Monday, 7:18 a.m.
“I know what you did, you bastard.”The voice resonated over the usual calamity of the morning commute. I heard it above the various cell-phone conversations, the disturbingly frequent coughing of the jerk seated behind me, and the train’s pounding, methodical rhythm.
I gripped the Telegraph-Journal’s sports page tighter, wishing the fiberglass chair would swallow me. Focusing on the basketball scores, I blocked out the train’s usual drama. Every day, some bum shared a sob story, or a hung-over drunk caused a scene. I usually succeeded in ignoring most to varying degrees. But something in this distinct voice touched me in the wrong way, as I’d have a starring role in this particular production.
“You did this!” The gravelly voice grew louder, closer. A presence lurked behind my paper, and a dirty hand seized the sports section. “I don’t’ know why, I sure the fuck don’t know how, but you did this.”
A homeless man ripped my sports page apart in demonstrative, violent motions. He growled, gnashing his teeth. In the train car’s fluorescent light, I saw splotches of lighter tones that dappled his unusually dark black face. He wore a stocking cap and a heavily-used designer sweat suit. Gin and tuna fish tainted his breath as he bent forward, bringing his face inches from mine.
“I’d know those eyes anywhere. How did you get them all to help you?”
Some of the commuters focused on us, entertained. Others buried themselves behind tabloids or turned away, stealing quick, innocuous glances.
“Get away, asshole,” I said, manufacturing as much bravado as possible. Still, my voice sounded weak and failed in camouflaging my fear. I mentally audited my memories, actually trying to think of something I might have done to this clown.
“Why? Why me?” His upper lip quivered and he squinted, holding back tears. “I didn’t even know you.”
Thankfully, the train slowed for the Sixteenth Avenue Station – not my usual stop, but an opportunity for escape. When I rose, my shoulder bumped the bum’s chest. He didn’t move. Now standing, I saw he was my size and approximate build. If necessary, I probably could have taken him, but who wants to fight a crazy motherfucker like that?
“It’s your fault,” he screamed. “You started this whole mess. You’re evil!”
The train decelerated, stopping. I tried walking past, but he grabbed the lapels of my trench coat, pulling me tight. Nearly pissing my pants, I looked into his crazed, blue eyes. A black guy with blue eyes? Desperation and rage filled them.
“You made me kill that woman!” Spittle flew from his mouth, dampening my cheek. "You’re responsible for that – for all the shit you put me through.”
Swallowing hard, my legs weakened while my heart hammered. Silence engulfed the car as the collective stare of slack-jawed passengers fell upon us. I couldn’t decide if the guy was crazy or if he’d truly just confessed a murder.
Not waiting for an answer, my adrenaline surged and I pushed his chest with all my strength. Falling backward, he shrieked in an almost feral voice. I hurdled him, grabbed the handrail and jumped down the steps as the doors closed. The train pulled away while the crazy bum banged on the windows, screaming. He removed his stocking cap revealing a coif of grimy blond hair. Over the sound of the train’s gaining momentum, he ranted:
“It was you. I know what you did!”
Monday, 2:13 p.m.
Stevenson babbled on as I doodled in my day planner. Again, the meeting ran long thanks to his legendary verbosity - every point of business was followed by an anecdote; every anecdote proved irrelevant. My eyes wandered across the board table, finding Melissa. She wore her indigo skirt suit, my favorite because the cut revealed her figure so well. Propping her head with one hand, she blew at a wayward strand of her luxurious black hair. She too ran her pen aimlessly over her organizer and the meeting’s agenda.“I know what you did.”
The voice – Melissa’s voice – sounded clear in my head. She glanced up and smiled a knowing grin.
“I know.”
Her mouth remained still, yet I heard the accusation perfectly. Looking over the other meeting attendees, nobody altered their manner. Stevenson continued jabbering on about numbers while most his audience had long ago checked into Hotel Ennui.
Nobody else heard the voice.
“It’s your fault. You did it.”
Winking, Melissa returned to her doodling. My hand shook as I reached for a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
Stevenson finally turned off the laptop and the graphs projected on the white board vanished. Attendees closed up binders and organizers, cleaned up discarded cups and disbursed to the appropriate restrooms. I remained sitting, staring at Melissa while she gathered her belongings. Why did I hear her voice now? How bad had that confrontation with the insane bum affected me?
