Two: Officer Carlisle

   "Uh, so, thank you for coming to my apartment." I murmured, staring past the police officer, out the wall of floor to ceiling windows. I'd called the one eight hundred number and told the bored sounding volunteer on the other end that I believed myself to be the woman whose picture they were broadcasting all over the local news, they'd told me I needed to head down to the station, something I was reluctant to do. The criminals, officers who were over worked, the musty smell of an office; I couldn't, I didn't know who I was, if I was Jane Doe's daughter, but I wasn't a criminal, I wasn't going to go sit on a metal chair, being watched through a one way mirror, drinking water from a Styrofoam cup as an officer interrogated me, like they showed in cop shows.
   "You're welcome, Ms..." He trailed off, sitting across from me at my dinner table, drumming his fingers against the glass.
   "Mumsy." I replied. "Ms. Mumsy, Officer..." The silver name tag was fastened to his dark navy blue shirt, over the left pocket. "Officer Carlisle."
   "We appreciate your cooperation in the investigation and are willing to accommodate you in most ways."
   "Only most?" I teased, hoping to ease the tension. His eyes were adverted from my gaze, as he click, click, clicked the top of his ink pen.

   "Ms. Mumsy, this is a unidentified persons investigation, not a joking matter."
   "I-I, I'm sorry." Judging from the strong stench of coffee that was emitted from his mouth every time he spoke and the five day stubble that was on his angular jaw, he'd been busy, hadn't had much time to sleep or shave. "Why, precisely, are the Pittsburgh police involved, if the body' from West Virginia?"
   "It was suspected that she was a Pennsylvania resident and she was found here, in our jurisdiction, yet the guys still think since the body originated in WV, it makes it there case." He shrugged, not going into details. "Now you stated on the phone that you believe that you're the victim's daughter."
   "I... I think so, I mean she had my picture and I know about the mental issues, but, since there wasn't really social media when I was three, I figured that she had to have... Been there, to take the picture.
   I have a striking resemblance, to the photo, I mean, my friend's, they thought it was me, we were gonna do girl's afternoon today, I mean we cancelled, obviously, since you're here, not that this is an inconvenience, I wan to be complaint, but maybe, I just thought, uh, that she was me." I bumbled on, incoherently, as he stared at me, his eyes cold. I started fidgeting, wishing they'd sent someone more personable, someone not in uniform."
   "How old are you? We found an age in the victim's letter's and are trying to create a timeline."
   "I'm twenty-three... So, what, she'd be around your age? Mid-forties."
   "I'm thirty." He sighed. His face, wrinkled, tired; he looked a decade and a half older.
   "Oh! I just, I, sorry-"
   "Stress."
   "Oh... So, so how old was she, when she had me? When did she write the letters?"

   "We cannot release too many details, however we believe that the victim was in her late teens or early twenties when she had the child, you, perhaps, fled to a town near Elkins, Hidden Springs, entered rehab on and off for approximately two decades, then wrote the letters, as a suicide note. Do you have any early childhood memories of being with her?"
   "Er, no." I shuttered. I hadn't even known this woman, yet here I was, claiming to be her daughter, after she'd passed. "I just, I thought maybe... Maybe knowing she had a daughter in Pittsburgh would help? Like, maybe she had a husband or boyfriend, who was still around... Maybe my, uh... Sperm donor guy would call you?" I bit my lip, as he scribbled something down. Sperm donor guy? Why hadn't I just called him my biological father? He must think that I'm trying to get a few minutes of fame by claiming to be the daughter. I hated not being able to read someone's face, his was so expressionless I couldn't, it left me in the dark, attempting to figure them out.
   "Thank you, if we need to speak to you anymore, we'll contact you." He stood up, then paused. "Please come to the station so we can do a DNA profile, see if you are her daughter." He glanced at my face, it must have been twisted in confusion, worry, so he added: "I don't think you're lying, it's procedure."
   "Okay, procedure... I have to go to the station?"
   "Yes, miss."
   "I- Police?" I squeaked, staring up at him.
   "You're not a criminal on the run, are you?" He teased, a slight smile playing with the corner of his lips.
   "No." I stifled a nervous giggle. "Just... Childhood thing." I shrugged, hoping to sound nonchalant. "Of course I will." I stood up, helping escort him to the door. "When?"
   "Whenever is convenient for you, provided that it is within the next seventy-two hours."

   "Wow, so I have tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday?" Sarcasm dripped from my words; it was a pet peeve of mine, saying words that you didn't mean,  in a poor attempt to portray yourself better, despite that I did it as well.
   "Yes." He answered, seemingly unaware that I wasn't serious. "I know that you're incredibly busy, solving a suicide case, working overtime, I just hope you can fit it in your schedule."
   "Touche." I opened the front door, as he turned to leave. "I am busy, on the weekdays; I'm a kindergarten teacher."
   "Really?" He looked shocked, I presumed that he would have asked me that, his questioning didn't seem to thorough, though I wasn't exactly willing to volunteer the entity of my life story, just a few sparing details. "I apologize for the, I just-"

   "Thought since I was young, living downtown, which is moderately expensive, you probably researched the address, know that rent's at least twelve hundred a month, also knew that I was adopted, went off the stereotypes that my parents were worried that, if I messed up, I'd hate them or at least think they'd hated me, since they picked me, they weren't stuck with me, I was their last chance to be parents, they spoiled me, I mean, it's Saturday morning and I had brunch planned with my friends; who wouldn't think I was willingly unemployed?"

