On the street, Blaine
Blackwell and Labrecque did as told, then Blackwell set out for home after Labrecque told him he needed to make a few calls before calling it a day. Alone in the office, Labrecque smoked a cigarette at his desk and stared at the phonograph on the evidence table.
Who the fuck was Strauss? Vivian Weinberg lied. The label read no such thing. It said clear as day…what…suddenly he couldn’t remember. He stubbed the cigarette out against the soul of his boot, stood and walked to the evidence table to look at the record still on the turntable.
Clear as day, it read, Recorded June 3, 1931 by Father Josef Gerhard Stuttgart, not some shit about Strauss. How could she not see this, right there on the green label? Stupid old bitch, Labrecque thought as he cranked the handle, what did she know? He’d get to the bottom of it right now.
Gently lifting the arm, Labrecque placed the needle on the record. It spun a few times and static came out of the horn. Maybe it needs a few more spins, he thought, to get warmed up. But, after at least a dozen or more turns of the record all that played was the grainy static.
How could that be? At the school, Labrecque heard the deep tones of a marching band as a man gave a speech to a large, cheering crowd. Now, all he got was static. Maybe he placed the needle on the record incorrectly. After all, this was probably the first time in his life he handled such a record and turntable.
He started over with the same results, grainy static.
With the record still spinning, Labrecque sat at his desk and lit another cigarette. He was tired, that was it. Tired to the bone from overwork and his mind was playing stupid tricks on him.
He puffed and blew smoke. The smoke rose up in front of his face and hung like a cloud of fog. Stinging his eyes, Labrecque blew at the smoke, but it wouldn’t dissipate and in fact, seemed to grow denser.
The static played on.
He waved at the smoke with his hands and it swirled around, moved by the air, but the moment he stopped waving, the smoke regrouped into a dark cloud again, hanging over his head.
“What the fuck?” Labrecque said. He stood up, or tired to, but his legs for some reason wouldn’t budge. Nothing was holding him to the seat, yet he couldn’t move. Was he having a stroke? Call 911, he thought, reached for the phone, but like his legs, his arms were frozen to his side.
Help, Labrecque cried, or did he?
He couldn’t tell if he actually spoke or just thought he did. The cigarette between his lips didn’t move, so he was pretty sure he didn’t cry out. Help, help me, he cried. Like the first time, the cigarette didn’t move. It just continued to burn, adding to the thick unyielding cloud of smoke in front of his eyes.
My God, I really am having a stroke, Labrecque thought. He tried not to panic, tried to clear his head and think of what he should do.
The cigarette in his mouth continued to burn.
Please, God, help me, Labrecque shouted, then realized he hadn’t uttered a word.
The cloud in his face grew thicker, darker and it was difficult to see. Tears ran down his face and he blinked to clear his eyes.
The static played on, growing louder with each turn of the record. Then, a voice spoke, or at least Labrecque heard a voice. He couldn’t be sure if he imagined the voice, if it came from the record or it was his own echoing in his head.
You raped that girl, didn’t you, James, the voice said.
What, what are you talking about, Labrecque cried. What girl?
You know.
No, I don’t know. What girl?
Jane Kennedy.
I was fourteen, Labrecque cried.
And she was thirteen. That’s hardly an excuse for rape, James.
That wasn’t rape.
No, what would you call it then?
We were kids, Labrecque cried.
Then why do you carry such guilt, James? Answer me that.
Answer who, that?
You.
In the cloud of smoke, Labrecque saw himself as a fourteen-year-old kid, holding hands with Jane Kennedy, coaxing her into the back seat of his father’s Ford station wagon. They laughed and kissed and laughed some more. Then things got out of hand. His erection was straining to get out and painful. She screamed and he covered her mouth, not hard to do because she was a bit of a thing. He pulled up her skirt, yanked down her panties and drove it home. She cried inside his hand, it was over in less than thirty seconds, and he wondered what the big deal was.
Three months later, when Jane started to gain weight, the Kennedy’s sold their home and moved away.
And that is called rape.
No, no…we were kids fooling around.
What about Maria?
The waitress at the diner, what about her?
Wouldn’t you just love to stick it to her, to drive it home as you did to poor Jane Kennedy?
No, not true. I barely know the woman, why would I want to do that?
Because.
Because is not a reason.
It’s all the reason you need, just like Jane Kennedy.
That’s not true.
Oh really?
Yes.
Then why did you kill her?
I didn’t.
No?
No.
Are you sure?
“Yes. Leave me alone.
Like you left her alone.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Oh, really? Then have a look.
Maria walked the one mile each way from her small rented home to the diner each day she was scheduled to work. He followed her in the cruiser and waited for her to take the side road out of town, then he drove up beside her and offered her a lift. With the recent events causing rumors to fly around town, she gladly took the ride. The drive to her house took just minutes. As she thanked him, he said, “Were you serious about what you said in the diner?”
“What did I say?” Maria said.
“About giving me a blowjob,” he said and at that instant, she knew she was in deep, deep trouble.
He whacked her on the side of the head with his nightstick, then drove to his house on the other side of the state park. He parked in the garage and carried her into the house through the connecting door. She came around when he tossed her on the sofa. Before she could scream, he punched her in the face, again and again and again, until she resembled something from a zombie movie. Then he removed his clothes, grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and did a Jane Kennedy on her, stabbing her with each thrust of his penis.
Open your eyes, James.
My eyes aren’t closed.
No?
Labrecque opened his eyes and Blaine, Blackwell and Grant had their weapons trained on him. He was naked, seated on the sofa in his living room of his tiny A frame house. A bloody kitchen knife was in his right hand. He looked at the knife.
“Put the knife down Jim,” Blaine
Labrecque looked at Blaine Blaine
Labrecque looked at the naked corpse of Maria at his feet. Her body was covered in sticky, dry blood from a dozen or more stab wounds in her chest and neck. Labrecque looked at Blaine
“We’ll talk about it at the office,” Blaine
“I don’t understand any of this,” Labrecque said.
Sure you do.
“Jim, please, put the knife down,” Blaine
“No,” Labrecque said, reversed the knife in his hand and shoved the blade directly into his heart.