After the board room had cleared, I walked to my desk, consciously slowing my excited stride. I buried my face in meeting doodles, hoping nobody would trap me in small talk to kill a few workday minutes. At my desk, the red voicemail light greeted me. I set the corner of my day planner over the light, avoiding its taunting glow. My tongue swelled and a slimy film of perspiration coated my hands. I decided I’d stroll over to the cafeteria for another cup of their nasty coffee.
Per my usual routine, I took the stairs. Descending the metal steps, another set of footsteps greeted me. I cursed inwardly.
Of course, the footfalls were Melissa’s. We met between the fourth and fifth floors. In her formal business attire she appeared out of place, contrasting against the stairwell’s unfinished decor of steel and concrete.
“Hey Bobby,” she said. “Where you off to?”
Grabbing my crotch, she rubbed, her wedding band scraping my zipper. She looked to the fifth-floor exit, a devilish smile revealing a stain of lipstick across her upper two front teeth.
“We still on tonight, Loverboy?” She tossed her hair in an exaggerated, joking fashion as she annunciated her pet name for me.
“Yeah, yeah – tonight.” Clumsiness tinted my words. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“You okay?” She removed her hand and took a tentative step up the staircase. “You seemed out of it in Stevenson’s meeting – more than usual.”
I considered asking her if she had any telepathic experiences, but even in my confused state, that sounded borderline retarded.
“I’m fine. It’s just been one of those days, you know?”
“Well,” she smiled again, “you play your cards right, it might just be one of those nights, too.”
I chuckled. “Thanks. You always could make me laugh.”
“I know, Bobby. I know.”
Turning away, I resumed my path downstairs before it struck me what she’d said.
“Wait,” I called. “What do you mean ‘you know?’ You mean something by that?”
She furrowed her plucked eyebrows, taking cautious steps toward me again. “You sure you’re okay?” As she drew close, I noticed her eyes, never before appreciating how piercingly blue they were.
“I thought I heard you say something in the meeting.”
She answered only with a confused expression.
“Never mind. Stevenson must have finally driven me crazy with boredom.” Forcing a smile, I sensed her concern.
“Short drive, wasn’t it?” She pecked me softly on the cheek, wiping away the evidence. “I’ll see you after work, Loverboy. Don’t be late or dinner won’t be the only thing cold.”
She turned, trotting up the rest of the stairs to the fifth floor. Her footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell canyon, I swore she whispered:
“I know what you did.”
Monday, 5:57 p.m.
Quitting time snuck up on me. I’d lost the hours in a haze of confusion and couldn’t remember doing anything since returning from the cafeteria. In fact, my coffee remained untouched. I’d simply stared at my monitor, puzzling over the accusations.Logging off the network, the usual rush of knocking off gave way to bewilderment. The needling message light glowed bright red. I decided I’d at least listen, feeling guilty for accomplishing nothing that afternoon.
A broker, some bigwig from Chicago, left a message that ate up the entire time allotted. He was bitching about some insipid problem he’d actually caused. Typical. At the end of the message, he spat out his cell number so fast, I couldn’t get it written down. Punching the phone’s star key, I rewound the last ten seconds.
“It was you, you sick bastard.” The voice belonged to the bum from the train. “I know what you did.”
Woozy with bafflement, I stared at the receiver. I dropped it as if the phone had stung me, wiping my hands on my slacks. Grabbing my coat, I dashed for the stairwell. Taking steps two and three at a time, I cleared some flights by leaping to the landing below. I ran the entire way to the basement, a sensation of faintness overtaking me. The door opened with a burst, slamming against the doorstop. I skittered my way to the company work-out facility, located in the bowels of the building.
The locker room reeked of sweat and moldy socks. Gagging, I fumbled with the lock, removing my gym bag. I scanned the room, then removed the pipe. A smarter man would’ve kept his mind as clear as possible, but I hit the pipe, hoping to calm my frayed nerves. I blew the smoke into my rank towel. Grabbing the gym bag, I left the building for the final time.
Monday, 6:20 p.m.
I paraded up Lincoln Avenue, listening intently at the traffic and approaching each passerby with suspicion. A few more hits from the pipe hadn’t produced the desired relaxing euphoria. Rather, my paranoia escalated. When a person with blue eyes walked past, I half expected another accusation.As I walked, I vacillated between going through with my planned date, or calling it a night. My sensible side contended I should go home while my crotch countered with an excellent argument for meeting Melissa.
