Clarence closes his leather notebook with the pen still inside and wraps the worn cord around it. He can keep track from inside his house, or he can keep track from outside his house. Given that the police will knock on his door soon enough, he may as well glean more information directly from the horses’ mouths.
He grabs the long-handled umbrella he pretends is for rain and not because he’s too stubborn to get a cane, then steps into the bright sun and calamity of the crime scene his neighbor’s yard has become.
One of the male officers scribbles on an office supply store notepad as people talk to him. He glances up, nods, writes; rinse and repeat, just like Clarence.
Most of his neighbors beat him to the punch, already closing in on Kore and Leo’s home. They politely nod to him—not wanting to make the moment social in any way—while a plain-faced female officer is none-too-politely pushing back onlookers coming from nearby streets to gawk at the cul de sac's tragedy.
Clarence steps to the far edge of the tape and listens to the smitten doughy officer go over what he knows. “The wife was on the phone with her sister—Persephone and Moira, respectively. Persephone goes by Kore. The husband was out getting the mail. The husband’s name was Leo. Kore said he’d been gone for too long, and she was concerned. When Kore went outside, she found him like that.” The officer hitches a stub of a thumb towards the body with a blonde in a lab coat hovering over it. “The victim has been stabbed, but Linda is still trying to figure out how many times.” Clarence jots down that Linda must be the medical examiner. “Kore tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—said she knew he was dead, but she quote, ‘had to try; he’s my husband.’ Then she screamed until two neighbors came out. The caller was her neighbor Clarence Neddermeyer at 593. Have you heard the 9-1-1 call yet? Calling her a vampire and the like? It does paint a picture. Anyhow, he said very little and hung up. Never did say his name, though. But he’s the only one who lives at that address. He just wanted on and off the phone quickly, is what I think. Sometimes you don’t have time for pleasantries. On the other hand, maybe he just didn’t want to get involved, wanted to keep his name out of it. Can’t blame him. The other neighbor… Um, Ninny. Yes, Ninny—over there—waited with Kore; she lives in the pink house across the way.” The officer is clearly pleased with himself, as if his summary was exceptional.
The detectives find it adequate, nod once, and wander to the front stoop where Kore is sobbing loudly.
Clarence uses the moment to sneak to the mailbox. I shouldn’t touch it, but it’s open. He sighs with relief. Not needing to worry about fingerprints, he glances at it from the side and the front. Nothing out of the ordinary—a bill, a credit card offer, mailers. While everyone seems occupied, he sneaks a balled-up hand past the mail to the small listening device in the back. He pulls it back and slips it into his pocket. That could have been a major problem for him.
Taking stock of his surroundings, Clarence notices that Ninny is wearing a sky blue pajama set with clouds, even at this almost afternoon hour. Geraldine’s husband is home this week, which is the first time in three weeks and two days, if Clarence recalls correctly. Linh has a full face of makeup plastered in place—more around her left cheek and the bridge of her nose—and her hair is pulled back in the severe ponytail it usually is. Clarence clenches the handle of his umbrella. I’ve offered to help.
He’s just begun to move towards Constantine and her two homeschooled teenagers, dressed in too-short pants and faded t-shirts, when he hears the Asian detective introduce herself to Kore. Leo’s blood is coagulating on her shirt, drying on her skin, crusting off of her mouth and cheeks.
“Detective Charlotte Park,” she says. Clarence wonders if it’s as odd as he thinks it is that she gives her first name too. Maybe it’s to humanize her—another note for the book.
The detectives are sorry for her loss. To that, Kore’s mute.
Slowly, Clarence moves towards the large tree that separates Kore and Leo’s house and a neighbor’s. Behind it, he can hear much better.
“When you can, tell us what happened in your own words.” The female detective—Detective Charlotte Park—has a pleasant voice, soft but strong with a hint of Korean influence.
Kore takes her time answering, swallowing hard before she begins. “We were watching television when my sister Moira called. We’d just finished a documentary about…” Kore’s volume drops to a whisper, and a sardonic laugh accompanies her free-falling tears. They darken the drying blood on her face.
The detective responds. She and her partner—name still unknown—fade in and out in a volume Clarence can barely hear. Kore’s head droops from scorned child to doll with a broken neck as they speak; flattened curls dangle into her swollen, horror movie poster face.
Composing herself, Kore starts again, “I started talking… He was only supposed to be gone for five…” Kore’s voice rises with anger, as she says, “I figured he was talking to a neighbor.” As quickly as she puffed, she deflates like a balloon.
“Take your time,” Ginger says supportively.
“I walked past the window… I didn’t see… But it was taking a while…” Kore hiccups, and sobs wrack her body.
“… calling his name. He wasn’t moving, and there was blood…” She either gets quiet or goes silent for a moment, and Clarence can no longer hear her. He already feels lucky for what he’s been able to hear. It’s much more than expected.
It takes him a moment to realize why. At first, he figures the scene is understaffed. That thought is quelled quickly as he realizes more police have arrived; they are fending off reporters. Clarence must have snuck in under the wire, which means that at any moment, he’ll be exposed.
“Let me through! I’m her sister!” A woman Clarence knows to be Kore’s sister Moira rushes through the growing mass of people. “We were on the phone together! Oh, God! Leo…” Moira’s voice breaks.
Out of view, Clarence only knows that she stops talking.
He hazards one last glance at a crying Kore. Moira, still mute with shock, is holding her hand.
Another wave of tears stream down, and Kore pushes a stubborn, sticky curl behind her ear. “… I was just screaming for help… anyone to save… husb—” Hiccuping sobs cut her short, and for a moment, she’s lost in grief. After taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she continues. “Who am I without him? Why would I want to stay if he’s…?” Kore spaces out with that, as if imagining a world without them in it. “It took so long… so fucking long before anyone came… Or… not? Maybe I… How can this be happening?”
As Kore talks, Clarence notices the red on her teeth. He guesses it’s from laying her face on Leo’s bloodied chest. The color reminds him of the time she ate an elf cookie at the cul de sac's annual ugly sweater cookie party, and its decoration stained her mouth. Everyone had a good laugh about Thom going behind Sarah to add more food coloring. This taints that memory.
Clarence imagines what the photos the press are furiously snapping will look like—a woman with blood on her shirt, hands, face, lips, and even on her teeth. If anything encourages the press to call her a “vampire,” capturing this moment will do it. He knows this is partially his fault. Especially since Clarence went and put the words right into their mouths. His 9-1-1 call, the police scanner, they all spur people that listen to and follow accident reports like hounds.
JNW News, the most famous news station in the city, has sent their best and brightest to report: Phillip Greaves. He’s telling what is sure to be a captive audience the little that he knows, while three other vaguely familiar newscasters do the same, and a wiry woman with wet, stringy hair screams something unintelligible at Kore. That’s Clarence’s cue.
He slips away, weaving through the reporters and onlookers, neighbors and near-neighbors. By the time he’s made it across the street to his house, Kore is being driven away by the police, Moira’s little blue car following closely behind.
More than half of the neighbors and press disperse as soon her head of curly hair in the back of the police car is out of sight. Now that The Vampire Widow is gone, what’s the point in sticking around? He pictures Kore’s face covered in Leo’s blood on the front of every newspaper in the city, the headline story for every local news station. It may not be as remarkable as some other crimes happening at this very moment, but the visuals are stunning. The few times that he leaves the house, Clarence doesn’t want to see Kore’s bloody face plastered all over the city.
After the circus has become a small county fair, Clarence is addressed by the pleasant voice he heard only moments ago. He knew it would happen, but he hoped he would have time to prepare.
“Hello. Do you live around here?” Detective Charlotte Park asks, sidling up beside him.
Clarence tugs at his jacket’s zipper, pulling it up to cover the last two inches of his saggy skin. “Yes, ma’am. I live here. I’m the one that called.” Clarence knows he might as well admit it. They have his name and address. Please don’t search my house.
“Sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Detective Charlotte Park says.
“Clarence Neddermeyer.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Neddermeyer. I’m Detective Park, and this is my partner, Detective Haddon.” Clarence notes the absence of first names. At least he knows Ginger’s name now.
A square jaw bone attached to a flat forehead nods. “Yes, nice to meet you.”
“Tell us, Mr. Neddermeyer, what made you call 9-1-1?” Detective Park asks.