   "No! Ms. Mumsy, I didn't, I, no, I-"
   "Look, you're a cop, your job's to speculate, sometimes you just speculate wrong and people get hurt, good people, and you get paid for hurting him and you're the people's goddamn heroes because cops! Cops, they're so good, I mean the police were just trying to protect a citizen, that's their job. Well, go to hell. Burn there, for all I care, I'm working, I've put up with so much crap first my parents, ya know being an adopted kid, then being bise- God, how can you li- I... I got carried away." He stood stunned, as my cheeks turned crimson. The left over anger from the breakup with Quinn had poured over into our conversation, as he looked at me, uncomfortable.
   "Is this why you hate the idea of going to the station? Did your father-"
   "Don't." I shook my head, biting my lip. "Officer, sir." I added, my parent's always taught me to be polite, as he stood, lingering. "This isn't on the record, is it?"
   "No." He shook his head.
   "Promise?"
    "Promise." He replied. "I could take an oath, on my honor, I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character, ya know, something like that?"
   "Isn't that the standard police officer oath that every officer of the law takes?"
   "It is; how do you know that?"
   "When... After, after the thing, I did some research." He didn't prod, didn't ask what the thing was, though he was probably thinking that I was insane, like mother like daughter, that the thing was something from my childhood, the reason why I hated cops. If he was presuming that, he would not be completely inaccurate, the likelihood of me informing him of that particular fact, however, was slim.

   "Thank you for the help," he turned, leaving. I shut the door, letting out a long sigh. I did not speak of the thing, it wasn't horrid, it also wasn't relevant to the police investigation. Today had been awful, I was on the news, I'd discovered who my biological, the woman that was presumed to be my biological, mother was, only after she'd been killed by herself. I didn't know how to refer to it, what was the proper etiquette? Did I say after she'd passed? After she'd committed suicide?
   My parents weren't religious, weren't Jewish, weren't Christian, weren't Buddhist, yet they didn't proclaim to be atheists- we did celebrate Christmas and Easter, only instead of Jesus we used them to celebrate family, forgiveness, thankfulness, new beginnings; most holidays were essentially Thanksgiving, only switch the turkey out with gifts or chocolate and bunnies.
   I was floundering in my own thoughts, I had no connection to this woman, yet I did, I was her daughter. Was I? If I was, was I expected to organize a funeral? Did she think about what happen to her, after she did... Went through with it? My parents didn't talk about any sort of afterlife, my father thought that whatever peopled thought happened to them is what happened to them and my mother simply shrugged whenever I addressed her about the topic, yet did she believe something? Did she think she was going to be reincarnated? Research a sort of nirvana? Or did she think that she was going to hell? What if she believed in something obscure, what if that obscure religion has traditions concerning the deceased I don't know about?  
   Was there another daughter, my sibling, or a husband, parent, cousin, aunt, that was worried sick over her disappearance? Were they sitting there, staring at the TV, in shock that she was dead, that she had another daughter? And who was my father? I never wished to know, until now... Why hadn't I asked the officer more questions? The news said something about a diary, if I could see it, read it, maybe my questions would be answered?

   I murmured a few profanities, repeating my favorite, four letter one over and over, my head was swarming, hurting, with all the thoughts, as Skedaddles batted at heels.
   "Meeeeow!" 
   "I know, I haven't replaced Miss. Squeak-Squeak yet." His favorite toy, a pink mouse that was a present to him from Quinn, a gift I secretly despised, since the high pitched squeal it admitted every time he pounced on it kept me awake, had mysteriously gone missing, had been stashed away one night, when I was frustrated that my cat didn't comprehend that it was three am, not play time, now he was unentertained, moodily scratching at my legs, the dinner table, the white couch.
   I opened a kitchen cabinet, reaching for a toy, when my eyes landed on the clear bottle, the bottle that was thee-fourths full, had been sitting on the shelf for two years, a misguided twenty-first birthday present from my Indianan college roommate, the yellow, red, blue label, the white block letters: Everclear, the words 95.5% ABV, 190 proof above the name, the sale of which was illegal here. I rarely drank at home, alone, usually it was only a bloody Mary, a mimosa at brunch, a martini during girls' night, or a glass of fine red wine when I dined with my parents or, though it didn't occur nearly as often, with a date. I reached for it slowly, tearing it away from the shelf. I unscrewed it, taking a sip straight from the bottle, a sensation, drinking without a glass, I'd never experienced.
  "Oh-" I repeated the profanities again, spewing the clear liquid into the sink, as my throat and tongue burned. "Huh." I glanced at the bottle. Do not drink by itself.

   I opened the  fridge, pulling out a carton of cranberry juice. I took a glass from a cabinet, pouring in some juice, some alcohol, added some ice, lifted it to my lips, took a sip, wincing. I didn't care much for strong alcohol; dammit, I couldn't stand one drink, I supposed I wouldn't be able to wash away my unpleasant emotions this way, I'd have to resort to ice cream. I took a final sip, before setting the glass on the counter, as I heard a knock on my door. Lovely.

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