Detective Jackson waved the sling guy away. “I’ll call him back later.” The guy was about to shut the door when the detective stood up abruptly. This time I did not jerk. It only took him a quarter of a stride to get from the table to the door. He whispered something to the guy. I wished I could hear it, I tried to will the words to float my way, but they never made it into my ears. The detective sat back down and looked across the table at me as if nothing had happened. As if Dr. Hamilton’s name was never mentioned. And my mind raced to put the pieces of my past together. So I would know what the detective’s next move could be.
Right after college graduation, I decided that I would move back to my beloved Miami Beach, get my doctorate degree at the University of Miami, and warm my chilled bones. One exceptionally hot day I was heading to my car from the office I shared with my supervisor, Dr. Don, a laid-back, snarky man in his sixties. We worked in a nice new medical complex on Forty-First Street, just five blocks from the Atlantic Ocean. I usually parked in the employee lot behind the building, but today I had a large unwieldy lamp to carry in, and I had seen a parking meter right out front, so I took the spot. As I got back into my car, I heard a sad, muffled mew. I looked around and noticed a garbage can at a bus stop a few feet away. I walked over and the mew got louder. I looked inside, and saw the saddest thing I had ever seen in my entire life. A kitten was tossed on top of the trash, and it was tightly wrapped in duct tape. I scooped the little guy up, glanced down to make sure there weren’t any more animals thrown inside, and raced to the nearest veterinary hospital. Sour bile moved up my throat when I dwelled on the evil of man, so I forced myself to focus on saving the kitten, and not focus on the monster that had done this to him.
After assessing the situation, the veterinarian, Dr. Hamilton, decided it would be best to sedate the kitten and shave off all his fur to remove the tape with minimal skin damage. An hour later, once the kitten’s torturous restraints were gone, the tall, dark, and handsome vet would give the two-month-old tuxedo cat a full checkup, all necessary shots, and a later appointment for neutering. While I waited, the receptionist at the front desk put all my information into the computer and asked me, “What are you going to name him?” I didn’t have to think. The answer, of course, was Mr. Cat. She looked up at me and said, “Whoa. Meta.”
That evening I went home with my first pet. I lived in a cute one-bedroom third-story apartment a few blocks away from Espa?ola Way on South Beach. About a mile from the house where I grew up, which my parents still inhabited, and a forty-five-minute drive to my classes at UM. My apartment building was classic Art Deco and had been refurbished, leaving all its old-timey charm but with updated amenities. It was bright and clean and painted a joyous lavender.
Mr. Cat and I soon had a routine. In the mornings I would have two cups of coffee on the little balcony off the kitchen. Mr. Cat would prance around out there, eyeing birds that he could watch but would never catch. Then I would leave for my classes, or my internship with Dr. Don, and while I was out of the apartment, Mr. Cat would sleep on the couch near the living room windowsill. He seemed content to flop over the arm, look out the window, and sun himself in slats of light that showed through the pastel linen curtains.
In the evenings, when it was time for me to go to bed, Mr. Cat would truly come alive. Since he had been sleeping on the arm of the couch all day—and to be fair, cats are nocturnal—of course he had plenty of energy. All night long he would scamper full speed across the apartment, patrol the perimeter walls, open every cabinet he could get his little paws into, and knock things over while he jumped onto tables and shelves with the whip of his furry black-and-white tail. He would hop up on the bathroom counter and meow at the sink faucet at three in the morning, demanding I turn it on. And I would. He loved running water. He would drink, lapping up the stream with his rough pink tongue. And it was adorable.
Mr. Cat would also leap onto my head while I was sleeping and snuggle into my hair. And his front paws would push push push into my chest in a rhythm. I would call this “making muffins.” I learned from Dr. Hamilton that it is a kneading motion all kittens do while suckling, to help get more of momma cat’s milk flowing. If a kitten is taken away from its mother too soon, it’s a motion it will make for the rest of its life. A built-in survival mechanism.
I watched Mr. Cat as he pushed on my chest, and thought about the complexity of humans, and how we each deal with loss differently. Duncan’s father rebuilt his life. Duncan’s mother gave up on hers. Hannah connected to her dead father on important dates, even though she thrived way more without him in her life. Humans, unlike cats, don’t all knead or need in the same way.
I looked at Detective Jackson, and for the first time sitting in that room, I started to really tense up and lose my cool. My temples throbbed and I dug my nails into my palms. This game show was turning into a haunted house, and I did not like the looks of the funny mirrors. It was one thing to guess what the four photos were, since I knew the four people who were dead. It was another to have the names of living people in my orbit tossed around to manipulate me.
I asked myself, if I had known in those simple, happy routine-filled months eight years ago that the handsome veterinarian, Dr. Hamilton, and my cute kitten, Mr. Cat, would later be used by this detective to implicate me in one of the four murders, the one that would become most public and rip my life to shreds, would I still have picked the taped-up furball out of that trash can and saved him? Yes, I would have. Because it was the right thing to do. And I was about to say that to Detective Jackson. Give him a lesson on right and wrong. I was about to show way too many cards and fold. Then, as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard the sound of the air-conditioning in the room click on.
Suddenly I knew without a doubt that was what he had whispered to the desk-duty guy. Not some secret about me, not some damning proof that I was a killer, but that he was burning up in there. And he asked the guy to please, dear God, turn the air on high, make it cooler in this blasted room. Detective Jackson was not some mastermind; he was just a sweaty man trying to get through his workday comfortably. I unclenched my fists. I was calm again. And determined to beat him at this game.
CHAPTER 15
MIAMI
The chilled air rattled into the room and Detective Jackson refocused on the photos, like there were just so many to keep track of. “Where were we? Right. Richard Vale.” He glanced at me, to make sure he still had my full attention. “You asked me if this was his mugshot from his DUI. It was not. It’s from when he was arrested for a sexual assault, at a bar in Surfside. The victim ended up dropping the charges.”
I waited.
“I’m not going to pretend Mr. Vale was a great guy. I can see his record. So, if he assaulted you that night. If he made you scared, or put his hands on you in any way, you had every right to defend yourself. You were a minor. A kid. If you were a victim, I won’t fault you for whatever went down next. I just want to hear the truth.”
I knew this ploy and I abhorred it. Others using my perceived victimhood to push their agendas. Even if I told the detective that Richard tried to rape me, that I was in fact a victim and I chose to be a calm methodical one who let him die, it would not be self-defense at all. I didn’t call out for help. Or try to save him once he was unable to further harm me. It was murder.