It was late evening when Rocco and Zanna ushered James Pascus into the police car. Zanna looked unfocused and anxious; her movements were feverish, thrilled from excitement. It was her first arrest on this task force, and she wanted to do it by the book to make a good impression.
Rocco decided he needed to talk to Zanna about remaining calm during arrests and how all the “police business” worked, but he realized he was wrong when, after five minutes of his lecture, the color drained from Zanna’s face, and she asked, “Did I do something wrong, Detective Benedetti?”
After that, she seemed incapable of listening at all. They drove in complete silence. What made the situation worse was that James Pascus commented about the places they had passed. To Rocco, the forty-five-minute drive from Hoofdweg—a peaceful sleeping street in the middle of charming Mijdrecht—to the buzzing Burgwallen’s police station seemed like the drive from Hell.
He felt surrounded from one side—by the joyless face of Zanna, cold and dark, locked in the labyrinth of Hades—and from the other side—by the verbal diarrhea of an odd guy in the back, who was slowly and brutally killing each sight of his favorite places with his wicked remarks.
“Stai zitto!” Rocco yelled, unable to restrain himself.
Zanna shrank lower in her seat. Rocco noticed it and immediately regretted his breakdown. He put his hand on Zanna’s and said, “Sorry.”
They brought James to the station and, without wasting much time, took him to the interrogation room, where Nura should carry out the questioning. But Nura had a change of heart at the last minute, which had happened more often in the past six months. She asked Rocco Benedetti to take her place instead.
“All right.” Rocco had regained his confidence and mood after the long ride. “What is it with you and the mirrors?”
He noticed how Nura shuddered. She quietly said, “Why do you think I’ve got a problem?”
Rocco shifted his legs, checked his watch, and muttered, “You don’t have any mirrors in your flat. At least, none that I could find. You’re a woman. You’re supposed to love mirrors.”
There was a brief hesitation, then Nura took a deep breath and seemed to bring herself under control. She replied, “Some women don’t like mirrors. Broaden your horizons, Benedetti, and understand that not all women are alike... And I guess I have a big enough mouth; I don’t need any mirror to find them.”
Rocco was about to answer when his phone buzzed. “Sorry, it’s my fiancée. I have to take it.”
After Rocco left for his desk, he glanced back at Nura Cocasse and noticed how confused she looked, how she dialed the number on her phone with trembling fingers, and how she sighed after a short conversation. Still, she was the same Nura he’d always known—daring and smart.
Rocco’s phone beeped again. He answered the second call and promised the female voice on the other end that he would visit her after work. The voice belonged to a journalist, Leye Ogundimisi.
After the short conversation, he sat at his desk, thinking about how to protect himself if his late meetings with a journalist came to light. Rocco suspected that Gail had seen him with Leye on one of the terraces at the Canvas Club, which had panoramic views. It happened two weeks ago, long before the murder of Maryssa Goldsmyth.
Rocco told himself many times it couldn’t be Gail; after all, the music was oriented toward a crowd of young fashion artists and musicians. The image haunted Rocco whenever his path crossed with the Sergeant at work. He knew today was a day to face his fears after all, and it would be in the most demanding place, an interrogation room, where they’d be questioning a potential murderer. He stood up, rubbed his sweating hands, and sighed.
“So, James. James Pascus, twenty-seven years old, originally from Lexington, Nebraska. I believe what the ID card says is true. We just pulled your records, and it doesn’t look good. Assault, burglary, insurance fraud. Should I continue, boy?” Sergeant Gail began.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“What are you doing here in Amsterdam, James?” Rocco stood up and turned his back to the mirror. He knew Nura was there, behind the screen, watching.
“Living. Working. What else?”
Rocco continued, “Traveling? We have spoken with your employer at the café Stilla Hav, Mr. Beekhof. He told us you arrived from Stockholm last November.”
“Yes. I lived there for a year or so. I fell in love, so I stayed.”
