The man wouldn’t let Trey go. He just wouldn’t. Trey’s front fender barely caressed his left hip while driving under five miles per hour on this narrow street. That didn’t stop the guy from crying blue murder. What is this? A shakedown? He thought Trey was rich? Driving a ten-year-old Impala? Standing under the sun with an apologetic expression on his face, listening to the man’s shouting, Trey felt a white heat pulsing through his head as if it were filled with mist. No, not mist. Steam. Because it was accompanied by a shrill sound, like that of a boiling kettle. He could hear nothing else. The man’s words no longer registered. Trey was dimly aware that there was no one else around in this narrow alley, but all he could see was this distorting face, like that painting of Edvard Munch. That face and the encroaching white steam. Until Trey saw his right fist connect with the open mouth. The man teetered and lost his balance, pivoted on his right foot so that he fell face down. There was a sickly crunch as he hit a fire hydrant before plopping to the ground.
Trey, breathing heavily, looked down at the man. He waited for any movement, but the only thing moving was the blood spreading under the man’s head. He killed a man? Just like that? One moment he was debating what to eat for dessert, and the next moment he was staring down at a dead body.
Trey thought about lifting the man’s head by his pale blond hair to take a look, but he didn’t want to touch him again. He noticed a bulge on the man’s hip pocket. He carefully lifted a wallet out. A visa card informed him the man he had just killed was named Raymond Gray.
Trey looked around. Still no one. It was the dead hour before the Sunday evening bustle. He replaced the wallet, got into his Impala, and drove quickly away. As soon as he was two blocks away, he braked again. He was shaking all over. It wouldn’t do to have another accident. Yes, it had been an accident. He mustn’t forget that.
***
Pattern was important. He mustn’t break any habit. Trey drove to his usual diner and ordered a chocolate muffin. When the waitress brought it over he regretted it. He couldn’t eat chocolate. He felt sick in his stomach. Should he change it to something else? That would break his usual pattern, but also make him more memorable, as an alibi or something of the sort. Should he?
The waitress left. Trey wondered if he should flirt with her. Given her looks, she would surely remember that. But what if she didn’t like him? She might not want to volunteer information when the cops came. He should act memorable, but not in any creepy or weird way.
He ordered French fries and ice cream when the waitress came by next. While the waitress was writing his order down, he said, “Yeah, I know. I gave up on my diet. Life is too short not to enjoy it in any way you can.” Now, why the hell did he say that? He nearly bit his tongue off.
The waitress came back with his order. Trey tried giving her a reassuring smile, but she just put the plate down and walked away. Maybe he should pay with his credit card, to have a record that he had been here. But what was the use? The man could have been discovered by now.
The trouble with living alone was that no one could help him with an alibi. If they were willing to lie, that is. He thought of his ex-wife. Now that was a good idea. On the one hand, exes felt obligated to talk to the cops and set things straight. On the other hand, they were credible witnesses, since people don’t go out on a limb with their exes. He called his ex-wife, now remarried and pregnant.
“Hi, Wendy, it’s me. Trey.” There was a silence on the other end. Trey chuckled nervously. Better not to do that. Better to act normal.
“I just found the thumb drive you’ve been looking for. I did some cleaning this afternoon.” This sounded right, didn’t it? People who just killed don’t do housework, at least not the kind they can call about.
“Sure. I can mail it to you.” Trey tried to put the right amount of cheerfulness into his voice.
Trey hung up. This should do it, shouldn’t it? No, officer, I don’t know any Raymond Gray. I was in my apartment cleaning all this afternoon. Then I went to the diner. Unless they haven’t found the body yet, which would mean the time of death wouldn’t be so accurate, which would mean his alibis, if you could call them as such, wouldn’t mean anything, which in turn would mean all his work had been done in vain.
***
Trey felt claustrophobic. The white steam came back. He ordered a coffee, wishing to clear his head. When it came, there were bubbles on the rim of the black surface. Two dozen bulging images of himself stared back at him and took a sip with him. It was then he remembered he had hit the man in the mouth. Would they find his DNA there when they performed the autopsy? How could he explain it? Never mind that. He had touched the man’s wallet. What was he thinking? They could find his fingerprints on them. They could know the name of his first cat from the way everyone talks about forensic science.
Maybe he should say he knew Raymond Gray. But from where? He knew nothing about that guy. Raymond Gray? Ray Gray? What kind of name was that?
Trey closed his eyes and saw the bleeding head again. Ray Gray, leaking gray matter on a gray walkway. Light blond hair above that growing pool of blood. Like a distorted Japanese flag. No, that wasn’t right. A Japanese flag is the other way around. Red amid white. A Vietnamese flag was more like it. Except no one’s head has five points, not even a pointy head. Was the guy part Asian? Trey tried to bring that screaming face to his mind. He didn’t think so.
Hell, what does it matter? Trey rubbed his eyes. That was when he heard the faint siren. The police were on to him. He had made a mistake. He should have broken his pattern. He should have gone someplace where the police wouldn’t think to look for him. But the police can find anyone. It was what everybody said.
The siren was getting louder. Trey remembered what everyone said about prison, too. He was a dead man walking.
He opened his eyes and stumbled out of the diner. He tried to walk away from the approaching police car, but the strident siren made it hard to tell where it was coming from. The unbearable sound bounced around the buildings. It was coming at him from every direction.
And his car! Somewhere a security camera probably recorded his Impala near Ray Gray when he died. He had parked his car three doors down from the diner. The police could find traces of Ray Gray on his car!
Trey staggered forward. He noticed a fire door. He shook the door handle and saw his knuckles were red and swollen. From hitting Ray Gray in the mouth, no doubt. The door opened. He looked up at the building. It was at least six floors high. It should do it.
Three minutes later, a panting Trey looked down from the roof of the eighth-floor building and saw the police vehicle turning into the far side of the street. He thought about prison. Thought about his first cat. Then Trey stepped off the ledge.
When Trey got a flitting glance through the seventh-floor window into its living room, where an old couple was fighting over the TV remote, the police car had passed the diner without slowing down. By the time Trey hit the ground outside a laundromat, the policemen had passed the Impala without a glance. Then the driver broke hard as he heard the thudding noise and the ensuing commotion behind them. The drug overdose would have to wait.
***
Trey couldn’t know any of this. Nor could he have known that, when he stepped into the diner an hour ago, five blocks away a man named Raymond Gray opened his eyes and got to his knees. He looked at the ground, gingerly touched his nose, winced, and noticed the blood on the fire hydrant beside him. He remembered going out for a bottle and nothing after that. He slowly got to his feet, swayed a bit, and spotted the curb behind him. Around the same time Trey ordered his chocolate muffin, Raymond Gray concluded he had tripped on the curb, crushed his nose on the fire hydrant while falling, and blacked out. He cursed his back luck, but then realized this would make a good story next time he was out drinking. He cleaned his nose with some tissue paper as best as he could. While Trey was contemplating his chocolate muffin, Raymond Gray had set off again toward the liquor store with a resigned smile on his face.
[Image Credit : Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash ]
by 
Jo Ayker
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