[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
Her face was unreadable. She wore a white t-shirt with a single stylized, thorn-studded rose in black over her heart. It didn't look like official prison garb—unless the authorities had waxed poetic.
Art changed the subject. "How are you?"
She shrugged. "What would you expect? How does one feel as an inmate?"
"Er... rotten?"
"Something like that, yep."
"Is there..." He scratched an itch in his beard, the air in the cubicle was hot and heavy, "anything I can do for you?"
She took a long breath and exhaled, the latter producing a thundering noise in the loudspeaker. Then she fixed him with a stare. "Look... you don't have to help me. I'll manage on my own. I always have, and I always will." The volume of her voice rose to a level beyond the speaker's capacity, and her words were distorted. "I don't need you, and I don't need my dad. You can tell him that right into his meddling face." She lowered her gaze and crossed her arms.
Art's fingers wanted to reach through the glass to touch her.
But there seems to be more than glass between us.
She didn't need him, she had said.
She's a fighter. She'll be fine.
He remembered her facing Savage in the Meiers' apartment, challenging his authority and making a joke about prison fashion.
"You don't wear stripes, I see," he said.
A small smile and a hint of dimples appeared on her face. "No..." She shook her head. "In fact, I was a bit disappointed about that. This t-shirt lacks drama." She tugged at the thorny rose.
Art chuckled.
She still looked tired, but the smile lingered. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. You're not my father, and I guess you're just trying to do your best."
He huffed. "My best... I know that's not worth much. But I... I just don't believe you killed her." He didn't, and to prove it, he shook his head vigorously.
"Thanks. And no, I didn't do it."
"So, why did they lock you up?" There had to be something that could be done.
"The police have found evidence... incriminating evidence. And they're afraid that I might run. I have a Chilean passport, you know... from my marriage. They aren't allowed to confiscate that. So they've taken me in... to make sure I don't leave the country."
"What incriminating evidence?" Art asked.
"Ha, the evidence..." She held up one hand and wriggled its fingers. "One of them is plastic gloves... disposable plastic gloves."
Art didn't understand. "Gloves?" He remembered Bossi asking him about gloves when they searched his apartment.
"Yep. Knooch was killed by someone wearing disposable, powdered plastic gloves, the police say. Don't ask me how they know these things... I guess they've traced the powder." She shrugged. "Anyway, when they asked me, I told them I had no disposable plastic gloves. But then they found a box of the things, in my attic compartment. But, honestly, I didn't know I had them. I don't use such gloves."
"Do you think anyone else might have placed them there?" Art remembered the maraca, the rattle that had mysteriously appeared in his own compartment.
She shrugged and pressed her lips into a thin line. Then she fished a paper napkin from her trousers and cleaned her nose, the audio details of the operation mercilessly amplified by the speaker.
"Could anyone else have left the gloves in your attic compartment?", Art asked. "Trying to... frame you?"
Frame you—like in a detective story.
"I've thought about that, too. My compartment was locked, and they found the box against its roof wall, away from the corridor and from the neighboring compartments. I don't know how someone could have placed the thing there." She took another breath and exhaled thunder into the microphone. "But they also found something else, besides those gloves... they found my DNA."
"Your DNA? On the site?" Art's mind dashed off in search of an explanation, an innocent one. "We've all been in her apartment... the morning after her death. No wonder there were traces of your DNA."
She nodded. "That's what I said, too. But they told me that there was a lot of my DNA on her body, and they think I must have... been very close to her, handled her."
"Did you touch the body?"
"Look, we've discussed that, of course...." Irritation entered her voice again. "My lawyer and I. I didn't touch the body... ever. I never went close to her." She slapped the small sill below the window.
"Have you talked to the police about this?"
"Yes." She raised both her hands. "I've told Savage—"
The loudspeaker clicked. "Five more minutes," a man's voice said.
"—I've told Savage that someone must have made things look as if I were the one who killed her. He listened to what I said, politely, but I don't think he believes me."
"Monica, I'll keep my eyes open. But, please, talk to your father's lawyer. He'll know what to do."
"Why do you want me to do that?" She looked straight at him, all traces of smile and dimples gone again. "Why should I talk to my dad's lawyer?"
He felt another blush coming up. "Do you remember our question game?"
She arched her eyebrows and nodded.
There was sweat on his hands. "You see... I want to do another round of that question game with you. And we can't do that with... this between us." He placed a finger on the glass between them. "Because..." He hesitated.
She tilted her head.
"...because," he continued, "there's bound to be some snow involved."
The smile returned, with dimples and all.
"So?" he asked.
His finger had left a smudge on the window.
She placed her own beside it to leave a smudge of her own. "Okay. I'll talk to that dad-lawyer."
"And I'll watch our neighbors." He remembered the party. "In fact, I'll see them all, the day after tomorrow. The Meiers are throwing a pre-Christmas party."
"Ha, I know that event. Last year—"
A thumping noise from the loudspeaker interrupted her, and the door at her back opened, admitting a uniformed guard into her cubicle. "Please, Ms. Marez," the woman said.
"One second." She grasped the microphone with a hand and looked at Art. "Thanks... Thanks for visiting... It means a lot. And be careful."
"Sure. See you soon." He hoped so, at least. He'd have to enquire how often 'boyfriends' had visiting rights.
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After she had left, he stayed in his chair and looked at the two smudges on the glass pane. Hers and his.
Side by side, yet separated by an impenetrable barrier.