My legs heavy and ears aching from the chilly breeze, I hailed a cab, passing on another train ride home. I examined the cabbie. He was stereotypically foreign with a hawk-like nose, matted uni-brow and dark eyes. Somehow, his appearance seemed safe, and I climbed into the back.
Why did blue eyes frighten me now? For Christ’s sake, I grew up in small-town Minnesota. There were so many blond-haired blue-eyed people, it would’ve given Hitler wet dreams.
I dialed Melissa’s cell phone, holding my breath till the voice mail finally answered and played her usual greeting. Promising I’d make it up, I cancelled our dinner. I rationalized she’d understand since she’d expressed concern earlier over how I felt, but I knew she’d withhold forgiveness, among other things, for weeks.
Approaching my neighborhood, the cab exited on 120th Avenue. When we turned on Juniper, my cell phone rang. The ring tone was generic, not Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Heeling” I’d programmed for Melissa.
“Robert Arlington?” the voice asked. I relaxed some after realizing it wasn’t the bum.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Arlington, this is Sergeant Kelly with the metro police department.” I froze, searching for words. “Mr. Arlington?”
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Do you know a Mrs. Melissa Wagner, sir?” The cop’s tone was benign, but my heart sank.
The cabbie turned down my street. Out front of my building, two city police cars sat parked in the fire lane. Two uniformed officers sandwiched a man in a cheap charcoal suit with a cell phone glued to his ear.
“Melissa’s a coworker of mine.” I rapped on the clear plastic partition, motioning the cabbie to continue driving.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr. Arlington.” The words arrived through the phone moments after the man in the charcoal suit said them. My intestines cramped. “We found Mrs. Wagner murdered in the parking garage of your office building.”
A painful gust escaped my lungs as claustrophobia closed around me. I thought I should cry, but found no tears inside, only numbness.
“Sir, it’s strictly procedural, but we’d like you to come in to answer some questions. Basic background-type stuff for our investigation.”
In the rearview mirror, the cabbie’s eyes focused on me. They’d turned blue.
“You did it, you evil bastard,” he said with a voice bathed in a thick Middle-Eastern accent. “I know it was you.”
The blood rushed to my head, leaving me dizzy.
“Mr. Arlington? You still there?”
Pushing the ‘end’ button, I desperately tried recalling the afternoon. I only remembered sitting at my desk, but the hours were lost.
The cabbie examined me through the mirror, his eyes again brown. “You okay, mister.” I studied him, wondering if I’d somehow imagined his previous comments.
“Drop me off at the 118th Avenue train station, please.”
Monday, 10:38 p.m.
Discovering a dive on 112th and Lexington, I entered exhausted, frightened and positive I’d lost my freaking mind. Over the past hours, I’d traipsed up past 136th and back down to 104th, searching the streets and alleyways for the bum. I didn’t know how he figured into the situation, but he obviously thought he knew something. Maybe if he told me what he supposed I’d done, from there I could deduce what had happened the rest of this fucked-up day.
I’d twice passed by my building while hunting for the man. The police left around 7:30, but someone remained in a parked Crown Victoria across the street. As a result, I decided to avoid home until I’d devised a plan.
While looking for the bum, I tried piecing together the afternoon. I still couldn’t recall anything after I’d met Melissa in the stairwell. I just kept puzzling over what I thought I’d heard her say and the bum’s tirade. Next thing I remember, it was time to leave. It was like I’d driven a long distance with my mind preoccupied, abruptly arriving at my destination with no recollection of the journey itself. Certainly, I’d remember if I knew anything about Melissa’s murder, wouldn’t I? In my heart, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but why else couldn’t I remember?
I sat on the last available stool, resting my elbows on the weathered vinyl cushion bordering the bar. I ordered a beer to wash away the gin I’d begun drinking around 8:00. The bartenders long bleached bangs hung over her cobalt-tinted eyes, and I understood another allegation would be forthcoming. The accusations bombarded me all night. They came from the homeless people I found while searching for my particular bum. They came from random pedestrians and commuters passing by. They came from the hotdog vendor when I purchased my dinner, and they came from the liquor store clerk.
