The Detectives and Me
You can't judge an apple by looking at the tree,
You can't judge honey by looking at the bee,
You can't judge a daughter by looking at the
mother,
You can't judge a book by looking at the cover[1]
August 2008
Me and the Detectives
When I heard the knocking at the
door—the first time the cops came to my house—I was still a little groggy from
an afternoon nap. I glanced at my watch as I got up from the couch; it
was three-twenty in the afternoon. CNN was still running on the TV (old habits
die hard) and I vaguely heard something about some poor child missing in the
Orlando area before the second set of knocks—these louder and longer. I
assumed it was some asshole trying to sell me something or tell me I should
find Jesus. My first inclination was to jump up, open the door and tell
whoever was standing there to Go the fuck away, but my life had changed
over the last 20 years, with the help of various anti-depressants and
medication, and I realized whoever was out there was just trying to make a
living, or perhaps find reward or salvation in what they were doing.
I opened the door to find two men:
One was from the Broward County Sheriff Office, and the other guy was a local
detective from the Lake Flagler Police Department.
The detective from the Sheriff's
Office was Sergeant Rueben Santavore or Sansivore, I'm not really sure how to
spell it. He was slightly shorter than me (my height six two by the way) and he
was at least a head length shorter than the other Detective, but he made up for
in width. He was broad across the
shoulders and had a bulging belly that hung over his belt buckle and dark brown
pants. His wide stature reminded of a
pro wrestler, people called the Freight Train, I had gone to watch as a kid
with my dad. Rueben had a round pleasant
face and a big smile, graying black straight hair, brown eyes, and gray stubble
he had probably neglected to shave earlier that morning. He was wearing a white
short sleeve button-down shirt and his badge was hanging from his top pocket.
Sweat poured from his brow.
The other man was Lake Flagler
Detective John Stanstil. He was a tall
man. His hair was receding with gray around the temples and look to be in his
mid-forties. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses that sat straight on a long but
narrow nose. His blues eyes had a cold
judging quality about them and from his mouth stuck one of those plastic
toothpicks that are sharp on one end and designed like an open-ended single
string harp on the other. He was wearing
a dark blue blazer, a light blue oxford shirt, and pair of black jeans, with
gold buttons on them, that looked more like something a woman might wear on a
day shopping at the mall than that of a police detective on an
investigation. On his feet were a pair
of white tennis shoes that glowed from the afternoon light reflecting off of
them.
I could smell cologne. It had a sweet flowery aroma more feminine
than manly and it was as if it was recently splashed on. I assumed it was on Detective Stanstil and he
had purchased it at the same time he bought his jeans. I smelled something else. It was rain.
Not exactly the rain itself, but the smell of steam rising from the hot
tarred pavement after the Florida sun had been baking the roads all day and a
light rain had fallen.
"Mr. Long?" Rueben spoke
first. He had a slight accent.
They didn't seem aggressive, other
than the contemptuous glare by Stanstil, and there had been no word about what
had actually happened to Gloria Thebolt.
I had thoroughly cleaned the house and had no reason to deny who I was.
"Mr. Harry Long?"
Detective Ruben repeated.
"That's me." I extended my
hand.
Rueben reached out first and with a
friendly smile shook my hand. Stanstil
gave him a look as if to say this isn't a social call. I reached for Stanstil's
hand, he was hesitant, but finally extended it.
I closed my grip, before he could grasp my entire hand, and clamped down
on his fingers. He didn't appear to like
me.
Rueben pulled a white handkerchief
from his back pocket and wiped his forehead.
"Caliente," Rueben said.
I knew what Rueben was getting
at. He wanted me to invite them in. I wasn't sure if this was the appropriate
action for someone who had recently spent a day and a half cutting up a body in
their garage thirty feet away.
"Si, muy caliente," I
said—hoping the detective would find some rapport with me in my appreciation
for the Spanish language. Standstil just stared.
"Si," Rueben smiled.
"Muy caliente."
"We have a few questions we'd
like to ask you?" Stanstil blurted.
"Of course, what's up?" I
asked.
"Inside." Stanstil said.
"The house is kind of a
mess," I said. Outside behind them I could see the usual August
storm rolling in. The clouds were getting dark and within them lightning
exploded like glowing branches on a dying tree.
"Looks like rain," I said.
