Twenty-Four

Clara Addas







I am sitting behind a grimmy coloured table on one of those overstaffed chairs. They're meant to be comfortable but I fidget. The police have called me in for questioning. They called it questioning, not an interview and that can only mean one thing. I'm officially a suspect.
So I know that when a wife is murdered the husband is almost always the prime suspect and it's probably a two way street. But when a parent is murdered are their kids usually the prime suspects? Or maybe is it the child with a lot to gain — financially. I hope they don't think I would do that. What kind of sick child would kill their father? Surely not me. How innocent is Daniel? To be honest I doubt Daniel would've murdered our father. The presumed time of the murder was at the exact hour the storm hit. Daniel was scared shirtless. He wouldn't have had the balls and I was wasting minutes away under a tree. Perhaps someone is setting us up. I noticed the body was shaved as well as though someone is making sure both Daniel and I go down for this.
And we saw Mama.
She killed Papa, right?
She's setting us up.
The walls of the room are pus green. I lean back against the chair and rest my arms under my neck. No. I look too comfortable. Fake.
I know they're watching me. It's been fifty minutes, I'm assuming but I don't dare allow my eyes to stray to the wrist watch. I'll look like I'm in a hurry. Like I have something better to do (which I do) than help the police find the cold blooded killer that murdered my father.
I pulled an all-nighter last night, veering between daydreaming about a past time with Papa and crying. Earlier this morning, two officers came to my house and asked both Daniel and I to come down to the station with them. Of course we agreed. We didn't have much of a choice, either. Our house was surrounded by reporters, TV cameras (the whole squad) making it impossible to leave. When the police led us to the cruiser a swarm of press trailed behind us. They snapped away at us and shooting videos. The light was good so I knew the pictures would be beautiful. My head dropped to my breast. Police parade us around for the media, it seems. Reporters started questioning us. Did you kill your father? Why did you murder your father? I kept my head down and didn't answer but Daniel looked up — straight into a middle aged photographer's viewfinder and said "Go choke on a dick and die, you rotten cunt ass shit."
We were loading ourselves in the backseat of the cruiser by then. The cameras were like fireflies, flashing. A few news channel cars followed us to the police station. They're eagerly waiting for us outside, I assume. Scavengers.
My arms are crossed over the table, my chin rests on top of them when Detective Jones walks in, carrying a cup of coffee, as I knew he would be and a sinking feeling pulls at my stomach.
Oh boy!
He's calm, too calm. Suspiciously calm. He walks with a mystifying arrogance. I know how this is suppose to pan out. He's prepared for me, probably does this intimidation without actually intimidating thing to every witness (suspect?) he calls in. As they say: the successful interrogation of a suspect is mostly about psychology and quick thinking.
Detective Jones is in for a surprise then. I'm smarter and faster.
He goes by the text book. Starting the interview with light conversation. He first sends his condolences, then asks about the well-being of my brother, then he moves on to school, what's it like to be back, about living with Aunt Dahab and Ali. I know he's trying to tell me (without actually saying so) that he's done some digging. That he knows more about me. That there would be no point in lying.
I smirk, barely. I almost feel sorry for him.
"Would you like anything to drink, coffee, water or ..." He says this in a cheerful voice, as though he's wishing me happy birthday. The last thing I feel is a Celebratory mood.
I shrug. "Don't think I can stomach anything at the moment. Thanks."
Detective Jones pulls up a chair, and another young cop squeezes in as well. She's pretty, I guess. But hers is the kind of pretty that requires more patience, more thorough observation. She also has a paper cup filled with coffee. Her eyes are bright. Is that excitement I see? This must be her first interrogation or it must be her first murder interrogation. First case?
The pretty girl clears her throat and settles in. She's wearing that no-nonsense face mask I see all the time on the rare chance I watch some crime documentaries. The documentaries Daniel watches.
"Good morning, I'm detective Newin. I'm just going to ask you some questions. Do you mind if I record this conversation?
They're probably looking for obvious signs that I might be involved in the crime. I won't give them a reason to doubt me because everybody knows the killer is always someone close to the victim, especially in a crime like this. Where rich kids murder their parents for insurance payouts and inheritance. A paradigm. The police must see me through that lens.
I perk up, sitting taller. "Of course not."
"Good, the more information you give us, the better." She pulls a small digital recorder from her jacket and says her name, the date, my name and the nature of the interview. When she's done she turns back to me. "Where were you yesterday between four-thirty and six p.m.?
I shift in my chair a bit. I already have the answer. Obviously. But I don't want to answer too early. I'll give it a good five seconds before I answer them. The tight skirt I'm wearing limits my movement. Good. I don't want to move too much. I'm also wearing only a bra under my religious attire. To my height I added four more inches in heels.
"I was at the meadow just a couple of minutes from the house," I mumble and push out my bottom lip, for something to do. Wait, won't pouting be considered whiny? The last impression I want to make.
They share a look and Jones scribbles something on his notebook. Newin drinks from her paper cup and says: "Who were you with?"
"I was by myself, but on the way home I saw and spoke to a couple of kids I met at school yesterday."
"These kids you met," Newin says. She gulps a mouthful of coffee. "Do they have names?"
"Yes. Skylar and Eric Jones."
"My brother, Eric?" Jones asks, grazing the smooth edge of his paper cup with the tips of his inflamed fingers.
I nod. He sits up and raises an eyebrow. I don't explain myself like he hopes I will. Instead I match his silence. He gulps and twists. He's getting uneasy. Good. My eyes have that effect on most. My father often likened meeting my gaze as looking straight into the devil.
I don't want to be too detailed in my answers. I can't show them I spent the whole night preparing for this moment. I knew it'd happen... Eventually. I refuse to go down for something Daniel or Mama did.
He probably got home while Samantha was still with Papa. I know my brother well, his appetite for violence, for blood. Pieces of my father's body were separated into groups of four. Just the way only Daniel could care to arrange. Distinctive. One group for each corner of the bed. And the purple nail polish?
But I'm not one to act without hard evidence. I want to make sure. Just thinking of Daniel and what he's done to Papa brings a burst of rage in me.
Another (detective? Officer?) enters the room. He looks surprisingly good. He's still young. Young enough to date a seventeen-year-old without raising eyebrows. My chest constricts. This is the first time I'm seeing a hot guy in the vein of Drake. The first time I'm seeing a hot white dude. He's cute too, a firm believer in fashion. He's wearing his hair in a way that suggests he needs at least an hour in the mirror and half a bottle of gel to get it to cooperate. It reeks of chemicals and artificial sweet plants. His jeans fit him tight. The way jeans are supposed to fit a guy, hanging low on his hips. I've never considered a man's ass to be sexy before but he gives the notion some level of truth. His T-shirt is white. Curiously white. It looks brand new. He's fine with a capital F. I can give him that. Of course I find him attractive. And of course I wouldn't mind if he took my virginity.