Hotchner went to the water cooler and drew out some water into a paper cup, which he then drank thoughtfully. Forgetting that he already had a lighted cigarette on the table, he lit another, opened the door and stared down the corridor for a moment or so, as if recollecting something in a reverie. Then he raised his voice to carry down the corridor:
“Morris!”
A pause. A faint, garbled voice which I couldn't make out came from down the hall.
“Did you know the water cooler isn't working right?” Hotchner spoke loudly down the hall. “It's not cooling the water...” A pause. “That's right. The water is warm.” A pause. “That's right.” A pause. “Uh huh. All right.”
Hotchner came back in and rubbed his eyes for fifteen or twenty seconds, rubbing them until they were red-rimmed. Then he opened them and let out a sigh.
“By the way, would you like a drink of water?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
Hotchner grunted noncommittally and walked to the window, where he gazed down into the street two stories below.
“Have you ever considered the size of the universe, by the way?” he said suddenly, shifting his attention and staring now up at the sky. “The latest books tell me that there are at least 10 to the 21st power stars in the universe, that is, 1 followed by 21 zeroes. They then go on to say that if only a thousandth of these have planets, and only a thousandth of that thousandth have planets in a temperate zone where water can exist as a liquid, and if only a thousandth of such temperate planets have the requisite chemical composition that still leaves a trillion stars with planets favorable to the existence of life, at least the carbon-based kind. Eh? Isn't that something?
“...Furthermore, if life only starts on a thousandth of such favorable planets, and if intelligent life only evolves on a thousandth of that thousandth, that still leaves a million stars with intelligent life. Now we have to assume that on roughly half of that number the intelligent life has been around longer than we—er—humans have, and that therefore their technology of some kind must be so highly advanced that travel between stars is like taking a walk in the park, eh?—something for an afternoon. I'm aware of Einstein's restrictions and so forth, but we can assume that the ingenuity of such races has finally surmounted all that and that they go into higher dimensions or something like passing through holes in swiss cheese.
“...Now. All this being so, my dear fellow, it follows that we have visitors, doesn't it? For who could resist studying such a weird—ah—species as we are? No sir, nobody could resist it, that I know for sure. If for no other reason they would study us just to see what mistakes to avoid, eh? Ha-ha-ha! Yes, indeed. They must be splitting their sides with laughter when they look at us. Yes sir, they must be howling. Now what do you suppose they make, for instance, of a strange case I've heard of? First they observed a person who denied any participation in a certain crime, who indeed became quite indignant, not to mention livid, when it was suggested that he committed the crime.
“...That's the first item. Next they saw this person come and say, 'I want to confess! Arrest me!' When the detective on the case declined to do so on the grounds that it was simply too precipitous this certain person then changed his mind and decided he would not confess after all, in fact would say nothing without a lawyer, which meant that he would say nothing in any event. Ha-ha-ha!
“...Can't you imagine it? A report went back to the mother star: 'The earthmen appear to be a species much given to humor in their daily activities. They delight, for example, in asking the law to arrest them and then refusing to confess. This seemingly bizarre activity serves to keep up the spirits of all concerned, in particular the investigating detective, who convulses with laughter at this sparkling display of wit.' Have you heard of that story, by the way?”
I shifted in my chair and gave Detective Hotchner the benefit of a grimace. “You're not being in the least funny, Mr. Detective Hotchner,” I said. “What's more, you're being rude and impertinent.”
Hotchner looked surprised. “Well, but my dear sir, the only other conclusion is that these visitors are somehow infiltrating the ranks in order to cause havoc. Perhaps a report goes back saying, 'Our agent Xandyl 32-Z, impersonating one Punkin Miller, a human—er—being of the technocrat class in New York City, has succeeded in sowing confusion in all around him by his bizarre behavior, etc., etc.' Ha-ha! What other explanation is left? I grant you that it's far-fetched, but I'm dealing here with rather, shall we say, far-fetched matters.
“...Yes, perhaps an alien race is impersonating many of us! Ha-ha-ha! How else can we explain all the inanities in the world, a whole planet going to rack and ruin, etc., etc. Now of course I'm only a poor police detective and it is not given to me by God to be able to see very clearly into the true nature of things, and so this is all that my poor cerebrum has been able to come up with. Ha-ha! Still, this explanation has one or two virtues, don't you think? It explains all the facts without contradictions, for instance, which raises it to the level of elegant theory. Eh?”
Hotchner laughed broadly, even pounding on the table to emphasize his mirth, while still keeping his eyes fixed on me all the time. I got up in disgust.
