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Christa M. Miller is a writer based in northern New England. Her stories have appeared in Spinetingler, A Cruel World, Powder Burn Flash, and Flash Pan Alley. She has completed her first novel, for which she is seeking representation, and is at work on a sequel. The Promise by Christa M. Miller
Within five seconds of taking her call, I knew what she wanted: a mother, a sister, an aunt. A mentor. "I want to talk to Detective Holman," she told me.
"I'm sorry, she won't be in until tomorrow morning."
"But it's an emergency." The woman's smoke-tanned voice cracked. "My boyfriend broke my nose and kicked me out. I'm calling from the payphone down the street. I have nowhere else to go. Please, can't you call her?"
"No. I'm sorry." I was, too. Barb Holman may have been a great detective, but she was also a lousy human being. In the process of achieving her 95% clearance rate, she bitched about complainants, verbally abused the street cops and dispatchers, and kissed up to command staff. Most of us thought she was sleeping with her captain, but only because she was the one getting the sexual favors, holding the relationship over his head. She was, in other words, exactly the kind of tough act that battered and worn women wanted to emulate. That was why I would've loved to do as my caller asked, call Barb at home and make her accountable for whatever empty promises she'd made this woman.
Still, it was a Sunday night in January, with a wind chill well below zero. While I knew what it meant for this woman to come out to a payphone to make this call, I also knew末all too well末the consequences of messing with Barb's schedule. First she'd cuss me up, down, out, and around. Then she'd talk to the shift commander, have me reprimanded. This woman caller wasn't worth it happening again. Or so I thought.
Thinking she should find a better role model, I told the caller, "If you call tomorrow morning, Detective Holman will be in. Meanwhile, I promise I'll make sure she末"
Click. Then dead air. I hung up before the dial tone kicked in.
"Someone wanted you to call Barb on her night off?" Fred, the other dispatcher, laughed. "Jesus. They have a death wish?"
"They might. I sure don't." I studied my manicure, what I'd decided to get with the spa gift certificate the other dispatchers had given me for my birthday. The nail job was only one day old, but looked a week older. Damn cheap-ass industrial strength soap the city put in its bathrooms.
I was surprised when the woman called back ten minutes later. "Detective Holman told me if he did it again, she'd come to the apartment with me so I could get my stuff." Her voice sounded uncertain now, hurt, like big sister Barb promised to do her toes but ran off on a last-minute date.
If Barb made a promise like that, she had to expect an off-hours call. "What's your address, ma'am?"
She told me. I didn't recognize it. "Is that in末" I started to ask. At the same time she said, "It's in Westbrook."
Shit. It wasn't enough she wanted me to call Barb Holman after hours on a weekend. To get her to go out of her jurisdiction too? Christ. And how the hell had Barb gotten caught up in a case from another town? She had enough domestic violence to deal with here.
I asked the woman, "What's your name?"
She sighed. "Donna Savitts." I heard relief in her voice. Too bad.
"I'm going to call Westbrook PD. I'll leave a message for Barb to call末"
Click. I should have expected that.
I held down the hook, let it up, dialed Westbrook's number. I didn't know the dispatcher who answered. I gave him Donna's name, address, and situation. "No kidding." His attitude was noncommittal. Exactly what it should have been. "I'll get someone right out there."
Who knew if that was really true. I thanked him and hung up.
Donna Savitts stayed on my mind for the rest of the shift. I don't know why. It wasn't as if she reminded me of anyone, or sounded so anxious that I was worried she might kill herself, or her boyfriend. The only thing I could think of was the situation. Relying on, and then being let down by, Barb Holman tied us together somehow.
***
I always took a little drive after work. There was nothing like the silent streets to help a body wind down. Besides, it wasn't like I had anyone to get home to. Not anymore.
Donna's apartment building was actually a converted single-family house. I drove by it twice. There was no sign of cops, or anyone else. Just a single light burning in the upstairs center window, but I bet it was a hallway.
I told myself I shouldn't go in. I had no good reason to. Either Donna's boyfriend had taken her back by now, or the cops had found her a bed at the shelter. It would be better for me to go home. For everyone.
On either side of the foyer were two closed doors末1A and 1B末and in front of me were stairs that led to the upstairs apartments. Donna had given her address as 1C.
The stale air smelled faintly like cigarettes and B.O. The stairs were covered with olive green carpet, the kind that was popular in the 60's, that looked like it hadn't been replaced since then.
