Witness To Death. Dave White
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smell of tulips on her long neck. And for most of the night, he could picture exactly what she’d look like in a long, white, strapless wedding dress.
But, as he held Michelle, swaying to the slow rhythm of the song, he remembered the smoothness of her skin. The hint of strawberry in her lipstick when he’d kissed her. The wry crooked smile when he made a corny joke.
The memory must have been plastered all over his face. Ashley came back from the bathroom, made eye contact with him and froze. A week later, she didn’t pick up when he called. She didn’t call back as much. They only hung out once a week, instead of three or four times.
When he would ask what was wrong, she’d tell him not to worry. She was just busy at work. A new assignment.
And now he sat on a PATH train pulling into the Pavonia/Newport station, hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim, with images of men lying in puddles of their own blood flashing before his eyes.
The doors of the PATH opened and John got off. The escalator to the surface was moving slowly, and the people riding in front of him were quietly opening their bags. It reminded John of waiting in line at an airport. These people were waiting to be searched.
The escalator crested and he saw two uniforms sorting through bags. Behind them, standing against the glass doors, two cops scanned the crowd. Between them sat a brown dog. They all looked very patient, almost bored. John couldn’t wait to talk to them. He started to step past the people who were standing, taking the steps two at a time.
“Officer,” John said. “Officer, I need to talk to you. My name’s John Brighton and I—”
One of the cops made eye contact with him.
The dog must have sensed something as well, because it stood up and started barking. The two cops against the wall stepped forward, pulling their weapons. Their quickness surprised John, and he nearly fell backwards down the escalator, but managed to steady himself against the railing again. Some people in the crowd in front of him screamed and some hit the deck.
“Freeze!” the cops yelled, and John instinctively raised his hands above his head and stepped on to solid ground at the end of the stairs.
The two cops who were previously searching the bags, pulled his arms down behind him and cuffed him.
“John Brighton, you are under arrest.”
Arrest?
“I just need to talk. I need to tell you what happened tonight,” John said. He heard the thunder of blood pumping through his ears.
The other cop said, “Do you think he’s waiving his right to remain silent?”
They read him his rights, stuffed him in the back of the car, and took him to the Jersey City police station.
He wasn’t going to get out tonight. He was pretty sure of that. The judges were all asleep in their beds, so he couldn’t be arraigned, or whatever they called it. And if they weren’t going to come down tonight, they wouldn’t be coming in for the rest of the weekend. He was going to have to sit here with the drunks and druggies, waiting until Monday morning.
They did, at least, give him one phone call.
He called Michelle, after fighting the urge to dial Ashley. No matter what had happened to him tonight, his mind still flashed to Ashley.
“Are you all right? Where are you?” Michelle asked.
“I’m in the Jersey City Police Station.”
“What happened?”
“Coming out of the PATH train. I went to the police for help, and they arrested me.”
“You went right to the police? John, your face is all over the news. They have a picture of you.”
That damn cell phone camera. John’s hand squeezed tighter around the receiver.
“I haven’t seen a judge yet. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to see a judge. The only thing I know about being arrested is that whole ‘right to remain silent’ stuff. There were, there were dead people everywhere. Blood and—and—Fff—”
“I know, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay. I’m going to talk to my dad again. We’ll get you a good lawyer, and be down there as soon as possible. You need a lawyer. If my dad doesn’t help, Frank will. He knows people too. Sit tight.”
“Wait,” he said, his shoulders tightening at the mention of Frank’s name. “Frank was there. It was all him. He killed them all.”
No response. She’d hung up. As soon as he finished talking, he heard the dialtone.
John put the phone down and let the officer cuff him and direct him to a door.
****
They dragged him into a room with only a table, two chairs, and a streaked mirror. The room smelled like rancid coffee. One of the uniformed cops pulled out the chair facing the mirror and pushed John into it. As he sat, he had to angle his arms backward so he didn’t sit on the handcuffs.
A tall cop with almond skin and a shaved head entered. His badge was clipped to his belt, and his tie was loosened. He didn’t have a gun on him, but he held a cup of coffee that smelled fresher than the room. In his other hand was a legal notepad.
He reminded John of one of the sixth grade teachers at work, Mr. Travers, who’d stand in the hallway and yell at the kids no matter what they did. He would gesture with his coffee and yell things like “Stay to the right!” and “This is not a locker period.” The talk in the teacher’s room centered around the Master’s Degree he held in education or how many times he’d brought a kid down the principal’s office in a day. John would try to ask what Travers was teaching that day, only to get ignored.
John closed his eyes.
“So,” the cop said. “Why’d you kill those people?”
“Kill those—No, that wasn’t me. That was Frank.”
The cop pulled out a chair, put his coffee and notebook down on the table, and then sat, wrists resting against the corner of the table. He breathed through his nose hard, as if John was frustrating him already. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pen.
“All right. I’ll play. Who’s Frank?”
“He’s my… well, I guess he’s a friend. I was following him tonight, I thought he was cheating on his girlfriend.”
The cop scribbled on the paper, and John could tell he wasn’t actually writing anything. Just like a student who was trying to look like he was working.
“Frank Carnathan,” John said, exhaling the words as if he’d just been running. He shouted out Frank’s address.
Now the cop actually started to write. “How do you know this Frank Carnathan? You said he’s a friend?”
John took a deep breath. The cop was actually listening. “He’s my friend’s—my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend. I saw him sitting with some girl at a Starbucks a few days ago.
He’s weird; I don’t trust him. So tonight, after my own girlfriend broke up with me and I decided…”
The cop looked up. “Your girlfriend broke up with you tonight?”
Did she? Why does he keep saying she did? “Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?” Come on, John thought. Let me tell you about the trail of bodies Frank left around tonight. The ones I can’t get out of my head. Every time I picture them, I want to throw up.
“Are you okay with the break-up? Did it surprise you? Did it piss you off?”
John’s mouth tasted sour and dry again.