Look Closer

But I can’t check. Searches I do on my phone or computer are discoverable. So I’m stuck with archaic newspaper reports, stale as month-old bread by the time I read them.

My cell phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello, this is Simon.”

“Simon? This is Jane Burke. I’m a sergeant with—”

“Jane Burke? From Grace Consolidated?”

“—Department.”

We talked over each other. I know who she is. I know where she works. I didn’t know if she’d catch the case, but she was as likely as anyone. It’s not a huge police force.

“Jane Burke from Grace Consolidated? Class of ’03?”

“That’s me, yes.”

“Sorry, I think we talked over each other. Did you say you’re a sergeant?”

“Yes, I’m a sergeant with the Grace Village Police Department. I was wondering if you’d have a chance to talk with me.”

“Well, sure. Is this . . . something official?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay. Well—can you tell me what about?”

“I’d rather we discussed it face-to-face, if that’s okay.”

Right. She wants to see my reaction when she tells me that Lauren Betancourt was murdered.

“Oh, okay,” I say.

“Is it okay if I stop by your house later? Tonight?”

“Sure, I’m free,” I say. “Just tell me what time.”

HALLOWEEN

80 Simon

I walk two blocks north from the block where Lauren lives, roughly tracking the route that Christian took a few minutes ago, though he was walking fairly fast, while I choose to emulate the cool-customer former president whose costume I’m wearing. It’s getting a little nippy out here, me with only a suit and no overcoat, though the full Obama mask does keep my head warm.

I reach the elementary school, listening for any sounds behind me, glancing back for any obnoxious flashing lights, listening for any sirens. Nothing so far. No police vehicles speeding toward Lauren’s house. They’ll either come pretty quickly or they won’t come at all.

I walk behind the school and stand by the dumpster, which hides me from the street. I let time pass. I need time to pass. I hope it goes fast. The less time I have to think, the less time to make myself crazy.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Simon.

If I “wind up” a watch or a clock or a toy or an old music box, I’m starting them, but if I “wind up” a comedy routine or a monologue or an essay, I’m ending them.

Nowadays, the word “nonplussed” means both “confused” and “not confused.”

I jump in place to stay warm and loose, anxious for this to end, trying to appear nonplussed while I wait to wind up this whole thing.

Deep breaths.

—

Ten minutes to eight. I remove the Grim Reaper costume from my trick-or-treat bag. It takes some work to wrestle it over my head while still wearing the Obama mask. But yes, I’m going to use a double layer of anonymity here. I doubt anyone could see my face with this elongated Grim Reaper hood, but if somehow they could, the face they’d see would be that of our first African American president.

I’ve become pretty damn cold out here, basically standing still in forty-degree weather for half an hour, so the costume provides much-needed warmth.

This is where it gets risky, but there is no reward without risk, and I’ve come this far.

I always told myself—if I get caught, I get caught. The number one goal is Lauren, and it seems that Christian accomplished that for me. The number two goal, not one but two, is my getting away with it. I have to accept the possibility that I won’t.

I head back to Lauren’s house. I walk down Lathrow to Thomas and stop by a large tree on the corner lot. It has now been an hour since Christian left the house. No police have responded, so nobody saw or heard anything that caused them to report anything.

The house by which I’m standing has the lights on downstairs but is dark upstairs. I suppose someone could peek out and see me, but as of now, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? That’s not to say I’d like to be seen, or that an encounter with the police would be enjoyable. Far from it.

This is the moment. This is when I really expose myself.

Here goes nothing.

I cross the street and walk up Lauren’s yard to the bushes by her front window, not slowing my stride, acting as natural as someone wearing a Grim Reaper costume walking across someone’s yard in the dark can act. Acting like I’m supposed to be there, not sneaking around.

I stand at the window, peering inside the home, letting my Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots plant firmly into the soft dirt. Softened enough, it seems, from the brief rainfall earlier today, to qualify as mud. I wave, as if trying to get the attention of the person inside Lauren’s house, just in case some neighbor sees me—they see a friend, not a Peeping Tom. A weird friend, maybe, but not an unwelcome one.