The Death Agreement: Severity & Preamble & Section I - Recount History | Section II - Look After Family | Section III & IV - Obituary & Attend Funeral | Section V - Share Final Words | [Section VI - Wishes] | [Section VII - Celebrate Life] | [Section VIII - Visit The Dead & Ex Post Facto & Addendum]
SECTION VI - WISHES
I tried not to think as I walked back to the Barracks. I had spoken to Taylor’s grandfather on multiple occasions. Or at least I thought I had. Every question spawned more questions. Why would Taylor leave his grandfather’s body when he’d dumped the rest of his family in the pond? I wondered. Did he loathe the man so intensely that his body wasn’t good enough to share the same trash bags?
“You’re beginning to think like him.”
Laughable, I know. Oftentimes what I say isn’t what I think, even when I’m talking to myself. I wanted to cast my thoughts away as lies, but I knew better. I wasn’t beginning to think like Taylor. Truth is I had always thought like Taylor.
Best friends share a certain mental link, a bond that doesn’t easily break. If Taylor had the capacity to snap then so must I. Maybe it had already happened. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet?
Before I knew it, I had climbed the steps and stopped at the front desk. I asked the young night watch soldier to send a fax for me, then handed him Taylor’s drawing. Next, I took out the handwritten confession, and when I went to hand the soldier the letter, I could see that the blotches on the pages were not ink—they were bloody finger prints.
I folded the letter and put it back into my coat pocket. I don’t think the soldier noticed. He seemed focused on the picture, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. When he realized I was staring at him, he tried to hide the revolting look on his face, but failed miserably.
“L. T.? Are you sure you want to send this?”
“That’s what I said, Corporal. Is there a problem?”
“No, sir. No problem at all.”
The soldier sent the fax without taking his eyes off me. I didn’t blame him for being spooked. A picture like that would put anyone on edge. I’m actually surprised he didn’t call the MPs. Funny what a brass stick of butter on your shoulders can get you.
I heard the fax receipt rip from the roll of paper. He handed it to me along with the original document.
“Thank you, Corporal.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yeah. Keep this to yourself. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Before he could respond, I turned toward the elevators and strolled away. Too much had been dumped on my plate that night, and the last thing I needed was Colonel Litwell getting involved.
I made it to my room and nearly collapsed the moment I walked through the door. It felt as though more had gone down in that one day than all my days in Afghanistan combined. I looked at my bunk like a starving man looks at a medium-rare steak.
When was the last time I had a full night’s sleep? I wondered.
The nightmares had been getting worse, more vivid. Sleep had become a rare commodity. It’s amazing I hadn’t developed hypnophobia, or whatever it’s called when you’re afraid to close your eyes.
Tired or not, it made no difference. I couldn’t allow myself to fall asleep. One last item remained on my list of things I needed to do—a game of Wishes.
Instead of heading toward the comfort of my pillow, I went into the kitchenette and reached for the cabinet above the refrigerator. When the door swung open, I expected to find a wide variety of high-proof spirits, but instead I found the space nearly empty.
“Damn.”
Taylor and I had decimated the collection, and I had never made it back to the Class 6. I had hoped to find a half-full bottle of Jameson, at least. St. Patrick’s day was only a day away, and it would have been perfect for the occasion. Then I recalled a vague memory of finishing that off weeks ago, back when I had first heard that Taylor had died.
I considered the available options, none were as appetizing as whiskey, however. The choice was between a bottle of cheap vodka and a bottle of cheap tequila. Both contained less than a swallow each.
No, I thought. Those won’t do at all.
I pushed them aside, reached back into the shadows, and my fingers gripped the glass neck of something near the corner. I pulled it into the light.
“Ha!” I smiled at the uncovered hidden gem, an unopened bottle of Disaronno. “Classy.”
I grabbed several shot glasses from the dishwasher and took a seat at the table. While I poured the caramel-red liquid into each shooter, I thought about the first time I had played a game of Wishes.
**
Fort Rucker, the month before senior spring break. Taylor dropped a full duffle bag by the door and stared at me with his arms crossed.
“I know you don’t have anywhere you want to go,” he said. “Come stay at my parent’s house.”
“No thanks. I’m too busy this week.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“No, I’m serious. I have to study.”
“Won’t take no for an answer,” he said. “They live on Blackbird Bay. We can take the boat out.”
“I’m good. Really.”
“This isn’t a request, Randon. Besides, I can’t leave you here alone.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Knowing you, you’ll hang yourself in the showers. Actually, the depression you’re radiating is likely to make everyone kill themselves. I’m tempted to slice my arm open just standing here, so stop being a miserable cunt.”