Stanstil turned to look, while
Rueben kept his eyes on me with that friendly smile. "It can't be any
worse then my house. I swear my wife doesn't know what a mop is or how to plug
in a vacuum."
 |
They chose to sit in the couch
Gloria had last sat in before standing and taking a bullet between the
eyes. I never found the bullet. Having been no exit wound on the back of
her head, I assumed it was because of her thick skull. I wondered if they
felt the indentation of where her massive ass had been sitting in that couch
three months earlier.
At first they just glanced around
the house. Rueben once looked down at the area where Gloria had spewed
blood, from the 22-caliber hole between her eyes, on to a white rug. I
immediately realized I had left the rug soaking in a washtub in the garage.
I couldn't get rid of that rug; it had been a gift from Candy. She
told me she had bought it on a trip to Italy. I tried cleaning it at first with
bleach, but that wasn't strong enough so I bought two and a half gallons of
chlorine and tried soaking it. And shit, now it was evidence sitting
for these guys when they do a tour of the garage.
Stanstil told me since Gloria was
from Ft Lauderdale in Broward; and her car was found in Lake Flagler, the
Broward County Sheriff Office was working with the Lake Flagler Police
Department in investigating the whereabouts of Miss Thebolt. They were
talking to everyone and anyone she had spoken to on her phone prior to her
disappearance. According to the phone records, Stanstil said, she had called me
on March 28th at 10:28 in the morning, and we spoke for four minutes and
twenty-two seconds. They didn't have to remind me of the conversation,
only the time. her.
Rueben said her car was found in the
Intracoastal Waterway near the Lake Flagler Inlet, but they had not found Gloria.
Again tell me something I didn't know. I drove her car down there right
after I realized I couldn't lift Gloria off my living room floor and Candy's
pure white Nepalese carpet. I also walked 10 miles back to my house that
night reminiscing of my times spent wondering the streets when I was
homeless.
Stanstil asked me what the
conversation was about. I told them it was a social call and Gloria
wanted to know what I was working on.
She also called to tell me about the
article she wrote about Candy, but I left that part out.
“Were you two intimate?” Ruben
asked.
“Hardly.” I blurted out and then
without thinking, I said, “I couldn’t stand her.”
There was silence. The detectives just
stared. I stopped, considered the consequences. I gathered my thoughts. Yes, I
hated her but so did many others.
“Many people disliked her. She was a
critic. It goes with the territory.”
“So you hated Ms. Thebolt?” Stancil
questioned.
I could feel my guilt creeping up
the back of my neck and gnawing at the back of my head. I wanted to tell them
what happened. .
“Hardly enough to want to kill her.”
Jesus, I thought. I told myself to fuckin' relax. The woman is only missing.
"No one said anything about killing her, Mr. Long," Stanstil quipped.
"She's only missing," Rueben added while writing in a small note pad. He stood and moved towards my desk.
CNN was still playing in the background. I had turned down the volume when the officers first came in, but not off. I could hear a reporter discussing the case of the young girl that was missing in the Orlando area. Stanstil had turned towards the television.
"Probably some perv grabbed her." Stanstil said, while turning back to me.
I knew what he was getting at. There was no need to tell me he thought my occupation instigated acts of perversity. I had heard it many times before.
Rueben interjected, "Everything tells me it was the mother and that baby girl is dead."
Stanstil rolled his eyes dismissing Rueben's speculation. "So Mr. Long why do you think Miss Thebolt was murdered?"
"Tell me officers. After someone is missing as long as Gloria, isn't the assumption she's dead?"
Stanstil looked straight at me as if he was looking through my eyes, into the back of my head where a projector played a movie on the inside of my skull of a .22 caliber bullet moving in slow motion into the small pit above Gloria's nose in between her tattooed eyebrows.
"We normally assume they're dead, just, not necessarily murdered." Stanstil said.
Rueben interrupted. He was holding my gold AVN award.
"This is a Woody, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Congratulations," Rueben said.
"Thank you," I said.
"What's that?" Stanstil asked.
"It's a hell of an honor. Let's see . . . Best Director for a Film. Sweet. Was it, Not So Honorable
Discharge?" Rueben asked.
"No, it was Lolicka," I said.
"My wife and I loved that one." Rueben said. "Saw it on Cinemax. Loved the older women and younger guy twist."
Stanstil stood up and went to the desk. He looked at some of the photos I had taken recently as a test of a new actress. She was photogenic, 19, and wanted to be in the business.
"What do you think about child pornography, Mr. Long?"
