The Consequences of Curiosity

Another overdose. Was it the fourth or fifth this week? His crew was prompt, as expected. They cleaned up the mess and brought families back together. That was his division. his calling. His only opportunity. Elijah hoisted the head and his partner, the feet. The soiled zippered bag felt lighter than the last they dealt with. He was maybe in his late twenties, thin boned, sunken face and a clear user of heavy narcotics. For a moment Elijah thought he recognized the man from years ago, from his High School.

The off white crystal mounds on the glass coffee table and half emptied bottle of JD’s Old #7 told a story he had seen over and over again. The burners were still on when they arrived. The hot coils kept the apartment warm and safe from the cold chill of mid-January’s winter.

There wasn’t much furniture, just a pull-out bed with sheets that seemed as if they hadn’t been washed in weeks. A tripod with a cheap video camera was set up in the corner. The red light blinked every other second. Low battery. That would be taken for evidence later.

Sweat stains and the subtle stink of stale beer burned the air. The mold and dirt and the vomit festering in the carpets only intensified the stench.

They received the call two hours ago. A distressed neighbor. Female. Hispanic. She complained about that very smell.

“You good?” His partner barked. Dark bags of tireless nights ringed his grey eyes. Robert had been in the business for years, what was he going to be this year? Fifty? Yet he was the most experienced and a father of two, “Hey, you leave your brain at home? Stop with the sight seeing, help me lift.”

“Sorry, musta left it in your wife’s bed.” Elijah cracked a toothy smile. Robert roared with laughter. They heaved the body bag onto the steel trolley and wheeled it out of the apartment.

The rest of his team caution taped and cleaned up.

Outside they met with the paramedics. Blue and red lights blazed and brightened the night sky. There was a wave of voices; passerbyers, cops, tenants buzzing about. Disarray, confusion, just another Saturday night.

“That’s our last call, bud.” Robert laid a heavy gloved hand on Elijah’s shoulder, “Go home to your Ma.”

Elijah nodded, as he removed his protective gear. He passed his helmet to Robert, “Say ‘Hi’ to Louise for me, eh?”

Robert smacked him hard on the back. An endearing gesture, “Good night, smart ass.”

"Yeah, good night."

With that, he was off to his truck. He sunk into the old familiar fabric of his seat and sighed, hitting the ignition. He drove a few blocks east from the building and found an empty parking lot by a rundown motel. His temporary home. He kept the engine running as he reached down into his waistband. His fingers fished for the pocket sized notebook he discovered at the site.

He found it earlier. As his crew preoccupied themselves with the grisly scene, Robert told him to scope out the bathroom. There he found the book, lying on the sink counter. A peculiar sight and yet such a mundane thing. He should have reported it as evidence, but what was written on the first page sparked a curiosity. A string of numbers-- banking information? Passwords? An address he recognized as the same motel he occupied for the last week, and at the very bottom an eerie phrase.

Are You Interested?

He thought of it as a cryptic invitation. At that moment, he was very interested. He turned off his engine, swung the heavy door of his car open and stumbled out. The asphalt was coated with a thin layer of ice, slippery from the last snowfall. The sunrise peaked over the orange shingles of the motel.

He moved towards the main entrance. The lights were on, soft and yellow. He met a kind face seated at the front desk. He could see that she fiddled with a phone under the table, but she smiled wide at him, faking hospitality. The notebook said something about unit 207. That was just a couple doors down from where he stayed.

“Hello, Sir. How can I help you?” Elijah returned her smile.

“I don't mean to cause any trouble, but I was wondering if I could change my room?" She frowned at his question, painted pink lips pouting as if to portray a staged empathy, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the problem?"

"The lightning." He was quick with a lie, "Would room 207 be available? I've stayed there before and really liked it.

She eyed him with suspicion but sighed, it was far too early to argue. The receptionist was quiet as she opened a large plastic binder with dates and names. Her fingers traced over the second last page, his eyes followed, “It's occupied until Tuesday next week. I'm very sorry, Sir. Can I still get you a different room?”

Neil Bryson

Check in January 9th

Check out January 20th

"No, no. Forget about it." Elijah dove both his hands deep into his pockets, "I'll bare with it. I'll be here for two more days anyway. See ya."

Was this Neil Bryson the same man his crew attended to, just hours ago?

Elijah lived quite a mundane life, despite the excitement one might think accompanied his responsibilities as a crime scene custodian. But even then, it had its tedious days and the pay wasn't the best.