“Detective Hotchner, quite frankly I am fed up with all these games and ramblings. I came here to escape the looney bin and instead I've walked straight into it! You are a looney bin all by yourself, Mr. Hotchner! And—goodbye!”
I opened the door, walked out and down the corridor. Hotchner came after me.
“Wait, my dear fellow, wait—wait!” he cried as he caught up with me. “There's no need to be dissatisfied. You see, it's not necessary for you to make a confession at all. In fact, we have only to search your apartment for a gun and if we find an appropriate one, why, we can have the whole thing settled in a very short time to your complete satisfaction. We can arrest you and put you behind bars to your heart's content, I wouldn't dream of stopping you then!—I'm sure 20 or 30 years could be arranged with no trouble, just as you like, and you can give your confession ten or fifteen years from now, whenever the spirit moves you. Ha-ha-ha! Take your time about it, in other words. You do see what I mean, don't you?”
We reached the end of the corridor and I walked down the stairs in silence to the front door. Hotchner followed me and I turned around.
“Dear me, you're pale!” he remarked. “Whatever can have caused that?”
“Yes, I am slightly pale. What of it? And if this is a pitiful attempt to intimidate me, Detective Hotchner, I spit on it. Yes, I spit on it!”
“Dear me, why are you getting so excited? You're trembling, too. Are you quite well? Have you been taking your pills lately?”
“I spit on it!” I cried.
“Of course you spit on it, but what are you spitting on? Whatever are you referring to?”
My voice quavering with fear and anger, I said in a mild scream: “A man is innocent until proven guilty, Detective Hotchner, and perhaps I have only been joking as the 'report to the mother star' says, and besides, evidence!—you need evidence—”
Hotchner smiled. “Of course, of course, evidence is everything and everyone is innocent, and so forth. Still, evidence is not so hard to obtain, is it? I wish you would take an aspirin before you go, by the way—upon my word, you look ill. All that joking of yours can put a strain on you, you know. Ha-ha! However, you too, please, have a pleasant day. So nice of you to drop by, and so on. Come again—”
“I spit!” I repeated loudly. “—And what's more I—goodbye!”
I passed out the door and started up the street. Behind me the door to the police station closed. My head felt in a daze. Where should I go? I thought.
After walking several blocks and hardly noticing where I was going I came across this old pizza parlour. The place appealed to me at that moment and I walked in. On one side of the room was the food counter with this pleasant-looking guy behind it making pizzas and submarines and so on.
Anyway, on the other side of the room were some tables and chairs and an ear-splitting jukebox. I ordered an Italian cold-cut submarine and sat down at one of the tables, crossing my legs. For some reason this felt uncomfortable so I uncrossed my legs and placed my feet square on the floor. That also felt uncomfortable. Where do I place my legs? I wondered.
I was feeling quite nervous. I just couldn't figure out what to do, and I kept sitting there and wondering over and over what I was going to do next. To make matters worse, I imagined all of a sudden that Paul was there, sitting right across the table from me. And I was asking advice. Not out loud or anything, but just in my head.
“Paul,” I said, “you know how to handle things. You're experienced in the world. How would you handle this? How would you act, what would you do? Would you run away? Would you be dignified? Would you laugh a lot and pretend to be cheerful? I don't know!—I mean—what would you do?”
In my imagination Paul sat there across the table and thought about it for a while. I really wanted to know what he was going to say.
“Well, you're too emotional, dear,” Paul said, looking me straight in the eye and doing an aristocratic sniff the way he usually did. “I've told you that before. It's one of your great charms too, of course, this wearing your heart on your sleeve, but you overdo it and therefore hurt yourself. Only yourself. Yes, be sensitive!—but not too sensitive. Now take me, for instance. I'm sensitive, certainly, but I don't overdo it. I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve, darling, as they say. You get all upset because you take it all too seriously...”
“Yes, yes, you're right, Paul! I see that clearly, only...you see, what should I...? I mean, Paul—”
“Too emotional, dear. I've told you that before.”
“Yes, but—”
I noticed that several young guys in chopper jackets and boots were looking at me curiously. Maybe I was moving my lips or something in my imaginary conversation with Paul, I don't know. Or maybe they saw me trying to figure out where to place my legs. Just then the proprietor brought the Italian submarine over and I just concentrated on eating that, just like I was anybody sitting there eating a submarine. The problem was, the roll was soaked in olive oil and the fat in the salami didn't taste right. I mean, the roll must have been dipped in olive oil. So I separated the tomatoes and peppers from the submarine and ate them separately until I noticed that this was attracting more attention from my observers. Pushing aside the submarine and wiping my oily hands on a paper napkin, I stood up as inconspicuously as possible—yet with dignity—and walked out the door.