I mounted half the stairs before I saw her. She sat on the floor outside the door: legs crossed, head bowed, greasy dirty blonde hair hanging on either side of her face. She looked asleep. I couldn't believe she was still here like this. Hadn't Westbrook responded, tried to get her into a shelter at least? For that matter, didn't she have a sister or friend on the other side of town, someone to let her crash on the sofa?
Of course not. That was why she'd called for Barb.
Donna reached out, banged on the door with her fist. It was weak, like she'd give up by the next one. "I'm still here, you asshole." Her voice was level, calm. Tired, like it had been on the phone. "Wait till Detective Holman gets here."
No answer from within, at least that I could hear.
"She'll put it all straight," Donna mumbled. Her hand dropped to the floor, and I wondered if she was on something. Alcohol or downers or something. Barb could do that to people, too. I bet she never thought it could come back on her.
I went up a few more stairs. One squeaked, and Donna's head jerked up in my direction. I could see dried blood on her upper lip. "Detective Holman?"
"She's not coming." My voice sounded harsher than I wanted it to. "Don't you know that?"
She speared me with a glare that was sharper than I'd expected. "Sure I do. But he doesn't. Who the fuck are you?"
"We talked on the phone."
"I called a lot of末oh. Are you that dispatcher?" She managed to make it sound like "shit-shoveler."
"Yes, ma'am." I shivered. The foyer wasn't heated, and wasn't well insulated either.
"What are you doing here?"
"Barb makes promises she doesn't keep. I wanted you to know that."
"Story of my life." She looked me up and down, the way the popular girls did in high school when they wanted me to know I didn't measure up. I didn't hold it against Donna, though. Women like her and me learned to use that look just to survive. "What are you really doing here?"
"That's it."
"To tell me Barb's a bitch."
"Yeah. And末" My throat closed. Telling her would take this to a whole new level. "I keep my promises."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm making you a promise. I'm going to fix this. You just have to stay here, wait for me."
She looked skeptical, but she rested her head against the wall. "I'm not going anywhere."
That's good, I told her silently, because I'd already come too far to turn back now.
***
Barb lived in Scarborough, even though the town we worked in mandated its public servants live within its limits. Barb had inherited her house from her father; she'd lived there for three years, under the radar and over everyone else's means.
I stood outside her house, a good-size Craftsman, for what felt like hours after I left Donna. I needed courage to confront her, but the frigid temperatures made it hard to focus on what I wanted to say and do. Finally, the winter wind lashing me as if it had blasted through a narrow tunnel, I walked up the stairs to her porch.
It was late, but her lights were on downstairs. I could see her moving from kitchen to living room. What if she had a date? I hadn't considered that.
Before I could knock, her porch light went on. How had she seen me? Didn't matter. I stood at the door, pressed the doorbell for good measure and watched the door open.
Barb didn't recognize me. She had on a purple long-sleeve t-shirt and plaid lavender flannel pajama bottoms and thick gray fleece socks. She looked worn out, like she'd been ready to sleep for hours but the monsters outside made her keep her lights on and her eyes open.
Then her face changed, features sharpened and turned her into the Amazon I was more familiar with. "Trish? What the hell?"
I knew she'd never expect me to push my way in, so I did it, walked in shoulder first. She practically staggered backwards. I was surprised by how powerful that made me feel.
I hadn't been sure of what I'd say to her, but now the words flowed. "You broke another promise, Barb."
"Fuck you. Get out of my house."
I produced the gun I'd stolen from Mike Weisman's locker before I left work. Mike was on days off, and I wouldn't use the gun; I'd return it next shift, and he'd never know it had been missing. I told Barb, "Let's sit in the living room."
She didn't argue, didn't fight. I'm sure it was because she was just surprised and out of her context, but I wanted to think some part of her had been waiting to lie in the bed she'd made.
She sat on her sofa, her back to the picture window that faced the street. I sat in a recliner, which I had to angle away from the TV and toward Barb. She had a chance then to rush me, but she didn't. I had to give her credit for that.
She did, however, speak before I could think of what to say. It was condescending as usual. "What's this about, Trish? What promise did I break?"
A lot of them. Too many to count, I wanted to say, but she was talking again. "Is this about those fucking clothes? Or your boyfriend? You did have something to do with that, didn't you?"
She was trying to catch me off guard. She should've known it was too late for that. "No. This is about Donna Savitts."
Barb blinked.
"You have no idea who I'm talking about, do you? DV complaint, you said you'd help her leave if her boyfriend hit her again?"
"Oh, come on. I don't make promises like that to poor white trash."
"She says you did. What she said practically sounded like a quote." I started to enjoy this much more than I'd anticipated.
