Devour, p.24
Devour, page 24
Sebastian was lying on his bed reading—his back to the door—as Dalton entered. “Hello, Sebastian.”
He rolled over and smiled half-heartedly. “Hello, Warden. What’s up?”
Dalton sat a box on the table beside him. “Just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing. How are you feeling?”
Sitting up with great effort, he sighed, “As good as can be expected, I suppose. I won’t be eating much solid food for several days. But with the food they serve in here…” he smirked. “Anyhow, you didn’t come to hear me whine. What’s on your mind?”
Dalton moved the box from the table to the bed, looking around like it was a secret. “Speaking of, I love food. But then I’ve probably told you that before. Thing is, I’ll eat just about anything. Especially something raw. And I thought since you have to eat the same thing day in and day out, you might enjoy something completely different. And it’s soft,” he said with an uncomfortable chuckle. “Do you like sushi?”
Nodding vigorously, he said, “Haven’t had it in, well, forever, but yeah. I always liked tuna.”
“Perfect. Then, you’re going to love this. I get mine from a place in the neighborhood. Sometimes I have it shipped directly from Japan.”
Turning the box so Sebastian could open it, Dalton stopped to appreciate the significance of the moment: it was the first time he had introduced his passion to anyone. He knew it was not a true introduction of his dark secret, but close enough.
Lifting the box lid, Sebastian’s eyes opened wide like a little boy at Christmas.
“What a treat,” he smiled. “It’s not lunch time…” he chuckled, “But then clocks don’t mean anything in here, right?”
“Absolutely,” he said, taking a pair of chopsticks from his sport coat pocket. “To complete the meal. Properly.”
Dalton watched as he savored the treats—all of which was from a Japanese restaurant near his neighborhood. However, the tartare—indirectly from Tokyo—was not from the same restaurant. He watched Sebastian study the last few bites.
“It’s tartare. I’m a big fan of surf and turf,” Dalton smiled. “I’d join you, but I just had breakfast.”
Taking a bite, Sebastian’s expression was curious. “Hmm, this is good. Initially, it tasted like veal, but the aftertaste is more like pork. What animal?”
Smiling, Dalton watched—caught up in the moment. “You were right. Veal. From a local farm over near Stinson.” Clapping his hands, he stood. “Well, I really must be getting back to work. Just wanted to bring you a little gift. For your recovery, you know.” At the door, he turned. “Just one thing before I go.”
Sebastian was finishing last morsel as though it were his last.
“Would you be kind enough to do your old friend one small favor, Sebastian?”
Licking the end of a chopstick, he looked up. “Sure, Warden. Name it.”
Crossing the room, Dalton sat on the end of the bed. “This may seem like an odd request, but you’d be doing me an enormous favor. In fact, I could see to it you get more of that delicious sushi and tartare. If you like it that much.”
“Yes!”
He placed his hand on Sebastian’s knee. “If anyone should ask if Michael ever came to visit you? I want you to say no. Can you do that for me?”
Holding Sebastian’s frowning stare, Dalton smiled.
“I don’t understand, Warden. He did come to visit me,” he leaned forward. “For the first time...in decades. It was actually one of the highlights of my time here. And frankly, something I never thought I’d see again.”
“I understand, Sebastian. I really do. However, I’m asking this one…small favor. For a very specific reason which only needs to be known by me.”
Dalton continued to engage without a blink. He finally turned away. Visibly confused and suppressing a tremble, Sebastian said, “I’m sorry, Warden, but I, I’m not good at telling lies. Besides, what’s it matter? No one visits me, anyway.”
Dalton could feel heat pulse under his shirt collar. He removed his hand from Sebastian’s knee, leaned back, and looked at the wall. After an uncomfortable silence, he quietly said, “Well, that’s a sad response, indeed. I was under the impression we were better friends than that. In fact, and silly me for thinking this, but I assumed I was not only one of your special friends…” he turned to cut him with a cold stare, “But your only friend.”
Dalton walked to the door and was just about to leave when he stopped. Returning to Sebastian’s bedside, he leaned forward—towering over the frail old man. “I’m not one for violence. In fact, I’m not much for veiled threats because I see them as unsavory and weak. However, this one time, I will make an exception.”
Leaning in further, he was now within inches of Sebastian’s face. So close, in fact, he could see the man’s wild eyebrows growing in erratic directions. “If anyone were to ask anytime soon, or in the not-so-distant future, and you don’t follow my direct orders and completely deny any inquiry—exactly as I’ve asked—let me say…there will be severe repercussions.”
“Understood,” Sebastian mumbled.
Standing straight, adding a wide smile, Dalton snorted, “And that, as you might imagine, would mark the end of Nigiri, Sashimi, or tartare. Ever again.”
“Yes, Warden,” Sebastian responded quietly.
At the door, he asked, “Any last comments?”
As much as Sebastian wanted to say something, he didn’t. Instead, he stared at his wrinkled hands, trying to hide their trembling.
“Okay then. And one last caveat to this friendly discussion. Are you listening?”
Sebastian, looking up, swallowed and mumbled, “Yes, Sir.”
“If I hear you disobeyed me, and in fact tell anyone Michael came to visit, you can expect another visit from your friend, Crush.” Staring, he watched closely for a reaction from the inmate. “And you’ll be eating all your remaining meals through a straw—or maybe a vein.”
Leaving, he said over his shoulder, “If at all.”
58
Helluva View
“I know the Fairmont used to be your favorite cocktail spot. But ever since you got smashed and grabbed by that maniac, I haven’t been able to look at it the same way. Therefore, our new favorite spot is this,” Michael said, spreading his arms wide, referencing one of the most stunning views in all San Francisco.
The Intercontinental Mark Hopkins was one of the most beautiful and luxurious hotels in all of California. And Top Of The Mark—as the name implied—was as visually stunning inside as was the view outside.
“Magnificent,” Jasmine smiled, clinking his glass.
After a sip, Michael suddenly got quiet, distracted by a steak knife next to his plate.
Jasmine watched and, when he did not budge for a long moment asked, “What is it?”
With a terrified expression, he said, “What if…”
She waited.
Looking around, he lowered his voice. “What if he’s the killer?”
“Who?”
“Think about it.”
A long moment passed before Jasmine burped a chuckle, “Dalton? Isn’t that a little crazy?”
“Is it?”
She swirled the olive in her martini. “But he’s an employee of the state, Michael. You don’t get to that position by being a killer—you get there by overseeing the killers.”
Still mesmerized by the knife, he nodded. Then, as the trance broke, scooting his chair closer, Michael said, “Look, he’s the one unknown in this equation. He took you out and it got weird. Acting as if he were someone else, I might add. Then, he asked me to the prison to meet my dad—someone I hadn’t seen in too many decades. In order to—for lack of a better term—bribe me to cook for him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he’s a hard core foodie. Like no one I’ve ever met. Not just talks about it, but obsesses over it. You remember the night he came in?”
“No shit. With what’s her name, Misty?”
“Mystic,” he chuckled. “Whatever. The point being, did you notice he sampled everything in the restaurant? I mean, while not super wacky, it is obsessive, right?”
“It is, Michael. His bill with cocktails and drinks, not including the ones you comped, came to over $4,000.”
“More than a bit obsessed.”
She gave a nod and pushed aside her glass. “Gotta stay sharp,” she mumbled checking her watch.
Michael ran the scenario in his head: What if it were him? If Dalton wanted Michael, why did Scott get caught in the middle of it?
Jasmine began to say something, but Michael held up a finger. “What if,” he leaned both elbows on the table, “Dalton struck some sort of a bargain with Sebastian. I’m still not super clear on what that is, but I know Scott must have been a part of it. Otherwise, why would he show up out of nowhere—not communicating with me forever—wanting to reconnect? It wasn’t just about a job. What if something went sideways and Scott was reneging on some sort of deal?”
Jasmine was staring at him, nodding with each question. “Okay. I’m with you. Mostly. But do you suppose, back to your comment about his obsession, do you think Dalton could, or would, go to all this trouble…just for you to cook for him? That seems like a fairly absurd stretch.”
“Is it absurd…for a psychopath?”
Just then his cell phone rang. It was SFPD.
He turned it so she could read the screen. Her expression said it all.
Taking a deep breath, he shrugged, “Hello, this is Michael.”
59
Oh Shit
Returning to the SFPD, Michael and Jasmine were sitting in the same room where they were nearly two hours ago. When Officer Proctor and Detective McKenzie entered this time, however, the energy in the room felt vastly different. Michael could feel a subsonic hum in the back of his skull.
“Thank you both for coming back in,” Officer Proctor began. “Detective McKenzie and I have been working since you left. Well, not that we hadn’t been working before,” he awkwardly grinned. “It’s just that some crucial elements are happening in the background.”
McKenzie fidgeted in his chair, causing Jasmine to fidget.
“And?” Michael said.
“And, we, um, found several things that’ve cast some new light on the case. First of all, I have a confession of my own to make, Michael. I mentioned earlier something about the last time you and Scott saw one another was when you were in high school. You’re bound to have noticed that.”
Trying to remain calm, Michael was beginning to feel freaked out. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Why?”
“Well, because…like I say, we’ve uncovered things that are helping us understand matters better.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the reason Scott disappeared. Right after your high school graduation.”
“Okay,” Michael said expressionless. “Sounds interesting.”
“You were, what, ten, eleven when your mother died and your father went to prison?”
“Eleven. My twelfth birthday was a week later.”
“I’m sorry.”
For whatever reason, Michael actually believed him and nodded.
“So, you were eleven. Scott was eighteen. He went off to college but dropped out shortly thereafter. Tried a short stint in the Army but was discharged because he got caught with drugs on the base.”
That fact was something Michael had learned about later, but they never spoke of it. However, it was one of the reasons Michael had been leery to have him work at the restaurant. He was afraid Scott would bring that nonsense into the world he had worked so hard to create.
“But the reason he disappeared? Was because one night, soon after, and while very drunk and high, he blabbered to one of his pals that he was the one who actually killed your mother. Not your father.”
Michael heard that high-pitched tone again. It was shrill as though a bomb had gone off next to him—destroying his eardrums in the process. Heat rose in his chest like a wall of fire. Fighting back tears and waves of anger, he pushed the pain down with both hands. As hard as he could, he packed it down into the deep recesses of his soul—never to see daylight.
After a long, deep breath, he said. “I see.”
Proctor looked from Michael to Jasmine to McKenzie, then back to Michael. “Can I get you a drink of water?”
“No, I’m fine. So, let me get this straight. Trying to process it,” he nervously chuckled, “Because frankly, I’m, well, my mind is blown. So now that I’m all ears, what’s the rest of the story?”
Officer Proctor relaxed his eyebrows. “So he goes on to tell this friend the whole story. That the morning in question, he arrived at the house to find your mother pointing a gun at your father. However, as Sebastian appeared to go after your mother again, Scott intervened by grabbing the gun and accidentally shooting your mother. Then, and in a drunken rage, Sebastian goes for your brother whereupon Scott shoots him. And the reason he’s blind in one eye is because when Scott fired, Sebastian raised his hand to cover his face, and the bullet went through his hand, catching the corner of his eye.”
Proctor let that sink in, before adding, “He’s lucky to be alive, actually.”
“Is he?” Michael asked sardonically.
When the officers looked at one another, Jasmine took Michael’s hand.
Proctor flipped a page and continued reading. “The story goes on to say that your brother called the police in a panicked state.” He looked up from the paper. “Guess he figured it would all be too much to explain.” He skimmed the page. “Evidently he checked on you, saw you were okay—hurt, but alive—whereupon he took an object and hit himself in the face as hard as he could.”
“What?”
Proctor looked up. “Yeah, smashed his face pretty good.” He kept reading. “It did enough damage he passed out.” He looked up. “Well, either that or the booze they found in his system. Not sure if that was from before he arrived or in order to get him through busting his own face,” he said, looking to McKenzie with a look of disbelief.
McKenzie shook his head.
“So, my mother…” Michael began.
Nodding, Proctor said, “Yeah, Scott shot her. Look, I’m sorry to be the one to share all this…”
Michael waved for him to continue.
“Okay, so evidently she could have lived…if it weren’t for the fact that Scott took so much time trying to cover the situation up before passing out. Well, plus the time it took for authorities to arrive.”
Michael stared at his hands.
“She had lost a lot of blood.”
“And Sebastian?” He asked without looking up.
“Right,” he continued reading. “Evidently the bullet pierced the corner of his eye, like I said, but passed through the socket.” He looked up. “I’m guessing shock put him out, but oddly enough, it didn’t kill him…or cause him to lose that much blood.”
He looked up to gauge the room, then returned to reading.
“Moving on. Scott was in and out of jail. Mostly small-time stints, and for one thing or another. A stolen car on the East Coast, drugs in Denver, robbed a liquor store some place in Arizona. A couple, actually. Spent the most time in a prison in the middle of nowhere.”
He looked up. “Looks like he was making his way back to his roots. Outside San Diego. You all grew up in—”
“Julian,” Michael whispered. “Before moving to El Cajon. To live with my grandparents.”
“But Scott?” Proctor snorted. “No other way to say it. Looks like your brother turned out to be a first class fuck up his whole life.”
Michael was numb, lost in his racing mind: My brother—the one who actually killed my mother—is dead. And all this time I thought it was Sebastian.
“What a fucking mess,” Michael mumbled. “I don’t think I could take much else right now.”
Frozen silence.
Proctor leaned back, sharing a glance with McKenzie. “Well, Michael. Here’s the thing,” he cleared his throat. “There are two reasons we called you back in. First, the thorough recounting of several incidents.”
Proctor took an envelope from a manilla folder and handed it to Michael. The cover read: Open in case of my death.
“This was found in a safety deposit box at American Bank. The key was found on a keyring in your brother’s pocket. We also found a bank statement that showed a monthly safety deposit charge. And this,” he pointed to a signed confession. “Evidently, your brother had been carrying this guilt for decades.”
Michael stared at the page.
“You’re welcome to read the rest of it, but evidently,” he rubbed his mustache, “Your brother—I don’t know—either wanted a record of what really happened in case something happened to him, or someone had something on him and was pressuring him? Most of which we may never know for sure. But this,” he tapped the page, “Tells us what really happened, and more importantly, gives the state the ability to release your father from prison.”
Michael was speechless. He looked from one officer to the other. “You said there were two reasons you called us back in here. What’s the other?”
The two men shared a stare. Proctor put his hand on his cuffs.
McKenzie shook his head and said, “Michael Rogan, you’re under arrest for the murder of your brother, Scott. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”
Slowly, the screaming white noise in his head began to drown the Officer’s voice.
60
What The…
“What…the…fuck?” Michael barked. Furious, confused, and frightened, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs like the way he used to when he could not take the pain any longer. Instead, he repeated himself, “What the fuck?”
“By law, I’m supposed to make note of anything you say—just as I mentioned in the Miranda rights, but I’ll let this go, and ask again, Do you understand your rights and are you willing to speak to me,” McKenzie confirmed with Proctor, “To us.”