I could see he not only was thinking I had something to do with Gloria's disappearance, but also was questioning the morality of my work. I also considered children pornography fucked up and the sick fucks that found sexual satisfaction in it needed to all have themselves committed for extensive therapy.
"It's not my cup of tea?" I said. "If that's what you like, I'm sure you could find it on the web."
"You're a funny guy, Mr. Long" Stanstil said—still straight faced.
"How do you get in the porn biz?" Rueben asked. "My brother's son, he tells me, has a 13 inch carajo. The armado hasn't worked a day in his life . . . Maybe the culear stupido could make some money and move out. He's driving my brother loco."
"Sergeant," Stanstil interjected. "We are here on an investigation. Not to get your big penis nephew a fricken job." This was the only time I saw Stanstil get even slightly agitated.
Stanstil raised his right hand and brushed through his hair. This was probably a calming manuever of some sort giving him a moment to regain his composure.
Rueben gave Stanstil a look . . . probably wanting to say, fuck you.
"Leave your card on my desk. I'll see what I can do for your brother."
“What else did you talk about?” Stanstil probed.
“Nothing really.”
“So you got a social call from a person you can’t stand? Is that what your saying?” Stanstil questioned.
“Yeah. That’s often how business works. You get calls from people you can’t stand and they want to know what’s up.” I said, perhaps being a little too sarcastic at the time.
“That’s not a crime, right? Maybe you or Detective Ruben has experienced that.”
Rueben laughed.
Stanstil seemed a little frustrated.
“Did you have any other conversations?” Stanstil continued.
I had. I called her back to come by, to reason with her. I didn’t want to tell Stanstil but I knew he had the phone records and was trying to catch me in a lie.
“Yes, later that day. When we had talked in the morning she asked me if I knew of any good Mongolian Buffets in Deerfied. I called her later about a place I remembered.”
“She was a large woman, wasn’t she?” Ruben interjected.
This story was partly true. She had wanted me to go to dinner with her, and mentioned liking Mongolian Buffets.
“You called someone you hate to tell them about a restaurant?” Stanstil questioned.
“She was a critic. She could destroy a person’s career. You always want to be on the better side of a person like this.” And then for some odd reason I said, “Maybe I wanted her to choke on a chicken bone.”
Ruben again laughed.
Maybe if I had been a little more prepared for these guys showing up I wouldn’t be blurting this shit out, I thought to myself. Like I said earlier, I didn't think anyone would give a rat's ass about Gloria's disappearance. In retrospect that was obviously stupid or perhaps arrogant on my part.
Hell, I wasn't even sure if they already knew something, maybe found the body or some evidence leading them to me. I also considered they may have been fucking with me the way cops like to fuck with your head just enough too piss you off, incite a few angry vulgarities and warrant a set of handcuffs while getting your ass kicked—something I learned at young age while crossing the country looking for work.
“The dinner was confirmed by her credit card report.” Ruben added.
Stanstil turned towards Ruben shaking his head
"Gloria Thebolt had a lot of people that disliked her." I said.
"We're finding that out, Mr. Long," Rueben replied.
Stanstil gave him a look as if Rueben had said too much.
I wasn't sure if it was that Detective Rueben understood why someone might have wanted to kill Gloria or if he was just wanting to seal the deal on getting his big dick nephew a job.
They really didn't ask much after that, other than questions from Rueben about video and HD killing film. It was already dead I told him. And every guy or girl with a camera and a tripod was a director and a star. He told me he still had an old Nikon F1 his dad had given him.
"It still takes beautiful pictures," he said. Stanstil actually lightened up for a moment to tell Rueben and me he was "bothered" he couldn't find Polaroid film for an SX70 he owned. I wrote down a web address for him where he might be able to get it, at the time thinking I may have found a friend in him . . . or at least was hoping.
It had already started to rain outside when the detectives were leaving. Rueben shook my hand and told me he was glad to meet me.
“Don’t forget about my nephew, Mr Long,” he said just before running out to the patrol car.
Before Stanstil left, he turned to me at the door and stopped. The storm had darkened the skies as well as my foyer. As Rueben was getting into the patrol car a lightning strike lit up the sky silhouetting Stanstil at my door. Somehow I expected a handshake, but he just stood there while another strike of lightning and thunder hit near by. The flash bounced light off the foyer walls and wrapped around Stanstil's face. His cold blue eyes stared through me and I pictured Dirty Harry standing there for a moment and he was out to get me for the awful thing I had done.
"Do you know a one Candy Clermont?
