Shutter(37)

I knew they had to be calling my mom. I was a minor, after all. But I didn’t want that screaming ghost coming back to me. Not in a million years.

When the creepy detective returned, he sat uncomfortably close. “When are you going to tell me the truth? How do you know who killed our victim? Do you know him? Are you one of his dealers?”

I didn’t know what to say. I certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

His craggy face leaned into mine as he put his hands on my knees and separated my legs. “You can tell me. I’m here to help you.”

I snapped backward in my chair, forcing my legs shut. The cop mimicked my move and cocked a smile. I just wanted out.

“His name is Rodrigo. He was wearing a black and orange shirt.”

The detective was silent. Then he stood and led me to a holding cell next to Shanice, who was already in tears.

“I believe you, Rita,” she said. “But my mom is going to kill me.”

“We should have never come,” I said.

When Shanice’s mom showed up, she was mad as hell. “Don’t you think I am letting you spend one more day with Rita this summer. We’re moving out to Mesita this weekend.”

We both knew right then this meant goodbye.

An hour later, my mom came into the station with a look of panic. When she saw me behind bars, she started to cry.

“What did you do, Rita?” Her mascara was running. Her business suit looked wrinkled.

“Nothing. I was just trying to help.” I couldn’t look at her. I stared at the bench across from me, focusing on a heart with the name “Donnie” carved in it. I began planning my own prison carvings in my head. I was sure I was never getting out of here.

While my mom spoke to the police, I laid my head against the bars and closed my eyes. Shouts erupted from the stairwell. The next thing I knew, the bars on the adjacent cage closed on a new occupant. He had changed his shirt, but it was him. He was sweaty, breathing heavy and labored into his chest. It was Rodrigo.

After that day, I learned to keep my mouth shut.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pelco EHI6-2MTS CCTV

DR. GWENN CASSLER’S office was on the third floor of the City Building, a bland, crypt-like block of cement two streets from the center of downtown Albuquerque. The whole building was painted a cigarette-stain brown. Long, empty hallways were divided by thick glass walls. Cassler’s office didn’t make any effort to stray from the pseudo-’70s motif. Her tables were Formica, her chairs pleather. All she had for reading material was Highlights for Children and the Albuquerque Journal. Up in the corner above her door was an old mid-’80s CCTV camera. I watched its eye focus. I shifted in my chair.

“Miss Toda,” her secretary stammered, looking confused.

“Todacheene. Yes. I have an appointment.”

“Go ahead and go in,” she said.

I poked my head in the office cautiously. There was a giant pink brain model on the doctor’s desk that really centered the room. Another CCTV camera panned to my chair and stopped.

Dr. Cassler was wiping her hands with a paper towel. “Can I call you Rita?” She extended her hand, then proceeded to dust crumbs from her blouse. “I apologize. I had to have lunch on the run this afternoon.”

“I understand how that is,” I said. My chair squeaked. “I’m surprised that you had me in here so soon.”

“Well, I understand you have been under a lot of duress lately.” She opened a file on her desk. “Sergeant Seivers described you as hallucinating two days ago. Is that true?”

“I don’t think I would describe them as hallucinations.” Why had I told Angie? What had I been thinking? “I think what was going on the other night was best described as fatigue.”

Dr. Cassler sat quietly, staring at me. I was uncomfortable. The camera in the corner buzzed.

“It’s my job to make sure that our officers are prepared for the job they are undertaking. You’ve been with the Crime Scene Unit for about five years. Is that correct?”

“About.”

“And where are you from?”

“I grew up on the reservation. On the Navajo reservation on the western side of the state.” I knew she had this information in front of her. Why was she asking me?

“I used to work out there, after my residency. At the IHS in Fort Defiance.” Dr. Cassler seemed pleased to have made a connection with me, flashing a smile. “So, what brought you into this kind of work? Aren’t Navajos scared of death?”

“Aren’t we all?” I answered.

She wrote something on her notepad. “Why did you take this job?”

“Because I needed a job after college. I couldn’t find a job anywhere else doing photography.”

“And why have you stayed?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. It seemed like an odd question.

“I’m just curious. I imagine it’s not easy, the work you do.” She looked up from her notepad. “As a Navajo. The work you do must be distressing to you.”

“I don’t believe in all of that,” I answered. “It’s superstition.”

“Do you believe in God?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “That is also superstition.” She wanted the truth. She was going to get it.