Authors: Sergio De La Pava
Tags: #Fiction, #General
Sergio De La Pava
Copyright © 2011 by Sergio De La Pava.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903142
ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4568-7697-5
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
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Jesus De La Pava
… again for Beautiful you.
The ensuing is the report of one Detective Helen Tame. I am Helen Tame, the ensuing is my report, and it is not true that this second sentence adds nothing to the first. I should note at the outset that this Department is obsessed with reports and I am not; if I had to cop to any obsession it would be with Truth. Truth in its multifarious instantiations, ranging from simple if inviolable mathematical truths to other less evident yet persistently attractive ones. How it is
that a three-year-old’s smile is an unambiguous good whereas decades later those same lips must first be parsed, how certain narrative memories will attach to an extant piece of music and refuse to ever again let go, but mostly how an unexplained human death nonetheless retains a core truth that can be teased into discovery. What I do is make these discoveries then, because of the above-mentioned obsession, write about them:
The apartment I responded
to was a Manhattan special, meaning you cannot believe a human being who is not incarcerated is not entitled to more space. I am here because of blood, blood that makes little sense. John Doe is on the kitchen floor but Mr. Doe is so obviously and severely weathered, so far along his now conclusive personal timeline, that his status as a DOA would occasion no mystery remotely warranting the tentatively solicitous phone call I received but for, again, the blood.
There is blood just above the molding in the hall leading to the kitchen and less in other spots but none in the kitchen. P.O. Avery is correct and seems pleased.
“They said call you in these instances, just this morning in fact.” I say nothing because I’m mildly curious what he will add. The resulting silence causes him stress he’s unaware of and he says, “I took the number down. Everybody was kind of taken aback you know? Since day one it’s been call crime scene you know, don’t touch anything just call. Then suddenly today it’s call you instead
, that last part starting with attendant my sergeant read from a piece of paper, he doesn’t talk like that.”
I am slowly walking throughout the apartment and while it is true I can attend to two matters at once, that is, I can listen to Avery’s noise and still begin making the necessary observations and thoughts, I would prefer not to that the thoughts may be richer and for that I will have to speak. I turn to look at him directly. His pupils dilate and he has somehow managed to bore me further. He is still talking.
“I told him I had to disagree you know? Don’t get me wrong he’s a great partner and all,” he is glancing at him in the hall maybe thinking great was too strong. “But I told him I think this is exactly what they were talking about this morning. Meaning I thought that was blood, fresh blood at that, and yet it doesn’t appear to have come from the body, the deceased, the decedent I mean.”
“Stop talking,” I say and he does. I am putting on gloves I designed years ago and staring at a clean spot on the carpet. “You can go now,” I say but he hesitates. “That means
“Just that, well, they didn’t really say what to do after calling you. In other words, does calling you obviate the need to call CSU? Do I fill out a report?”
“Nothing about what constitutes proper procedure from here on out you know? So I’m at a bit of a loss.”
“Here’s why. You weren’t given further procedure because this is the end of the line for you. Once you call me and, more importantly, I come, then I alone make the determination of what
, as you say, proper procedure from this point forward. Make sense?”
“And I am repeating my invitation to you to join your partner in the hall, then the street, then your RMP to continue providing service and protection.”
“With permission to add that when I started I told myself that to the extent I made errors they would be errors of commission and not omission.”
He had made the relevant O a little too long during which I diagnosed ambition and felt remorse. “You did well officer,” I say. “It
blood and in highly suggestive locations, good work.” I then take him by the elbow like a child, a quite involuntary sin of condescension that requires I atone by asking who his sergeant is then indicating I will deposit positive impressions there, and take him to the hall where I close the door before the partner can even form the intent to speak.
Now I’m tired. Even minimal social niceties exhaust me and the commitment to future such interactions doesn’t help. I am walking about the apartment collecting. I touch nothing, I am collecting observations and placing them in my mind. Once they’ve all been crowded in I’ll order them, connect them where appropriate, delete the irrelevant, promote the critical, and begin the circuitously ineffable process of forming conclusions.
The apartment is essentially two rooms. In one, a kitchen with a refrigerator and oven that look like toy models opens into the maybe two-hundred square feet of combination living/dining room. The other is the bedroom, notable at first blush primarily for the absence of any bedframe for the mattress on the floor in the corner. Bathroom of toilet, sink, shower, ends the tour with only the medicine cabinet intriguing me but not greatly.
Can’t say the same for other things I’ve seen however. For example the main room has a piano and not a bad one. The same man who slept on the floor owned a piano. But not a television or computer. There’s a radio, old as sin, the kind that looks like it was manufactured to report on the progress of the Allies. The sofa facing it has recently been cleared of considerable clutter. Not so the coffee table which seems almost comprised of newspapers and magazines. The carpet is wall-to-wall and gold with the clean spot I mentioned.
