The Rabbit Factory (12 page)

Do you remember what you said that night I told you about the tumors? Your very first words were, "You 'II beat it, Babe." Well, if I do beat it, I will shower you with kisses and burn this letter. But my Mom didn 't beat it, my Aunt Lil didn't beat it, and after all these months of hospital stays, radiation treatments, and chemo sessions, I'm seeing the glass half empty.

Women don't have the same fears that men have. And I don't have the same fears most rational women have. Don't laugh, but what scares me the most right now (not counting the part where I get put in a box, which gets put in a hole, which gets covered with dirt) is that you won't remember me when I'm gone.

I know how stupid that sounds. I can hear your reaction. Are you crazy? How could I ever forget you?

I was 14 when my mother died, and even though I knew her for fourteen years, I can hardly remember her now. You've only known me for seven years. I know you'll have my pictures and those hideous family videotapes from Big fim's Halloween parties, but I want you to have something else. My heart. My soul. My essence.

I figured if I just write what I feel and let it all pour out, you 'II never be able to get me out of your mind. So I'm going to write as many letters as I can. This is the first in a series. You get to open one a month. You can't open them all at once. I don't want to be gone from your life so soon. I want you to still anticipate me, still wait to hear from me, still keep me in your head and in your heart.

Part of me thinks this is a very unhealthy, selfish, twisted thing to do to you. But the other part of me (the part that says it's not a sin for a girl to feel sorry for herself) says, Don't worry about Mike. He can handle it. He's one tough cop. He's a fantastic, resilient, extraordinary hell of a man. fust do what you've got to do for yourself and your own sanity.

I just stopped typing, hit the Print button and read back everything I've written so far. Yuck. It makes me

II

ft

want to throw up even more than the chemo. This is usually the point where I tear it to shreds. But if I keep going back to Page Zero, one day I won't be able to write, and all you'll have is zero. The other night I wanted to ask you if you would hate me for leaving you a letter like this. But I decided that you would rather I shared all my irradiated ruminations and emotions with you, than share nothing. I hope I made the right choice.

Where to start? First of all--most of all--/ want to apologize for never bearing you a child. I know that's not what you want to hear, so I won't dwell on it. But I do have one semi-positive thought. Maybe it was God's will that we never had a baby. True, there will never be that tangible piece of me to leave behind who would love you unconditionally. But there will also be one less child in the world who has to suffer the early death of his mother. If little Link had been born, I would have become his Missing Link. Oh, God, that's awful. Feel free to tear up this drivel yourself .

Do you remember the day I met you? I went home that night and wrote pages and pages in my diary about my incredible adventure at the Dunkin' Donut Shop. I wrote a lot about poor Mr. Flores, because I knew no one else would write about just another junkie who got killed in just another stupid robbery. And then I wrote about the gorgeous homicide detective who took my statement and then offered to buy me a cup of coffee because mine spilled all over my skirt during the shooting.

I burned my diary a few weeks ago. It was filled with things I would have wanted you to read, but it was also

filled with despair. My infertility haunted me, and there were so many times that the only way to get relief from the pain was to put all my anger and fears on paper. I don't want you to see that after I'm gone. But I saved the page with our first conversation. Here it is. Word for word.

Neatly taped to the letter was a page from her original diary. Blue ink on ivory paper. Her handwriting. Of everything she has written, this is the part that if I read out loud, I'll start to cry. I began to read. Out loud.

And then he said, Can I buy you another cup of coffee? And I said, Considering what just happened, I think they'll give me one for free. And he said, I meant some other time. Or if you 'we had it with coffee, I could buy you a drink.

I was so excited, but I had to be cool, so I said, You 're asking me out? Isn't that frowned upon? And he said, Only if you frown upon it. I said, I've never gone out with a policeman. And he looked a little nervous, but he said, What kind of guys do you go out with? And I said, Usually jerks. Then he gives me this fantastic smile and he says, Heck, I can be a jerk if it'll help me get on the list. And my heart is racing, but not from the shooting, and I say, That won't be necessary. I've been thinking of branching out.

