Date: Sat, 25 Aug 2007 11:07:50 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Doube E: Part 3

      Among the things that made my life interesting in Jamestown were
the criminals that lacked revere for our small town.  One day Mrs. Johns,
the only wealthy member of our community, had a gun pointed directly at
her.  She lived in a big stucco house which took up half a block,
surrounded by a high fence.  She was mysterious person to us kids, since
we knew so little about her.
      Apparently she was an unfortunate victim of a random robbery.  The
home was robbed clean of all valuables, and Mrs. Johns was left with a
hole in her head.  The news of her death spread around like a nasty
virus, hopping from one home to the next.  A small funeral was held on
her behalf.  To my knowledge, not one of her family members showed up.  I
remember looking around the sea of sullen faces and recognizing all of
them as either neighbors, or shop owners who knew her well.
      The whole Mrs. Johns occurrence was called to mind on that dismal
Sunday as I sauntered down to breakfast.  Half of my family was up and
milling around, tending to their own needs.  Actually, as I glanced
around the cluttered kitchen, I realized the only face missing was
Eliot's and my grandfather.
      I expected my grandfather to be absent.  He despised church.  And
he naturally associated Sunday with mass, so more often than not he spent
the day in solitude cursing my family's religious practices while
drinking whiskey.
      It took about two seconds for my mother to notice Eliot's absence.
She slapped down her dish towel, saying, "Where is Eliot?  I got him up
twenty minutes ago.  If he's still in the shower..."
      Genevieve, who was sitting at the table, glanced over the top of
her newspaper, watching my mother slip out of the kitchen and pound her
way up the stairs.  Seconds later came, "Eliot! Get-out-of-the-shower! We
can barely afford the water bill!"
      My father was sitting at the end of the table shaking his head and
muttering something that sounded like, "That boy..."
      "What's in the news, newswoman?" I inquired from Genevieve, sitting
down with cereal and mentally draining out the slamming doors from above.
      She shuffled the paper.  "Plans for a new highway...lower gas
prices...and another murder right in Jamestown..."
      There was a clatter as my spoon dropped into the bowl.  I opened my
mouth, but my father beat me to the question, "Who is it this time?" he
asked sharply.
      Genevieve shook her slowly.  "Doesn't really say...the identity
wasn't released to the press, yet.  The most they said was that a young
girl was shot and killed in her home sometime between midnight and six
this morning."
      I jumped at the sound of the back door, which connects to the
kitchen, opening.  My grandmother strode through the door frame carrying
an empty milk bowl from the outside.  "I don't know where Ruby is, but
she sure is enjoying this milk.  As long as she's eating, I suppose," she
informed us.
      I guess it never occurred to her that the neighborhood cats were
the ones enjoying the milk.  Not poor-dead-Ruby.
      A minute later, Eliot appeared, looking disgruntled.  His brown
hair was sopping wet from the shower still, his polo shirt was spotted
with water and his khaki pants were wrinkled.  His good looks seemed so
effortless.  He viciously moved about the kitchen, slamming cabinet
doors.  Eventually he plopped down next to me, digging into his cereal
and not saying a word.  Genevieve leaned forward a bit, looking past me
and towards Eliot.  "How was your date with - ouch!" she suddenly rounded
on me.  "Elijah, what was that for?  Don't kick me!"
      I subtly shook my head from side to side, hoping that she would
pick up on the cue to not ask Eliot about his date last night.  Even bent
over his cereal bowl, I could tell Eliot was glancing up at us with
narrowed eyes and picking up on my warning signals.  Genevieve frowned,
"And don't shake your head at me, Elijah.  I was just going to ask how
his date went.  Or am I not allowed?"
      "It was fine, Genevieve," Eliot said curtly into his bowl.
      She forcefully tossed the paper at me, saying, "There now, did that
kill him to answer the question?  Jesus Christ, Elijah."  With a nasty
departing look, Genevieve left the kitchen.  Not two seconds after her
departure, my mother arrived in the kitchen.
      "Eliot," she said warningly, "if that water bill is up from last
time it's going to be on your head.  You're the only one in this house
that takes a shower longer than fifteen minutes."
      Eliot remained silent.  The next time he spoke was on the drive
home from mass.  He grumbled about needing his school uniformed iron for
tomorrow, which was the first day of school.  All day long I had been
thinking about this fact.  Tomorrow officially declared the countdown of
days that I have left to uproot Eliot's alleged secrets.
      There were a lot of ways to get home from church, but when my
father, who was driving, signaled and made the turn, I knew right away:
he had another destination in mind.  On most occasions, the road didn't
even qualify as the scenic route.  As we drove down Grove Road, I could
see that something must have happened at the corner house.  Immediately I
knew my father was still thinking about the murder Genevieve read about
in the paper.
      Now there were squad cars and media trucks parked in the driveway,
and I could see police milling around the grounds.
      "Goodness," my mother said, sitting up in her seat slightly.
"Roger, what on earth happened here?"
      I could tell my father wasn't all too concerned about our mini van
packed with ogling passengers wouldn't look conspicuous, not among the
other slow moving cars and people gathered at a break in the hedge
watching the crime scene unfold.
      As the house slipped around the bend and out of sight, my father
made a disproving sound.  "This is sure to be the highlight news.  A
murder story around these parts usually grows its own pair of legs and
runs."
      "Don't let your father know about this, Roger," my mother said.  It
was true.  My grandfather is an ex-cop.  His whole life in his twilight
years is spent waiting to be called into action.  He was an ex-cop during
the murder of Mrs. Johns and when he caught wind of the story, he hurried
over to the station to see if he can't help.
      Imagine a seventy year old man, alcoholic, approaching present day
officers and claiming he was ready to "take down the grimy bastard."  I
would be willing to bet that the officers later turned his statement into
a joke calling my grandfather the "grimy bastard."
      "I wonder who the victim is," Genevieve called from the back.
Nobody could answer her question.
      Usually when people witness a car crash or a murder scene they
watch with morbid curiosity.  Their initial reaction is to take pity on
any individual that was hurt and then maybe even say a prayer or two
hoping all will get better.  Then, they go on and count their blessings
that the terrible accident or murder scene had nothing to do with them.
      On that rainy Sunday before the start of school, I could tell my
family was going through those stages, especially the latter.  Yet
something was distinctly wrong as we turned on to our street.  There was
a squad car - and it was parked in our driveway.  Two young police
officers were waiting at the front door with my drunken grandfather.
This was a scene to behold.  Were they arresting my grandfather?
      "What the devil is going on?" my father muttered, slowing our van
down to a crawl.  The grim looking police officers noticed our van.  My
grandfather was telling them something - his mouth was moving and he was
pointing at us.
      The one police officer, I couldn't help to notice, was quite good
looking.  He was no older than twenty five, with black hair, an athletic
built.  He wore his uniform well and it would have been a major turn on
if he was wearing briefs underneath.  His name, we learned, was Detective
Booker.
      His older partner, a middle age guy with wide glasses, a somewhat
pudgy figure and thinning hair was Sergeant Manning.  I would guess that
he was the type of guy who did wear briefs at his age, but only the
colored ones.  His stocky body showed muscle, but age added love handles
to his waist and streaks of gunmetal gray to his slicked-back black
hair.  I placed him in his late fifties and decided his life hadn't been
all roses.
      "Can I help you officers?" my father asked.  He was the quickest
one to leave the mini van and the first one to approach them.
      "I'm Sergeant Manning and this is Detective Booker.  We're here
investigating a murder."
      My mother came up behind my father and slipped her hand into his,
saying, "I'm afraid the most we know about any murder is what we read in
the morning papers."
      "Is my father a suspect?" said my father, looking directly pass the
officers and at his father.  His scruffy appearance, blood shot eyes, and
jockey shorts made it look as though he just rolled out of bed after
drinking a lot of whiskey, which he probably did.
      "Your son is, actually," Detective Booker, the young stud, said.
      "My son? Elijah?"  For a split second all eyes were on me.
      "No, your son, Eliot."  All eyes shifted to Eliot, who was standing
in the back of the group with his hands in his pockets.
      "How - why - well, I don't see how any of my children could be
suspects to a murder!" my mother said in a motherly defensive tone.
      Detective Booker ran a hand through his hair and said: "Maybe
'suspect' is the wrong word.  We just need to ask him a few questions."
      Sergeant Manning took over.  "The victim was Georgina Cloves.  From
our understanding, your son Eliot was the last person to see her alive.
That doesn't necessarily mean he's responsible for the death, but he
might have seen something."
      Manning's words hung over our heads like a rain cloud.  Eliot was
silent.  Perhaps the shock was working like a drug through his body, to
the point where he was immobilized.  I know that's the way I felt.  I
tried picturing Eliot pointing a gun at someone and firing away.  It just
didn't add up.
