A Day In The Life - {Watty Awards 2015}

Chapter 11: A Hard Day's Night (Melinda)

       I'm sitting out here on a cop car, waiting to answer questions. Andrew is just getting out of the car now, with Michael's assistance. I still can't believe this is happening. I mean, that I've seen it with my own eyes and I know it's happening. And they're standing around, doing nothing. How can they not be doing anything? They're cops for goodness' sakes! They're paid to do things, not sit around! What the hell is wrong with these people? A paramedic is walking over to me. He's picking up a shock blanket and putting it on me. Now I'm sitting out here on a cop car in a shock blanket waiting to be asked questions.

Two cops walk slowly over to me. Why does everyone around here take their time? We don't have time for this! The two have approached me, both with notepads. One of them is a man in his fifties, the other is a man in his early twenties. The one in his fifties asks me the first question. “Had you noticed anything suspicious in this area prior to your friend's disappearance?” At least he was trying to be nice. I cut him some slack because it was late and this was probably the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight. 

“Uh, well, what type of “anything suspicious” would you be referring to?” I asked him.

“The suspicious type.” It was very hard to suppress the need to make a Captain Obvious remark, but I had told myself to cut him some slack.

Then the younger man cut in, “Okay, I have a feeling we won't be getting far with those type of questions.” I turned my head to him, expecting to see a person who had that “police official” look about him. Nope. This guy was about 6'4”, with long hair, and looked about as right in his uniform as a moose looks in your living room, if you get the picture. “What is the last place you saw Jezebel?”

“She called me and told me she was going to the chop shop.” The older officer looked at me in an interesting way, almost like one would look at an insane person in a mental institution who told you the sky was green, “The Pick 'N' Pull?” If he didn't get that one, I'd stop trying to clarify, as he obviously had no hope of understanding. Fortunately, he either got the gist or decided to stop looking confused, so I continued, “Anyway, she told me she'd be back in an hour. That was at 4:30 this afternoon. Obviously she hasn't returned. We just went to the Pick 'N' Pull she always goes to and found where she was kidnapped.” I left out the part about Blue Oyster Cult because I was still trying to convince myself I wasn't real. 

“Miss,” the younger officer began, “would you be okay with taking us to the spot you mentioned?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I looked down at his name tag, “Wesley.” I looked back at him. He looked surprised that I said his name, but I had more pressing matters to worry about than a cop. I'd have to go back there, wasting more time. He directed me into a cop car and got in the driver's seat, the older man in the passenger's seat, and two more cops in the backseat next to me, both in their thirties. 

I directed Wesley to the Pick 'N' Pull, then to the spot where Jezebel was kidnapped. He looked startled, almost inexperienced around this sort of thing, and perhaps even a bit light-headed. From his reaction, I could tell he was new on the job. Great. I mean, he might be nice enough, but they sent their newbie out on the case? Really? I felt most of the small hope that I had in the cops to catch this guy slip away from me. If Wesley couldn't handle this, could he really handle anything else to do with the case?

One of the cops that rode with me in the backseat caught up to us then. He didn't even pause before pulling out his camera and taking a billion pictures. We didn't have time for a billion pictures, but it was nice that there was someone more experienced on the case as well. By the time he had finished taking pictures, the others had arrived with backup, solidifying the effect of the chop shop looking like a crime scene. 

It was then that I realized something: whoever this freak (for lack of a better word) was, he'd never come out around cops. He'd only come out if I was alone. Great, now every time I went anywhere alone, I'd be analyzing everyone to see if they might have kidnapped my best friend or if they were watching me. But that was how it would have to be if I was ever going to find her. I might as well just accept it and move on. 

Then I realized that Wesley still hadn't moved from his place beside me. His face also hadn't changed from its “I just might puke,” expression. How... helpful...

“Are you...okay?” I asked him. This seemed to almost snap him out of his thoughts and quell his need to release stomach bile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” He said, clearing his throat and swallowing deeply. He didn't seem too convinced.

“Okay. I'll take your word for it.”

“Do I look that bad?” He seemed sincerely concerned. 

“Define 'bad'.” 

“Well, generally terrible- or sick-looking.”

“I think you'd be a fairly perfect candidate for the definition, then. Yes.” This caused an awkward silence, so we just stood there a moment, looking around at the crime scene, before we both (for our own respective reasons) decided that it was not the best idea. 

When I looked back at him, he did a sort of motion halfway between a jump and a twitch, which I could only assume meant, “Oh yeah, right, questions!” I could only assume this because he pulled his official-looking police notebook out and looked at me with an “Are you ready? Please tell me you're ready,” expression. 

I nodded, and he took his cue to begin. “Have you noticed anything strange with Jezebel lately, anyone watching her or acting suspiciously around her?”

“No. Nobody watched her. I mean, we were very close, so I kept fairly close tabs on her. The only times we were apart were after I drove her home after work, in the bathroom, and after I left her house this afternoon, when she went to work on her car. Nobody was watching her. I'm sure of it.” 

“Has anyone who knew you gone missing recently?” This was an odd question, but I answered it to the best of my ability.

“Yeah. Anthony Groeneweld. He worked with us at the library. He went missing last week.”

“Do you think it's the same person?” Okay, these questions were getting weird. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Off the record, do you think it's the same guy?”

“Do you have a personal theory about this or something?”

“Yeah. Well, I guess. I took psychology in college, and I know for sure he's a psychopath, but I think he's actually sending a sort of ransom, but we're just looking in the wrong place for it. It's not with the families.”