“All right, fine. But I’m warning you, I’m not good at the whole family thing.”
“So you say. Now pack. We’re already running late.”
The trip took three hours. The sun had set by the time the cab pulled into the driveway.
Mrs. Christina, Taylor’s mother, ran outside to meet us. She grabbed Taylor before he could even get out of the back seat. She kissed him on both cheeks then pulled him to his feet and took a good look at his uniform. I exited from the other side and walked around the car. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she pulled me in for a hug. The way she held me had made me feel as though I was her son, too. It was a warm, loving embrace. All my hesitation and anxiety melted away, and I felt welcomed.
“Jon,” she said, “it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Christina, but you can call me Chrissy. Come on, let me introduce you the rest of the family.” She grab me by the hand and led the way around to the back yard.
Kyle, Taylor’s bother stood over a flaming grill. He introduced himself by handing me a cheeseburger on a paper plate. “Enjoy!” he said, then he went back to work flipping the next batch of burgers.
Taylor’s sister, Tiffany, swam in the pool with two of her friends. When the three girls saw us come around the corner, they whispered and giggled to each other.
“Tiff, say hi to Jon,” Mrs. Christina said. “He’s going to stay with us for the week.”
“Hiii, Jooon,” she mocked, her voice comedic and flirtatious. “You can share my room.”
“Tiffany Ann Taylor! Manners!” Mrs. Christina shouted. “Don’t mind the harlots, Jon.” She laughed. “Come on, Hunter’s on the porch.”
I let Taylor and Mrs. Christina take the lead. Once they were in front of me, I looked back and winked at the girls, who then broke out in another fit of laughter.
Taylor looked at me suspiciously.
“Sorry, bro,” I said, unable to hide my smirk.
“You’re gonna be if you keep it up.”
I cleared my throat theatrically then gave the boy scout salute. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Hunter sat in one of the oversized picnic chairs, laid back with his arms folded behind his head.
“Boys, take a seat,” he said. “Babe, bring a couple cigars? Thanks, love.”
“Hey, Pop,” Taylor said, “meet my friend, Jon Randon.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Jon.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Taylor.”
“Please, call me Hunter.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hunter.”
Mr. Hunter sighed. “My, you two are green as grass, but you’ll grow out of it soon.” He put a hand on Taylor’s shoulder and squeezed. “Jesse, how are things at school? Behaving, I hope.”
“Great. Glad we’re almost finished.”
“You’re just getting started. You both realize that, right?”
Taylor and I looked at each other, then back at Mr. Hunter. We nodded.
“Well, you think you do, anyhow.” He turned toward the house. “Chrissy! Where are my cigars, woman?”
“Hold your horses!” Mrs. Christina shouted back.
“Bring the Scotch instead! Let’s make this a real party!” Mr. Hunter looked back at us and smiled. “All right, boys, I got some advice. Listen closely. Rule number one: Officers should always keep a bottle of high quality liquor around to share with the enlisted folk. Got that?”
“Got it,” Taylor said.
“If you slip ’em a fifth of decent rum and grant ’em a night off-duty from time to time, they’ll respect you three times as much, and they’ll bend over backwards for you when you need them. At least that’s how it was back in my day.”
“That’s good advice,” I said.
Mrs. Christina walked through the open glass doorway and set the Scotch on the table. Tiffany followed her out of the house, still dripping wet, and carrying several snifters on a tray. Kyle, now done with grilling, snatched up the bottle and poured a few fingers worth into each glass.
Mrs. Christina sat next to her husband. Kyle and Tiffany sat on either side of me.
“Daddy?” Tiffany asked.
Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow.
“Becky and Monica just left. Can I have a glass too?”
“Just a little, if it’s okay with your mother.”
“Sure, sure,” Mrs. Christina said. “Not a peep to anyone though.”
We all raised our glasses.
“To the future,” Mr. Hunter said. “Salute.”
We drank.
“Jesse,” Mr. Hunter said, “your mother is proud of you.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “You went green instead of blue, but the world needs grunts just as much as it needs airmen, so I suppose I’m proud, too.” He laughed, raised his glass, and we all took another drink.
Time flew by as the six of us enjoyed each other’s company. At some point Kyle and I knocked Taylor into the pool. As retribution, he threw me in, too. While the three of us goofed around, Mrs. Christina cleaned up the mess, and Mr. Hunter and Tiffany gathered wood for the fire pit. Eventually we all settled down by the warm glow of the flames. We sipped from our glasses and looked out toward the darkness of Blackbird Bay.
