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“Come on back, Miss Moore.”
I glanced up at the voice, catching the gaze of a fatherly-looking policeman trying to wave me back. He led me to a small, indistinct cubicle. I took a seat across from the policeman, feeling small and childlike. I clutched the dress box on my lap.
“So, tell me what's going on.”
He wasn't condescending or particularly aggressive, but I've met his type and heard his tone before. It was the same tone countless psychiatrists and psychologists had used with me before. It said, “I know you believe what's happening,” which isn't really helpful, in the long run.
Regardless, I told him the whole sordid story. What choice did I have? To his credit, he looked like he believed me. He was taking notes and even seemed to be concerned when I got to the part about Dean's abuse.
It still didn’t change anything.
“I'm sorry, Miss Moore, but there's not much I can do for you,” Officer Dayton said.
I can read name tags, go me.
Officer Dayton went on to say all he could do was help me file the court forms for a domestic violence restraining order (which I already had). But, because I didn't have any proof, there was nothing more he could do for me.
“Proof?” I exclaimed. “Isn't that your job to gather proof?” I was bordering on hysteria. “What about the emails I told you about?”
Officer Dayton looked sympathetic.
“Without credible evidence of intent to harm, if we went after every annoying ex-boyfriend or girlfriend, neighbor, or boss, the police would be nothing more than a taxpayer funded harassment squad. I'm sorry. If you had filed domestic assault charges in Seattle, it would be different.”
My fingernails were making half-moons in the dress box.
Officer Dayton patted me on the shoulder awkwardly and said, “If you can prove that it's Dean who is sending you these things, then we can get him for violating his restraining order. Until then, there’s nothing we can do.” The officer stood up, motioning me to rise as well. “Please, don't hesitate to call us if you ever feel unsafe.”
But, that's what I'd done. I'd come to them because I felt unsafe, yet they'd tossed me up the creek without a paddle. I thought they were supposed to prove these things. What did the police do? I sighed heavily and left the precinct; my stomach felt like I’d swallowed an anvil. I was as good as dead. Or worse.
The police had refused to take the red dress, citing some kind of security policy. Wasn't it evidence? No, it wasn't evidence. Nothing was evidence until I was dead and in the ground. So, I had had to carry the now crumpled white box under my arm, complete with red dress. I should have thrown it away, but I was in shock.
I walked home despite the fact that I'd taken a bus to the police station. I kept my eyes down, letting the repetitive gray pavement numb my senses.
Head still down, I entered my apartment building and headed toward the elevator.
“Jesus, Lennox, are you okay?”
I didn’t shriek. I didn’t bolt. I was too numb.
Vic. I had been so wrapped up in my pity party that I hadn’t noticed him approaching. Nor had I seen the girl walking at his side.
I gave Vic a brief glance and then turned my attention to the girl. She stood casually next to him, as if it were the most natural place for her to be. She was close to Vic’s age and much classier than Vic’s most recent conquests. She was blonde, with severe features. She looked a little like Robin Wright. Her hair was short, a la Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. She wore a dark blazer with matching skirt and don’t-fuck-with-me heels. All that combined made her look like a superhero to me.
I hated her already.
Vic repeated my name. He left his date’s side and stepped so close to me I could see my reflection in his black eyes.
Was I alright?
No. Every day, Dean got closer to finding me, to getting me. He was playing cat and mouse with me. He was a cruel child ripping my mouse legs off one by one until I bled to death. But Dean wouldn't simply let me bleed to death, drifting away on the numbness blood loss would bring. No, he’d tear my throat out so I had one final jolt of pain.
The elevator doors opened; without a word, I motioned Vic and his date inside. I’d wait for the next one.
Was I okay?
No. Vic and I weren't anything to each other. We weren't friends, we weren't lovers, and I was bleeding out. No I wasn't okay.
Hee-hee-hee.
