3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1), Page 3

:03

   

  He's on my stomach. The cat.

  “Yo.”

  Cat lifts his head, stares at me with his orange eyes, then rests his head back down on my chest. The events of the past night come flooding back. The woman's body. The phone under the car. The fact that I am hiding in a closet with a cat on my chest.

  I push myself up on my haunches, sending Cat fleeing to places unknown. This time it isn't my neck, it's my back. It is screaming. I run my hand over my lower oblique and feel a quarter-inch depression that is sore to the touch. Gentle moonlight cascades through an open window, softly illuminating the plastic hanger I have slept on.

  Ugh.

  Once on my feet, I find my phone.

  It is 3:02 a.m.

  I feel around in my opposite pocket and find the other phone. The pink Samsung. A picture, a narrow white obelisk, the Washington Monument, fills the screen. The woman has been dead for going on forty-eight hours and I expect to see a barrage of texts, but there is only the missed call from the night before. Did this woman have any friends? Co-workers? Did anyone even know she was missing? I want to see what the number is that called, but the four boxes centering the phone screen lead me to believe the phone is locked. It is. I try 1234, but surprisingly it doesn't work. I make a mental note to put the Samsung back under the car for the police to find. I wipe any prints I might have left on the phone with my sleeve and put it in the pocket of my sweatpants.

  As for the police, obviously they hadn't come in the last day, or if they had, they were a shoddy bunch. I'd been asleep in an open closet. Surely, they would have stumbled upon me and I would have awoken in jail, possibly already having undergone my first round of sodomy. So I’m altogether surprised to find the woman in the same place I'd last seen her. As for the state of her, that is an entirely different story. The condition of the body is a far cry from what I'd seen just a day earlier. Beneath a steady swarm of insects, the woman's body is decomposing. It smells of sulfur and it is intolerable. The smell twenty-four hours earlier was of fresh linen comparatively.

  I gag and retreat back into the main house.

  It is 3:04.

  I make my way into the kitchen and once again slink my hand into my sweatshirt and open the refrigerator. Grabbing two string cheeses, I open one and slowly begin checking drawers. I am looking for mail. Or something with the woman's name on it. But there are no electric bills, no catalogs, not a single trace of her identity. No wallet, no White House press pass, no steamy letters from Connor Sullivan.

  I spend another five minutes poking around, then decide I've already pushed my luck and head for the front door. Thinking better of it, I make my way through the living room and to a sliding glass door that leads to a small back patio. Sliding the door closed, I give one last glance behind me.

  Cat is staring at me through the glass door.

  Meow. 

  "What?"

  Meow.

  "Sorry, I'm more of dog guy."

  Meow.

  "I don't know, go drink out of the toilet."

  Meow.

  "There's plenty of string cheese in the fridge."

  Meow.

  "Fine."

  I quickly open the door and Cat jumps into my arms.

  It is 3:13 when we get back to my place. 

  I am just as thirsty as Cat and I drink three glasses of water. I grab a sandwich and shake for me and open a can of tuna for Cat. He takes another couple laps of water from the bowl I set down then makes his way to the food and starts lick-eating it, like they do. I lean down and check his neck, but he doesn't have a collar.

  "Well, I can't be calling you Cat, now can I?"

  I think back to how he'd directed me to the garage door and say, "Just like when Timmy fell in the well."

  Lassie.

  He looks up and nods, almost if to say, “Works for me.” 

  "Well, Lassie, I hate to tell you this because I know you are a staunch, right-wing conservative, but your mom was killed by the President of the United States. This is what happens when we elect Republicans."

  He licks himself in response.

  I toss my clothes on the couch and take a two-minute shower. After rubbing Icy Hot into my lower back, I throw on some fresh sweats, a fresh hoodie, wrangle my cell out of the pocket of my sweatpants on the couch, and look at the time.

  3:22 a.m.

  I have a lot to accomplish in thirty-eight minutes.

  Fifteen minutes later, I am holding the pay phone in my hand. It is the only pay phone I know of and it happens to be at Summer Park. I'm not overly concerned with anyone seeing me, but I pull the beanie down and flip up the hood of my sweatshirt, which I'm guessing makes me look all that more suspicious. The 911 call is simple and short: there is a dead woman at 1561 Sycamore.