“Hey Jon, where do your folks live?” Kyle asked.
I shrugged. “They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Tiffany said. “What happened…if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, my father was a banker in New York City. His office was in the World Trade Center.”
Mrs. Christina gasped.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I never knew him. He ran out before I was even born. As for my mom, she raised me until I was thirteen. Then they took her.”
“Someone took your mother?” Kyle asked.
“Why don’t we change the subject?” Mr. Hunter took another sip. “You’re prying into business that isn’t ours.”
I smiled. “It’s not a problem. Even Jesse doesn’t know the whole story.”
Talking about my family was something I had always avoided growing up; maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or the warmth of the liquor, but for the first time ever, I wasn’t afraid to open up.
I looked each of them in the eye, then said, “My mom was different from most of the other parents. I noticed it for the first time when I was four. I asked the question: Where do babies come from? She gave me a very strange interwoven answer, and I knew something wasn’t right.”
Kyle leaned forward.
I looked him in the eye, and quickly said, “‘The Stork. No! Fertilized zygote. Sperm enters the egg creating an embryo and…. No! The stork drops off a bundle onto a doorstep of mommies and daddies and…. No! The cells multiply during the gestation.’”
Jesse’s jaw dropped.
I laughed. “It was like that most times I asked her questions. She was fully functional otherwise.”
“Wow,” Tiffany said.
“By age nine tough, she had developed other…quirks.” I took a long drink from my glass. “I came home from school one day and found she had made dinner. It was a feast. A real feast. Plates were laid out all over the house, enough for a hundred people.”
“Schizophrenic?” Mrs. Christina asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That must have been tough,” Kyle said. “How did you two get by for so long?”
“My father had set up a trust account when I was born. I used to get a monthly draw. I don’t anymore. I send it all—”
“He took care of you financially.” Mr. Hunter shook his head and waved his fanger. “But money doesn’t replace a father.”
The breeze from the bay brushed against my face and carried along with it a gust of guilt.
“Yeah, you’re right, Mr. Hunter. Money doesn’t replace a father.” I lowered my head and sat quiet for a while, hoping someone else would pick up the conversation. No one did.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, mom realized she couldn’t take care of me anymore and had herself institutionalized. Spring Grove was okay, I guess. I visited her whenever I could…but she died six months after being committed. An aneurism, they said. Officially it was complications with the anti-psychotic medication. But I think it was from a fight she’d gotten into with another patent, some violent woman named Sally.”
Tiffany wiped her eyes. “You were on your own?”
“No. Aunt Sara took me in.”
Patting my arm, Mrs. Christina said, “At least you have her.”
“Actually I don’t. She died during my first year in West Point. She had gone on a cruise, and her heart gave out while trying to scuba. They don’t tell you how dangerous that actually is. You’d be surprised at how many people die on a cruise ship.” I laughed.
Mrs. Christina shook her head. “Poor thing.”
“Hey!” Tiffany shouted. “I’m sorry but this is really depressing. Let’s play a game instead.”
“We can go into the kitchen. I got a deck of cards,” Taylor said.
“No, we can play out here,” Tiffany said, smiling. “It’s a drinking game.”
Mr. Hunter squared his shoulders . “What do you know about drinking games, young lady?”
“Shush, Dad.” She smacked his hand. “It’s called Wishes. Everyone takes a small drink then declares a wish. The others decide if it’s a real or a fake wish. Once everyone chooses, we tell the truth. If someone guesses wrong, they take another drink…. Now if a wish is true, and everyone’s guess is right, that person vows to make their wish come true. Everyone has to help if they can.”
“All right, let’s do it.” Kyle said, raising a glass to his lips. “Cheers!”
We all followed his lead.
“I wish I could sing,” Tiff sang her wish, badly.
“I wish your father wouldn’t snore so loud,” Mrs. Christina quipped.
“I wish your mother wouldn’t snore at all!” Mr. Hunter shot back.
“I wish I had Monica’s number. Tiff, your friend is seriously hot.” Kyle nodded.
“I wish I hadn’t subjected Jon to this torture.” Taylor slapped his forehead.
“I wish all your family get-togethers are as fun as this one.” I smiled.
For my wish, everyone guessed true.
It was true.
**
When Taylor and I had first wrote The Death Agreement, he thought it would be a good idea to include a section on what our last wishes would be so that the surviving party would see them through.
