Between You And Me

12~Messiah, sort of

Caleb’s POV

I wasn’t arrested.

They made that clear from the beginning, but as I waited in the cold interrogation room with only the reflection of my disgruntled face keeping me company, I questioned my presence here. Police officers brought with them an air of discomfort and distrust that had me wanting to bolt despite knowing I had done nothing wrong. But police were known to arrest people on suspicion alone and with this production, if someone looked very very very carefully, they would see the tiniest skeleton remains I’d buried long ago.

Without warning, the metal door swung open to reveal the same woman, Officer Patricia Kettles, who locked me in here along with a gentleman following behind her dressed in a collared shirt and a badge on his hip. In his hands, he left a manila folder, using his free hand to close the door behind him. She introduced him as she took a seat in the only chair present that I wasn’t sitting in.

“This is Detective Jereme Prince,” she introduced him as though she were presenting my date to the cotillion rather than my date with imprisonment. “Detective Prince, Director Caleb Cross.”

He offered his hand. Tentatively, I shook it, having the freedom to do so since I wasn’t handcuffed—although Officer Kettles did threaten to put them on while on set. I told Neil to take charge until I got back.

“Are you finally going to tell me why I’ve been summoned?” I asked, boorish, in an attempt to hide my uneasiness.

They looked at each other for a moment before he handed her the manila folder, the contents overfilled for such a tiny packet. I already knew it was something dreadful inside, something that would connect me with the lone assailant I’m currently filming about. Before opening it, although to provoke me even further, she asked me, “What do you know about L-L-E-G?”

Oh. My nose coiled at the mention of the acronym. That group. I won’t lie, I felt relief at the mention veiled by visible annoyance. My secrets were safe…for now. “Oh, that fan group of Ezra’s. The Long Live Ezra Graham brigade.”

“That’s the one.” There was a moment of silence, her waiting for me to speak further on the subject, but I didn’t. There’s no reason for her to know what I know. So she continued, “They’ve been a real pain in the ass since you announced the filming here for your latest project about their…messiah, of sorts.” She couldn’t find another word and neither could I. The way they revered Ezra as though he were a new Christ-like figure who brought salvation to those he tormented and murdered in the name of God was stupefying (if not insane). “And they’ve been trying to get his attention as of recently.”

To solidify the gravity of her words, she opened the contents of the folder with a warning, “These aren’t for the faint of heart, Mr. Cross.”

When I didn’t give her a reply, she took the initiative to open and fan out the contents, presenting several pictures of unfamiliar faces and severed body parts against bloodied floors. There were pictures of people's faces, probably family pictures taken before, because the bloodied bodies couldn’t be recognized without them. One body had been charred to the point of unrecognition and another had been smashed with something heavy and unmerciful. There was one that could be recognized—only half of her features because the other half had been severed and had deep bite marks of some kind. A part of me hoped they weren’t human.

To someone else, these photos would have sickened them visibly but I only forced up a widening of the eyes, pinch of the nose, and furrow of the brows with an uncomfortable hand over my mouth. Visible enough to know I wasn’t the culprit.

She pointed to the charred body, then to the picture clipped with it of a man in a tailored suit, thin autumn brown hair brushed to the side, standing in front of the American and state flag. “This is councilman Robert Alistair who was found two days before you started setting up shop here. And this”—she slipped another photo from underneath it—“was found on him.” There was a piece of paper, crisp and uncharred, placed on his smoky body that read a verse from the bible.

For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.

Romans 13, Verse 4. The word wrath emboldened on the page, like a harsh flash to the subconscious.

This time, Detective Prince spoke further on the matter. “They also left photographs of his private life, his wrath, if you will.” Officer Kettle threw him a tiresome look but he ignored her, staring down at me in my seat as he collected multiple photos from the jumbled stack. I sat up, looking at the photos of the Councilman bellowing at a woman through a window. I assumed it was taken outside of his house and the woman, his wife. In the next few frames, he started to smacker her, and once on the ground, a lovely portrait of him lifting his foot to kick her. “There’s more of his wrath with other members of his family, strangers on the street, a waitress he stalked and beat up a while before.” He spoke as though he were listing food items off a menu.