They all had it knocked, knowing everything I did. If only I could remember.
By the time the 11:00 news started, I’d finished two beers, my mind at last slowing. When the bartender brought me another, the now-standard comments accompanied it. I got it by now – you know what I did. I’m evil. My parents were never married. Now, pour me another and shut the fuck up.
Ten minutes into the broadcast, the news turned to the murder at my office.
“Police are currently searching for a coworker of the victim,” the female Asian anchor said from the nineteen-inch Sony hanging in the tavern corner. “They haven’t labeled him a suspect, but he is considered a person of interest. If you know the whereabouts of Robert Marvin Arlington, please contact the metro police.”
The anchor’s almond-shaped eyes changed to blue as her talking head oozed forth from the television. “We know it was you.”
“Join the club,” I answered.
The bartender quit emptying the ashtray in front of me. Casting a sideways glance, she strode to the end of the bar. There, she motioned for one of the goon bouncers, whispering something in his ear. They both turned their attention toward me. I downed the last of my beer and threw a twenty atop the sticky bar. Flashing the pair a “thumbs-up” sign, I grabbed my gym bag, a handful of nuts and headed for the exit.
Outside, the autumn night greeted me with a frigid burst of wind. It failed in sobering me up, thankfully. I dared not use my credit card to check into a hotel – too easy for somebody to trace me - and I couldn’t return to my apartment until I’d figured out this mess. Besides, at least the city streets provided other sounds to listen to. In my apartment, there’d be only me and my cracked psyche.
“Hey, buddy?” The feminine voice emanated from the alley behind the bar, startling the shit out of me. I dropped half my peanuts before regaining my composure. A working girl stepped from the shadows, an unlit cigarette propped in her hand. “Got a light?”
I burst into laughter. The woman long ago had seen her prime, now appearing like a parody of her former self. Fishnet stocking contained varicose veins, and soot coated her faux-fur stole. Even in my inebriated state, she appeared butt ugly. Combine that with her corny come on, and I couldn’t contain myself.
“Sorry, but I don’t ‘got a light.’” I intoned mockery when repeating her words, giggling again and enjoying the release.
“You know, I’m open for business.”
I exercised all my self discipline, harnessing my laughter this time. Politely declining, I started walking away.
“I know what you did, you prick.”
Inside, something snapped. The frustrations of the day rushed forth and the alcohol lowered my inhibitions. I turned back, confronting the whore. She hunched her shoulders, cowering. She looked as I must have appeared to the bum on the train.
“You said it, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t say anything, asshole.” She clutched her fur around her. “Leave me alone before I call the cops.”
“You’d do that too, wouldn’t you?” My mind ran on autopilot, words erupting in an explosion of released emotion. “You, and the fucking bum, and Melissa – all of you – you’d like to see them haul my ass in.”
She pivoted on her heel, nearly breaking her ankle, and half trotted up the alleyway.
“I know what you did.” It was her smoke-choked voice that sounded now in my mind.
I followed her. “Come back here and say that, you bitch.”
“Leave me alone.” She quickened her pace. “I didn’t say anything.”
She broke into a comical excuse for a sprint, her high heels deterring her progress. My emotions seized me as I raced after her. The physical excitement served as an outlet for the day’s frustrations. I ran with my mind no longer working over a thousand different issues. Focusing on the fleeing woman, I screamed, half in rage, half in exuberance.
I caught her a quarter way up the dark alley, bulldogging her head first into the asphalt. Her teeth cracked upon contact, and she was only semi-conscious when I rolled her over.
“You know what I did, huh?”
She went listless, her eyes disappearing into her skull.
I seized her thin neck, the skin loose and clammy. Squeezing my fingers, I banged her head against the ground. Blood spilled into the cracked pavement. In the diminished light, her face transformed. First, into the bum, so I applied more pressure. Then into Melissa’s face, followed by the cab driver’s and then the litany of accusers throughout the day. I tightened my grip until my hands hurt. Something popped beneath my thumb, and I let go.
I stared down at my victim. Time froze. A wave of regret overwhelmed me and I began crying, not just for her, but from the emotions of the entire day.