Ah shit, I thought. What brought that on? How does he know about her? I searched for a reason. Oh, fuck! He's been to Gloria's. Of course! I reasoned. He's read the story. He found it on her computer, I speculated. It's got to be that.
Well do you? He asked again.
He knows I do, if he did any research. But, how much does he know about us . . . as partners? Oh
shit, are they going to go after her? My mind raced.
"Yes," I said, choking on the word as it fell from my mouth.
He stared at me for a moment. He appeared to be searching for something to say.
"Okay. We'll be talking."
That's it, I thought. Jesus! Don't leave me hanging here. What else do you know? My thoughts scrambled.
"Why? I asked.
He gave me a slight smirk. He knew he had the upper hand, or perhaps he wanted me to believe he did.
Without saying a word, he turned, and moved towards the police car. He neither ran nor covered his head. And when the next bolt of lightning split the sky just above us, he turned and gave me one last look. At the time I feared crossing paths with him again . . . and we would.
I closed the door to keep the rain from blowing in. Would they think Candy did it? My mind questioned. For the first time since I help quiet the mouth that ruined so many careers, I felt guilty.
Guilty to the point where I considered going out and telling Detective Rueben, not Stanstil, what had happened that night.
“Hardly enough to want to kill her.”
Jesus, I thought. I told myself to fuckin' relax. The woman is only missing.
"No one said anything about killing her, Mr. Long," Stanstil quipped.
"She's only missing," Rueben added while writing in a small note pad. He stood and moved towards my desk.
CNN was still playing in the background. I had turned down the volume when the officers first came in, but not off. I could hear a reporter discussing the case of the young girl that was missing in the Orlando area. Stanstil had turned towards the television.
"Probably some perv grabbed her." Stanstil said, while turning back to me.
I knew what he was getting at. There was no need to tell me he thought my occupation instigated acts of perversity. I had heard it many times before.
Rueben interjected, "Everything tells me it was the mother and that baby girl is dead."
Stanstil rolled his eyes dismissing Rueben's speculation. "So Mr. Long why do you think Miss Thebolt was murdered?"
"Tell me officers. After someone is missing as long as Gloria, isn't the assumption she's dead?"
Stanstil looked straight at me as if he was looking through my eyes, into the back of my head where a projector played a movie on the inside of my skull of a .22 caliber bullet moving in slow motion into the small pit above Gloria's nose in between her tattooed eyebrows.
"We normally assume they're dead, just, not necessarily murdered." Stanstil said.
Rueben interrupted. He was holding my gold AVN award.
"This is a Woody, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Congratulations," Rueben said.
"Thank you," I said.
"What's that?" Stanstil asked.
"It's a hell of an honor. Let's see . . . Best Director for a Film. Sweet. Was it, Not So Honorable
Discharge?" Rueben asked.
"No, it was Lolicka," I said.
"My wife and I loved that one." Rueben said. "Saw it on Cinemax. Loved the older women and younger guy twist."
Stanstil stood up and went to the desk. He looked at some of the photos I had taken recently as a test of a new actress. She was photogenic, 19, and wanted to be in the business.
"What do you think about child pornography, Mr. Long?"
I could see he not only was thinking I had something to do with Gloria's disappearance, but also was questioning the morality of my work. I also considered children pornography fucked up and the sick fucks that found sexual satisfaction in it needed to all have themselves committed for extensive therapy.
"It's not my cup of tea?" I said. "If that's what you like, I'm sure you could find it on the web."
Rueben laughed.
"You're a funny guy, Mr. Long" Stanstil said—still straight faced.
"How do you get in the porn biz?" Rueben asked. "My brother's son, he tells me, has a 13 inch carajo. The armado hasn't worked a day in his life . . . Maybe the culear stupido could make some money and move out. He's driving my brother loco."
"Sergeant," Stanstil interjected. "We are here on an investigation. Not to get your big penis nephew a fricken job." This was the only time I saw Stanstil get even slightly agitated.
Stanstil raised his right hand and brushed through his hair. This was probably a calming manuever of some sort giving him a moment to regain his composure.
Rueben gave Stanstil a look . . . probably wanting to say, fuck you.
"Leave your card on my desk. I'll see what I can do for your brother."
“What else did you talk about?” Stanstil probed.
“Nothing really.”
“So you got a social call from a person you can’t stand? Is that what your saying?” Stanstil questioned.
“Yeah. That’s often how business works. You get calls from people you can’t stand and they want to know what’s up.” I said, perhaps being a little too sarcastic at the time.
