Accuse

  Last night, Renata told me about these panic attacks, and how she’s experienced in managing them. This looks like a bad one.

  Mitten stands before her, aggressively on guard. He looks huge because every hair on his head and body stands on end. Teeth bared, hissing and growling, Mitten won't let anyone get near Renata.

  Bless you, you wonderful cat.

  Regret fills me, irretrievably sinking my mood as if it was tied to a ball and chain then thrown into deep water. I should have been here. I should have protected her from this.

  I squat down on my heels in front of her. “Renata?” I murmur quietly. “Renata, it’s me, Grant. Can you hear me?”

  I see her chest rising and falling. She's breathing fast and is as white as a ghost. Christ! She’s in a terrible state. However, she nods in response to my question, eyes still aimed down at the floor.

  “What can I do to help you?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I’ll be OK… I’ll be OK,” she manages to get out. “The police—” Her sentence stops, she gasps with fear.

  “Darlin,' I'm going to have to go with them soon. I don’t know what they want, but everything will be all right,” I say. I tremble with rage at what I’ve put her through, but I keep my voice soft and low.

  I can’t leave Renata alone like this. Briley's here and in the state she’s in, she can't even take care of herself, much less a baby. I need a woman to stay with her, but who can I call? Who can I trust?

  I can think of only one person.

  My eyes search the room until I locate the guy I figure is in charge. He's standing nearby, supervising everything. He has short, dark brown hair, a large Roman nose and is about my height. He looks fit, except for having a bit of a paunch.

  This guy stands out because of the suit he’s wearing and the calm expression on his face. It’s a kind of weathered, ‘I’ve seen it all’ look, as if he's not fazed by much.

  I stride up to him and ask, “Are you in charge here?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “What is your name?”

  “I’m Detective Bronowski.”

  “Fine. Listen, Detective Bronowski,” I say, gesturing toward Renata. “That woman is my babysitter.”

  His eyes widen and his voice is surprised. “Babysitter?”

  “Yes. Briley must still be asleep in the nursery upstairs—I hope your officers don’t wake him. I’ve temporarily accepted the care of my brother’s six-month-old son. I don’t know anything about babies, so I hired a nanny. Her name is Renata Koreman. The poor woman arrived here yesterday afternoon to help me take care of him.”

  Bronowski stares at me, but I can see him absorbing this information. I don’t want him to think Renata and I are dating.

  I don’t want Renata involved in my father’s investigation at all.

  I nod my head. “Clearly, she was not expecting or prepared for something like…” I throw my hands in the air, “like whatever this is. I’m worried about her and I can’t leave her and the baby alone. I need to call someone and arrange for them to stay with her until she recovers. May I make that call?”

  “Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll listen in and then I’ll take custody of that phone when you’re done.”

  “Fine, thanks.” I grab a pen and paper, pick up my phone from the kitchen counter and dial my sister, Betty Jo.

  “What do you want?” she barks irritably. Caller ID has obviously displayed my number. Her love for me shows in the way she answers the phone.

  “I need a favor,” I say, praying she won't hang up before I get what I need from her.

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “I just want Sally Ann’s phone number,” I say calmly.

  The line goes quiet—I knew that would shut her up. Betty Jo rattles off the number without needing to look it up. They went to school together and have remained friends.

  Sally Ann Berdeaux is sweet and innocent, the perfect Southern Belle. My sister is a mean, belligerent shrew. Talk about day and night. I ask myself for the thousandth time, what do those two women see in each other?

  “Thank you,” I say, but my sister has already ended the call.

  I immediately call Sally Ann, who answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sally Ann,” I say, and I hear the tone in my voice change to something gentle and polite. “It’s Grant here. How are you?”

  I’m three years older than she is. I like her, I always have, but Sally Ann has had a crush on me for years. My mother is forever trying to set us up, but I’m not the man for her. I hate to use her like this, yet I can think of no one else I can turn to. Sweet as she is, I know Sally Ann will be glad to help.

  “Grant?” she asks, surprise evident in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely to hear from you,” she says. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “Well, I'll get to that in a moment. How’s your brother?”

  “Danny’s doing well, thank you for asking.”

  Sally Ann and her twin brother are close, but he has mental health issues. I’m not sure if he’s schizophrenic, bipolar or depressed. I do know he attempted suicide and was committed to a psychiatric hospital during their sophomore year of high school.

  “I’m sorry to call like this…” I begin… but time is at a premium, so I come out with it. “You see, I really need to ask you for a favor—a big one.”

  I carefully explain the rather desperate situation I find myself in. I tell her as quickly as possible about the police, Briley and Renata.

  “I’m sure it’s all a mistake!” Sally tells me loyally. “You’ll be released in no time. You’ve served our country, you’re a hero! I can’t imagine what they think you’ve done.”

  I meet the detective’s eyes and reply, “Neither can I.”

  As expected, Sally Ann is perfectly happy to drop everything and come to our rescue. Genuinely kind, she's just the right person to stay with Renata.

  “I’ll leave a house key under the doormat, all right?” I ask her.

  “Your friend won’t mind if I just come right in?”

