Taylor's Questioning

As she followed the detective through the maze of cubicles, Taylor grew a bit nervous.  She had never been in a police station before, and she wasn’t sure why she had been asked to speak with detectives.  She felt like everyone stared at her as she continued, and she quickly catalogued all the recent indiscretions in her life.

Feeling embarrassed and guilty, she glanced down as her face flushed and barely caught a glimpse as Samanta left an interrogation room further down the hallway.  She wanted to say something to Sam, but she wasn’t even sure if Sam saw her.

“Was that Samantha Vickers?”

The detective appeared not to hear the question as he held the door open for her.  Inside was a middle aged woman in an off the rack suit and cheap low heels.  If Taylor knew anything, she knew clothes.  Almost too surreal, the female detective tossed her head slightly and pointed to the empty chair across the table.

Taylor decided to play stupid.

When Taylor didn’t comply with the non verbal order to sit down, the woman looked directly into Taylor’s face.  Smiling, Taylor stood waiting as if she were waiting to be seated in a restaurant.

Oh….one of those, Detective Laila Gomez thought.

“Ms. Wayne, thanks for coming in.  Please sit down.”  Detective Gomez smiled behind her tired expression, and Taylor could see the beginning of tiny lines around her dark eyes.  Taylor also noticed the need for a manicure and a touch up to the hair color.  Taylor would estimate the detective was probably in her mid-thirties, possibly early forties.  The absence of a ring, Taylor speculated the woman was divorced and raising her child or children alone.  Too many times, Taylor had noticed these same things in Candace.  Just thinking about Candace and her children made her sad.

“I only have a few questions for you today.”

Today? Taylor wondered. I hope I’m not coming back here.

Taylor began counting down from 10 on her fingers and then counting up to ten, a technique she had used since childhood to calm her breathing.  Focusing on a painted brick right behind and to the left of Detective Gomez’s head, Taylor imagined all the scenes she might possibly paint on that one brick.  It’s probably 6 by 12, landscape, so maybe a countryside, she thought.  Or a geometric collection of random colors like in Tetris.

Every few seconds, Taylor would look at the detective seated across from her and then back at the random brick.  The room was nicer than any she had ever seen on television, more cozy.  The imitation mahogany table had a few nicks in it, and the cheaply upholstered chairs were faded, but it was clean and didn’t smell bad.  That whole wall would be so much better with a mural on it, she thought.  She could see a positive mural with muted colors and a scene of community interconnectedness.

Detective Gomez continued leafing through the folder in front of her.  Taylor tried to glimpse the papers, but the folder was at an angle that would not permit her to see its contents.

“Ms. Wayne, can you tell me what your occupation is?”

“I guess I don’t have a real occupation.  I tend bar at Le Bar a Vin downtown and paint.”

“What do you mean, paint?”

Snickering, Taylor replied, “Uh, canvas, oil, pictures?”

Unamused, Detective Gomez continued. “How long have you been working at Le Bar a Vin?”

Taylor stopped smiling.  Is this why I am here?  Do I need an attorney?  A swirl of possible responses intermingled with her thoughts of the possible mural, and she had to closer her eyes and think about her breathing.  Samantha would tell me one deep breath in, one deep breath out.  The thought of Samantha caused Taylor to laugh out loud.

Although Detective Gomez was startled, she didn’t show it,  Instead, she continued her intense gaze on Taylor and waited for Taylor to open her eyes.  “Something funny?” she asked.

For Taylor, the whole situation became comedic.  “I’m not an actual employee at Le Bar a Vin,” she started.  “I work there occasionally, sorta like a contract employee.  I have my bartender's license and a self-employment number.” Thank you, Sam, she thought.  “Most of my income I make through my art.  I have a show coming up, actually.”

Stairs, she thought.  I would paint those bricks like stairs descending down into a dark dungeon.  

Detective Gomez wished now that Detective Beck had come into the room with her.  She thought he handled the artsy types much better than her, but because he had insisted she do this alone, he must have had reason.  She looked through the case file again and thought about the actual information she wanted from Taylor Wayne.

“We’ll need proof of your employment,” she started, and then made a quick detour to gain control of the conversation.  “We will also need proof of residency.”

Taylor glanced sideways at Detective Gomez at that question.  When Taylor didn’t respond, Detective Gomez continued.  “Something with your name and address on it; a pay stub or utility bill.”

Silence engulfed the room for the first time since Taylor had entered, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything.  the image of the painted staircase slowly dissolved into the small bubble holes in the brick, taunting her in their ability to disappear.  Gone too were the images of her unfinished canvas sitting in the back storeroom of Le Bar a Vin and the finished projects waiting to be arranged for her upcoming show.  

“Residency?” she asked, hoping to prolong the attempted facade of her composure.

“Proof that you live somewhere, Ms. Wayne.”

The only proof of residency Taylor actually had put her living with Samantha almost four years ago.  The day she bolted from that life, she left everything behind, including her attempt at normalcy.  Since the day she left, her driver license expired and most of her other “mail” had been forwarded to a postal box by Samantha.  If residency was proved by having something with an address on it, then Taylor legally still lived with Samantha.  

Detective Gomez’s tactic worked.  Taylor’s mind clouded.

“The last residency we show for you had you living with Ileana Rostakovich; is that correct?”

Ileana? she thought.  She tried to order her thoughts.  “Samantha Vickers,” she responded.

