn’t
died.

She could have sworn she was awake all night, but when the phone on
her bedside table rang, she was surprised to see that it was already eight-thirty.

Detective Macintosh was at the other end and asked if he could come
over and see her. He’d like to talk to her. Just a few more questions. Good.
Around noon then.

She hung up, got dressed and made herself a mug of tea. She took the
mug to her kitchen window spot where she always sat and looked into the morning
sun, wishing it would rain today. Why had she promised the detective she could
prepare a list of Tiara’s friends? She had to fight down a panic attack and
told herself again and again to keep it together, but by the time the doorbell
rang she was a sniffling, snorting, bawling mess.

The detective took a step back. They both took a second to gather
themselves. His moment was faster, but she saw the disgust.

She opened the door and waved him inside.

“Excuse me.” She went into the bathroom and blew her nose hard. Then
she washed her face and hands and stepped out again to face this uncaring
son-of-a-bitch.

“How can I help you, Detective?”

Chapter
16

When Melissa opened the door, Macintosh could see she’d been crying.
Her face was swollen and wet. Damn it, he should have ordered her to come to
the station. But she lived in a complex close to Chinatown where he purchased
his favorite Po-Lai tea and quite regularly enjoyed a Dim Sum lunch. Mother,
lunch, tea—that had seemed like a good idea, until he was faced with her
suffering-mother act.

“So Tiara wants to see me now?”

“No.”

Did he detect a glimmer of relief in her red-rimmed eyes?

“We need to talk,” he said.

She asked him into the kitchen but didn’t offer him a seat.

He sat down anyway.

“I didn’t get around to do that list for you yet. With all the heartache
and stress I have to endure, I can’t concentrate on anything.”

Her nose flared. She reminded him of a rabbit in a cage, taking in
the scent of danger. Her distrust was so obvious, he decided to soften her up a
bit.

“You can do that list later, Melissa. I’m here for a different
reason. I’ve gone over the statement you gave Detective Harding when you were
at the station, and I noticed it didn’t have much information. It was probably
the Detective’s fault, not asking you the right questions, that’s usually the
case at the beginning of an investigation, one doesn’t really know where to
begin. But really, all that’s important is that we get ahead in our
investigation as quickly as possible, right? … You want to help us find out
what really happened, don’t you, Melissa?”

She had been shaking and nodding her head throughout his monolog,
but now he stopped, forcing her to respond verbally.

“I do, but I don’t know how I could help. As I have said to
Detective Harding, I don’t know anything.”

“Oh, but you do. You know more than you are aware of, and we do need
to find out what it is if we want to help your daughter.”

She finally sat down as well. “What do you want to know?”

“To start with, you said you don’t know the victim. How can you be
so sure?”

“I didn’t say I’m sure. It’s just, I have no idea who she could be. Her
face was never shown on TV, at least not clear enough to really see her. It was
all so shaky. And you never gave me her name. So how would I know?”

“You got a point there. Unfortunately we’re a bit stuck on that one.
So far nobody has come forward with a missing person’s report to match the
victim. Her face is not recognizable yet, we need to wait for the swelling to
go down. If she survives, she will most likely lose one eye, according to the physician
in charge. So for the time being, we can’t circulate her picture and as she had
no ID on her, we must wait for her to regain consciousness. All we know is that
she’s Hispanic.”

He watched her reaction closely and thought he detected a faint
widening of her eyes. “That’s why I was thinking your daughter might have known
her. After all, there are a lot of Mexicans living in Texas, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, you got any ideas on that? Could it be somebody your daughter
might have known?”

“No.”

His voice sharpened. “Listen, Melissa, we are not getting anywhere
with this attitude of yours. You’re not helping.”

“But how could I, if I don’t know anything. I told you, I can’t
imagine who it could be, even if she
is
Mexican. That could be just a
coincidence. There are a lot of foreigners walking around here in Vancouver.”

“True, true.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But we
find it a bit much of a coincidence that your daughter, having grown up in
Texas and coming back here only three years ago, would stab a Hispanic lady
totally unprovoked and in broad daylight. Way too much coincidence in fact.”

Melissa nibbled on her lower lip to indicate that she was seriously
mulling over what he had suggested. “No, honestly, I can’t imagine who it could
be.”

“Why don’t we try and work on the wider picture then? Maybe we can
come up with something together. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your
daughter?”

“Like what?”

“To start with, why she calls herself Princess Tia?”

Now Melissa looked genuinely astonished. “She said so?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, that’s surprising. That she would even remember that! It was a
child’s game, that’s all. Most children give themselves fantasy names, play
names, you know. With Tiara it was Princess Tia whenever she wanted to be
somebody else. Just for playing.”

“She’s not a child anymore. Is she a bit backward, I mean, for her
age and all?”

“Of course not! I told you before, she has a good mind, but she
always liked to play games.” Then her eyes clouded over again, getting lost in
her loss.

“Describe her to me,” Macintosh said. “Anything that comes to your
mind.”

“The last years haven’t been easy for her. I’m not trying to make
excuses for what she’s done, but don’t you think a judge should take that into
consideration? That she was a bit like a fish out of water. I tried my best to
help her adjust, but at that age it gets very difficult to reach out to a
teenager. Surely you know how it is. If you have kids, you know.”

“I have a son who lives in Ontario.”

And a daughter who’d be twenty-five now, if she had lived.

Maybe he wasn’t judging her fairly. Maybe she really was caring and
loving and just one hell of an unlucky mother.

But maybe not.

“So, you think Tiara wanted to stay in Texas?”

“Oh, sure. Yes, of course. She had so much going for her. She was a
child model, you know, made lots of money with it.”

This was new.

“Can you tell me a little about that?”

“She was posing for lots of different agencies, for posters and
advertisements and such. She didn’t just have the face for it, she had the attitude.
The camera loved her. Honestly, she was one of the best looking little girls in
the whole country. She was a natural until—”

Macintosh leaned forward. “Until what?”

“She grew out of it. She started to shoot up like a beanpole when
she was about ten. She needed braces when she was eleven. All that cuteness,
gone. Even I had to admit that, and I’m her mother. Maybe I should have better
prepared her for it.”

Now her eyes started to fill with tears again, she fought them hard and
swallowed most. Macintosh could see her composure wilting.

“I was so busy, caught up in this whirlwind of … of … of happiness,
activity, luck. I hadn’t had much luck till then, you know, but Tiara had been
a blessing to me then. Oh, listen to what I’m saying. Then! I mean, she still
is. I have to stand by her, that’s what I need to do. That’s what any good
mother would do.”

Macintosh tried in vain to get her back on track. After a few more
questions that yielded only more motherly self-pity, he made a mental note to
ask Harding to get in touch with their Texan counterparts and check out Melissa’s
claim to Tiara’s fame.

“You’ll hear from me again,” he said. “And don’t forget to make me
that list.” He hoped it sounded like a threat.