Birthdays of a Princess (5 page)

Chapter
11

At 9 pm, Pete Macintosh got an email from his Sergeant, with three
documents attached. He printed them all out, looked for his yellow highlighter,
got a beer from the fridge and settled in his seasoned leather recliner. Its
faint odor of tobacco dated back to the times when he still enjoyed the
occasional cigar. The patina it had developed after many nights of sitting and
pondering—on some of them he had even fallen asleep in it and woken up with a
cramped neck—only increased its sentimental value, while the deep indentation
in the seat cushion begged for re-upholstery and reduced it again to just a
notch above the dump. But that didn’t matter. It was the only piece of
furniture he would take with him. Him and the old chair, sitting out what was
left of his life once the force didn’t need him anymore.

He leaned back, lifted the footrest, settled into a relaxing position,
opened his beer can and began to read the documents. He highlighted the
segments he found most interesting. He needed a sheet of paper in his hands, two
dimensions, words in black and white. Marking them with yellow anchored them in
his brain, and that way he could recall them whenever he needed them. Various pieces
of information that by themselves didn’t make sense would eventually find their
place in the puzzle. All he had to do was collect enough of them.

Document One:

Memo by Dr. Stanley Eaton, M.D. F.R.C.P. copy to VPD, re: Tiara
Brown …

Alleged suspect refuses to cooperate with case manager, psychologist
or social worker …. states repeatedly her name is Princess Tia…is
non-disclosive …

Princess Tia? Really?

Document Two:

Interview of Melissa Brown, mother of alleged suspect Tiara Brown

“… I really don’t know what I can tell you. There is nothing to
tell. I told you everything I know already, what else should there be?

…. we lived in Galveston before we came here.

… it’s been a while. It was 358 or 357, I’m not so sure anymore,
Carolina Road.

…Galveston is close by Houston. Lovely ocean town. Most of it is on
a bay.

… I worked at different places. Supermarkets, you know, wherever I
could get a job.

… no, I have no idea who this woman might be. No idea at all. That’s
what’s driving me crazy—oh, I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just a figure of
speech, right. Driving one crazy doesn’t mean one is, right?

… Tiara has never, never, I mean never, shown any aggression toward anyone.
You can ask anybody.

… whom? What do you mean, whom?

…well, you can ask the people in our neighborhood.

…Friends? I can’t really say. My daughter kept mostly to herself, she
is more the quiet type. Sure she had friends.

 … please, I told you, I can’t think straight. How could I write
anything down now?

… sure, I’ll make you a list of her friends later.

Document Three:

Interview of Louise Brown, grandmother of alleged suspect Tiara
Brown …

“I can’t say anything. I’m just the grandmother and I didn’t know
her until she came back to Canada three years ago. We have not been close. Talk
to my daughter, she will tell you everything you need to know.”

Macintosh let the documents rest in his lap, lowered the recliner a
notch, closed his eyes and thought about what he had read. It was ridiculous to
get sucked into the case by one stupid comment, but what could he do. He had a
curious nature. That’s how he’d become a decorated detective.

He had a feeling the grandmother would crack first, admit to
whatever she and Melissa were trying to hide—and that could be anything from
small mistakes they had made in Tiara’s upbringing to major problems associated
with her. He couldn’t really imagine what it was, but it was certainly relevant
to the case and he wanted to find out what was behind it.

The girl was guilty, it didn’t need much police work to establish
that, but something about her mother and her grandmother bothered the hell out
of him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was just a hunch, one that
wouldn’t let him rest until he figured it out.

He would zero in on those two ladies. The mother first. He made a
mental note to go and see her. Put the pressure on. But first he had to talk to
the girl once more. Figure her out. Even if she doesn’t tell you much, there’s
always something to gain from an interview. Her background, her upbringing.
Anything. You’re a detective, you’re good at this. You can crack her, she’s
just a young girl.

Chapter
12

It’s Sunday night in the big city. All the people out there can move
around and do whatever they fancy while I’m locked up in a cell of maybe eight
by eight feet. Does it bother me? Not really, I wouldn’t know what to do with
myself out there anyway.

What I do find disturbing is the thought of having to sit in a class
room tomorrow morning, with other girls next to me. It scares me quite a bit.
So much so that I can’t sleep.