Tucking a piece of too-long brittle gray hair behind his ear, he says, “I heard Kore screaming about Leo being stabbed. I wasn’t sure if anyone else had called. I thought that we didn’t need another Kitty Genovese case—especially not with such a lovely couple.” Damnit. Clarence didn’t mean to make it sound like he would be okay with it in another circumstance with a less lovely couple. Detective Haddon’s face has turned hard with the comment, and Clarence knows this isn’t going well, so he says, “But I wasn’t out already.”
“Do you remember what time that was?” Detective Park asks.
Yes. 11:43. “Don’t you have that in a report?” Clarence asks back. He recognizes too late that it’s a snarkier question than he meant it to be. Oh, well. What’s done is done.
“Of course. I was just wondering if you glanced at your stove clock on the way out, or maybe you were wearing a watch,” Detective Park suggests, smoothing a flyaway hair from her tight ponytail.
“No, sorry, Detective,” Clarence says. He stretches and fakes a wince, aiming to appear as if he feels as old as he looks. Neither of them believe him; he can tell.
Detective Haddon redirects. “What can you tell us about the Hockins couple?”
Phillip Greaves sees the detectives spending time with Clarence and inches closer with his microphone outstretched.
Dropping his voice a little, Clarence says, “Fine neighbors. Leo’s a good man. Kore’s nice enough—a loud personality, at times.” He chews on his cheek for a moment. In a neighborhood like this one, he suspects they will get more opinions than anything. That doesn’t mean he’ll share his notebook. “Glad I could help,” Clarence adds unprompted, hoping they’ll let him go sooner. The longer he stays outside, the harder it will be to recount the scene inside. He leans on his umbrella, trying to look tired and pained.
“Us too,” Detective Park says with a smile. “We have a few more questions but don’t want to keep you on your feet. May we come in? It shouldn’t take too long.”
Clarence can’t believe he didn’t think about that. Of course they would still want to ask him things. And now, he has to either suddenly pretend he isn’t feeble or allow them into his house. Then again, with JNW News hovering, the detectives may have insisted either way.
Clarence thinks about the downstairs of his house, scans the furniture and floor in his mind, looking for notebooks or listening devices. He’s almost certain it’s free of anything that could make him look guilty of anything except forgetting to dust. That’s been a problem of his since he was a child, so there’s nothing unusual there.
“Of course,” he says, leading the way.
When they get to the stoop, he scrubs his shoes on the holiday mat in front of the door, hoping to indicate that the detectives should do the same. They follow suit, and Clarence sees the Easter Bunny’s face get marred with dirt clods from Detective Park’s ankle boots.
Inside, simple couches and standard four-legged, flat-topped side tables greet them. The coffee table in the center of the room boasts a perfect watermark. Three framed postcards of boats hang above the couch like stair steps into a backyard—stubby and uneven. There are no other frills in Clarence’s living room. As he waits for their first move, he knows they are taking note of this.
Detective Park speaks first. She smooths back the same flyaway from moments before, still desperate to break free of her ponytail. “Why don’t you tell us about this afternoon? Start from what you were doing before you heard Mrs. Hockins.”
“I was reading,” Clarence says. “I like silence when I read, and this is a quiet cul de sac, so that’s pretty easy to get in the middle of the day. I heard her scream and looked out the window. Then I called 9-1-1.”
They wait; Clarence says nothing. They still wait, now in a stalemate. As far as he’s concerned, that’s all there is.
“Why didn’t you go wait with her?” Detective Haddon asks.
“When I looked out after I got off the phone, Ninny was already there. They are much closer, so I thought it might overwhelm her.”
Detective Park points out that Clarence came out when they arrived—not when the responding offers did. I’m supposed to go unnoticed.
Scratching at a dark skin tag on his neck, he says, “Right. In case you needed me.”
“So, are you not close with the Hockins?” Detective Park asks in an accusatory way.
“We’re friendly,” Clarence says.
“What about your other neighbors?” Detective Haddon asks, with only a glance towards his partner.
The question is open to interpretation, so Clarence keeps it simple. “We’re friendly too,” he says, steadying his speeding heartbeat by thinking of his upstairs room and bookshelves filled with notebooks. “I keep to myself. But I do join in the reindeer games for potlucks and barbecues.” Insert sad smile. Nothing to see here. I’m just a sad old hermit.