“Is it so?” Gail grinned, rocking in his chair. “Let me ask you about your ex-missus. In this thick folder, I’ve got a document about your criminal life… Aha, here it is! Ida Berg, the owner of a bookshop in the old town of Stockholm. You lived together until her death on October 12th, one year ago.”
“Yes. Is that a crime? It was pure, spiritual love. She supported my life views and transition, which united us and made us great friends.”
“Okay, tell me more about that transition. Humor me,” Gail insisted.
“There’s nothing to tell. And don’t listen to her daughter, Astrid. She always despised me, or people like me.”
“Tell us your truth then... It might help us understand what really happened,” Rocco encouraged.
He didn’t expect to hear the answer. When James began to share his story, bit by bit, it shocked not only Rocco himself but also insensitive Gail.
“I am transgender. I was born in Norway as a girl, and for many years, I’ve wanted the outside to match what was inside. I grew up in a conservative family with a father who drank when he didn’t work and a submissive mother. She was also a follower of the Methodist movement, a religious practice derived from the teachings of John Wesley.I always knew I was different, but I couldn’t begin to describe it for myself and others until I was ten years old. When I told my mother, she forced me to pray to God on my knees every day. She told me that if I continued to pretend and play like a boy, I’d cause problems in the community.I understand; my mother lived all her life in a small town where people knew each other and worked hard. Still, I was convinced that one day everything would change, and I would wake up in a different world as another person.” James stopped and moved the glass of water closer, but he didn’t drink it. He looked inside, sliding the half-full glass left and right between his fingers. “I was naïve. With time, I hated myself and my family. I didn’t want to wake up. My dreams were more beautiful than my reality, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that I was still there, surrounded by the same old prejudice. I saw a couple of therapists during my teenage years who didn’t care much about my condition or unhappiness. Every day, every wish, and every second, I dreamed of selling my soul to anyone who’d help me become a real man. My imagination would destroy me mentally if I didn’t meet a wonderful girl. She became my friend. I could spend hours in her house, and you may think I’m exaggerating, but after a couple of months, my mental trauma vanished. For the first time, I felt happy; I felt understood. You are probably asking yourselves: How? Well, I did what she suggested: I started with my clothes. I moved everything floral, bright, and girly to the back of my closet. My mother noticed it, but I had a great supporter who pushed me further and further, explaining that there’s no going back. She chose a masculine name for me: James. I cut my hair short and created a couple of online accounts in which I represented myself as male. I still had bad, dysphoric days, but those were few and far between.”
“I don’t know what to say, James. There’s no mention of it in your files,” Rocco said.
“Yes, perhaps because the troubles with the police force started when I had fully transitioned to a male. But let me finish... I truly enjoyed my new social life; it was like a game. But in reality, I was female. Suddenly, my parents died, and my aunt adopted me. May she rest in peace. She lived in the U.S., and she was the one who helped me with therapy—the medical part. Later on came hormones, surgery, and the whole process. Finally, after four years, I reached the point where I felt comfortable in my own skin. I was free.”
“That was a great story about your past, but I’d like to return to the present, Mr. Pascus. Your alibi in Stockholm was provided by…” Gail began harshly, then put on his glasses and checked the folder. “Charlotte Block, twenty-three at the time. She said in her statement, and I quote here, ‘We had a passionate night from 10:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. James was like an iceberg of devotion. We made love many times during that night.’ Hmm, it looks like you are a pro in that romantic field. Detective Benedetti is a bit similar, I guess. He might believe this bullshit story about a girl wanting to become a boy, but not me. You know what? I don’t give a damn! I’m not a psychotherapist, and this is not a mental health clinic.”
Rocco coughed. “You don’t need to be so rude, Gail. James went through hell during his teen years; we must see the whole picture.”
“Really? Look who’s talking. I like pictures, Rocco. I’ve got some here on my phone. I took them inside the Canvas Club. Would you like to see them?” Gail turned to Rocco, lowered his glasses, and bared his yellow teeth in a malicious smile. “No? Okay then, let me continue. Hm. So, would you like to know how I see it? It’s elementary: you and Charlotte Block killed Ida Berg and gave each other a perfect alibi. You can’t fool an old cop like me, Mr. Pascus.”