“That’s not a crime, right? Maybe you or Detective Ruben has experienced that.”
Rueben laughed.
Stanstil seemed a little frustrated.
“Did you have any other conversations?” Stanstil continued.
I had. I called her back to come by, to reason with her. I didn’t want to tell Stanstil but I knew he had the phone records and was trying to catch me in a lie.
“Yes, later that day. When we had talked in the morning she asked me if I knew of any good Mongolian Buffets in Deerfied. I called her later about a place I remembered.”
“She was a large woman, wasn’t she?” Ruben interjected.
This story was partly true. She had wanted me to go to dinner with her, and mentioned liking Mongolian Buffets.
“You called someone you hate to tell them about a restaurant?” Stanstil questioned.
“She was a critic. She could destroy a person’s career. You always want to be on the better side of a person like this.” And then for some odd reason I said, “Maybe I wanted her to choke on a chicken bone.”
Ruben again laughed.
Maybe if I had been a little more prepared for these guys showing up I wouldn’t be blurting this shit out, I thought to myself. Like I said earlier, I didn't think anyone would give a rat's ass about Gloria's disappearance. In retrospect that was obviously stupid or perhaps arrogant on my part.
Hell, I wasn't even sure if they already knew something, maybe found the body or some evidence leading them to me. I also considered they may have been fucking with me the way cops like to fuck with your head just enough too piss you off, incite a few angry vulgarities and warrant a set of handcuffs while getting your ass kicked—something I learned at young age while crossing the country looking for work.
“The dinner was confirmed by her credit card report.” Ruben added.
Stanstil turned towards Ruben shaking his head
"Gloria Thebolt had a lot of people that disliked her." I said.
"We're finding that out, Mr. Long," Rueben replied.
Stanstil gave him a look as if Rueben had said too much.
I wasn't sure if it was that Detective Rueben understood why someone might have wanted to kill Gloria or if he was just wanting to seal the deal on getting his big dick nephew a job.
They really didn't ask much after that, other than questions from Rueben about video and HD killing film. It was already dead I told him. And every guy or girl with a camera and a tripod was a director and a star. He told me he still had an old Nikon F1 his dad had given him.
"It still takes beautiful pictures," he said. Stanstil actually lightened up for a moment to tell Rueben and me he was "bothered" he couldn't find Polaroid film for an SX70 he owned. I wrote down a web address for him where he might be able to get it, at the time thinking I may have found a friend in him . . . or at least was hoping.
It had already started to rain outside when the detectives were leaving. Rueben shook my hand and told me he was glad to meet me.
“Don’t forget about my nephew, Mr Long,” he said just before running out to the patrol car.
Before Stanstil left, he turned to me at the door and stopped. The storm had darkened the skies as well as my foyer. As Rueben was getting into the patrol car a lightning strike lit up the sky silhouetting Stanstil at my door. Somehow I expected a handshake, but he just stood there while another strike of lightning and thunder hit near by. The flash bounced light off the foyer walls and wrapped around Stanstil's face. His cold blue eyes stared through me and I pictured Dirty Harry standing there for a moment and he was out to get me for the awful thing I had done.
"Do you know a one Candy Clermont?
Ah shit, I thought. What brought that on? How does he know about her? I searched for a reason. Oh, fuck! He's been to Gloria's. Of course! I reasoned. He's read the story. He found it on her computer, I speculated. It's got to be that.
Well do you? He asked again.
He knows I do, if he did any research. But, how much does he know about us . . . as partners? Oh
shit, are they going to go after her? My mind raced.
"Yes," I said, choking on the word as it fell from my mouth.
He stared at me for a moment. He appeared to be searching for something to say.
"Okay. We'll be talking."
That's it, I thought. Jesus! Don't leave me hanging here. What else do you know? My thoughts scrambled.
"Why? I asked.
He gave me a slight smirk. He knew he had the upper hand, or perhaps he wanted me to believe he did.
Without saying a word, he turned, and moved towards the police car. He neither ran nor covered his head. And when the next bolt of lightning split the sky just above us, he turned and gave me one last look. At the time I feared crossing paths with him again . . . and we would.
I closed the door to keep the rain from blowing in. Would they think Candy did it? My mind questioned. For the first time since I help quiet the mouth that ruined so many careers, I felt guilty.
Guilty to the point where I considered going out and telling Detective Rueben, not Stanstil, what had happened that night.
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