Beats being a motel maid. The thought passed him as he watched an older woman wheel a trolley of cleaning supplies and dirty towels. She stopped just in front room 207 and fumbled with her key card. The door clicked open. The scent of lavender and sanitizer wafted his way.

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"

Elijah jogged to her side. The woman craned her neck towards him. Deep wrinkles creased her forehead as her blonde wiry brows lifted. His heart hammered in his chest.

"Yes?" She had a subtle accent, old and slavic. The maid looked at him with the same contempt one would a bumbling fly.

"That's my room! I-I left some private things in there and uh, is it alright if you come back later?"

"Ten minutes." She scoffed and squinted her glassy eyes at him, "Okay?"

Elijah nodded and caught the door before it closed shut. He weaseled past her and the door frame.

There was nothing unusual about the room. A spring mattress coated with a striped green and yellow duvet took up most of the center. The beige wall paper was torn at certain spots. On the right was a small cubby of a bathroom and on the left, a mounted television collecting dust.

Elijah tread cautiously, scrutinizing the space for anything of interest, but he found nothing and felt silly. He sat on the bed and pulled out the notebook. He reviewed the first page again. There was nothing worth reading, "Just the strange ramblings of some addict."

There came an abrupt knock. Was it the maid?

"That was a short ten minutes." He muttered standing up. He shoved the notebook back into his deep jean pocket, "Just a minute."

But the knock came again, more violent.

Elijah jumped to his feet and walked towards the door, "Okay, okay."

Just as he turned the knob, an unseen force nearly knocked him off his feet. Between Elijah and the door frame stood a jittering young man in a ripped parka and dirty pants. His eyes were bloodshot and pupils dilated. In one hand he carried a backpack and the other he cocked a handgun. The intruder lunged towards him, the cold steel of the barrel pressed Elijah’s forehead.

"Y-you sick son of a bitch!" Spittal flew from his cracked lips, "Why can't you leave me alone? Do you even have a life?"

Elijah's throat swelled up. What could he say? Sorry, you got the wrong guy? I don't know you? You're right, I don't have a life?

"Oh, oh god! You fucken' killed him. My brother's fucken' dead. Oh fuck… I'm so fucked!" He went on and on, incoherent rambling. His finger vibrated over the trigger. Elijah shut his eyes and held his breath.

"Your guys are coming after me next? Right? It's about the fucken' money, isn't it?" His arm trembled as he lowered his gun, "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry. Don't fucken' look at me like that man."

Tears welled and trickled down his bruised cheeks. He used the back of his sleeve to wipe away the snot falling from his bloodied nose.

"Why the fuck are you looking at me like that, why?" He whimpered, voice strained as if he were clinging on to a last act of desperation, "Just take the fucken' money. Please man, it's all there. I got a kid, a little girl, man. This game ain't fucken' worth it, man."

He shoved the backpack into Elijah's hands and darted out the door. An exhaust roared moments after and he could hear the squeal of tires against asphalt. Elijah breathed heavily. Tense and terrified he unzipped the bag and his eyes blew wide open. A sea of bills, all 100's.

He left the motel.

It was a long and silent drive home. He only stayed in the city when work was constant. He lived with his mother just north of the countryside, two hours away from the metropolis.

He pulled into the gravel driveway. It was a quarter past eight. His mom in her housecoat stood at the porch; she pinched a lit cigarette. Her willowy black hair blew in the wind.

"Late night, my darling boy? They work you to the bone."

"I do it for us, Ma." He set a kiss on her withered cheek and walked into the warmth of his home. He sauntered towards his bedroom and closed the door. His shoulders ached as he set the backpack on his work desk. He turned on the tele. The morning news hummed in the background as he counted.

Twenty grand total.

"Shit." Elijah reclined in his chair reflecting over the past events. How was he to proceed? Anxiety tormented him the most. He thought of being set up, of being associated with a killer… of being killed...

Every nerve inside of him screamed to contact the police. To hand in the backpack. However, he would have to confess tampering with evidence, even if it was as trivial as a damn notebook.

He would lose his job, or... He could run? He scorned the wicked thoughts that brewed in his mind. His eyes set upon the news anchor. The headline seized his thoughts.

"A family tragedy of violence and narcotics"

Twenty seven year old Eddie Bolton was found dead in 605 Underwood Plaza Place. Victim is suspected to have connections with one of the prolific drug cartels. His younger brother, Samuel Bolton, 18 years of age and niece Elizabeth Bolton, 2 years old were found slaughtered just hours. Police are still investigating this double homicide tragedy.

His phone rang then. Vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, as well as the notebook. The caller ID was private. Elijah uttered a soft, “Hello?”

“I knew you'd be interested."