April's Tears

Klempner A figure emerges from the tented crime scene. White-clothed. A pale man. Tall. Long-legged. Silver-haired. And red… Blood bright on his hands Borje. For an instant, he clearly doesn’t recognise me. Then, his eyes widen. “Larry? What the hell…” I react by instinct, locking a hand to his throat. “What the f**k are you doing here?” Jolted back against a supporting post of the marquee, arms flailing, he gurgles against the vee of my thumb and fingers. Red-faced, scrabbling at my hand... “Choking me…” I relax my hold a bit. “What was that?” “Doctor. I'm a f*****g doctor!” ? I release my grip and he drops, gasping, to all fours. “Doctor?” “Yes, a doctor.” On hands and knees, he coughs and splutters, clearing his airway. “I'm a police pathologist, you f*****g… maniac.” For a moment, my thoughts freeze… Then my brain kicks in again, collecting the detail my first freaked-out impression missed: The white coverall… The hair netted back… And the blood… Not on the hands, but on vinyl gloves that even now Borje is peeling off. A rustle behind me. A figure in space uniform. It goggles. “Doc? You okay?” “Yes.” Borje stands, brushing himself down. “Just...” He gives me the evil eye... “Just a misunderstanding.” The figure looks doubtful, retreats into the marquee. Seconds later and another figure emerges, some cop in uniform. He looks to Borje. Looks to me. “Who are you?” Then, sweeping around. Left. Right. Behind me. “Who let you in here? Press pen’s back that way.” His arm windmills out, pointing back the way I came. “Out! Now.” “I am not aware,” hisses Borje, “that this man is with the press.” Brows arch. “That right?” A finger jabs at my ‘pass’. “So what’s that? Forged? Stolen?” “I… was given it.” “Who by?” Ah… Crap… The cop gives me an old look. “This way, if you don’t mind. You’ve some explaining to do.” “There’s no need to…” “If you prefer to make it formal, I’ll arrest you for assault. Do I gather you know this man, Doctor?” Borje, arms folded, chin lifted, “Slightly, yes. His name is Lars, I believe. But everyone calls him Larry.” “Larry what?” Borje shrugs. Ah… f**k it… “Waterman,” I say. The uniform gives me a nod. “You want to press charges, Doctor?” Borje rubs at his throat. “No, no charges. But I would like to hear what he has to say.” “Would it be convenient for you to come with us to the station?” “I can spare you an hour, yes. Give me a minute.” Borje strips off his coverall. Underneath, he’s wearing everyday clothes: plain dark trousers, roll-neck sweater, black leather oxford shoes. “Okay, I’m good to go.” I nod to the heap of coats. “You forgot your jacket.” “So I did.” He fishes a lightweight, padded body-warmer from the stack. The grey hoodie remains with the rest. ***** It isn’t as though I’ve not seen the inside of a cell before, but nonetheless, it’s depressing. Painted in institutional grey, rancid with the stench of vomit, urine and disinfectant, a thin mattress overlies what passes for a bed. After a brief consideration of the stains and the likely ecoculture it houses, I don’t feel much like touching it. Stashing the reeking thing in a corner, I sit on the bare boards, pondering what I’ve learned, trying to separate what I know from what I suspect. Borje… Forensics? Fucked that up, didn’t I… ***** The interview room is equally dreary. The same grey walls. The same cheap floor covering. A bare wooden chair for me. Two similar chairs facing me across the table, one occupied by an officer I don’t recognise. The mirror on the wall. The officer shuffles papers… Self-important little prick… “… I’m Lieutenant Gibson. Commissioner Stanton informs me, Mr Waterman, that you are known to the police?” I have no idea what Stanton might have told the man. And so far, no one has read me my rights. I settle for sitting back in my seat, folding my arms and biding my time. I’ve not actually done anything… Assault? No charges pressed though… Gibson pauses, then sighs. “If it’s going to be like that… Let’s cut to the chase, Mr Waterman. Where were you between the hours of 6 am and 2 pm yesterday?” “At 6 am, I was in bed with my wife. Later, we were on a shopping trip with friends, including Stanton’s pal, Haswell, and his wife.” The forehead furrows. “Who?” “Haswell. You must have heard of him... ” A memory surfaces… Jenny, who I didn’t then know was my daughter, who’d set herself up as bait to rescue Haswell’s wife… … shrieking defiance, facing me down as though I were nothing at all, hurling Haswell’s name at me. I could have done anything I wanted to her. She should have been terrified of me… The hell she was… My Jenny. Suppressing a smile, I steal her words of more than three years ago. “… Richard Haswell… Owns half the f*****g City. Your boss knows him if you don’t.” Gibson’s stare stretches out. “Richard Haswell? You were on a shopping trip with him and his wife?” He flounders. “You can prove this, I suppose?” “I’m sure Stanton has his phone number…” I turn to face the pockmarked mirror. “Why don’t you call him? Right now.” I’ve scored with my guess. Gibson, looking glum, clocks the mirror, stands, exits. Can’t take more than a minute or two, surely… It doesn’t. In under five minutes, the door clangs open and Stanton erupts into the room, wearing the proverbial face like thunder. Gibson dangles behind, but Stanton waves him off. “Go get a coffee. And don’t drink it next door.” Gibson glowers, but nods and exits. Stanton takes Gibson’s abandoned seat. “Alright, Mr Waterman. Let’s hear it. What were you doing wandering around a murder scene? If you want to walk out of here anytime soon, it’d better be good.” “You spoken to Haswell yet? You’re not pinning this woman’s murder on me if that’s what’s in your mind. ” “Yes, I’ve spoken to Richard. He confirms your story for yesterday. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for today’s little performance. Your past record…” “… has no bearing on any of this. I was there because…” I falter… Even in my head, it already sounds ridiculous. “I’m waiting,” he growls. Now what? Whatever I say, I’m going to sound cracked… I exhale. “I was there because yesterday I saw Borje…” “Borje?” Stanton knits brows. “Borje Anderssen? What about him?” “Yes, him. He was running towards your ‘scene of the crime’.” He shrugs. “Hardly a surprise in that, given his position.” Stanton stills. “What’s your interest in Doctor Anderssen?” “My interest in Borje is his interest in a friend of mine.” “Who?” “Does it matter?” Stanton clicks his tongue. “Oh, I think so, yes. If you want to implicate Borje in something like this, you’d better have a good explanation.” “Fair enough. The friend is James Alexanders’ daughter, Georgie. Borje…” The door slams open. Borje strides in. “What the f**k are you trying to imply, Larry?” “Doctor Anderssen!” thunders Stanton. “This is an official police interview.” He mellows, scrapes out the second chair, stabs a finger at it. “Sit.” Borje dithers, scowls, then takes the chair, arms folded, jaw clenched. I eye the mirror. “Were you out there just now?” “I was, yes. I learned a thing or two from what I heard.” “All of which,” growls Stanton, “is confidential. So…” He swings back to me… “Mr Waterman, the least you’re facing is a charge of interfering with a police investigation. And if you don’t satisfy me, I intend to offer Doctor Andersson here another opportunity to press charges.” Borje fixes glacial eyes on me. There are times to surrender the battle to win the war. I allow a note of apology to colour my voice. “It… wasn’t my intention to assault him. I was keyed up. I saw the blood on his hands. I reacted without thinking.” “What was your intention?” “As I said… I saw Borje in the crowd yesterday.” The silver man stirs, but Stanton raises a silencing finger. “You might well have done. Doctor Anderssen is on our forensics team. If he was in the neighbourhood when the alarm went out, I imagine he would go running in to assist…” He glances to Borje, who shrugs, nodding agreement. “So, is that it? What’s that to do with you faking your way into the crime scene today?” “Today, I… I was in the square. No particular reason. I’d only meant to stop for something to eat… But I saw someone. Something about him was… odd.” “Odd?” Borje’s stance loosens a touch. “How?” He subsides as Stanton silences him with a look, but I answer anyway. “It’s hard to describe. He was entirely too interested in what was happening.” Stanton’s head tilts, the anger draining also from his expression. “The City’s full of nutcases. And voyeurs for that matter. What put it into your head to follow this one?” “He was behaving suspiciously.” Stanton’s forehead creases. “Suspiciously? What does that mean? Who was it?” Borje snaps, “You followed him because you believed it was me?” Stanton glances sidelong… “Are we still talking about Doctor Anderssen?” “I didn’t see his face. I don’t know who it was. But he was watching the police enclosure. The activity. Everyone else around was either involved or pretending nothing was there. This man… He was enjoying the show. Spectating. His body language was way off for what you would expect. I tailed him, but I lost him at the last moment. But it was close by your compound entrance...” “And from that, you deduce that he came inside?” “I… wondered… And when I got inside, the first familiar face I encountered was Borje again.” Borje’s expression hardens again. Stanton sucks in his cheeks, looks between the pair of us. “So, to summarise, you saw our forensic pathologist running in to attend a murder scene. And you stalked ‘person unknown’ because you didn’t like the way he was behaving?” When he puts it like that… I feel an i***t. After a few moments silence, Stanton continues. “For the avoidance of doubt, Mr Waterman, do you believe that Doctor Anderssen here is the individual you were tailing?” The word curdles in my mouth. “No.” “No? Really? Why not?” Borje drips sarcasm. “What’s changed?” Stanton looks askance, but doesn’t interrupt. “The man I was following was shorter than you. And your clothes are wrong. He was wearing jeans, sneakers and a hoodie. But… I did see a very similar hoodie among the coats outside your marquee.” “Half the male population under thirty wears a hoodie. I don’t. So, what’s your gripe with me?” Mouth dry, I drop my face, shake my head slightly. After a few moments, Stanton slaps palms down on the tabletop. “Perhaps that concludes the interview. Doctor Anderssen, for the sake of form, do you wish to press charges?” “No.” The word is curt, chopped off. “In that case, Mr Waterman, you are free to go.” *****