I go to the kitchen and the body on its floor. The body is splayed almost prototypically, the right arm reaching up as if hoping to be called on. In the hand an open orange bottle of pills, pills on the ground, pills in the mouth. No label on the bottle, no identifying features on the pills. Left hand palm-down on the floor near his waist. Medium-sized white tee shirt and pajama pants, nothing else. Eighteen pills total between bottle, floor, and mouth. Right side of face on the floor so I put a digital thermometer in his left ear. Beep and eighty-two degrees confirms he’s been dead an hour and forty minutes. I squeeze his left thigh and estimate the density of his femur. I look at his face and open the eyes to see their reddish scleras.
He is more than a century old; was.
I walk away, to the other side of the counter where I sit on a stool and look into the kitchen. I forgot to close the eyes and now he is staring at me. The last thing he saw was dirty cracked linoleum but follow his eyes now and you can reach the Sun.
Someone is at the door. As they come in I stand and move away from the counter. There are steps you can take to stand in plain view without being seen just as you can follow someone quite closely without them noticing provided you understand the behavior of soundwaves and take care to maintain proper angles.
A tall woman walks in. She is leading a girl by the hand. They are dressed in almost costume plainness and as they pass the kitchen they merely glance at the body before entering the room I’m in. I contemplate speaking but decide I don’t want to influence events, just want to see what will develop in my absence.
They are looking for something but the girl is merely mimicking the adult without comprehension. She is nine or ten. After the woman opens and closes a drawer the girl will then reopen and close that same drawer without looking in. They are done and go into the bedroom holding nothing. I have not been seen.
In the bedroom they engage in the same conduct with the same result. They say nothing but look at each other often. The woman puts her hand to the child’s face and with a thumb wipes her cheek. They sit on the mattress, saying nothing, holding hands. When they rise the girl is holding something and I, who have stared continuously at her face since first locking on to it well, cannot account for the acquisition.
It is a white package and it is secured shut by twine in the form of a bakery box. She is carrying it and they are walking towards me. I decide to let them see me and to investigate, I am interested. Then I step aside and they walk past. They walk past the kitchen. The woman stares straight ahead as they pass but the girl drops her head back to look. They open the door and leave. I stare at the door. Time passes. I go to the window but see no one. I have made my first mistake in a long time and that excites me with possibility.
There is nothing that blatantly indicates where the white box came from. The piano bench for example doubles as storage but is sufficiently full that there was no possible room for the box the girl carried so forlornly. In there is a notebook. A music notebook with leger lines forming grand staffs. Written by hand, in pencil and recently, is an aria I recognize immediately but have not played in years. I take off my gloves and sit at the bench. I play it straight through once, at first using his music then from memory, the notes surprising and moving me as I remember why I stopped playing them. Then again but this time more deliberately, allowing some notes to fade to near silence before being replaced. I begin a variation out of order then stop. The aria is the only music in the notebook. This is a coincidence but coincidences don’t impress me or cause me the slightest wonder.
The average person greatly underestimates the frequency of what they term coincidence and often the unscrupulous profit as a result. Thus the frequent
that the Bible, for example, has a hidden code that prospectively details the precise unfolding of the Franco-Prussian War or whatever until someone, one hopes, points out that the real shock would be if the comparison of two immeasurably rich entities like the Bible and all of human history failed to produce any matching patterns whatsoever. Similarly, I have mentioned that Mr. Doe spent more than a century on our planet and I fairly recently concluded my fourth decade therein creating ample opportunity for something like my having written extensively on the only piece of music transcribed by the individual whose death I’m investigating; this is especially so when one of the individuals has been a compulsive producer of monographs on wildly divergent topics, although with a discernible if not exclusive focus on matters related to investigative techniques and Music, since the age of sixteen.
And there remains the matter of the box because while it is true that the girl carried it towards the front door she did not in fact leave with it and it now rests bluntly near that door where I direct stares at it as I resume playing and pretend that what I see is a residual image not yet dissolved behind my eyes and not one supported by actual presence, a pretension necessitated by a kind of urgently palpable aura emitted by the object; how I’ve determined that the round pills are not responsible for John Doe’s pose but almost certainly the contents of the box somehow are, all meaning that I am duty-bound to approach the box but so do not want to that I contemplate the abandonment of that duty and incorporated within is the conclusion that while such an abandonment can be perfectly legitimate it can only be so if it is not specific to this incident but is, as it were, General, meaning just the kind of complete abdication and cessation I am not even remotely prepared to make, so instead I go to the box.
I am tentatively untying the box and sitting on Doe’s sofa. Wait. Should I untie the box?
I have yet to fully inhale the apartment as I eventually must but sometimes sensing is enough and I sense that whatever secrets exist therein will devolve freely under even minimal scrutiny but not so for the box.
Should I open it?
Maybe the box is empty. I’ll open it and contrary to all intuition and sense impressions reveal not a saturated piece of our universe but rather the absence at the core of everything, that what is fashionable to believe has fashion only because true.
But when I open it I’m only slightly surprised by what I see. Another notebook but this one’s marble and thus spongy in the way only those can become. Initially black now barely grey it contains writing that ranges from colorful immediacy to mere ghostly impressions.