Would you like to be the first brave soul to receive completely unqualified "How NOT to Live" advice? Send you life story/or question about health to: noclueadvice@proton.me
“I want to speak with my lawyer. I am here with an open heart, officers, but you are poking around my dirty laundry and trying to make me confess to an old crime I have nothing to do with. I didn’t kill Ida!”
Rocco turned to the mirror with raised eyebrows, anticipating that Nura had also noticed Gail’s strange behavior. Afterward, he walked closer to the desk and sat beside the suspect.
“Okay, we believe you, James. Forget Ida. It was a long time ago; the case is closed. But...” Rocco put his finger in the air, imitating Gail, “Why don’t you tell us what being at a crime scene and following our officer the next day is all about?”
“I wasn’t following her. She jumped on me.”
"Don't make me go digging through photos from the crime scene and CCTV footage, Mr. Pascus. We're totally exhausted from all your lies today," Gail said, flipping through the folder.
“Please, James. What were you doing there?” Rocco refused to give up on his line of inquiry.
“I was walking down the street on my way from work to get a tram ride when I saw a large crowd standing around, and I joined them. That’s all.”
“Now we are getting somewhere. Thank God we are agreeing that reality exists!” Gail jumped up and clapped his hands. “Now to the easiest part: Why were you following our Detective around?”
James sighed and checked his reflection in the mirror before he opened his mouth, saying nothing. It was the last straw. Rocco watched Sergeant Gail put on a show of annoyance: he watched how Gail masterfully let his leg push the chair backward, how he brought both his open palms to the table, causing a violent sound to erupt.
“You killed her, didn’t you? You killed Marissa Goldsmyth, and you were following our Detective Cocasse to see how far she had come in implicating you as the killer!” Gail shouted.
“No! I didn’t kill her. I didn’t… I didn’t. What is Corck-arse? What is it? Is it a name?” The suspect sobbed.
“It’s a little bit late for remorse, don’t you think? Well, I’m off. No, you stay where you are, James. You are probably going to spend a loooong time in prison,” Gail said. “Detective Benedetti might be interested in your cries, but not me.”
Gail was about to leave the interrogation room when Rocco whispered, “I don’t think you did it, James.”
“Thank you for believing in me. I didn't kill anyone,” James replied.
“You were going to take off.” Rocco turned to Gail and pointed to the door.
“Oh, you want me gone now, Benedetti? Fine!” Gail looked shocked. “Sergeant Gail is leaving the room at 11:42 p.m.”
Rocco was satisfied. He smiled when he thought that even Nura, who watched the whole play from the observation room, wouldn’t tell whether this was a serious fight or a staged one.
I’ve been poking around in No Clue Land website, moving things, adding things, and generally pretending I have some plan... Three new DEPARTMENTS have appeared: TRAPPED IN FLESH (a tribute to the weirdness of having a body), WRITERS UNDER OBSERVATION (notes about writers and writing styles), SOMETHING HAPPENED (serialized fiction: crime or comedy).
Newsletter - sends once a week or bi-weekly (mostly about health). Side effects may include mild discomfort, and the sudden urge to Google your own organs or new words.
Mrs. Vegas’s eyes gravitated toward the towel; her soft longing was affecting me... I swallowed my suspicion, pretended I had lost my memory, and accepted the bride in my arms.
Explore the chaotic, absurd, and provocative world of Witold Gombrowicz, one of Poland’s most distinctive writers, known for his themes of immaturity, masks, form, and social rebellion.
CHAPTER 6.
It was late evening when Rocco and Zanna ushered James Pascus into the police car. Zanna looked unfocused and anxious; her movements were feverish, thrilled from excitement. It was her first arrest on this task force, and she wanted to do it by the book to make a good impression.
