Waiting

There’s a derelict building I know of. I’m headed there right now. The subway car is jostling and I keep looking at people to see if they’re sneaking glances at me. I’m pretty sure the pregnant woman isn’t following me but the man in the brown coat is starting to return my stares. I look away.

Back in the twenties the building was Merrison Brothers Fine Furniture. I think it closed in the sixties or something, I don’t know, but for whatever reason the building still stands. It has a basement lined with old spaces that go back for a city block underground or so, with sub-basements that I believe were part of the underground railroad. It’s been abandoned for ages and is such a fixture in the neighborhood that people don’t even see it anymore. The odd squatter or group of teenagers might find their way in, but largely the place is ignored.

Four years ago I killed a man there and they still haven’t caught me. The why and how of it is unimportant, I guess, but I had my reasons. The short story is that after a little planning I put a checklist of events into play and my target wound up dead in the sub-basement of Merrison’s. That was that.

When you plan a murder you believe you’ve covered all the bases, but what you can’t prepare for is the waiting. I waited for the body to be discovered, which took about a week or so. Then I waited for news stories about the investigation. Then I waited for the inevitable knock at the door. The police would find that I had a motive and come around for an interview. I was ready for it, I spent most of my time rehearsing my answers and knowing my alibi inside and out.

Yes, I know he was found dead.

Yes, I’ll admit we had our differences.

No, I don’t know where I was... wait, was that a Monday? Because Monday’s my bowling night.

And so forth.

The police didn’t visit me. They say most murders are solved within the first two days so obviously those days were hard to wait through, but the next few weeks were worse. I didn’t want to settle into feeling that I was safe so I kept rehearsing my answers and making a show of going about my day-to-day life. Living like this is like tensing every muscle at once and smiling. It doesn’t get easier, you just get weary and carry on. It took me a while to realize how I was straining to hear footsteps in the hall, holding my breath and waiting for them to stop outside my door. It took me even longer to realize I wasn’t eating much. My cheeks are falling into my face and my eyes are darkly ringed.

Once, last year, there were footsteps that approached my door and stopped. I stood up from my cold dinner and waited. There were two knocks. I didn’t flinch at all, I just walked to the door and opened it with a smile. It was only two nice young men from the local church group. I invited them in and we talked. They said they hadn’t heard of the murder at the old Merrison Brothers building.

Before the murder I would watch the TV shows about forensics and murder investigations as research. There are so many things, little telltale signs your face or speech can give up in interviews. So many loose ends you may have left behind at the scene. I can’t watch these shows anymore. The confidence of the detectives makes my face hot.

I step off the train and stand behind a pillar. The man with the brown coat doesn’t follow me. I’m satisfied and walk up the stairs, beginning to wonder if he’s now using a radio to signal another officer that I’m leaving the platform. I continue to glance at people as I pass. I head south.

It took me five months to revisit the scene of the crime. That seemed like long enough. When I left the building that first time I remembered feeling sure that there would be a line of police cars on the street. A voice on a bullhorn would be shouting at me to get down on the ground. There wasn’t, but as I went home I kept thinking these things would be just around the next corner. When I got home I collapsed against my wall, shuddering.

I don’t like to think about how it felt walking home that day, but I do. All the time.

I walk up to the Merrison building and slip in past a piece of loose plywood. The air here is sour with neglected brickwork, dust on dust on discarded soda cans on more dust. I walk across the show floor. Light filters in filthily through broken windows and shows me mattresses, candy wrappers, crack pipes and endless drink containers.

This is just about the only place I feel even vaguely comfortable anymore. I visit more and more frequently.

At the top of the stairs I dig out my flashlight. The polite crisp of my steps on the gritty stone carries here, echoing off the unseen walls. There’s no other sound. I find the side door to the sub-basement. This passageway is much smaller and I have to stoop in the cramped staircase to descend.

Here the ceiling is close and I continue stooping to avoid the cobwebs that hang in gossamer drapes. They are so, so still. To allow my air to stir them would be unthinkable. I make my way across the space and stand by the far wall.

The body’s chalk outline faded within months, but someone had traced it with spraypaint. Kids and their morbid fascinations. The paint is a little dustier now but still shines redly up from the old stone. The outline lay in the same awkward pose I’d left the body. You could tell the legs were bent a bit at the knees, but otherwise it looked like a man doing a jumping jack. Or a child making a snow angel.

Do my victim’s loved ones think about how long the police are taking in solving this case? I think about that often. I whisper “They’re still working on leads, and if I’m not careful, they’ll find me.” When I tell myself that it’s always meant to be alarming, to remind me to be on my guard. It’s not alarming me anymore. The whisper’s echo hums in the quiet room. Sound is unwelcome here.

I sit down, cross my legs and prop my head up with my hands. I stare at the body’s outline and time unfolds before me. It will be hours before I decide to stand up and go back to my everyday life. I might even return later in the week.

God, I am tired. I am so very bone-tired.

Reaching down, I rub at the body’s outline with my thumb. The spray paint doesn’t smudge. I bunch my coat cuff and scrub at it. It doesn’t lighten in the least.

The paint is permanent.

This is permanent.

This is all permanent.