The Unnoticeables (14 page)

“What? He's coming here?” Wash asked.

“Bullshit,” I called. “Nobody's coming for you.”

“Not for me! Oh, no,” she whispered rapturously. “They're coming for you. They're coming for you right at this moment, because this is your time, and I am so happy for you all!”

“Oh, shit, Carey. Do you think her friends would really come after us?” Thing 2 said.

“No way,” I said. “Nobody even knows you're here but us, standing in this room, lady. Nobody can tell your friends where you are.”

“I guess that's appropriate.” The woman laughed again. “That's what you think of her. The words you use to describe an absence. Nothing. Nobody.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Safety Pins slapped the counter.

“Look around you. Carefully. Think. Who is not here that should be? Who is never here, even when she is?”

Now I was looking around, too. I don't know why, this girl was clearly—

Motherfucker.

“Scuffed Flannel,” I said.

Jezza's eyes went wide.

The woman laughed again. A tinkling, broken sound. Like wind chimes.

“You don't even know her name!” The woman exulted.

“Yeah, we do,” Jezza protested. “We had a thing, she and I. Her name is … is … Shit. I knew it once!”

I grabbed Safety Pins by the arms and shook her.

“Was she with you tonight? Was Scuffed Flannel here?”

“No…” I could see her brain churning, the information slipping around behind her red eyes. “Yes, I think so. I don't know!”

“She was,” Thing 1 said. “She was. She was here. She was with us at the park, remember? She turned down the weed, and you said something about her loosening up. We laughed. She came up with us. She was at the door.”

“How long has it been now, since you got here?” the woman asked Thing 1 again.

“Twenty minutes,” Thing 1 said.

The unnoticeable woman nodded.

“That's enough time,” she said. “Gus should be outside.”

 

THIRTEEN

2013. Los Angeles, California. Kaitlyn.

I had my phone out in my lap. I was using the reflective screen to stare at my own bloody eyeball. It was transfixing. It didn't hurt or anything, but it was just so bizarre-looking. At first the red had only spilled across the inner half of the eye, but soon it pooled across the entirety of the white. I looked like a demon. Like a David Bowie demon: one eye normal, one eye bright and terrible and red.

Luckily, nobody in the police station lobby seemed to notice or care. If they were staring at me for anything, it was because I was the only young white girl in here. I felt vaguely racist, just for existing.

“Kaitlyn?” A skinny cop with pointy elbows poked his head out of the door at the far end of the room.

I must have given some unconscious physical sign, because he had singled me out and was waving me over.

Or maybe I was just the only logical “Kaitlyn” in the place: two old Mexican ladies, thick and bent into aged balls. A gigantic white dude with a two-foot beard and stars tattooed over both of his eyes. A homeless guy in intricate layers of stinking rags. A Latino kid dressed like a gangbanger, playing Mario Bros. on his phone. The rest of the age-cracked blue vinyl benches were empty. Looked like they always had been and always would be.

I crossed the filthy white tile, holding my own private white-girl parade. All eyes on me as I self-consciously made my way to the door.

“Room three, please.” The pointy kid gestured toward the far wall and vanished before I could ask any stupid questions.

Which, to be fair, I was about to:
Why a room? Like, interrogation room? Shouldn't I be going to somebody's office or desk? I was here to file a complaint.…

But the rest of the office looked busy. The other cops were so aggressively avoiding eye contact that I thought I'd probably get tased just for coughing. I picked my way through the cluttered desks, every one overflowing with papers, fast food containers, half-f coffee cups, and knickknacks. Bobbleheads, action figures, and framed family photos in equal numbers.

Room 3 was a plain white door. A giant faded-blue numeral stamped above the threshold. A fine patina of black smears from generations of shoes kicking angrily at its base.

I knocked, and immediately felt dumb for it.

“Come in!” a cheery voice said from the other side.