Rocco decided he needed to talk to Zanna about remaining calm during arrests and how all the “police business” worked, but he realized he was wrong when, after five minutes of his lecture, the color drained from Zanna’s face, and she asked, “Did I do something wrong, Detective Benedetti?”
After that, she seemed incapable of listening at all. They drove in complete silence. What made the situation worse was that James Pascus commented about the places they had passed. To Rocco, the forty-five-minute drive from Hoofdweg—a peaceful sleeping street in the middle of charming Mijdrecht—to the buzzing Burgwallen’s police station seemed like the drive from Hell.
He felt surrounded from one side—by the joyless face of Zanna, cold and dark, locked in the labyrinth of Hades—and from the other side—by the verbal diarrhea of an odd guy in the back, who was slowly and brutally killing each sight of his favorite places with his wicked remarks.
“Stai zitto!” Rocco yelled, unable to restrain himself.
Zanna shrank lower in her seat. Rocco noticed it and immediately regretted his breakdown. He put his hand on Zanna’s and said, “Sorry.”
They brought James to the station and, without wasting much time, took him to the interrogation room, where Nura should carry out the questioning. But Nura had a change of heart at the last minute, which had happened more often in the past six months. She asked Rocco Benedetti to take her place instead.
“All right.” Rocco had regained his confidence and mood after the long ride. “What is it with you and the mirrors?”
He noticed how Nura shuddered. She quietly said, “Why do you think I’ve got a problem?”
Rocco shifted his legs, checked his watch, and muttered, “You don’t have any mirrors in your flat. At least, none that I could find. You’re a woman. You’re supposed to love mirrors.”
There was a brief hesitation, then Nura took a deep breath and seemed to bring herself under control. She replied, “Some women don’t like mirrors. Broaden your horizons, Benedetti, and understand that not all women are alike... And I guess I have a big enough mouth; I don’t need any mirror to find them.”
Rocco was about to answer when his phone buzzed. “Sorry, it’s my fiancée. I have to take it.”
After Rocco left for his desk, he glanced back at Nura Cocasse and noticed how confused she looked, how she dialed the number on her phone with trembling fingers, and how she sighed after a short conversation. Still, she was the same Nura he’d always known—daring and smart.
Rocco’s phone beeped again. He answered the second call and promised the female voice on the other end that he would visit her after work. The voice belonged to a journalist, Leye Ogundimisi.
After the short conversation, he sat at his desk, thinking about how to protect himself if his late meetings with a journalist came to light. Rocco suspected that Gail had seen him with Leye on one of the terraces at the Canvas Club, which had panoramic views. It happened two weeks ago, long before the murder of Maryssa Goldsmyth.
Rocco told himself many times it couldn’t be Gail; after all, the music was oriented toward a crowd of young fashion artists and musicians. The image haunted Rocco whenever his path crossed with the Sergeant at work. He knew today was a day to face his fears after all, and it would be in the most demanding place, an interrogation room, where they’d be questioning a potential murderer. He stood up, rubbed his sweating hands, and sighed.
“So, James. James Pascus, twenty-seven years old, originally from Lexington, Nebraska. I believe what the ID card says is true. We just pulled your records, and it doesn’t look good. Assault, burglary, insurance fraud. Should I continue, boy?” Sergeant Gail began.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“What are you doing here in Amsterdam, James?” Rocco stood up and turned his back to the mirror. He knew Nura was there, behind the screen, watching.
“Living. Working. What else?”
Rocco continued, “Traveling? We have spoken with your employer at the café Stilla Hav, Mr. Beekhof. He told us you arrived from Stockholm last November.”
“Yes. I lived there for a year or so. I fell in love, so I stayed.”
“Is it so?” Gail grinned, rocking in his chair. “Let me ask you about your ex-missus. In this thick folder, I’ve got a document about your criminal life… Aha, here it is! Ida Berg, the owner of a bookshop in the old town of Stockholm. You lived together until her death on October 12th, one year ago.”
