The remand prison was located outside the city, in suburbia. Art had to navigate the maze known as local public transport to get there. It made him wonder how people had traveled before the invention of smartphones and mobile maps.
The building sat on a hill, a ten minutes' walk from the train station. His steps took him in a twisted path through a huddle of houses that used to be a village a century ago. Now they were the local shopping and service hub for the residential district sprawling across the surrounding countryside. He passed three restaurants, a grocery store, a cheese and milk shop, a square with benches around a water trough, a hair salon, and a church.
The sidewalks were wide, and the cars were few and slow. A place made for walking, not driving—so different from the efficient checkerboard city layouts of his home.
The weather had turned balmy, giving the few remaining patches of snow a hard time.
The prison itself was lacking the fence or surrounding wall he had expected. It was a long, three-storied building with a gabled roof, vanilla-colored walls, and a good view over the flat valley. The bars that adorned some of its windows were painted in a subtle hue of beige. It looked friendly and innocent as if trying to blend in with the residential scenery.
A polite, male receptionist already had Art's name on a visitors' list, checked his ID, and handed him a form to sign. Its small-print instructed him that his exchange with the prisoner would be recorded unless he was their attorney, that the duration of the visit was limited to fifteen minutes unless he was their attorney, and that he was under obligation to follow the staff's directions, even if he was an attorney.
After signing, the man guided him to a small room and asked him to wait.
The tiny cubicle was the first thing that struck Art as prison-like. Two chairs were facing a glass pane. A similar cabin with a single chair was visible through the glass. It was unoccupied.
There was one microphone for the visitors and another one for the visitee.
A loudspeaker mounted to the wall came to life with a clicking noise, and Monica appeared in the window. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him, then sat down with a blank expression.
"Hey... boyfriend," she said. The 'boyfriend' sounded like a question or a challenge. Her eyes bored into his.
He felt the heat rise in his face. "Hello, Monica. Your father's attorney meant that I, as your... boyfriend, have a right to visit you." Remembering that their exchange would be recorded, he avoided calling things by their name—he hoped that she would get the hint that the boyfriend thing had not been his idea.
"I see..." She looked tired. "My father sent you."
"No... It was my idea. I wanted to see you. I called the police, Betty Bossi... and she advised me to contact your family, which I did."
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.
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.
He'd watch his neighbors at the party. Carefully.