My wish had been simple.
One day I had said, “I want you to deliver a message to someone special. Just go to the address in Texas and hand them a letter…and let them know I’m sorry. Would you do that?”
“Of course. Who’s it for?”
I shook my head. “Her name is in my copy of The Death Agreement for when the time comes.”
“Who’s it for?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sounds good.” He shrugged, seemingly uninterested. My refusal to tell him had stung, I knew, but even best friends have to keep some secrets from each other.
Earlier, when I said we both never looked back with regret. That wasn’t true. The regret I felt about one aspect of my life had been too great to talk about then and even more so now.
Taylor though, he never had regrets, at least none he had ever mentioned to me.
His last wish: Get the family to play a game of wishes. He had said, “I hope everyone plays it straight. I want everyone to share a wish and then I want you all to make those dreams come true.”
But corpses don’t have wishes. Corpses don’t have dreams. As the last man standing, despite only having one leg to stand on, it fell to me to play the game in their place.
Eight shot glasses sat in front of me, filled to the rim. One by one I poured them into my mouth. The liqueur, sweet and heavy, fought to come back up.
“Little Jon wishes he was still alive….” Drink. “Lorie wishes she was still alive….” Drink. “Your mom and dad and sister and brother all wish they were still alive….” Drink, drink, drink, drink.
I threw the still full shot glass for Taylor across the room and it shattered against the wall. After that, I took my own shot, picked up the bottle and let several long swigs slide down my throat, then slammed the bottle on to the table. “True!”
**
I woke to someone pounding on my door.
“Police! Open up.”
I cracked my neck and sat up on the couch. My head felt as though it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
“Hold on!” I yelled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on my bed. A lock of auburn hair poked out from beneath the blankets, and I nearly screamed.
“Tell ‘em to stop banging,” a woman said. “I’m sleeping.”
I knew the voice: Mary Stallings. Christ! What is she doing here? I thought.
Utterly confused, I stood but immediately crashed to the floor, cracking my head. I looked down and saw I only had one leg.
“Fuck,” I whispered, scanning the room while the police continued to pound on the door. My other leg rested against my bed, far out of reach.
It must have been some party, I thought.
“Hand me that, would ya?” I pointed to my leg.
Mary rolled over, grabbed my prosthetic by the foot and tossed it to me.
“Thanks.”
The police banged on the door again.
“Just a second,” I called out, then strapped my fake leg to my stub. I got up slowly, unsure of my balance. When confident I wasn’t going to fall back down again, I limped into the foyer and unbolted the lock, leaving the chain attached.
I cracked the door open, and instead of seeing the pair of county cops sent by Yang like I had expected, I was surprised to see two military police officers standing at attention.
“Can I help you, Sergeant?” I asked the higher ranking of the two.
“Colonel Litwell wants you in his office at zero nine thirty.”
“Colonel Litwell could have damn-well called or sent an aide. Why are you here?”
“Do I need to answer that, L.T.?”
The memory of the soldier at the front desk shot through my mind. That punk said something about the fax, I thought.
“No, Sergeant,” I sighed. “I guess you don’t.”
“You have ten minutes, sir. We’ll be waiting right here.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
I closed the door gently and turned around. Mary sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s that all about?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“You do look a bit confused.”
“I am,” I admitted. “And not just about the guys outside my door, either.” I scratched my head. “Mary, did we…?”
She smiled.“Not for lack of trying, stud.”
I winced. “Oh, god. I’m sorry.”
“Relax, Jon. I’m kidding. You were a complete gentleman.”
“I remember calling you last night…vaguely.”
“You did. A little after 1 A.M. Offered to give me the interview.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, you sounded like you needed someone to talk to, so instead of asking questions over the phone, I decided to come here and keep you company.”
I looked into the kitchen. The bottle of amaretto sat drained next to the empty bottles of vodka and tequila. Six crushed beer cans were on the floor.
Rubbing my eyes, I said, “I had way too much to drink.”
“You think? We ended up staying awake until four or five.”
“Ugh.”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t all you. I helped, too. You wouldn’t let me drive until I sobered up.”
“I stayed on the couch the whole time?”
“The whole time.”
I shook my head. “At least I didn’t make a complete fool out of myself. Thanks for coming over. I need to see the base commander. Please stay as long as you like.”
“Is that the loud mouthed son-of-a-bitch?”
“Yep.”
“Good luck.” She smiled then rolled back into bed and covered her head with the blankets. “Wake me up when you get back. We’ll get lunch or something.”
