An usually sunny day on September 22nd. Reminiscing on the great remembrance of the 21st night of September. Although the sky was clear, my thoughts were cloudy. 3 years had passed since the death of my mother and I celebrated how I celebrated any other anniversary in my life, with a pack of menthol cigarettes and a book to get lost in. The pick for the day was Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix. My mother and I shared a love for Harry Potter, she introduced me to the series. I had a strange feeling that judgement was coming to me swiftly much as it met our three estranged heroes.
âLos Angeles police, open up.â an assertive, but comforting voice commanded.
I open the door to be greeted by a beautiful detective James. First name unknown. She had a slicked back, long curly ponytail and eyes of warm chocolate. Her skin was sun kissed and I found her presence to be encapturing. I wonder what she wants with me.
âGood morning sir. I am detective James. I am aware that your girlfriend, Lauren, has been missing for a couple of days and I would like to ask you some questions.â Her eyes pierced at me with persistence. Her tone sounded as if she was asking a question, but I knew she would come again if I denied. Maybe with more reinforcement.
âUh, sure. Come on in.â I shut the green door behind her and light a cigarette. If I am to be interrogated, I shall answer in smoke.
âSir, can you put that out?âÂ
âNo, but Iâll open a window for you. You can sit by it.â I turn on a fan and open a window. I open the blinds slightly to see the families laugh and play in the shallow, motel infested pool. What a bunch of turds, I laugh to myself.Â
I grab a seat for the lady and one for myself next to the ashtray. I see her eyes wander in silent judgement and amazement of the room.Â
âThere you go, Ms. James. Now what can I help you with?â
âYour girlfriend, Lauren Alexander-â
âEx. I donât make love to the dead,â I chuckle.
âShe has been missing for over five days. We are doing an investigation and asking all close friends and family members about her whereabouts and when they saw her last. Why do you say she is dead?â she asks unsteadily, gripping the upholstered arm chair.
âWell, five days missing in this city means youâve been kidnapped or killed. Especially for women, Iâm sure you know that all too well yourself maâam. Besides, I am the one who called to inform the police of her absence.â I take a drag and relinquish the air and stress I had built up inside of me for the past few days. She eyed me up and down as I spoke, taking notice of my fully unbuttoned beige, roaring tiger print shirt to reveal my white Hanes undershirt matched with my khaki capris. I placed my leg over my ankle so maybe she would catch a glance of my Nike socks and birkenstock combination. I did dress myself today after all. Her eyes read suspicion, but somehow I could tell she was doubtful of me.Â
âWell, I would just like to ask some questions and I will be on my way.â
âAsk away. How rude of me. I forgot to mention, my name is Jacob Whitmore. My friends call me Jakey, but they havenât been calling me as much lately.â I took another drag. Nothing screams rise and shine like a nicotine coated menthol and sitting across from an upgraded police officer.
She shakes her head in disgust and despair. âMr. Whitmore-â
âPlease, call me Jacob.â
A heavy breath followed by a restrained urge to eye roll left the detective.Â
âNo more interruptions please. Where were you on Thursday, September 18th?â
âWell letâs see.â I begin to close my eyes and play in my hair in an attempt to rush my memory to the present. I need more nicotine for this. âI remember waking up that morning in my downtown Los Angeles apartment, noisier than ever that morning. Lauren had made me her classic breakfast special: bland eggs with turkey bacon and 3 chocolate chip Eggos before rushing off to work. She worked multiple jobs. She walked dogs in the morning before heading off to her fabulous mansion tour of house cleaning. Demeaning, but rewarding as me and the bills always thanked her. I had suspicions that she had been cheating on me. I found love letters in her pockets while doing the laundry. I was a stay at home while she took care of me in between jobs. I know, you donât find too many of us house husbands,â I said, smirking at the unimpressed detective.Â
âAnyways, I decided that day I was going to follow her. Do some investigating of my own. I couldâve asked her, but I wanted to see for my own eyes the poor bastard that she was playing. You see, she loved me. We were in love and inseparable. She would be playing this rascal, but still wishing the man sweetening her gears was me.â I lit another cigarette, thankful for the lotus shaped ashtray that contained a mountain of my remnants over these past few days.
âSelf absorbed, maybe but that was the kind of love her and I shared.â A smile shot across my face uncontrollably. âTo my great fortune, she was loyal. I watched her rip the gardening boy a new one as she proclaimed her love for me. Lauren had the mouth of a New Yorker with the face of an angel.â A chuckle escaped through my lips along with the smoke. âI was so happy I bought her roses, her favorites. Yellow bodies with pinked tipped petals. I bought her three bouquets and decided I was going to make her favorite, fettuccine alfredo. Then I was going to lay her down like I was a handyman and the Lord hand delivered me a golden pipe to fix all broken faucets in the city.â I ashed my cigarette and began to spiral as the next menthol met my lips. I could see the concern on the detectiveâs face as my demeanor began to colden.Â
âI made her dinner. I cleaned the apartment. I lit candles on the table and on the counter. I wasnât too big of a romantic, but I knew how to set the mood.â I chuckled as I hunched over in my chair, staring at the ground. My hands began to tremble. I abandoned my dear ashtray for the floor. âI called her five times in the first round, no response. The clock struck 5:30, and I knew that was the time she was usually getting onto the bus. Sometimes she had went to the gay bar on Melrose, the one with the illuminated turtle splashing into an ale of beer. That quacky place,â I begin to rub my head in distress. âBut she texted me that she had a long day and would be coming home as soon as possible to run a bubble bath. I was going to fuck her in the tub too.â I place my hands in my head as I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes, sucking them back into their place. The detective has been silent, but watching me in suspense like an audience member of a Shakespearan tragedy.Â
âBy 8 oâclock, I still had no response or sight of her. The candles were melting down to the stem and the alfredo might as well have been frozen. Thatâs when I made a call to the station.â I stepped on the menthol delight to extinguish it before lighting another. Only four left in the pack. Fuck. I hope this wasnât going to take much longer.