“Yes. Is that a crime? It was pure, spiritual love. She supported my life views and transition, which united us and made us great friends.”
“Okay, tell me more about that transition. Humor me,” Gail insisted.
“There’s nothing to tell. And don’t listen to her daughter, Astrid. She always despised me, or people like me.”
“Tell us your truth then... It might help us understand what really happened,” Rocco encouraged.
He didn’t expect to hear the answer. When James began to share his story, bit by bit, it shocked not only Rocco himself but also insensitive Gail.
“I am transgender. I was born in Norway as a girl, and for many years, I’ve wanted the outside to match what was inside. I grew up in a conservative family with a father who drank when he didn’t work and a submissive mother. She was also a follower of the Methodist movement, a religious practice derived from the teachings of John Wesley.I always knew I was different, but I couldn’t begin to describe it for myself and others until I was ten years old. When I told my mother, she forced me to pray to God on my knees every day. She told me that if I continued to pretend and play like a boy, I’d cause problems in the community.I understand; my mother lived all her life in a small town where people knew each other and worked hard. Still, I was convinced that one day everything would change, and I would wake up in a different world as another person.” James stopped and moved the glass of water closer, but he didn’t drink it. He looked inside, sliding the half-full glass left and right between his fingers. “I was naïve. With time, I hated myself and my family. I didn’t want to wake up. My dreams were more beautiful than my reality, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that I was still there, surrounded by the same old prejudice. I saw a couple of therapists during my teenage years who didn’t care much about my condition or unhappiness. Every day, every wish, and every second, I dreamed of selling my soul to anyone who’d help me become a real man. My imagination would destroy me mentally if I didn’t meet a wonderful girl. She became my friend. I could spend hours in her house, and you may think I’m exaggerating, but after a couple of months, my mental trauma vanished. For the first time, I felt happy; I felt understood. You are probably asking yourselves: How? Well, I did what she suggested: I started with my clothes. I moved everything floral, bright, and girly to the back of my closet. My mother noticed it, but I had a great supporter who pushed me further and further, explaining that there’s no going back. She chose a masculine name for me: James. I cut my hair short and created a couple of online accounts in which I represented myself as male. I still had bad, dysphoric days, but those were few and far between.”
“I don’t know what to say, James. There’s no mention of it in your files,” Rocco said.
“Yes, perhaps because the troubles with the police force started when I had fully transitioned to a male. But let me finish... I truly enjoyed my new social life; it was like a game. But in reality, I was female. Suddenly, my parents died, and my aunt adopted me. May she rest in peace. She lived in the U.S., and she was the one who helped me with therapy—the medical part. Later on came hormones, surgery, and the whole process. Finally, after four years, I reached the point where I felt comfortable in my own skin. I was free.”
“That was a great story about your past, but I’d like to return to the present, Mr. Pascus. Your alibi in Stockholm was provided by…” Gail began harshly, then put on his glasses and checked the folder. “Charlotte Block, twenty-three at the time. She said in her statement, and I quote here, ‘We had a passionate night from 10:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. James was like an iceberg of devotion. We made love many times during that night.’ Hmm, it looks like you are a pro in that romantic field. Detective Benedetti is a bit similar, I guess. He might believe this bullshit story about a girl wanting to become a boy, but not me. You know what? I don’t give a damn! I’m not a psychotherapist, and this is not a mental health clinic.”
Rocco coughed. “You don’t need to be so rude, Gail. James went through hell during his teen years; we must see the whole picture.”
“Really? Look who’s talking. I like pictures, Rocco. I’ve got some here on my phone. I took them inside the Canvas Club. Would you like to see them?” Gail turned to Rocco, lowered his glasses, and bared his yellow teeth in a malicious smile. “No? Okay then, let me continue. Hm. So, would you like to know how I see it? It’s elementary: you and Charlotte Block killed Ida Berg and gave each other a perfect alibi. You can’t fool an old cop like me, Mr. Pascus.”