  “Not at all,” I say, and I hope it’s true. There is no way I’ll make Renata get up and answer a knock on that front door again any time in the near future. Not with what happened this morning. “Anyway, I’ll tell her you’re coming.”

  As I’ve been talking, a trail of people have been wandering through my house. They’re going back and forth out to parked cars, carrying my laptop and various other items. As I end the call, the detective puts his hand out.

  I place my phone onto his palm. Then I notice an officer bringing out an iPad as he walks past by me.

  “Wait,” I tell the detective. “That's not mine. I don’t own an iPad.”

  “Oh?”

  “That must belong to my babysitter,” I object. “She needs it for her contacts. The woman has already been through enough. You can’t take that!”

  The detective shrugs. “Sorry. I understand, but it still has to go. I’ll ask our tech people to finish with it first and get it back to her as soon as possible. I feel bad about frightening the poor woman—we scared her half to death. I sure didn’t expect that reaction.”

  “No, I imagine it was pretty extreme for her to still be in the state she's in now,” I agree.

  “She wouldn’t let us call an ambulance,” he adds.

  I nod.

  “And that cat!” The detective shakes his head. “Not yours, I take it?”

  “No, Renata brought her cat along with her. It was part of the deal. They pretty much go everywhere together.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that creature,” he says with a wry smirk. “No one could get anywhere near it, or her.”

  Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. “That cat loves her,” I say in explanation. “Look, may I go change my clothes? I'm soaked.”

  He looks down at my sopping outfit that's dripping and leaving a puddle beneath me. He nods. “I’ll come with you.
”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  As I run up the stairs, a little shock of fear runs through me. I suddenly realize they must have evidence if they plan to arrest me. What evidence could they possibly have since I didn’t do it?

  I dry myself with a towel and get dressed. The detective remains at my side watching me the whole time. Making sure I don’t hide any evidence, I guess. He informs me they have a search warrant in effect for my home and place of business. He reads me my Miranda rights and pulls out some handcuffs.

  I lock eyes with the man. “Let me say goodbye and check on my nanny first,” I ask.

  He nods.

  Renata is still in the corner, but her color has improved. Mitten looks calmer, too. I sit on the floor beside them both.

  “Hey.” I give her a half-smile.

  “I’m OK,” she murmurs. “It’s getting better.”

  “Good,” I say in a low voice. “Look, I have to go with these men now, but all these people will soon be gone. I have a friend coming over to stay with you. Her name is Sally Ann Berdeaux. She’s a very sweet woman—you’ll like her. I’ve left a key out for her, so she’ll let herself in. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes,” she says quietly.

  “I’m so sorry about this.”

  Renata gives me a faint smile. “Me too. Will you be back soon?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll call when I can.” I stroke Mitten, stand up and walk out of her line of sight.

  I take a key to the house from my key ring and give it to the detective to place under the front doormat. An officer cuffs my hands together in front of me. The metal is cold and hard. It’s a novel experience, to say the least.

  As I walk out, I see a couple of neighbors looking out their windows. My humiliation is complete as an officer puts his hand on my head, and guides me into the back of the police car.

  And to think, my day started out so well.

  Chapter 29.

  “Motive: In Law, this is why one committed the crime, the inducement, reason, or willful desire and purpose behind the commission of an offense.”

  — Black's Law Dictionary

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  A police officer holds my upper arm as I exit from the back seat of the police cruiser. Still in handcuffs, I do the perpetrator walk of shame—the kind I’ve watched countless times on TV.

  Pedestrians gawk as I stride into the police station. Thank God no reporters have yet gotten wind of this. That's something to be happy about, at least. Tough to find the silver lining in this particular cloud.

  I’d probably be humiliated if I wasn’t so worried about Renata. I hope she’s OK, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. At least I sent someone to look after her.

  I’ve known Sally Ann all of my life. She’s sweet, nurturing and kind. She also has a degree in child psychology, so she’s the perfect person to help with Briley. More than that, I trust her, which is rare for me.

  As I sit in the interrogation room, it’s like being on an episode of “True Crime." I'm sitting on a hard, uncomfortable chair. There's cheap linoleum flooring, no windows and the faint smell of unwashed bodies and stale air.

  “So,” Detective Bronowski says, as he studies me. “We have a witness who says you killed your father.”

  What the hell?

  I purposely maintain my blank stare, so I don’t display any noticeable reaction, but this is certainly news to me.

  What witness? How could there possibly be a witness when it never happened? Who would commit perjury just to make my life miserable?

  My sister suddenly comes to mind.

  Betty Jo is the one person I know who truly hates me. Still, the Wilkinson façade must stand at all costs. Childhood brainwashing would prevent my sister from tainting the public image of the Wilkinson dynasty. Who cares that we’re screwed up and dysfunctional? Keeping up appearances and playing ‘the perfect family’ was the first and most important rule of the Wilkinson clan.

  “With his testimony, plus the evidence of drugs we found in your father’s body,” the detective pauses and looks straight into my eyes, “we have enough evidence to go to trial. This is your chance to explain. Did he deserve it? Or was it a misunderstanding? Maybe it was an accident.”