"Well she's a pathological liar. I can't even make a case against her boyfriend, and he's more of a loser than she is. That's how inconsistent she is. I mean, Christ, she lied about living in Barnham. Westbrook probably wouldn't deal with her anymore."
"Why would she lie about you helping her? You, specifically?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
"You're right. I'm sorry. Well, we're going in circles. Your word against hers, but I have less reason to believe you."
"This is about your fucking boyfriend. Un-fucking-believable."
"Leave him out of it. Anyway, it's about more than him." I stood. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's time you paid the piper, Barb."
For the first time, fear came into her eyes. She should have fought me, but fear made her docile. I found that out when I directed her to tie herself to one of her dining room chairs with the sheets from her linen closet. So she was just all talk. I despised her even more.
The only tying I had to do after that was her arms and chest. She looked like Richard had. The thoughts behind her eyes flicked by like a slideshow as she tried to figure out how to make me stop. I knew how she'd try even before she did.
"Trish. Come on, let's talk." Now her tone was the friendly, encouraging one both Donna and I had once thought was the real Barb. "You've obviously got a problem with me. Is it because I suspected you in Richard's disappearance? I told you, the evi末"
I gagged her with two dishtowels I'd knotted together. My hands shook. "I'm going now, but I won't be long."
She struggled against the sheets. I checked them one last time. They were tight; they'd hold. This wasn't a movie; she didn't have a blade on hand to cut through them. Anyway, Barb Holman wasn't the type.
***
A few months after I started in Dispatch, I met this great guy, Richard. He came into the station to report a series of vandalisms at his office. Barb was still in patrol, so I saw and talked to her a lot. We weren't best friends, but she acted friendly enough toward me. She acted thrilled when I told her Richard and I had been meeting for lunch once a week.
I thought the stars had aligned when she offered to give me some clothes she wanted to get rid of. It wasn't just that Barb had style; it was that she offered right when I told her I needed to find something to wear to go on my first big dinner date with Richard. We were going to a play in Portland, and then dinner at a really nice restaurant after. I just asked Barb for a store recommendation, but she went one better, or so I thought at the time. "They're not that old," she told me. "Two or three years."
It was too good to be true. She kept forgetting to bring the clothes, even after I wrote her notes. Finally, the day of the big date, I called her house.
"It doesn't pay to be one of Barb's charity cases," an unfamiliar male voice told me. "You just set yourself up for disappointment."
I was late because I had to spend my time after work shopping. Had to settle for a Wal-Mart blouse and pants. I'm pretty sure Richard could tell the difference, because after that all he did was blow me off.
The next week I saw an article in the paper. It was all about how Barb went beyond her job; she took personal interest in people. For instance, she'd just donated a bunch of clothes to a battered women's shelter.
After that I must've fielded two dozen calls from women who wanted Barb's attention. Three called back to complain that they'd never gotten it. I guess that was when my view of Barb started to change for real.
Richard went missing soon after that. Barb had just gotten into Detectives, and the case was her first major one. I knew she suspected me at first, but I didn't mind. She wouldn't have been doing her job otherwise. But then she started to find what she called "evidence." My hair in his house, my fingerprints on his kitchen knives. My lawyer said it was all circumstantial and she couldn't prove anything. Maybe not, but that was when she started to treat me like shit. At least the other cops gave me the benefit of the doubt, mostly because she treated everyone like shit and had for a long time. That was how I could let them all think what they wanted to: that I hadn't gotten even with Richard, hogtied him and driven him the six hours north into bear country. No one could have proven that. Not even Barb.
***
I didn't tell any of this to Donna. She didn't need to know. She did, however, need to hear the tape.
I played it for her as I drove her to Barb's, snuck glances at her so I could gauge her reactions to what Barb had said about her. She didn't say a word. I wished I knew what that meant, if she was mad or sad or even if she just didn't care.
She finally spoke when it was done. "You said we're going to see Barb, right?"
"Right."
"Good."
She didn't speak again, not when I pulled into Barb's driveway, not as she followed me up the back steps and in through the door I'd left unlocked, and not even when she saw Barb trussed where I'd left her. What she did do, though, was smile. Her lips stretched over her gums but didn't show any teeth. She pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter.
I would've loved to see what happened next, but I couldn't stay any longer than necessary. I had to pack so I could catch the earliest possible Greyhound.
I slipped out the back door. I gave myself the satisfaction of one last glance at Barb. It was a good one. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Donna and me, but she said nothing. I guess she finally learned: the more she opened her big mouth, the more trouble she landed in.
THE END Christa M. Miller ｩ 2008 |