Would you like to be the first brave soul to receive completely unqualified "How NOT to Live" advice? Send you life story/or question about health to: noclueadvice@proton.me
“I want to speak with my lawyer. I am here with an open heart, officers, but you are poking around my dirty laundry and trying to make me confess to an old crime I have nothing to do with. I didn’t kill Ida!”
Rocco turned to the mirror with raised eyebrows, anticipating that Nura had also noticed Gail’s strange behavior. Afterward, he walked closer to the desk and sat beside the suspect.
“Okay, we believe you, James. Forget Ida. It was a long time ago; the case is closed. But...” Rocco put his finger in the air, imitating Gail, “Why don’t you tell us what being at a crime scene and following our officer the next day is all about?”
“I wasn’t following her. She jumped on me.”
"Don't make me go digging through photos from the crime scene and CCTV footage, Mr. Pascus. We're totally exhausted from all your lies today," Gail said, flipping through the folder.
“Please, James. What were you doing there?” Rocco refused to give up on his line of inquiry.
“I was walking down the street on my way from work to get a tram ride when I saw a large crowd standing around, and I joined them. That’s all.”
“Now we are getting somewhere. Thank God we are agreeing that reality exists!” Gail jumped up and clapped his hands. “Now to the easiest part: Why were you following our Detective around?”
James sighed and checked his reflection in the mirror before he opened his mouth, saying nothing. It was the last straw. Rocco watched Sergeant Gail put on a show of annoyance: he watched how Gail masterfully let his leg push the chair backward, how he brought both his open palms to the table, causing a violent sound to erupt.
“You killed her, didn’t you? You killed Marissa Goldsmyth, and you were following our Detective Cocasse to see how far she had come in implicating you as the killer!” Gail shouted.
“No! I didn’t kill her. I didn’t… I didn’t. What is Corck-arse? What is it? Is it a name?” The suspect sobbed.
“It’s a little bit late for remorse, don’t you think? Well, I’m off. No, you stay where you are, James. You are probably going to spend a loooong time in prison,” Gail said. “Detective Benedetti might be interested in your cries, but not me.”
Gail was about to leave the interrogation room when Rocco whispered, “I don’t think you did it, James.”
“Thank you for believing in me. I didn't kill anyone,” James replied.
“You were going to take off.” Rocco turned to Gail and pointed to the door.
“Oh, you want me gone now, Benedetti? Fine!” Gail looked shocked. “Sergeant Gail is leaving the room at 11:42 p.m.”
Rocco was satisfied. He smiled when he thought that even Nura, who watched the whole play from the observation room, wouldn’t tell whether this was a serious fight or a staged one.
BLURB
I’ve been poking around in No Clue Land website, moving things, adding things, and generally pretending I have some plan... Three new DEPARTMENTS have appeared: TRAPPED IN FLESH (a tribute to the weirdness of having a body), WRITERS UNDER OBSERVATION (notes about writers and writing styles), SOMETHING HAPPENED (serialized fiction: crime or comedy).
Newsletter - sends once a week or bi-weekly (mostly about health). Side effects may include mild discomfort, and the sudden urge to Google your own organs or new words.
All other posts you can check during the week.
Read Next
Bullet's Adventure: Chasing Sobekneferu - chapter 31
Mrs. Vegas’s eyes gravitated toward the towel; her soft longing was affecting me... I swallowed my suspicion, pretended I had lost my memory, and accepted the bride in my arms.
Eyebrow Killer. Chapter 5
Nura caught a sight out of the corner of her eye—a familiar shadow—someone she had seen before, but she couldn’t recall where...
The Chaotic World of Witold Gombrowicz: Making Existential Crises Weird Since Forever
Explore the chaotic, absurd, and provocative world of Witold Gombrowicz, one of Poland’s most distinctive writers, known for his themes of immaturity, masks, form, and social rebellion.
Bullet's Adventure: Chasing Sobekneferu - chapter 30
I turned Auntie Cactus on her back and began analyzing her purple wrinkles. With sadness in my heart, I realized that she was still alive...