We're going out to dinner on Friday night. We'll sleep together on our third date, and then I'll marry him. Thank you God. It was 4:56 on the dashboard clock when I pulled into the donut shop. I knew something good would happen,

but you had me worried when the bullets started flying.

My eyes were wet. That was as far as I could read tonight. I dropped the letter to the floor and turned off the light. I rolled over on my stomach and stretched one leg across the middle of the bed. The sheets on Joanie's side were crisp and cold. Her side was empty, but I could still feel her in the room. I found a cool part on the pillow and scrunched my face into it. "Good night," I said. "I love you." Once again, our music drifted into my head.

Ah gets weary, and sick o' tryin.

Ah 'm tired o' living and feared o' dyin',

Dat Ol' Man River,

He jes' keep rollin' along.

And then a voice inside my head whispered softly, "Trantanella. Diana's last name is Trantanella. Big Jim wrote it down for you." I got that feeling you get when you finally remember something that's been driving you crazy all day, and I felt a little smile creep across my face. It's the same self-satisfied smile I get when I know the correct question to the Final Jeopardy answer. I started to thank the voice inside my head for remembering Diana's name. But then I realized. It wasn't the usual nagging, heckling, judgmental voice. It was too polite, too helpful. This was a different voice. Sweeter. Gentler. Loving. J-mail.

The next morning I was sitting on the fender of my Acura waiting for Terry and Muller. I sipped coffee from the travel mug Big Jim had forced on me the night before. It had a Teamsters Union logo on one side and a big red Peterbilt decal stuck to the other, but in my gray Nordstrom's suit and my black Florsheims, I'm sure nobody mistook me for a long haul trucker.

Even though he comes from the big city of Portland, Oregon, Muller looks like a farm boy. Clear blue eyes, straight-as-straw blond hair, and an ail-American smile you're more likely to see in a milk commercial than in the halls of the LAPD. He's 6 feet tall, which is definitely man-sized, but his face is baby-butt hairless. He's thirty, but he can pass for seventeen, so even though he's assigned to Computer Crimes, he's been grabbed for more than a few undercover jobs at local high schools.

Muller is one part Bill Gates, one part Thelonius Monk, and one part Homer Simpson. The Gates part is obvious. He's the smartest Comp Tech I've worked with, maybe the best in the entire LAPD. He's also one of those rare individuals who uses

I

Marshall Karp

I

I

both sides of his brain to the max. So on nights and weekends, he trades in his computer keyboard for the ebonies and ivories of a jazz piano. He's a great player, but lucky for the Department, he's not the same color as Thelonius. The geeky glasses, the white-as-rice face, and the Norman Rockwell aura work against him in the world of jazz. I may be wrong, but I'd bet that if Muller were African American instead of Velveeta American, he'd have been able to quit his day job long ago.

As for the Homer Simpson part--that's just pure Muller. He's a black belt in Simpson Trivia. His e-mails always close with some random Homerism, my favorite being, "Alcohol is the cause of all the world's problems. It's also the cure." Ask him why he relates to a loser like Homer Simpson, and he'll say, "It could be worse. I could idolize his brother O.J."

I drained the last of my coffee just as they pulled up in Muller's Dodge Caravan, a faded blue seven-seater, with the third row ripped out to make room for all kinds of bulky objects that fill up his life. I climbed into the center row.

Terry was wearing the black-and-brown hound's-tooth sport jacket that he'd worn at least fifty times since he bought it six months ago, plus the same burgundy tie with the Chinese lanterns on it that one of his daughters told him "looks great with that jacket, Dad." Muller's sartorial tastes are more eclectic. He rummages around the thrift shops looking for "previously owned clothing that gives off good vibes." Today he was wearing a blue herringbone jacket with suede patches on the elbows that must have belonged to an English professor for the first half-century of its existence. His shirt was off-white with white embroidery down the front. The vibe it gave me was Mexican barber. Black jeans and a pair of New Balance shoes rounded out the outfit.

I

"Hey, dude," Muller said. Like a lot of guys his age, Muller has a vocabulary that's rooted in the eighties. "Sorry, I'm late man, but Annetta really effed me up this morning. You're a smart cop. How many dogs can she bring home before I'm legally allowed to shoot her?"