The legs felt gelatinous as I drug the body into a pile of trash bags stacked behind the bar like a tomb of garbage. I arranged the bags over her. Blood from her cracked skull covered my suit. Undressing behind the pyramid of waste, I changed into my old designer gym suit from my bag. Taking the two bottles of gin from my coat pockets, I guzzled half of one in three chugs. I covered the bags with my coat, dousing it with the other bottle. All this, I accomplished without thinking. My rational part was disgusted at how easily I moved, but mostly I remained numb – just drunk and thinking of self preservation. Finding the Bic from my gym bag, I thought I should’ve just given her the damn light she’d asked for. I set the coat on fire before running away down the alley.
Tuesday, 6:49 p.m.
I threw up in the train-station toilet, organs seeming to spew from my mouth. My head throbbed, and my mouth tasted as if I ate a bucket of shit for dinner. V“I can’t believe I slept in a station bathroom,” I said, gazing into the mirror. I looked half-dead in the bathroom lighting, my complexion as white as the small tiles covering the floor. A roadmap overlay my eyes, all red highways leading to blue irises. Then the events of the previous night flooded back. Dropping my head to my hands, my heart raced.
The bum’s face flashed in my mind. Through the hangover haze, I understood I needed him. I needed answers, even if they came from a crazy homeless guy. I started for the door, but slammed it shut. I was a legitimately wanted man. I couldn’t go out – what if the police were there?
Panic-riddled, I searched my gym bag. I would have offered minor body parts for a wig, or a pair of glasses, or even a fucking razor. My bag contained none, but in an end pocket I found my shoe polish. It wasn’t much, but beggars and choosers, you know. I diluted the polish with the remaining gin, using my towel to dab it on my face and hands. I was a poor excuse for a minstrel performer. My blond hair, grimy from a night in the depot bathroom, contrasted with the blackface. From my bag, I pulled a knit cap I used when jogging and put it on.
The announcement of an arrival blared through the bathroom speakers, and I realized the time. Fighting the crowd, I approached the platform and milled among the commuters while searching for my bum.
My stomach tumbled over itself, and I snuck out a god-awful fart, nearly barfing again. I thought food would be a good idea. All I could find was the vending machine, a relic that probably still had selections with 1950’s expiration dates. I settled for tuna fish, figuring the bread might soak up some of the alcohol.
As I finished my sandwich, the usual train pulled in. I risked recognition by the regulars and boarded. Scanning the commuters, I didn’t immediately locate my quarry. Since somebody stole my favorite seat, reading their paper, I sat in one of the handicapped seats facing the other passengers. I found an abandoned copy of the Telegraph-Journal, pretending to flip through it while taking a closer inventory of the passengers.
As the train pulled away, I contemplated what to do next. I decided I’d turn myself in. I wouldn’t confess to Melissa’s murder - I still couldn’t believe I’d committed it. However, I’d never be able to live with myself after what I’d done to the whore. Somehow, knowing I’d do what was right, placated me. My breathing slowed as I searched for the sports page. Since somebody had scavenged that section, I turned to the city news section.
Tuesday, 7:18 a.m.
I read the headline on page 3AA.“Husband confesses to office murder.”
My hands trembled as I read. For all the city to read like a smutty novel, the story detailed my affair with Melissa in excruciating detail, and how her husband had found us out. William Wagner, “the asshole” as Melissa described him, walked under the automatic arm into the parking garage where he hid in the back seat of her SUV. When she started the car, he strangled her with a plastic bag and jumper cables. He left her with the SUV running, walking past security cameras.
The budding sense of relief lasted but for a moment. My guilt multiplied. If only I could remember yesterday afternoon, maybe I wouldn’t have been in such a bad state. If I’d known I hadn’t done anything, maybe the accusations wouldn’t have affected me as deeply.
But that bum – that goat-fucking, stinky-ass son-of-a-bitch. He’s the one who rattled me so much. He’s the crazy motherfucker who started this mess.
The déjà vu clobbered me. I turned to my normal seat, knowing who hid behind the newspaper.
“I know what you did, you bastard,” I said rising from my seat.
I ambled towards the guy, moving from row to row using seatbacks to maintain my balance. His hands tightened on the financial section of the Telegraph-Journal. Shouldn’t he be reading the sports?
“You did this!” I yelled. The hangover rubbed my throat raw, and my words came out in a gravelly concoction. I ripped the paper from his grasp. “I don’t know why; I sure the fuck don’t know how, but you did this.