The detective nodded and I noticed she was taking notes. She seemed very good at her job. âI have some more questions for you...Jacobâ she ended her sentence hesitantly, but her soft tone comforted my damaged soul. She shifted in her seat to her legs being crossed as if she was finally finding comfort in her 1940s styled chair. âNow we visited some of her colleagues and friends who reported a similar story to you, minus some details. We have no leads, as we have already contacted the gardener who had matching alibis. The bar said she had not come in that day. Weâre still recovering city footage of her traveling throughout the county.â I picked my head up to meet her eyes. My emerald eyes glisten as she asks, âwhy did you decide to rent out this motel room the night of September 18th?â
âWell, I couldnât stay in the apartment knowing that something had happened. You see, today marks the anniversary of my motherâs death. She would come here often.â Detective James nodded as if she understood.Â
âIâm so sorry to hear about your loss. Would you all come to vacation here?â
âMy mother was a hooker. She would bring male and occasionally female clients to this location.â I said nonchalantly as if I were telling a relic of an old friend. âMy father abandoned us when I was freshly born and she needed some way to support me and my brother. When she couldnât find someone to watch us she would have us sit in the parking lot. In the parked car of course. One night I came stumbling in to beg my mother to take us home as the clock was striking midnight and the car felt like an overworked camel hump to sleep on. I didnât know what she was doing at first, she would always say business. I thought she was like a wall street business shark working men for their hard earned cash. I was partially right. I remember hearing these weird, promiscuous noises screaming through the lotus flower tapered walls. Thatâs my favorite part about this place.â I said drawing our attention to the decorum. âThe pink flowers draped on the walls. Lotus flowers are supposed to be a symbol of purity. My innocence was extracted from me that night.â I take a hard drag on my cigarette in pain of irony. The detective stared at me in awe and pity. Before she could speak, I continued on with my story.
âSomething inside of me told me to stay out, but my 7 year old brain was too curious not to open the door to see my mother getting pounded like the whore she was. The man just smiled at me and asked if I wanted a turn. I turned around and ran away. I vowed to never bring it up or let my brother know.â I shake my head reliving the trauma and seeing my last cigarette. âShe was a good woman. She took care of me and my brother and made sure we had more than what we needed. Lauren kinda reminded me of her. Now theyâre both angels watching over me.â
Detective James watched the flame from the lighter and then proceeded to scribble down an additional note. She had a confusing look on her face as if she was missing a piece of the puzzle.
âYou know,â she says softly. âIt hasnât been confirmed that Lauren is dead. She may still be alive.âÂ
I shrug, âI abandoned false hope long ago. Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms. James?â
She starts to gather her belongings, but pauses for a second as she spots my unzipped suitcase. I could tell the puzzle pieces in her brain were looking for the missing link. Before she can answer, I say âIâll walk you out,â managing to produce a smile. Iâm just happy to reup on Ms. Mary Menthol.
She nods with a smile to mirror mine. âThat is all for today. Thank you for your time and I am sorry life has been unkind to you.â Her tone rang defeated. Iâm unsure if she was more saddened by my life or the unsolved case. We shake hands and I turn to reach for the door. As my back is turned, the sly bitch kicks open my suitcase to reveal a half kilo of my delicious cocaine, a machete with dried blood painted on it, and hand written notes I had written for my sweet Lauren. The next thing I know, I turn around to a gun pointed in my direction and me being handcuffed. Just as I thought I was in the clear. The scene played like a slow motion, silent film.
You see the cops had been trailing my alias for years as I had developed an itch that only holding a dead female corpse could scratch. Fell for my act didnât you? I was sure hoping detective James would. I played the role so well I deserve to host the next fucking emmys. You see Iâm not a bad guy, just a tortured soul. I was going to marry Lauren, I really was. She discovered I had killed my mother and was horrified by my actions. She was never supposed to find out. That sweet little Sherlock went rummaging through my stuff one day innocently only to be greeted with the same murder weapon that matched the description of my motherâs murder weapon and soon to be hers. I was tormented by my own thoughts and other kids for my motherâs actions. Although her intentions were in good faith, they created a world wind of hell for me. I plotted the move since I was 16. I figured sure people could clown me for having a whore as a mother, but would they say the same if she was dead. Then that makes you a shitty person. Call my mental twisted, but you try walking in my shoes and telling me how the fuck you like those roses. Iâm ritualistic in my attacks as to why I was planning on burning the evidence that night on the day of my motherâs death. I figured her soul would take care of it, but it seems as if it had a vendetta to avenge me. As for the cocaine, my only mistake was not head diving straight into the baby powder while sweet cheeks handcuffed me. I hope they sell menthols in prison...Â