I stepped into an unadorned room, the same shade of authoritative white as the door. Billions of little scratches and scuffs marred the hard white plastic furniture. An older man, in his fifties maybe, sat in one of four chairs surrounding a table that had been bolted to the floor. A mirror lined the wall to my left. There was another, unmarked door a few feet away from the one I was uncertainly standing in. So two-way glass, then.

No, seriously. Why are you in an interrogation room?

I pushed the thought aside. I had seen the crowded desks when I was coming in. It was probably too cluttered to meet out there. Or maybe this was standard protocol. Or maybe they just sent me to the wrong place. That was likely it: There was already a guy waiting in this room, and he sure didn't look like a cop.

He was chubby, carrying most of the weight in his gut and sides. An ill-fitting T-shirt with a faded iron-on photo barely covered his bulk. I squinted. The design was shattered like glass, riddled with little cracks and missing pieces that had come off over uncountable washes. The photo was of a vaguely attractive group of young people smiling up from a couch. There were nearly illegible words stamped above it:
PARTY OF FIVE
.

Yeah, so … not a cop.

If the attire didn't give it away, his wild, bulging eyes and nervous smile would have.

Jesus Christ, did they send me to a room with a child molester?

“More the merrier!” he cackled, and drummed excitedly on his own thighs.

No, surely they would have him in handcuffs or something if he was a criminal. The door wasn't even locked.

“What is—” I started, but somebody
harrumph
ed behind me.

I turned to find a police officer waving me forward with a handful of plain beige folders. He waved me all the way inside the room and then down into the chair beside
Party of Five
guy without saying a word. The officer settled, grumbling and creaking all the while, into a much nicer chair across from us. He opened the folders, placed them in front of our respective positions, and stared at each of us in turn.

When I finally had enough of the silence, I opened my mouth to speak.

“You've both filed complaints,” he finally began. He was just waiting to cut one of us off before doing it.

“You”—he locked eyes with
Party of Five
guy—“Mr. Fennsen, have alleged that one Matthew Fox has repeatedly attempted to do you bodily harm and even forthright stated his intent to take away your life. Is this correct?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Fennsen nodded solemnly, his manic energy temporarily subdued. “He hid in my toolshed yesterday and threatened to chop my Johnson off unless I stayed away from my girlfriend, Jennifer.”

“Now, to be clear,” the cop said, “we are talking about Matthew Fox, the actor. Who played Jack, from the television show
Lost.
”

“I don't know about any of that.” Fennsen giggled. “But yes, the actor who played Charlie Salinger on the excellent
Party of Five.
”

Fennsen swiveled to face me with googly eyes and pointed at his shirt.

“And to be clear again, Jennifer, your girlfriend, is referring to Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

“My little Sarah Bear, yes.”

Oh, shit. I just understood why they had me in here.

“Wait—” I said, leaning forward, “I think there's been a misund—”

“Ma'am, please. We'll get to your complaints in a moment. Let me finish with Mr. Fennsen. Now, sir”—the officer slowly flipped some pages until he found the information he was looking for—“last month you were in here alleging that Mr. Fox had the water company cut off service to you.”

“The bastard!” Fennsen spat and sniffled.

“And the month before that, you alleged that Mr. Fox had abducted your girlfriend, Jennifer Love Hewitt, and was keeping her in a—and I quote—‘rape garage,' until you went on live television and renounced your love for her.”

“That is correct,” Fennsen confirmed. He shifted around in his chair, writhing and wriggling his hips. “But they wouldn't let me on Channel Six. For all I know she's still trapped there!”

“Mr. Fennsen, you are aware that Ms. Love Hewitt has had a civil harassment restraining order filed against you for several years now.”

“It's Fox! He poisoned her against me!” Fennsen squealed. He gripped the legs of his jeans in panicked, twisting hands.

“Sir, you are not allowed within one hundred yards of Ms. Love Hewitt at any time,” the officer droned.

“I know!” Fennsen said, “I haven't! I stayed away, I promised! But Charlie is
tormenting
me! He stole my garden hose and whipped me with it! I'll show you!”