The sky was turning a darker gray. Walking straight home now, I rode up in the elevator and let myself into the apartment where I sat down for a moment and tried to think about things. Then I went and got the gun out of the top dresser drawer.
I have to dispose of this right away, I thought. But where? There must be no delay...if only I could flush it down the toilet...down the incinerator...no, they're not idiots, they'll look there...under the sand in the catbox, ha!...no, ridiculous...I have to be serious...get rid of it outside somewhere before they come...
Putting the gun in my pocket and my coat on again I left the apartment and descended in the elevator. He knows I'm guilty now, I said to myself. Of course...he's no idiot...it's only a matter of time...still, he needs evidence...perhaps he won't have my place searched as fast as I think...no, he needs a search warrant, I forgot that...now let me...and where can I dispose of this thing?
I looked around me in the street, trying to think of what to do, where to hide the gun. As I pondered this and rejected various possible hiding places, though, I came to feel like I was prostrating myself before Hotchner, doing exactly what he expected me to do, falling into a pattern that he had somehow designed. And that didn't sit well.
So what's the point of all this? I thought. It's perfectly apparent that he's going to catch me anyway...evidence is all over, evidence is growing on trees! And...perhaps, after all, I should leave the gun in my apartment, purely as a gesture of contempt...imagine Hotchner's old face when he finds out I didn't even bother to get rid of it!...ha!
I laughed almost in the face of a passerby and the passerby looked at me in a startled way. I passed on. Hotchner would faint, I thought, if I did that. He would, he would, I'm certain of it! He couldn't stand such a gesture of contempt, it would kill him...he would see once and for all time how I spit on him! Oh yes... Better yet...better yet...I hand him the gun when he comes to search!...ha!...he'll choke, just like choking on a chicken bone...let him choke on my contempt...
Turning around immediately I headed back for my apartment, first pausing to pick up a newspaper. There was only a small paragraph on the murder now, which I have to confess made me feel a twinge of disappointment. The paragraph was to the effect that the police had clues and were 'working steadily' on the case and 'expected results in the near future.' That scared the hell out of me, because that story was written even before I went and saw Hotchner. If they had clues before, what about now for Crissake? I thought. They must be swimming in them now.
The newspaper got thrown in the nearest garbage can and I went back to my apartment, where I put the gun back in the top drawer of the dresser. And not under the socks, either, but right out there in the front of the drawer. That was for Hotchner's benefit.
But I was really feeling nervous. I just couldn't seem to control it, and that made me even more nervous. I sat down on the bed and tried to get the whole thing together, but couldn't. I wanted to do something, to take some action, but I couldn't figure out what to do, so I just sat there.
And this funny thing happened. I had another of those imaginary conversations, only this time with Sarah. It scared me, but in a way I enjoyed it too. I imagined Sarah was sitting there on the bed with me and giving me advice. God knows, I needed a little advice just then. And I really wanted to talk to somebody, too. But the thing was, Sarah said some things that were even more than I expected. I don't know who was saying them, since the whole conversation was imaginary, but somebody was saying them. It gave me more to think about than I really bargained for.
“Oh Punkin, you must learn to love more,” Sarah was saying while looking at me with those gentle eyes of hers. You must try to love and accept...accept and love...”
“Yes, yes, Sarah, you're absolutely right!” I said out loud to the empty apartment. “I can see that you're right, only—well, I—what should I do now? How should I handle it?”
“Oh Punkin, you must love more,” Sarah seemed to say. “You must love and accept...accept and love...”
“Oh Sarah, I've tried! I can't seem to do it! Besides, I don't know whether it's the right thing to do! You see, Paul wouldn't—”
Sarah seemed to look even more directly into my eyes. “I'm sure it's the right thing, Punkin. You haven't been trying hard enough—”
“Oh, but I have, I have!” I cried. “Please don't say that! Are you sure, Sarah, that it's the right—”
God, oh God, what are you doing, Punkin? I thought. Talking out loud to someone who isn't even here, what are you doing? I have to calm down, I have to keep control of things. I have to just put myself to bed and take it easy, that's what I have do, just take it easy, that's all...
Slowly I got undressed and climbed carefully into bed, then eased myself down under the blankets and looked at the ceiling. I'll just take it easy, that's all, I thought.
© 1998 by james sloman
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