“So they’re vigilantes instead of just groupies now?” I asked.

“It seems they think so,” Officer Kettles answered, obviously annoyed at the idea. “But we don’t take too kindly to people dealing out what they think is justice.”

“And I’m guessing those other two have similar stories?” Boredom now drifted through my tone of voice.

Honestly, I just wanted them to tell me why I’m here if not as a suspect, instead of dragging it out. From the photos and stories, I already knew that Ezra’s legacy prevailed through his groupies trying to mimic his style of “justice.”

Picking up on my tone, Officer Kettle replied. “Yes, similar, but not quite.” She shuffled through the papers and portraits, collecting a few while adding, “This shouldn’t take much longer, Mr. Cross. I know you’re a busy man with your little film and whatnot.” Little film? Her eyes flickered to see a reaction but I refused to give her the satisfaction, keeping my expression indecipherable. She laid out the photos, this time presenting them in multiples. “Ashlee Turner, greed. Dean Hemerson, sloth.”

The first name, I didn’t know, but the second name, I did. Dean Hemerson of Hemerson Realties was the golden boy of Hawthorne Peaks, not through any might or wit of his own, but through his family’s name and connections. Some say he bought his way into Harvard Law, passed the bar by the scuff of his teeth, and ever since has been charming people with money to hide the fact that he's a lazy lawyer. And I only knew all of this because he decided to pursue a new venture of running for mayor of Hawthorne Peaks, a throne his parents happily purchased for him.

I pointed to his photo. “I thought he was sick out of state.”

A coverup. “That’s a coverup story until we can get some answers but we’re running out of time,” Detective Prince admitted. “Soon, there will be a whole frenzy of media scoping out the truth, that he’s dead, and that will just open Pandora’s box.”

“So why am I here? To keep it closed?”

Officer Kettle shook her head. “We need your help and expertise on the matter.”I straightened up at the word help, thankful it wasn’t anywhere close to arrest. “After Ezra Graham died—”

“Or went missing,” Detective added. Kettles shot him an annoyed look, obviously in opposition to each other about the topic. “His bloodstain was on the street but nobody.”

She rolled her eyes, returning to the topic at hand and how I could assist. “After Ezra died and his crimes were revealed, including a little journal describing his reasoning for his murders, and other things…” Her voice fell when she said ‘other things,’ her mind probably remembered them in great detail. “Once those became public, his little fan group”—she really enjoys saying little—“used that as evidence of his prophetic mission. Then the journal went missing and our first guess was that the L.L.E.G took it but, years later, here you come, and…” She slipped a photo she had kept at her side until now. This time it was a picture of me and I could feel the hairs on my arm stand on end at the sight of myself with a thick, leather-bound journal in my hand. “Looky there. The missing journal. Would you like to explain?”

Trying to hold back the flush of confidence I once held onto like a lifeline, I sat back in my seat, still staring at the photo, analyzing it. I’d kept it with me for some time now, writing out his account of events for the movie, only within the study of the little trailer I rented. No one, not even Neil, knew about it. So who knew it was in my possession and how?

It took everything inside to maintain a stronghold on my expression as they stared closely at me for any evidence of deception. “Someone shipped it to me by mail. No return address.” The words fell off my tongue effortlessly. And why wouldn’t they? It was the truth, well, half-truth.

Still, they kept their eyes on me for a long second before accepting my words, shoving them into their pockets for future accounts. “We’re not going to ask for it back,” she sighed. They probably photo-copied every page and dusted for prints the moment they had it years ago. “But you know enough about Ezra to write an entire film and, I’m guessing, to know more than you’re letting on about L.L.E.G. So, we want to pick your brain on all your crew members and your team.” She handed me a business card for her and the Detective. “We believe there might be some groupies staying close to you.”