Annetta is Muller's wife. As young as they are, they've been married nearly half their lives. They met at Portland High when she was an exchange student from Denmark. Annetta is blonde and pretty, which is the Official Look of all Scandinavian women, with an engaging personality that makes her instantly likeable. She also has a penchant for stray animals, which appeared to be the crux of this morning's marital stress.

"Good question," I said. "It was on the detective's exam. She can bring home as many dogs as she wants. It's different if she brings home another piano player. Him you could shoot. And how are you this morning, Mr. Biggs? Do you know when the coroner's report will be ready?"

"It's a rush," Terry said. "So I'd say end of April, middle of May at the latest. But after I got your voicemail, I figured fuck the coroner. What we should do is deputize your father. The Big Jim Report was very encouraging. When we see Curry we'll pump him for some dope on this guy Eeg. But first let's get a little more dirt on our victim. Next stop, Pedophiles-R-Us."

Elkins's apartment was in a Spanish-style complex. Wrought iron gates up front. Big swimming pool in the courtyard. "Nice digs," Muller said. "Somehow I figured if the guy is a creep, he would live in a creepy place."

"I think they attract more kids if they live in a nice warm homey place. Remember Hansel and Gretel and the gingerbread house?" Terry said.

Marshall Karp

I

I

The manager was Helen Shotwell, a fifty-year-old redhead with a thirty-year-old boob job. When I told her that the tenant in Apartment 16 was a murder victim, she asked how soon she could rent it.

She claimed to know very little about Elkins and cared even less. "Been here eight months, paid on time, kept to himself," was her contribution to the investigation. When Terry flashed her the appropriate paperwork, she let us in the apartment and told us to lock up when we left. Then she disappeared. It's only in the movies that landladies and building managers are meddling busybodies who can fill the cops in on a tenant's darkest secrets.

Elkins's apartment was not exactly gingerbread, but with its red-tiled floor and brightly colored throw rugs, it had the festive, kid-friendly feel of a Tex-Mex restaurant. Close to the front door was a wrought iron and glass table. Nestled under it was a Cocker Spaniel puppy, with its head cocked to the side and its sad, penetrating black eyes looking up. I knew without bending down that it was a plaster Sandicast. Normal people collect them. Perverts buy them as kid bait.

"Welcome to Hacienda del Sicko," Terry said.

Dominating one living room wall was a sixty-inch plasma TV. Below that was a media center that contained a VCR, a DVD player, and enough video games and electronic gizmos to keep a kid fascinated for hours. Several rows of shelves were lined with game software plus hundreds of CDs and movies.

"Cool," Muller said. "How come I never get invited over by any pedophiles?"

We spot-checked the living room, kitchen, and dining alcove. If I hadn't read Elkins's rap sheet, I might have figured the tenant was a regular guy with an unlimited line of credit at

Circuit City. But the normal-as-blueberry-pie appearance only went so far. The bedroom turned out to be the Perverts' Den from Hell. Three dresser drawers and one entire closet were filled with kiddy porn photos, magazines, and videos.

Terry flipped open a magazine. "Sick fuck," he said, dropping it like it was a biohazard.

Muller made a beeline toward the computer. I watched as his piano-player fingers flew across the keyboard. It reminded me of my Dear Abby exchange with Jim the night before, and I wondered how my brother was doing.

Terry and I sifted through the sordid souvenirs of Elkins's existence on the planet. Every few minutes he would spit out another "sick fuck."

Finally Muller stood up and stretched his lanky frame. "There's no doubt what the guy is. He's bookmarked every ped and antiped site on the Web. I want to hack into his e-mail and go to the chat rooms where he hangs out. It'll be easier if I take his PC back with us."

We spent another hour cataloguing the contents of the dresser and the closet. Then Muller packed up Elkins's computer plus three of the games for the PlayStation 2. I had watched him carefully check out every piece of software, so I asked why he had singled out those particular games.

"It's complicated," he said, "but all my years of training tell me that God of War, Soul Calibur III, and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas will give us the best insight into Elkins's character."

"And let me guess," I said. "Those are the only ones you don't have at home."

"D'oh," said Homer Simpson, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand.