Bite Me dh-3 Page 8

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’d been in the shower for some time. Not the half hour Kiki suggested, but at least twenty minutes. The air in the room was steamy, moisture running down the mirror. I felt a little better, but still had a long way to go. I was confused, still a little dizzy and mortified about her black eye. I had never done anything like that in my life. It just didn’t make sense. But, then, neither did the complete black out or making her tie me up. Something just didn’t seem right.

  I was trying to remember something, anything from the night before and failing miserably when there was a knock on the bathroom door. God, the poor thing was probably bringing me coffee.

  “Momentito, my precious,” I called, trying to be funny.

  I turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and wiped my face, then went to open the door thinking I may have really misjudged her. Amazing how sometimes you can get off on the wrong foot.

  “Hey gorgeous, you’ve got…”

  The jolt from the officer’s Taser gun knocked me to the floor. Writhing around on a wet, ceramic tile floor in electronic shock as thousands of volts jolted through my body did nothing to help matters.

  When I stopped sizzling three of them were on me, one stomped my right hand, I was pretty sure he broke a couple of fingers, but that was the least of my problems. Someone was sitting on my head, not Kiki, while another pulled both arms up behind my back and pinched on a pair of handcuffs. There was a lot of yelling from the hallway and the bedroom. Somewhere a woman was screaming. I was attempting to breathe after being tasered, hyperventilating.

  “Bring that bastard out here,” someone yelled.

  I was pushed and pulled out the bathroom door. Someone bounced my head off the door frame. A knee narrowly missed its target and slammed into my hip. I found myself handcuffed, standing naked in Kiki’s hallway, surrounded by a mob of blue uniforms, all wearing badges.

  “You sick son-of-a-bitch.”

  “What, what the hell?” I stammered.

  “Too bad you ran out of time, not to worry, you’re gonna have a good long time to think about it. Read him his right’s.”

  “What the hell is going on here, where’s Kiki? Kiki, are you okay?” I called.

  “Don’t let that animal near me,” a female voice I didn’t recognize howled from the bedroom.

  Kiki suddenly appeared, at least I thought it was her, she looked completely different. The woman I saw twenty-five minutes before wearing a black garter belt and a hop-on-me smile, now stood wrapped in a terrycloth robe cowering behind two police officers.

  Bright red lipstick was smeared across her lips and chin in a hideous clown-like grin. Tear stained mascara underlined her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her hair was messed and bedraggled and it looked like the word “slut” was written with some sort of marker across her breasts. And then there was the black eye.

  “Don’t let him near me, don’t let him near me, please, please,” she stepped behind a large patrolman.

  He looked at me with very cold eyes and moved a hand toward his weapon.

  “Read him his rights, get his pants on and get him out of my sight,” this from a thin bald guy in an ill fitting brown suit.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  “All right, this is a crime scene, people. I want everyone out accept the site team. And don’t touch anything! Misses Barkwell, if you would let us take you to the hospital, Officer Christine Jenkins here will be with you at all times.”

  Had he just referred to Kiki as Misses Barkwell? I didn’t have time to ponder that, but was led naked out the back door where my jeans were thrown at me.

  “I’m fucking hand cuffed here, how am I supposed to get the things on?”

  “Figure it out, you’re lucky you’re not dead, asshole. Tough guy, beating up a woman, raping her. You’re damn lucky there are witnesses around right now.”

  “Rape?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’m accused of rape? You’re telling me that psychotic bitch is accusing me of rape?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Aaron said, shaking his head.

  We were sitting in an interrogation room on the fifth floor of the police station. I knew we were on the fifth floor because I’d been interrogated up here before, although never on a rape charge. Lieutenant Aaron LaZelle headed up the vice unit. He and Detective Norris Manning from homicide were conducting the interrogation. Neither man looked to be enjoying the task at hand.

  I sure as hell wasn’t.

  The room was either dingy white or light grey, I wasn’t sure which. The place smelled of sweat mixed in with a healthy dose of fear, or maybe that was just me.

  Leaning against one of the cinder block walls was Detective Sergeant Dixon Heller, homicide. I recognized him as the thin, bald guy in the ill fitting brown polyester suit from Kiki’s. I guessed he may have been the officer in charge of the investigation, although he clearly wasn’t conducting my interrogation.

  “Rape? Honest to God, you guys know me. I didn’t rape her. I’m not some damn rapist, for Christ sake.”

  “Look, Dev, I’m going to ask you again, do you want a lawyer present? This is really serious,” Aaron said, looking very uncomfortable.

  “Serious? You’re telling me. Look the woman is nuts. She went after me with a knife the other day, threatened to cut me up into little pieces. Then…”

  “Do you have a witness that could…”

  “Well, no, but she did. Look guys, she was, no, she is crazy.”

  “So you went back there. After she threatened to cut you up? Is that right?” Manning asked.

  “Well yeah, but not exactly. See, I brought this guy over to paint her wall, Gary Hobson.”

  “When was this?” Manning asked.

  “Couple of days ago.”

  “To paint her wall?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah, in her bedroom.”

  “Just a wall or the entire room,” Manning fired back.

  “Well, just a wall.”

  “Just one wall?” Aaron asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “Some marks or something on it.”

  “You know she’ll tell us if it was more than that,” Manning said, writing a note on a sheet of paper from the open file in front of him.

  “There might have been a little spray paint on the wall.”

  “A little spray paint, define little.”

  “Maybe a few letters,” it didn’t sound good, even to me.

  “Did these letter say anything?” Manning asked, almost sweetly.

  “Come on, Dev, what was it?” Aaron said, clearly frustrated.

  “It said, KRAZ sucks.”

  “Did you spray paint that?” Manning asked, looking up from his file.

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry, could you speak up.”

  “Yes, apparently.”

  “Apparently?” Manning asked.

  “That’s what she told me, but I really don’t remember doing it. I just woke up and it was there, on the wall.”

  “Large letters?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Care to define sort of?”

  “Okay, okay, yeah, about four feet high, all capitals. So that’s why I had Gary Hobson over, to paint the wall and get things perfect for her, you know? Anyway, Gary couldn’t do the job so I ended up painting her bedroom wall. She offered to make me dinner and then talked me into staying. The next thing I know, I wake up tied to her bed. Then you guys break in and tasered me while I was standing in the bathroom.”

  Manning tapped his pen on the file in front of him. Aaron stared at the grey Formica table top.

  “So, what seems to be increasingly difficult for me to figure out is how you woke up tied to the bed?” Manning said.

  “Yeah, right, exactly.” I nodded in agreement.

  “So what happened? She
unties you, and you tie her up and then rape her? That it?”

  “No look, I didn’t rape her. I’ve never raped anyone. I’ve done a lot of things, but never rape.”

  “But you tied her to the bed?”

  “No, I didn’t do that.”

  “I wonder who did? See, when the officers got to Misses Barkwell’s home they had to break in, break through the door. You were taking a shower. And she, Misses Barkwell, is tied to the bed. I’m having trouble here, do you think she tied herself to the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she tied herself to the bed. That must mean she gave herself that black eye? Beat herself up and raped herself using you as an unwitting accomplice. Right?” Manning asked.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Something like that?” Manning said.

  “Look. I think I must have blacked out for the night, okay. I have no memory of anything after my first drink there. All I know is, in the morning everything is fine. She untied me, wanted to make me breakfast and sent me to the shower. She even told me to stay in there for thirty minutes, said it would make me feel better.”

  “Thirty minutes, she said that?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And then she ties herself up and calls 911? Gee, all of a sudden it seems so cut and dried,” Manning said, then stared at me.

  “I think that’s what happened,” I said.

  “You think. Interesting. What about the images we found on your phone. She take those? She looks pretty frightened.”

  “Images? On my phone?”

  “Yeah almost a dozen of them, taken over the course of the night, she’s restrained in everyone of them. Looks like a long night for her. What? You wanted some souvenirs of what you did to the poor woman?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. My phone takes pictures?”

  “Apparently. It seems obvious to me after she gave herself the black eye and tied herself up, somehow she managed to take pictures of herself being raped over the course of five or six hours.”

  “Look, I know this looks bad, but I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything.”

  “To tell you the truth Mister Haskell, it doesn’t look bad, it looks airtight.”

  Aaron stared down at the table shaking his head ever so slightly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I spent the night in jail. Not the worst cell I’d ever been in, but not a luxury hotel suite, either. The pad I was supposed to sleep on was about a half inch thick. Not that it mattered since I couldn’t sleep. I stared into the dark for most of the night trying to make sense of everything. I never did make any sense of things.

  The next morning, I still had a pounding headache, no recollection of anything that happened and a court appointed Yale educated attorney by the name of Daphne Cochrane. She‘d been given a file, a fairly thick file, and was reviewing my case with me in another dingy, smelly room. At the moment she was giving me the cheery news, explaining what she saw as my best option.

  “Look, Mister Haskell…”

  “Please, under the circumstances, call me Dev.”

  “Quite honestly, I think under the circumstances, I would prefer to call you Mister Haskell.” She had a way of talking with her teeth clenched, mouth set in sort of a grimace speaking in an Ivy League accent even though she’d been St. Paul born and raised. She was clearly unhappy to be saddled with my case.

  “As I was saying, it would seem the best we can hope for is a plea of insanity due to chemical excess. That might help mitigate the kidnapping charge, since you claim you were invited over, at least initially. Thank God she hadn’t had a restraining order served on you, yet.”

  “Restraining order?”

  “Well, I’m sure after the spray paint incident she must have been thinking of it. That’s not a concern just now, she never got the chance before you raped her. But, I’d better check, just to be sure,” she said jotting down a note on the margin of a page in the file.

  “I didn’t rape her.”

  “Right.

  “I did not rape Kiki.”

  “All right, very well. But, let me be honest, the evidence seems to be more than a bit overwhelming. Don’t you agree? There are these photos.” She tossed a stack of enlarged color copies across the table to me. They half spilled to one side. Each image revealed Kiki tied up and taken from various angles. She looked frightened, vulnerable and with the black eye, beaten up.

  “I don’t know where those came from. I sure as hell didn’t take them.” I said, glancing down at the stack. I’d already gone through them and had no recollection of taking any of them.

  “Yes, well so you say. But, look at it from the jury’s point of view. A prosecutor is going to post each one of these as an exhibit. You’ll note in this one, for instance, the victim’s, or rather Misses Barkwell’s hands, are tightly fastened to the bed. The camera, your cell phone by the way, was between her legs. Her expression would suggest, well frankly, she’s frightened out of her wits. I believe that’s her leopard print thong stuffed into her mouth as a gag.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Now, unless we can prove she used her feet to take this photo, or you had an assistant, I’d say this is rather damning evidence. And there’s nine, no, ten of these photos, taken over the course of the night. You’ll note the digital clock on the bedside table. All taken using your cell phone.”

  “But, I can’t remember.”

  “We’re due to get the toxicology reports sometime later today. They should help with our inebriation claim. If we can get that, you might be looking at twelve years, just eight with time off for good behavior,” she seemed to cheer up at the prospect.

  “Eight years, but I didn’t do anything, I’m fucking innocent,” I screamed.

  “Please watch the temper, Mister Haskell. As distasteful as I find this, I’m still here to represent you.”

  “She must have drugged me.”

  “Oh, you mean sort of a date rape scenario, only in reverse? That it?”

  “Exactly,” glad to see Daphne was coming around to my point of view.

  “As your attorney I suggest you not go there. You see, the problem with that sort of defense is, well frankly, you weren’t raped. May I remind you that Misses Barkwell was raped repeatedly. Unfortunately for you, according to her statement and backed up by the Doctors reports from the Rape Crisis Center this was a six to eight hour ordeal for the poor woman. Now these cell phone photos of yours. Also, unfortunately, other than wounds consistent with those inflicted during her defensive struggle, you seem to be completely unharmed.”

  “Look, I…”

  “Missus Barkwell, on the other hand, remains bruised and bitten on her buttocks and breasts. A bit difficult for her to do under the best of circumstances let alone while tied up, don’t you think?” She nodded in the direction of the cell phone photos.

  “She exhibits signs of forceful vaginal, anal and oral entry. As I mentioned a good deal of her bruising appears to be defensive in nature. Of course, there’s the matter of her black eye. And, they scraped skin samples from under her fingernails that appear to be consistent with the efforts of an individual fighting off an attack, a rapist. Skin samples that at least under preliminary examination match you, Mister Haskell, match your DNA exactly.”

  “But I didn’t do this.”

  “Then we need to know who did because otherwise, you’re toast.”

  “Look, she sort of likes it rough and…”

  “That’s exactly the sort of statement I would strongly advise you stay away from.”

  “I didn’t even know my phone could take pictures, honest.”

  “And yet, we have these,” Daphne nodded disgustedly at the stack of images.

  I looked down at the table, shook my head and slumped, defeated.

  “Misses Barkwell…”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing. Where did that come from? Misses Barkwell? I knew she was the sister of Farrell Ear
ly, but I never heard them refer to her as Misses Barkwell.”

  “It seems she and her husband, Thompson Barkwell, are experiencing a bit of a rough patch in their relationship and Misses Barkwell needed some time…”

  “She was screwing everything that moved.”

  “Not helpful, Mister Haskell, not helpful at all. Now, I have my office attempting to locate Thompson Barkwell. We’ll need a statement from him.”

  “A statement?”

  “For the record,” she sighed, and then looked up at the ceiling as if to ask God to give her strength.

  “Look, to tell you the truth, Daphne…”

  “Miss Cochrane.”

  “I’m not so sure you’ve got the balls for the job, here. You already have me convicted and serving eight years with good behavior for something I didn’t even do.”

  “So you say.”

  “Don’t take it personal, or do for that matter, I don’t care. But you’re fired.”

  Again with the sigh and the grimace.

  “You do that again, Cochrane, I’m gonna wipe it off your face.”

  “Thus far, all your attitude has done is convince me I’ve an uphill fight on my hands not to have the death penalty administered.”

  “The death penalty? This is Minnesota, even I know we don’t have the death penalty.”

  “There are always exceptions, Mister Haskell, always exceptions,” she said. Then stood the thick file on end, banged it on the table three or four times to straighten the contents and looked me in the eye.

  “If you wish me off the case, and another attorney appointed, that is your prerogative, sir. I would caution and advise otherwise, however. You may find my attitude mild in relation to the other attorneys from the public defenders office. I’ll await a final decision from you by noon today. Part of the beauty of the legal system in this country is that one is allowed to make as many mistakes as one would wish. Good day.” With that she pushed back her orange plastic chair, picked up her file and waddled her rather large ass out of the interview room.