Fennsen got to his feet, knocking his chair over, and started ripping his pants off. He tore open the button and yanked down the fly but couldn't get past the belt, which, in his desperation, he had forgotten to undo.

“Sir, please sit, sir! SIT DOWN.”

The officer came around the table, audibly groaning from the effort of standing. He twisted Fennsen's arms behind him, secured his wrists together somehow, and then sat him down on the floor. I saw that Fennsen was not wearing underwear. I turned away as fast as I could.

The officer took his seat again, his knees crackling like Chinese fireworks.

Fennsen was wheezing from the struggle but otherwise quiet. I got the feeling this was a routine occurrence for both men.

“Now, ma'am”—the officer closed the other folder and turned to face the one placed in front of me—“you allege that Mr. Luis has been making untoward advances on your person, is that correct?”

“Yes, but I'm not crazy!” I said, and immediately regretted it. Somehow acknowledging the word aloud made me seem crazier than if I'd just sat here like Fennsen and solemnly confirmed the charges.

“Nobody says you are, ma'am,” the cop said. He scanned down the page and put his fingertip on some bit of information there. “You state that you met Mr. Luis at a social gathering last week, where he made threatening remarks and attempted to take physical liberties with you.”

“Yes.” I opted for Fennsen's stoic, official demeanor.

“Then Mr. Luis showed up at your place of work and continued with his threatening remarks.”

“Yes.”

“And finally, he broke into your home last night and threatened you with rape and other physical harm.”

I paused. The other charges were technically true: I was just leaving out the weird parts. The cops would never help me if I insisted that Marco Luis put some kind of life-draining organ into me and threatened me with sexually transmitted nothingness. But forcing himself on me in his car after a party, showing up at my work—that's standard crazy-boyfriend stuff. Totally believable. Last night, though, I had no proof any of that actually happened. The doors and windows were locked, barred, and unbroken. I knew it was real, of course, but …

“Ma'am, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I said, “sort of. I never actually saw him, only spoke to him.”

“But he did force entry into your home?”

“Well, no. I think … I think he was outside the window at the time,” I lied. But if they checked for signs of a break-in and found nothing?

“You ‘think'?”

“It was very dark. I only heard him speak. I know how this looks.” I turned and gestured behind me to Fensenn. He looked to be trying to masturbate himself with his feet. He was, of course, failing. He was nowhere near flexible enough. I snapped back to face the cop so quickly I think I pinched a nerve in my neck.

“And do you have others who have witnessed any of this behavior?” the officer said.

“No, I…” I thought of Carey.
Yes, officer, an old alcoholic, homeless punk who takes my recycling believes me
. “No, I was alone.”

“Ma'am, I'm very sorry, but this is Los Angeles. We get a lot of complaints about a lot of celebrities.” The officer's eyes roved to Fennsen. I heard a
squick
ing sound. I opted not to follow his gaze. “Without witnesses, we simply cannot take any action here.”

I felt the floor drop away from me. Cold waves broke across my skin.

“Please, he's insane.” I knew the desperation made me sound worse, but I couldn't help myself.

“Further—” the officer began, but something had uncorked in me now, and words came spilling out.

“I can't stop him! There's something wrong with his brain. I think he hurt my friend!”

“Furthermore,” the officer asserted now, more forcefully, “our records show that Mr. Luis has already taken a restraining order out against
you.
”

“I—what?” I think I physically reeled. I felt myself tip backward in my chair.

“You are not allowed within one hundred yards of Mr. Luis at any time. You are not allowed to contact Mr. Luis by phone, mail, electronic communication, or other means.” The cop was dully reciting from the information beneath his fingertip.

“That's impossible,” I said. “He must have known I would report him after last night and—”

“Ma'am.” The officer sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “This order was filed over six months ago.”

I tried to push sounds out of my throat. Tried to explain somehow—if not to the cop, then at least to myself—but nothing came.