  There is a squad car parked in front of the house when I return and I take the back entrance to my condo.

  Peeking through the curtains, Lassie on my lap, busily licking his hind paws, I watch as three more squad cars arrive, followed fittingly by a van with Alexandria Crime Scene Unit inscribed on the side.

  With one minute left, I give one last glance out the window at the dancing red and blue lights, then lie down on my pillow. Lassie snuggles up next to me. 

  After sleeping on the ground two nights in a row, I'm quite happy to have made it back to my bed, but as I close my eyes, I can't shake the feeling I've forgotten something.

  Something important.

   

  ...

   

  I'm surprised to find Lassie still curled up next to me twenty-three hours later. He bats his eyes at me and he still looks tired. I think he would happily have slept for another twenty-three. But I don't have a litter box and I'm guessing he has to take care of business.

  I open the door to a small third-story balcony. I have a long dead plant and I rip it from the planter and scatter the remaining dirt in a heaping mound.

  Lassie is still on the bed and I tell him, "Go pee and poop on that mound of dirt."

  To my absolute amazement, he does.

  Holy shit.

  "Good dog."

  I head to the opposite window and peer out. There are still two police cars parked in front of the house. Crime scene tape has been strung around the perimeter of the wrought iron fence.

  I plop down in front of my laptop and pull up the local news.

  Young Woman Slain.

  Being that Alexandria is only fifteen minutes from the White House and is home to a huge percentage of bigwigs, I expect a bigger story, but the report is just the basics. No name. No age. Simply that a woman was found strangled in the garage of her home in Alexandria. No suspects.

  Once Lassie and I have eaten, I call my dad. Knowing he is coming two nights later to play cards, we only chat for a couple minutes. I wait for him to ask about the murder, but he doesn't. I will tell him in person in two days. His face will be priceless.

  As for the murder, I wonder if the police have connected the woman to the most powerful man in the world yet. Was she one of Connor Sullivan's aides? An intern?

  And what about the President? Who should I tell? Should I write an anonymous email and send it to the Alexandria police? I’m not so naive that I think I can accuse the President of the United States of murder and not face some sort of repercussions. No matter how sure I am that it was him—and I am unwaveringly positive—there would be backlash. Not to mention how unbelievable the idea was. First, where was the President's Secret Service? Did they know? Had they arranged the tryst? Did the President somehow sneak from the White House unknown? Could it happen? I wasn't sure. What I did know was that when the President should have been asleep in his bedroom at the White House, he was in the house across the street from me strangling a woman to death.

  I'm about to start crafting said email when I notice a small rectangular card near my front door.

  "Grab that card," I tell Lassie.

  He jumps off my lap,
licks the card, but comes short of retrieving it.

  I shake my head at him and grab it.

  Ingrid Ray, Alexandria Homicide.

  The police had probably spent the better part of yesterday canvassing the neighborhood to see if there were any witnesses. Knocking on my door and not getting an answer, she'd slipped her card under my door. I pull out my cell phone and dial. She would no doubt be asleep, but I plan on leaving a message that I'd heard about the murder but I hadn't seen anything.

  Surprisingly, she answers. 

  "Ray, Alexandria Homicide."

  "Oh, hi, um, my name is Henry Bins. You slipped your card under my door?"

  "Where do you live?"

  I tell her.

  "I'll be there in five." She hangs up.

  I look at Lassie and say, "Well, that didn't go according to plan."

   

  ...

   

  She shows up seven minutes later.

  It is 3:33 a.m.

  She has auburn hair held pack in a ponytail. She is clad in jeans and a Washington Redskins hoodie. She doesn't have a trace of makeup on. She doesn't need any. High cheek bones. Brown eyes. Too attractive to be a cop, which probably accounted for her no-nonsense demeanor.

  "So, you always up at this time?" she asks, taking a seat at my kitchen table and running her hand over Lassie's arched spine.

  I decide for the short answer. "Yep."

  "You some sort of weird writer or something?"

  "Nope. Day trader."

  "It's night. Wouldn't that make you a night trader?"

  I smile. "It's day somewhere."

  "Right, right. What markets do you trade in? London? Tokyo?"

  "Uh, yeah," I manage.