After the third control round by the security guy who shines his
torch into my room and probably smiles when he sees me wave at him from my bunk
bed like a dolphin flapping its fin, I get up. I open my journal and fish for
new images from my childhood. It really is like fishing. Thoughts appear on the
surface, and when I try to grab them, most of them slip through my hands and
wriggle away again. I can hold on to only one, it’s another birthday.

Birthday Three

The cake has pink icing, and is decorated with silver candy pellets.
Mom lights the three candles, and I’m supposed to make a wish. What does a
three year old wish for? Not what grown-ups imagine. Kids that age live in the
moment.

Gracie says: “Don’t you want to have a pretty little doll? One you
can dress up? I’ll make her a dress just like yours, and the two of you can be
like sisters? Do you want a new dress? Shall I make you one? With a matching
bonnet?”

Mom claps her hands and shrieks yes, that would be lovely.

Gracie always makes stuff for me. She is so good with her hands,
better, much better than Mom. She spends a lot of time and money on me. I
should be grateful, but at age three I don’t understand the concept of
grateful. I don’t feel indebted yet.

Now I want cake. I grab for the pellets, and Mom slaps my hand, very
lightly, but still. I start crying.

“How often do I have to tell you, don’t slap my little girl!”

“Oh, it’s
your
daughter now?” Mom yells back louder to
overpower my screeching
me, want, cake.

“See what you’ve done. You’ve upset her!”

“
Tia…wanna…cake!”

That does it. Gracie swoops me up, I stop crying because I can’t
breathe and she shushes me and tells me her little angel will get cake as soon
as she says I’m sorry. All I need to do is say two little words. So sorry.

Gracie lets go a little, enough for me to breathe.

“Soo…”gasp, sniff, gasp “so…soddy!”

She gives me cake. I’m on her lap, protected by her softness.

“My poor little baby. Don’t cry. Gracie loves you.”

Mom wants to say something but the words of comfort she should be
saying stick in her throat. Instead, she apologizes. In the end she always
apologizes to Gracie, that is part of all my birthdays and in-between. Every
single day in between birthdays there is something to apologize for, and I
learn very quickly that this is the fastest way to get the cake.

Of course, Gracie makes the dress she wants, in lime green with
white teddy bears printed on it, and the bonnet too. For me, and for a doll
with a painted porcelain face. I put the doll in a corner and forgot about it,
never touched it again, and I soiled my new lime green dress with grape juice
on the first day they made me wear it. I think of getting angry inside, getting
soiled. I think of slow death. Now, the psycho-doc would have a field day with
this line.

Psycho-doc dropped by yesterday for another visit.

“May I come in?”

“Do you have an appointment?” I wondered if I could—should?—demand
this, or if I was doomed to constant, unwanted interruptions.

He smiles, sits down. “I know I’m bothering you.”

“You don’t say.”

“After receiving my rather inconclusive assessment of you, in which
I have expressed my opinion that there are underlying issues, as well as my
suspicion that your uncooperative conduct might be self-serving, the court has
now asked for a full assessment of your mental capabilities.”

“You think I want to be here?”

“I think you may be hiding certain aspects of your motivation.”

  “How can you think that if I haven’t told you anything?”

 “You might not be consciously aware of it,” he says. “But I
strongly suspect your lack of cooperation is because you don’t want to go home.”

“Sure, psycho-doc, you know everything!”

“I know as much as you allow me to.”

I refuse to answer that.

“As I said, the court asked for a full assessment and it will be a
lot easier if you’re responsive.” He pauses. “I hope you cooperate.”

“Maybe.”

I bet they move me back to the IAU for this, and they wear green in
there. This purple suit gives me the creeps. The
this color seeps through my
pores and poisons my insides
kind of creeps. Plus, when I’m in the IAU, I
don’t have to attend morning classes. That’s a big deal for me. I drop my arms.

“Depends what’s involved.”

“A comprehensive assessment includes full psychiatric interviews,
with multiple full psychology assessment with IQ, personality testing and
interviews, as well as a psychosocial assessment by a nurse and social worker,”
he says.

“You are kidding!”

“I kid you not.” He actually grins.

“You mean a bunch of strangers will want to talk to me?”

“I only dropped by on my way home to let you know. I usually don’t
do those kind of assessments. Your lawyer will ask for an independent assessment,
and, if you can afford it, a private psychologist.”

