Rorschach's Journal, March 23rd, 2009

Rorschach’s Journal, 1:21am, Monday

Waiting in the shadows outside Sandra Whitaker house. Starting to get anxious. Want to get this confrontation going. It was apparent that no one but me wanted to right the wrong that this woman has done. No one really cares to, other than myself, and perhaps her daughter. I know very little of Shari Whitaker’s life, however, it was apparent by her reaction the other night that she loved her father.

I stood behind the house in the bushes of the dark back yard. I had been all over the backyard looking for the best access. Stupidly, the house has a trellis climbing up its brick. Barren, with nothing growing on it. It had been too cold for anything substantial to grow yet.

Small balcony on second floor. Only room in the house that emitted light. Was she laying in wait? Should I go up into a different room? And find what? It was impossible to search for traps from behind closed doors. It would have to be a surprise entry this way. Fortunately, there was no dog. It would have been barking by now.

Quietly I scaled the trellis, easily. I threw a leg around the wrought iron of the balcony rail and hopped over with nary a sound. I peaked in, able to see fairly easily through the white sheer curtains. The television was on, fairly loudly. A large overstuffed chair sat with its back to the glass balcony doors. By it an end table with a fancy lamp and a half empty glass of liquid. Looked to be alcohol of some kind. Typical. Typical washed up, has been reaction to stressors.

No one was in the room, at least by the angle I could see. A table and some chairs were in the way of the full view of the opulent looking room. I tried the door handle. Unlocked. I turned the handle and looked in as I slowly stepped forward. No one was there, except for Survivor blaring on the mind rotting television.

Gently I crept deeper into the room. Circling around the coffee table, I came upon a startling surprise. There, on the fine Persian rug laid Jace. Motionless. Face down. The rug beneath his torso was soaked in dried blood. I silently moved toward him, cautiously. I poked at his side. He was stone cold. The blood on the carpet was black as was his bloody bandaged wounds from the finger breaking the other night. It would appear that Jace had been dead for a few days, and there was a very faint rancid smell, like the smell of a carcass that had been killed on the road.

“Hey! I see you, I know you’re there!” A crazed drunken screech sounded as Sandra Whitaker leaped clumsily from an adjoining room.

I stopped and stood calmly, and took a step in her direction. “You’ve killed him. Murderers all around in here.”

“Jace told me he’d seen you two days ago.” She scowled. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but he told me you hurt a lot of people that night. And that you were looking for me. That the idiot admitted that I hired him to kill Jack.” She said as she raised a gun and pointed it in my direction.
I stopped and stood there, scanning the room with only my eyes. Fortunately she could not see that through the black and white that was my face.

“Suppose you tell me what you’ve done?” I said, my raspy voice cutting the air.

“And what, confess?’ She scoffed, “Right, confess to you? You don’t look like a cop to me, ass.” She paused, “Oh what the hell.” She said as she sidled up to the end table and took a hand off her gun. She reached for her drink and took a deep swallow. “You know, it just figures that Jack Riley would come back to screw me from the grave, such as it is.’ She laughed darkly. “All wet in death as he was in life. Now somewhere between DC and the Chesapeake bay.” She laughed.

“You had him killed?” I questioned.

“Of course! He was an idiot! Always screwing up. Living off my coat tails, off my daddy’s money. Even after the divorce!” She said as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and placed her hand back on the gun. “I told him I wanted the Doni Tondo, and what the hell does he get for me? The stupid sketch of the 'The Libyan Sibyl'.” She spat and pointed generally at a rolled up paper on the nearby coffee table, “What the hell am I going to do with that? I have dozens of sketches.”

“You do know that’s priceless.” I added.

“Shut up!” She screamed at the top of her voice and waived the gun around, crazily. “What the hell do you know about art? Oh God, I arranged to have that worthless show here just to get that one painting, and that idiot husband of mine messed it up.” She twitched her eye, “And then that daughter of mine. Getting hooked up with that piece of trash. “ She waived the gun at the body of Jace. “Son of a bitch. I knew he’d do anything for money. Why the hell else do you think he was screwing around with my daughter?” She smiled crookedly, Sandra stumbled a little. “For the right amount of money Jace could get rid of my idiot husband after that mistake and shut Shari’s mouth at the same time. I just hadn’t counted on him coming in here and demanding more money. Bastard got cocky. Said he’d report me. So I killed him.” Her eye twitched, “And I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting, for two days for you. You didn’t’ show, you tortured me. Every little noise, every little twig out there I thought was you!” She said, frenzied.

I took a step forward. She waived the gun at me.

Truly, I could take her at any time, however, I was interested in her reasons for her actions.

She started to cry, and panned wild wide open eyes across the room, “I told that little brat to grow up and harden up, like I had to.” She said, jumping from topic to topic, “But stupid little whore wouldn’t listen. Claimed I was suffocating her. Can you imagine? Suffocating her with what, my money?” She smiled and laughed again. Deranged. “And you know what I’m going to do now, weirdo? I’m going to kill you too. What’s one more body, right?”
At this point I had had more than my fill of lunatic rambling and stepped forward briskly and reached for the gun.

“No! No you aren’t going to win this one, you son of a bitch.” She said as she backed up and pulled the gun hammer back.

I stopped just as an inner door started to open, distracting me. “NO!” I shouted as it was Shari who unexpectedly opened it.

“Mom? What the hell is going on?”

Sandra, drunk, crazy, flailed the gun at me again, but too was distracted by the sudden interruption and pulled the trigger. Shari went down in a heap. “Dammit no!” I shouted as I lunged forward and planted a fist across Sandra’s arm. Made her drop the gun. The old woman fell down to the floor in a heap as well, a sobbing slobbering mess.

For a moment I ignored her and went to Shari’s side. “Keep breathing, Shari.” I said as I held up her head. She only whispered “It’s you, you helped me. Why, why did Mom shoot me?” as she fell limp. Her shoulder was damaged badly, though she was still breathing.

“NOOOOOOOOOO” Sandra screeched from behind me. “Noooo!” She sobbed, “Oh God, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t’ mean to shoot Shari.” She screamed, her make up running off her face as she knelt, gun back in hand. “Honey, get up, get up Shari!”

I stood to my full height and took two long strides toward Sandra who then pointed the gun up and under her own chin, “Oh God, I’ve killed my baby.” She winced as she pulled the trigger before I could get to her.
There I stood. Three bodies in the living room. A spray of blood and grey matter on the wall. And none of it by my hand. A witness who could never come forward. Shari was dying by the moment, and a rage in me surged. Another child, mentally abused, now suffering, dying. It was all coming back to me, speeding toward me and running me over. But I wasn’t going to let this horrible mother have the last word. I wasn’t going to let Shari die. Who would speak for her if I couldn’t. I looked around the room, my heart racing. The rolled up Michelangelo sketch. Michelangelo would speak for Shari.

I took the sketch, unrolled it, and laid it near Sandra’s body, away from the oozing blood. The sketch, in her possession, would tell the truth. The truth that it was for this all this blood was shed. I only hoped that Shari, if she lived, would realize that I had been on her side.

Then, quickly, I picked up the phone, my leather gloves concealing my fingerprints and dialed 911. Putting the phone receiver on the table, I then looked at the room one more time before walking back through the balcony door and closing it silently behind me. Quickly down the trellis and in a moment I was away from the scene of the crime, hoping that Shari would make it, suspecting in my stomach she would not.

Much excitement for one day, almost like the old days. Yet oddly felt like failure. Must get back home to feed James.

For now, Rorschach