“If I get back,” I whispered and walked into the bathroom.
The shower didn’t help clear my mind. I wanted to turn off my brain, but my thoughts kept returning to Mary.
“There’s a beautiful woman in my bed. Does it matter how she got there?” I grinned.
That little voice spoke up again: The Death Agreement needed you to speak with her.
The police weren’t interested in a detailed history of my friendship with Taylor, and they already knew about the events surrounding his death. Even Yang wasn’t interested in the intimate details of his life. All Yang wanted was facts.
If the futures of so many hadn’t been derailed, I would’ve put it all in a letter and handed it out at an after-party to remember the departed—Section VII: Celebrate Life
It occurred to me then that there would be no party. How can I bring myself to share what I know? It would taint the memories. Taylor would understood why the party can’t happen, I thought.
Even so, I needed to tell his story and satisfy the first few sections which I had been ignoring. Motives aside, Mary had been the only person to express an interest in Jesse Taylor. She wanted to know about the man he had been and about the monster that he had become. It made sense that I had called her.
I wished I hadn’t picked up the phone and dialed her number in a drunken stupor, though. Clearly I had said enough, but I worried that perhaps I may have said too much. Not that it mattered anymore. She came over, we spoke, and those particular terms of The Death Agreement were satisfied.
Other good things were happening, too. I had found proof of my innocence; Yang would catch the guy that had pretending to be Howard Taylor; Mary would run her story. Eventually the whole nightmare would be over. Somehow I’d made it through the worst, and as crazy as it sounds, I even made a few friends in the process.
I sighed. There’s nothing in the world like having a huge weight lifted from your shoulders. I felt as though I could breathe again, and I realized things would be okay after all. Not like they used to be, back when I had a surrogate family, and two legs, but this new life could be livable, I thought.
There was still some more to do before it would all be over. The Death Agreement’s final section called for a grave side visit. I wanted to finish the whole ordeal by paying my respects to Lorie and Jon.
I stepped from the steaming bathroom, and found Mary still sleeping. I put on my dress uniform as quietly as I could, then slipped out the door, careful to shut it softly behind me.
The two MP escorts greeted me with a quick salute and we walked to the commander’s office. The door was closed, so I knocked once and waited.
“Enter,” Colonel Litwell called out in a gruff voice often reserved for career soldiers.
I opened the door and marched to the center of the room, half turned, and saluted. “Lieutenant Randon reporting, sir.”
Litwell returned the salute. I dropped my arm and stood at attention.
We weren’t alone. Two people wearing dark suits sat next to Colonel Litwell’s globe bar: a dark-skinned woman and an older man with gray-white hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t make out anything else, and resisted the urge to turn my head. I felt them staring at me but neither one spoke. Litwell stared too, unflinching. The seconds ticked by in an uneasy silence.
Normally a commanding officer will tell you to stand at ease immediately after you salute. If they don’t, it usually means you’ve got some serious shit stuck on your shoe and you’re going to hear about it.
Drops of sweat formed on my brow. My leg began to throb and an extremely painful shock ran up my back. The longer I stood, the more Litwell’s treatment ticked me off. Thirty seconds, one minute, two minutes…I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Sir,” I said through gritted teeth. “May I sit?”
Litwell eyes bulged. “You want to sit down?”
“If you prefer I can collapse on your floor? I’ve gotten quite good at falling.”
The woman raised a hand. “This isn’t necessary, Colonel. Let him rest.”
“Take a seat,” Litwell growled. “I can hardly wait to hear you explain all this garbage you’ve brought to my doorstep, son.”
I sat next to the white-haired man. “I don’t even know what this is about, sir.”
“Lieutenant Randon,” the man said. “I’m Agent Rossenkants and this is Agent Porter. We’re with C.I.D.”
“Criminal Investigation Division? What do you want with me?”
“We’re assisting the FBI and local P.D. on the Taylor case,” Porter said.
“There’s something we need to check, Lieutenant. We’re better equipped to handle it than anyone else.”
Rossenkants lifted his briefcase onto his lap and opened it. Porter leaned over, reached in, and took out a small device.
“Lift up you leg,” Porter said. “The…um…”
“Fake one?” I asked.
“Yes. The fake one.”
I shrugged, then lifted my leg. Rossenkants grabbed the plastic ankle and held it steady. Porter switched on the device and waved it around the bottom of my foot.
“Hmmm,” she said. “You can put it down.” Porter turned toward Litwell, “Is it possible he has another one?”
“No,” Litwell said.