  "So, are you up for the day or finishing for the night?"

  "Up for the day.” Not a total lie. Only my day has fifteen minutes left. "Early bird and all that."

  She forces a smile, then after a deep breath, asks, "You hear about the girl that got killed across the street? You know, between all that trading that you do?"

  "Yeah, I heard about it."

  "Where?"

  "Where what?"

  "Where did you hear about it?"

  "On the internet."

  "Right, you're always on that thing. With all that trading in Tokyo you do."

  I force a smile.

  It is 3:49.

  I have to wrap this up before I pass out in front of this lady or at least before any more of my stupid lies – which I wasn't even sure why I was telling – start to pile any higher.

  "You see anything, anybody walking around or anything?"

  I shake my head. "I was pretty busy two nights ago, didn't even look out the window."

  "Who said anything about two nights ago?" Her eyebrows furrow.

  "Oh, I thought I read that she was killed two nights ago? Was she not?" I stammer. "Was she killed last night?"

  She stares at me for a couple seconds. "Not sure. The coroner is still trying to figure that one out."

  "Well, I didn't see anything last night either."

  "What about three nights ago? You see anything suspicious three nights ago?"

  I shake my head.

  "You know her?"

  "Who?"

  "The girl from across the street. You know her? Ever meet her? Ever take her out for coffee?"

  "No. Never met her."

  She nods. Stands. "Well, if you hear anything, or remember anything, give me a call."

  "I will."

  My phone rings. Change that, a phone rings. Not mine. My cell phone is set to the standard BA-RING. This ring is set to chimes.

  "You gonna get that?" she asks, nodding toward the couch where my sweatpants and hoodie from the previous night are strewn.

  "Naw, probably not important."

  "You get a lot of unimportant calls at four in the morning?"

  Remember how I'd had a feeling I'd forgotten something? Something important? Well, I had. I try to keep a straight face as I realize the phone ringing is the dead woman's. I'd forgotten to put it back under the car because I'd been overcome by the smell. And doubly stupid, I'd left the phone in the pocket of my sweatpants. 

  "Tons," I reply to her question.

  "How many cell phones do you have?"

  "Just the one."

  She opens the door, then pulls her cell phone from her pocket and hits a couple buttons. My cell phone, the one in my pocket, BA-RING, BA-RINGs.

  She ends the call with a grin. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Bins."

  And then she's gone.

  I look down at Lassie.

  "What just happened?"

  He doesn’t know either.

  :04

   

  I wake up on the couch with the cell phone in my hand. The last thing I remember is pulling the phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and seeing that it is 4:00. I'd attempted to find a decent sleeping position but had failed. Miserably. I'd slept with my feet up on the sofa and everything else corkscrewing onto the floor.

  I can feel the pattern of the carpet on my cheek and know I look like someone has branded my face with a cheese grater. I'm not sure where Lassie slept, but as I roll over onto my back, he appears on my chest and begins licking my forehead.

  “Hey, cut that out,” I say, although I kind of enjoy it.

  Pushing Lassie off, I stagger to my feet and realize just how angry my spine is (which I'm pretty sure is now shaped like a double helix).

  After a five-minute shower – a minute longer than I ever allow – I can stand up relatively straight. Opening the fridge, I decide I can't stomach another sandwich and grab a yogurt and a piece of banana bread. Lassie splits both with me.

  I pick up my phone to text my dad and see I have three missed calls. All are from the same number. Detective Ray.

  Based on my performance from the night before, I'm guessing while I might not be a suspect in the woman's murder, I am at least a person of interest.

  I look at the pink Samsung on the counter. How could I have been so stupid? How had I forgotten to put the phone back under the car? But to my credit, had I stayed in the garage a single moment longer, I would have left some very acidic chunks of Henry Bins behind. 

  I'm not sure what course of action I'm willing to take with the detective. I can’t give her the phone without her knowing that I had been inside the house. And without the phone, they may never be able to connect the woman to Connor Sullivan.

  Conundrum. Check.

  I decide my best bet is to write an anonymous letter and mail it, along with the cell phone, to the Alexandria Police Department.

  But first, I need to go for a run.

  The time is 3:22 a.m.

  Lassie is pawing at the front door as I pull the beanie down over my ears.