He wasn’t joking when he said I played my card wrong. I don’t want
another shrink. I can barely handle him, but at least he doesn’t invade my
space. Even in my compact Living Unit he leaves as much space as humanly
possible between us.

“Can’t you do it?”

“You have a right to refuse and to choose.”

“I do?” Who would have thought criminals have rights? “If that’s true,
I won’t talk to anybody but you.”

Chapter
13

He called Harding before he left for work Monday morning and told
him he’d be running late.

Then he drove to BYSC.

When the warden brought the girl in, she looked every bit as sullen
as last time in the interview room at the station.

 “I’m Detective Pete Macintosh,” he said.

“You don’t need to say that every time.”

“Oh, that’s great. You remember.”

“Only what’s happening right now. Sorry to be such a
disappointment.”

His scalp was itchy, right along the neckline. He scratched it,
thinking the gesture would make him look indecisive. But he had to get rid of
the itch.

“I didn’t expect anything else from you.”

A tiny spark lit up in her eyes. But she didn’t contradict him or
try and defend herself or –God forbid—start to explain herself. She just looked
at him.

“I understand you like to be called Princess Tia.”

 “Says who?”

“I’m the one to ask questions here,” he said. “You’re the one to
answer.”

“Make me.”

He took a deep breath. Christ Almighty, where were his interview
skills? Bullying an uneducated girl her age to extract some kind of reaction wasn’t
exactly textbook. She’d outsmart him again by simply refusing to cooperate.

But she didn’t this time.

“You know it from the psycho-doc,” she said, “but you can’t tell me
because he isn’t supposed to give out information. Right?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If it helps our investigation,” he said evasively. “It’s his
decision.”

“So all the movies get it wrong? About the confidentiality and that
kind of crap, I mean.”

“While an assessment is ongoing, we don’t have access to it, but once
it’s done, the court hands his report over to us.” She didn’t seem to
understand. “He’s finished his initial assessment. I’ve read it.”

“What does it say?”

Macintosh leaned back and shook his head.

”Nothing that’ll help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“You really ask too many questions. But I’ll give you an answer
anyway. It’s because I want to wrap up this case as quickly as possible so I
can get on with my life.”

“But that
is
your life, talking to criminals like me, isn’t
it?”

There was that curious expression again, flitting over her face. Was
she baiting him? He had to smile; a little bitter, but still.

“I’ll be done with this soon and then I go up north to my home in
the country and forget bad things and bad people exist.”

She smiled back at him, without any bitterness but with a sadness
that dulled the little spark in her eyes again.

“You know I can’t help you. I don’t remember anything.”

“That’s what you say.”

 “No,” she said, involuntarily kicking her heel on the linoleum flooring.
“That’s how it is. I wish I’d remember, even the bad stuff, but you, you just want
to forget everything.”

“Are you saying bad things have happened to you?”

“I don’t know. If they did, I have forgotten about them. I wish I
wouldn’t have. And neither should you. Whatever bad stuff happened to you, you
shouldn’t forget anything. It’s really quite awful, this not remembering
thing.”

With that, she closed down altogether and went back into the private
retreat she had created for herself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to break
through this barrier. At least not today.

On his way to the station, he went over the conversation—one
couldn’t call it an interview by any stretch of the imagination—again and got
angry. Her final comment annoyed him and he mused over its meaning. Was it
really so bad to forget? How else would he carry on living and get some
enjoyment out of his golden years if he didn’t at least attempt to forget the
tragedy of his life. He pictured himself on his porch—sitting on what his wife
had always called the old couples bench—with the sun setting behind the cluster
of fir trees on the opposite hill. Its last rays were supposed to warm his
bones but sitting there he shivered from the loneliness and emptiness inside
him.

He got angry, first at fate, and then at the girl. She was right. At
least, if he kept the memories alive, he’d have those to take with him and he
wouldn’t be alone.

Back at the station he made an effort to shake himself free of the
looming despair. This was his life, right here and now. He had cases to solve
and should save the philosophical ruminations for the years when he had nothing
better to do.

But damn the girl, she had touched a nerve that wasn’t hers to
expose.

“Where’ve you been?” Harding saw him come in, waved and pointed at
the stack of files in front of him. “We got to get through this shit before
lunch time.”

“Nowhere,” Macintosh said. “Just private business.”