      Booker sighed, breaking the awful silence.  "Listen, the rain is
beginning to pick up.  All we need is to have a few words with Eliot here
and we'll be on our way."  But the rain was irrelevant.  The police
weren't coming right out and stating it, but I could read it in their
eyes and their gestures that they just wanted to take Eliot in.
Detective Booker hooked his thumb over the waistband of his jeans, ran it
around the inside rim, and hitched them up.  I noticed as his pants
slowly slid down an inch, revealing a white Fruit of the Loom waistband.
On a normal day I would have been more aroused.  However, I knew his
gesture was out of impatience.
      "Fine," my father finally said, then quickly held up his hand to
stop the advancing officers.  "Until you have incriminating evidence
against my son we'll talk in the living room."

The interrogation did not last very long, and from the looks of it, it
did not go to well, either.  Genevieve and I spent the better half of the
questioning poised on the staircase trying to listen in.  We could
scarcely make out Eliot's answers; more often than not we could hear the
police asking questions such as, "What was your relation with Georgina
Cloves?" "How long have you known her?" "What exactly happened last
night?" "Did you notice anything or anybody suspicious when you arrived
back at her house?"
      After the police officers left around the evening time, I sat in my
room and had no trouble hearing the conversation happening below me.  My
mother and father were taking turns shouting questions at Eliot.  No
matter what part of the house you were at it was hard to drone out.
      By eight o'clock I was still sprawled across my bed, bored to
tears, but in my thinking mode nonetheless.  For the most part the
shouting stopped.  Doors slammed, and then doors would be yanked back
open with forced.  My mother, I guess, would sometimes have more to say
and shout a few more times at Eliot.
      At a quarter past eight I felt it safe to leave my room.  The
battle seemed to be over.  It was far past dinner time and I was hungry,
seeing that my mother was locked away in her room and nobody was in the
mood to do anything except grumble along.  The only person who could
smile was my senile grandmother who I passed on the stairs.
      I quickly grabbed a sandwich, deciding I would bring it back up to
my room to eat.  Had I stayed in the kitchen, there was the risk that
either one of my parents would come storming in asking me if I knew
anything.  I did not want to take that risk.
      On the way up, I noticed Eliot's door partially ajar.  Clutching
his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered
open his bedroom door.  His hand was bleeding.
      He looked around and spotted me standing there with my sandwich.
Keeping the bleeding had elevated, Eliot said, "Come to convict me,
too?"  I shook my head, unable to find the right words.  He frowned and
made his way into the bathroom.  While he was cleaning up his hand, I
peered inside his room and saw his mirror broken in pieces.  From
punching it?
      I jumped at the sound of his voice.  "If you're not here to yell,
then leave."  I put out my hand and stopped him from shutting his door.
Casually, I stooped down and began picking up the shards of glass.  I'm
not sure what overcame me.  Why the hell was I acting nice to him?
      The answer came to me: because I needed him on my side.
      "I believe you're innocent," I said, and stopped mid-breath as
Eliot pulled his shirt over his head.  I damn well almost sliced my
finger by his unexpected movement.  Though I knew realistically it wasn't
a pass he was making; Eliot had still been in his church clothes and his
polo shirt was dirtied from his bloody hand.
      Still his quarter sized nipples, slim chest that wasn't overly
buffed and Calvin Klein waistband certainly was a sight to behold before
he slipped into an undershirt, his nipples poking through.  "Terrific,"
he said sarcastically.  "You'll sound convincing in court."
      "They're taking you to court," I spluttered, finally slicing my
finger just a bit.
      Eliot saw my mistake and shoved me out of the way.  "What are you
doing here?" he demanded.  "Did you come looking for the juicy news?"
      Taken aback by his accusation, I hesitated, then said, "No, not at
all," but Eliot had acted upon my hesitation and pushed me out of his
room.  He began closing the door, but with all my might I tried to open
it back up.  "Listen," I said quickly into the minimal open space,
"Something happened last night.  Someone killed Georgina and whether they
meant to or not they are now framing you.  We can stop it!"
      Despite the fact that Eliot won and the door snapped shut in my
face, I had a feeling something registered in his mind.
      I wandered back down to the kitchen, having left my sandwich in
Eliot's room and there was no way in hell he'd let me back in.
      It dawned on me, the plot has thickened.  Now I had to prove that
my brother was not straight and not guilty, both of which he might very
well be.