“Could he have stolen a different one?” Rossenkants asked. “Taken a leg from another serviceman?”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “Care to tell me what this is about?”
“That’s doubtful,” Litwell said, ignoring my question. “They are custom made to fit each soldier.” He looked at me. “Where were you last night, Lieutenant?”
“In my room, sir. I have a witness if necessary.”
Litwell raised his eyebrow. “A witness?”
“Who, Lieutenant?” Porter asked.
“A lady friend kept me company last night,” I said, leaving out the fact she’s a reporter. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to know what’s going on, or I’d like permission to leave.”
Rossenkants bit on the end of a pen.
Litwell pointed at Porter. “Tell him. You two did your test. He’s not the guy you’re looking for.”
Porter nodded. “You are familiar with a Detective Weise Yang of the Anne Arundel County Police Department?”
“Yang? Yeah. He was supposed to come by today to collect some evidence.”
“What evidence are you referring to?” Rossenkants asked.
“I found some of Taylor’s things. Yang was out of town last night, so he told me to hold on to them.”
“Tell us what you found,” Porter demanded.
“Better yet, show us.” Rossenkants added.
“You’re welcome to take it with you for all I care. I’d be glad to get rid of it.”
“We would also like to talk to your witness. Just to verify you were where you say you were last night.”
“Fine by me.” I stood up and looked at Litwell.
“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Litwell said. “Clean up the mess. I don’t want to hear about any more problems. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir. Thank you.”
I saluted and walked out of the office. The two C.I.D. Agents followed.
**
“My room is on the other side of campus,” I said. “I’d like some answers though. You can fill me in as we walk.” Neither of two agents seemed willing to talk, so a few minutes later I decided to be less than helpful. “Hey,” I said, stopping in the middle of the abandoned street. “What is it with cops and information?”
Porter scowled. “What do you mean?”
“If everything is on a need-to-know basis, no one would ever know a goddamn thing. Arrest me if you want, but I’m not moving another step unless you tell me what’s going on.” I stared at them with my arms crossed, waiting.
They stared back, dumbfounded.
“I’m serious. Take me to jail if you want to keep playing these games.”
Rossenkants regained his composure first. He tapped Porter on the arm and they walked a few paces away. I heard them whispering but couldn’t make out what was said. A moment later, they walked back over, and Rossenkants said, “What we tell you can’t go any further. Got it?”
“Sure.” I spat on the ground, then walked at a slow pace to ensure nether of them would hold back.
Porter said, “Detective Yang was detained last night.”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “What the hell for?”
“Assault. Theft.” Porter said.
“After leaving the scene in Pennsylvania, there was an incident,” Rossenkants said. “Detective Yang and another individual entered an evidence locker. The unidentified man assaulted the clerk, stole evidence, then fled.”
I stopped and turned to the C.I.D. Agents. “You thought it was me! What did Yang say?”
“Yang claimed he had been held hostage and convinced the officer holding him to remove the cuffs. He joined the chase for the other man, then slipped away. Innocent men do not run, Lieutenant.” Porter nodded. “As for the other man, while making his escape, he ran through a muddy field before fleeing in Detective Yang’s vehicle. He got away, but the police were able to pull his boot prints.”
“That doesn’t give you any reason to suspect it was me.”
“It does,” Rossenkants said. “The shoe sizes did not match. That means either the man has one foot much larger than the other.”
“Or,” Porter chimed in, “he has a fake appendage, like you. The shoe size isn’t right and the spectrophotometer did not show a match, but there’s something about you that I don’t like.”
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Porter agreed. “That’s why it is imperative that we find Detective Yang.” She smiled thinly. “And I think we’ll be confining you to your quarters until this is straightened out.”
“Do what you got to do. Can you tell me what the other guy took?”
Porter and Rossenkants exchanged a look.
“What did he take?” I demanded.
Rossenkants took a deep breath and let it out. “A rusty, old saw,” he said. “Does that mean anything to you?”
I felt the blood drain from my face and my mouth suddenly went dry. I turned away from the agents and started walking again. “No,” I lied. “Doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”
The Death Agreement: Severity & Preamble & Section I - Recount History | Section II - Look After Family | Section III & IV - Obituary & Attend Funeral | Section V - Share Final Words | [Section VI - Wishes] | [Section VII - Celebrate Life] | [Section VIII - Visit The Dead & Ex Post Facto & Addendum]
Submitted October 31, 2014 at 12:47AM by 2LT_Randon http://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/2kt5v6/death_agreement_wishes/ nosleep
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