The Binding

Chapter Twelve

A man at the front desk turned to look up at me as I approached. "I'm looking for Detective Aguirre."

    "Just a moment," he said as he swiveled in his chair to look at the desks behind him. After a couple seconds, he turned back toward me and picked up the phone. A few minutes later, a tall man with bronze skin and black hair that swept neatly from his forehead came up to the desk and looked at me.

    "I'm Detective Aguirre. What can I do for you?"

    "Ah, hello." My throat was beginning to feel thick. What was I going to say? "I was hoping I could talk to you about Curtis Pope. Are you the Detective working on his case?"

   His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yes, how did you know that?"

    "Oh... the newspaper," I said as I reached into my bag and pulled out the article. The Detective nodded and gestured for me to follow him past several cluttered desks to one in the back that was remarkably neat compared to the rest. Behind it was a dry erase board with photographs pinned to it. There was a small pile of files and a can of Dr. Pepper on his desk. He pointed to a chair, and I slid into it. This was the first time I'd ever been to a police station, and it looked exactly as I'd imagined.  

   I swallowed before I began. Talking about Curtis was uncomfortable, and my ramped adrenaline was making me a little nervous. "I was wondering if you could tell me how Curtis Pope died."

   The Detective looked surprised again but shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't discuss the details of his death during the investigation."

    "So there is an ongoing investigation into his death?"

   He paused for a moment to consider me and smiled slightly but didn't respond. "Why do you wish to know? Are you a friend or relative?"

   The thought made me grimace inwardly. "No. He attacked me a few months ago."

   He stopped and then leaned back into his chair. "Curtis Pope attacked you? When?" he asked. His voice was even but sounded slightly suspicious. His eyes moved over me critically. I suppose he was trying to decide if I looked crazy.

    "Early March." He watched me for a few more moments. I didn't speak. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and reached down to open a drawer on his desk. He pulled out some kind of form and a pen.

   He was going to take a statement from me. Naturally. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to speak with him, but it was too late now.

    "What is your name?" he asked. I told him.

   He asked me my basic information— address, age, how long I'd been in Portland. "And what is your occupation?"

    "I'm a translator."

   He smiled in surprise. "I don't get that one very often. Spanish?"

   I laughed inwardly. People guessed that all the time. "No, Hungarian." He looked at me with a stunned expression.

   He returned to the form in front of him. "Why didn't you report the attack when it happened?"

   He leapt straight to the most difficult question. I looked down at his dark, faded jeans and black Allen Edmund shoes. He was fashionable and fastidious.  

    "I don't know what to tell you. I wanted to forget the whole thing happened and I mostly did. I don't know how much help I'll be to you. I don't remember much."

    "Well, just tell me what you do remember."

   I looked back at him. He looked was open but concerned. My body relaxed slowly, and the room felt warm and comfortable. My heart skidded as adrenaline rushed under my skin. My fingers gripped the arms of the chair, holding me in place while I tried to force my mind to focus.