  “What do you want, buddy? You want to go outside?” 

  Meow.

  “Promise to come back.”

  Meow.

  I open the door and he darts out.

  The corpse of the woman continuously creeps into my thoughts as I run, but each time I am able to ward it off with a tight squeeze of my eyes and a gaze up at the starry sky. This is my time. Not hers.

  After two miles, the muscles in my back start to relax and it no longer hurts each time I inhale. As I head back, a shadow darts out from behind a tree and into my path.

  “Ahhh!” I scream. 

  Under the streetlight I can see him smiling.

  Once I get my heart rate back under 200, I say, “Have you been waiting there all this time just to jump out and scare me?”

  Meow.

  I make a scary face and claw the air at him.

  He claws back.

  Best friends.

  “Come on, let's go.”

  I start running and he falls in next to me, gliding along silently.

  As we take the steps up to my third-story condo, I'm startled to see two people walking away from my door. Detective Ray is wearing a brown jacket and h
er hair is down. It is longer than I would have thought, cascading down well past her shoulders. She reminds me of Rene Russo from the Thomas Crown Affair. (It is my dad's favorite movie and one of just twelve I've seen. I’d watched the original and the remake over the course of a month. I prefer the original but I also prefer to see Rene Russo naked.) The gentleman with Ray is twice her age and three times her size. His head is shaved bald and he has a perfectly trimmed goatee circumventing nearly invisible lips. He is more muscle than fat, but barely, and he wears his Men's Warehouse attire smartly.  

  “He always go running with you?” asks Ray, bending down on her haunches to pet the approaching Lassie.

  “Sometimes.”

  She nods her head upward and says, “This is my partner, Cal.”

  I nod my acknowledgement and step past them.

  “We have some questions for you,” barks Cal, the words aimed at my back.

  “Then I shall answer them,” I say, bending down to untie the key from my shoelaces. “I could do something later this week.”

  “How about right now?”

  I look down at my cell phone. It is 3:48.

  “Why are you always checking the time?”

  I glance up at Ray with raised eyebrows.

  “Last night, I must have seen you check the time on your phone eight, nine times.”

  Was she counting? I squint at her, but say nothing.

  “What's one minute to the next at three in the morning?”

  Those minutes are my life, I nearly scream. Those minutes that you take so much for granted because you get a thousand of them each day are priceless to me. Your life is measured by title, wealth, and status. My life is measured in grains of sand, trickling from one teardrop to the other.

  My nostrils flare when I'm angry and I wonder if Ray feels a small gust of wind. Taking a calming breath, I ponder telling her that I'm Henry Bins and I have Henry Bins. I don't.

  “I’ve always just been a little OCD like that. We all have our quirks, am I right? What's yours, Cal?” I'm guessing it's his goatee. It is too perfect. Rulers, levels, and protractors have been consulted in its creation.

  He isn't amused.

  I put the key in the lock, twist and pull. I ease the door open four inches and Lassie darts through. With a puff of my cheeks, I say, “I can't really do this right now. How about tomorrow? Say 3:15?”

  I don't wait for a response, though I’m fearing if there is one, it will be, “We have a warrant.”

  A response does eventually come.

  “Callie Freig.”

  I'm dazed. Not because the name means anything to me — it's just a name, a woman's name, indistinguishable among any of the seven billion on this planet — but because she has been humanized. As in birth, a fat, crying, pink baby becomes Jake or Molly, the woman in death has become Callie. 

  The two detectives use my second of stunned silence to move past me. I sidestep them, and knowing they are too far in to forcibly remove them, I retreat two steps.

  The phone—Callie Freig's phone—is on the table, next to the laptop.

  “Hey, can you guys take your shoes off?”

  Not an unreasonable request and both lean down to comply. The kitchen table is ten carpeted steps away, but it would look odd if I didn't also remove my shoes.

  “Just set them outside.”

  Slightly more unreasonable, but my only chance.

  In the split second it takes for both to toss their shoes outside, I flick the beanie. It flips end over end, hits my laptop, then falls.

  “What?” Ray asks, cutting her eyes at me. “What's so funny?”

  “Nothing.” I'm just an amazing beanie tosser is all.

  Flipping my shoes next to the door, I say, “So, who is Callie Freig?”