She had clearly seen Samantha leaving down the hall when she entered, but she couldn’t put things in order.  “I used to live with Samantha.”

“And your current address?”

“I don’t really have one.  I stay with some friends on the west side sometimes.”  And sometimes I sleep on the floor at Le Bar a Vin, or at the homeless camp near the river.  Sometimes, I even stay with Ileana.

“And you haven’t been staying with Ileana Rostakovich?” asked Detective Beck.

Slowly, like a dense fog on the surface of water, the voices crept into her thoughts.  Each one distinct and loud.

If you tell them about Ileana, they will take you away, echoed the voices.

Careful, think about the picture you want to paint and choose your colors wisely.

All the leaves are brown…….

I see a red door and I want to paint it black …

The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out…..

They’re all gonna laugh at you…

Detective Gomez glanced at the mirrored window behind her briefly and gave Detective Beck that look that asked, What do I do now? As she waited briefly for the hall door to open, she glanced through the case file again.  But the door didn’t open, and she knew she was on her own.

“Ms. Wayne?  Would you like some water?”

Touch nothing, take nothing, the voices commanded.  Taylor pulled her hands into her long sleeves and began to wipe the surface of the table where she had rested her hands earlier.

Touch nothing, take nothing.

“No!”

Drawing a deep breath, Detective Gomez continued.

“Tell me about your upcoming show.”

“Show?” Taylor asked.  “My show?”

“Yes, you said you had a show coming up soon.  What gallery?”

“Oh, the gallery,” Taylor fumbled, slowly inching her way through the fog.  “The gallery.  It’s, uh, the Weinstein Gallery; have you heard of it?”

Detective Gomez thought she had heard of it before, but wasn’t sure.  “Is that in the warehouse district?” she asked.

“Yes!” Taylor almost sang.  “Shubert Weinstein is the owner.”

Then, Detective Gomez remembered how she had heard the name before.  “That’s a very swank gallery, Ms. Wayne.  You must be very good.”  She made a note in the file about the gallery name, and focused on Taylor.

“Tell me about the pieces in the exhibit.”

As the fog retreated, Taylor could refocus her attention on her opening.  “My favorite is an impressionist piece of the city skyline.  It’s oil on canvas about 6 x 4.  I hope it sells.”

“Maybe I can make the opening,” Detective Gomez said off-handedly.

“You can’t,” Taylor said.  “It’s by invitation only.”

“Surely it will be open for a while; maybe I’ll catch the show before it closes.”

Taylor thought about this.  “Yea, after the opening night, it will showcase for two weeks.  You won’t need an invite for that.”

“Will you invite your friends to the opening?” Detective Gomez asked.

“Of course,” Taylor answered.  Even Ileana and Samantha.

Because she felt the rapport had been finally established, Detective Gomez decided to try again.  “Ms. Wayne, I should’ve told you when you first came in why I wanted to talk to you.  I need some information about your friend, Ileana.”

Calmed, Taylor looked at the detective and smiled.

“Ileana?”

“Can you tell me when you saw her last?”

“Ileana and I spend our Sundays together.  I just saw her a couple days ago,” Taylor said.

“What can you tell me about her past?”

Here, Taylor had nothing to say. She knew very little about Ileana’s past.

“I don’t know alot about her past, actually,” Taylor said.  “I know there’s something there, but I was just a child then, and I didn’t meet her until I moved in with Samantha.”

“And yet, you spend Sundays with her?”

“We don’t talk about the past,” Taylor offered.  “Sometimes, the paint just needs to be covered over and began again.”

“Pardon?” Detective Gomez asked, unsure what Taylor meant.

“Sometimes, what you see cannot be explained.  So, you paint over it and start again.  On any canvas could be the beginning of something completely different,” Taylor said.

“What did your canvas look like before?” Detective Gomez asked.

Without losing a beat, Taylor added, “Mine was a mess.  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve painted over it.”

“And Ileana’s?”  

“Ileana’s canvas is full of holes.  She’s not even aware of the holes.  I think she painted over her canvas and it is still blank.  She hasn’t been able to add any new color.”

The pieces began to come together as Detective Beck realized that Taylor needed to speak in metaphors.  Her training in art would serve her well.  Glancing over her shoulder again at the mirrored window, she smiled at Detective Beck.

“Has Ileana ever said anything about those holes?”

“I know she plays the piano.  She actually plays well, and she knows alot about different composers.  She can talk music like I can talk art.”

“I’m afraid I know little about music,” Detective Gomez said.

“I don’t know much about it, either.  But when Ileana drinks too much, she will often talk about the way music moves.  I can usually follow her.”

Following that lead, Detective Gomez asked, “Who was Ileana’s favorite composer?”

“She doesn’t really have a favorite, but when she gets into a mood, she often hums this piece by Tchaikovsky.  I think she said once it was, uh, some number, maybe 5 or 6.  Something like that.”

Detective Beck wrote down that new information.

On the other side of the mirrored window, Detective Beck also made note of the new information and glanced through his own notes.  Ileana Rostakovich plays the piano and talks music.  Although he suspected this, he now had intimate knowledge to verify his suspicion.  As he stepped from the small observation room into the hallway, the light made him think about the light and shadows in a painting.

He knocked lightly on the interrogation door and entered.

“Detective Gomez, can I speak with you a moment outside?”

Taylor focused her attention back onto the small brick and imagined the painting she could create.