  I don’t move. He said, 'HIS testimony.' That rules out my sister.

  Nope. I'm at a total loss. I have no idea who he is.

  I say nothing and count my heartbeats—fifty-five, less than one beat a second. Despite the pressure I’m under, I’m relaxed and remote. After a lifetime of being disconnected, it’s second nature to jump back into that headspace.

  My interrogator sits back in his chair as though he has all the time in the world. The smell of mints drifts through the air. Maybe the detective is giving up smoking.

  “Did you hate your father?” he asks.

  Sure. But I loved him too.

  Despite what my father did to me and my numerous fantasies of ways to make him sorry, patricide was never something I considered. Images of him on his knees, apologizing and begging for forgiveness was more my imaginary style.

  I resolve to keep my mouth shut. I'm familiar enough with the concept of 'anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.' I have the right to remain silent, and I choose to exercise it.

  Meanwhile, I pay attention to Detective Bronowski. The man has cop’s eyes, penetrating and acute. I doubt he misses much. He’s clearly a professional who’s done this kind of thing many times before.

  I want to get an idea of what the police think they know. Even though I plan to take the heat for my brother, I don’t want to—if I don’t absolutely have to. I'll save any responses for later, when my lawyer is present.

  “Was it an accident?” he suggests.

  Apparently not. Damn it, Alex, what were you thinking? Who else did you tell? And why are they coming after me? At least no one blames him.

  If I'd only stepped in, if I’d saved him from my father then this would never have happened. André says I was not to blame, but I was the older child. I was supposed to look out for Alex.

  There’s no way I’ll let my little brother go to jail.

  “Do yourself a favor,” the detective says, sitting forward. “As the prime suspect, you're in a seriously bad situation, here. It's not looking good for you. If you cooperate, we can probably plead your charges down to manslaughter. No one wants to put a war hero on trial.”

  Oh goody—I guess that's something I can hang onto.

  “This is your chance to avoid the death penalty. Think about it.”

  Appealing… but, no.

  The thick silence lengthens and becomes oppressive, as we both stare at each other.

  I can sit here as unmoving as a statue all day. I’ve done it many, many times before while waiting for to take the perfect shot. This kind of questioning goes on for some time. I have to give Detective Bronowski points for his patience.

  What am I waiting for? I’m not completely sure. The police arrested me, but I bet they can’t hold me. They’re eager to find something with that search warrant. How strong can the evidence be to tie me to a crime I didn't commit?

  The detective’s eyes soften and I curb my instant desire to smile. He’s good. It’s just him and me, two men who understand each other—at least that’s the attitude he projects.

  “We just want to understand why you did it,” he says in a fatherly tone.

  My heart kicks up a beat or two as I experience an ‘ah-ha!’ moment. Something suddenly gels in my mind. My eyes narrow before I have the presence of mind to school my facial expressions.

  Bronowski is looking for a motive. I don’t think he has enough evidence to convince the D.A. to actually go to trial, but if he discovers I had a good reason to kill?

  That it would be a different story.

  Shit. No matter what, I can’t let the police find out I was sexually abused by my father. Shit, shit, shit! That
means now I can’t tell Renata who my abuser was, either.

  I feel as though I’m standing under a freezing waterfall, as cold consciousness of my past washes over me,

  Monster! Pervert!

  For one long moment, my lifelong fear returns. I’m not a monster, I’m not a pervert—I know this now. Yet I still have a long way to go before I truly believe it. I have to keep reminding myself.

  The details of what my father and I did are a secret I no longer want to keep. I want to share everything with Renata, but how else can I guard her from this ugliness? I’ll have to continue to hide the truth. I simply cannot allow her to be dragged into my mess.

  Speaking about my past will be excruciating, so delaying that pain is an attractive option. A part of me is glad to use this as an excuse.

  Yet, a greater part of me is saddened by it. Intimacy is such a difficult challenge. I must learn how to be open and honest in order to heal.

  I need Renata.

  Seeing the police today was enough to drive Renata into a state of panic. How can I add to her stress by getting her involved in a murder investigation? The poor woman has already lived through hell on earth.

  If I talk to her about my father, anything I tell her might be used against me. She could become an unwilling witness for the prosecution.

  Fuck. My life just became much more complicated.

  I’m not prone to nerves, mainly because I’ve had a stranglehold on my emotions for far too long. I will get through this. I’ll manage as I always have, by taking one step at a time.

  My mind wanders as the detective continues to question me. I’m thinking about the missed calls I saw on my phone. Bobbie my AA sponsor, left a message, I know. That’s probably because I haven’t been attending meetings lately.

  I’ll also have to call Trey and Zachary, the two managers of my indoor/outdoor shooting range. They’re both smart guys. When the computers were seized by law enforcement, I’m sure they immediately began to record any financial transactions on paper.

  An army of police invading my shooting range during business hours would’ve been a huge pain in the ass.

  Still, a love of guns often attracts an anti-government segment of the population, so I have no doubt our customers will remain loyal. If anything, with the speed at which gossip travels, the execution of a search warrant will probably have increased business.