Chapter 9 - First Impressions

Gotham City

Day 1 of the Wager

Gotham General Hospital

ICU - Burn Unit

I tore myself away from watching the young lady with her Note.

"You're not supposed to be here," the nurse scolded in a hushed voice. "Come with me, please."

"I'm lost."

"It's okay. There's someone here to see you."

"Visitors?"

The nurse kept silent as she led the way. She was dressed in pink scrubs that were a little too tight on her chunky body. I watched as her butt jiggled with every purposeful step and wondered how she remained blubbery despite having long shifts where all she did was walk around from room to room, patient to patient.

She stopped suddenly and I almost crashed into her. Her face was red, pinched looking. "Excuse me?" She managed.

"I didn't say anything."

Her brows creased slightly. She was unsure. "You said something."

"I didn't say anything."

"I heard you."

"I don't know what you heard, but it wasn't me."

She wasn't so upset anymore. In fact, she was getting angry. She was offended, I realized, but I didn't do anything. All I did was look at her when her back was turned and think how fat she looks and how that was possible when all she did was work all day long.

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" She demanded in a low, hissing voice.

I shrugged a shoulder. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you. Therefore I hold my peace. Peace. Piece. Those cops are carrying pieces. Are they going to use them?"

She looked like she was holding back something and trying really hard to do it. Her face grew redder and her hands were fists. "The police are here to see you," she said and gestured to the emergency room lobby, where we'd arrived miraculously like there were no corridors or doors between the Burn Unit and here.

I smiled. "Yes, I have to speak to them again. Oh yes."

Gotham City

Day 1 of the Wager

Gotham General Hospital

Emergency Room

They'd talked to this lunatic not three hours ago. It was just a hell of a coincidence really. Or was it? Detective Burns echoed out of habit. This was how it went down. Some guy is brought into the emergency room, straight from the Narrows, and turns out he works for some old guy that was lying sound asleep in his bed. Then he suddenly died. His wife found him when he was still warm. Asleep one second, dead the next. God Almighty.

Paul Zimmerman had a friendly face when he smiled, but there was just something off-color about his eyes, which were these fucking smoky green eyes women would kill to have for their own. Very weird color. "Hello again, gentlemen," Zimmerman said with that perpetual smile.

"Paul Zimmerman. Remember us?" Detective Jamison said with that disarming grin of hers.

"Oh yes." Zimmerman said enthusiastically.

"Do you work for Zeppelin Construction?" Burns asked in a nonthreatening way.

"Did."

"You did? You mean you used to?"

"Yes."

"Is your boss Joe Scala?"

"Was. Oh yes."

"You don't work for him anymore?"

"No. He made Grumpy cry. Dopey ain't Happy anymore, is he? He ain't happy and it's all 'cause of Grumpy. Grumpy showed him."

"Uh—excuse me?" Burns didn't know what else to say. He looked at Jamison. She raised one eyebrow that said, He's fucking nuts!

Zimmerman raised his good hand and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The other arm was in a cast because some bastards from the projects beat the shit out of him. "Joe fired me. He said they're not his problems."

"What are not his problems?"

"If me and my mother freeze or starve or bathe."

"Uh, sorry, what do you mean?"

"I need work. He fired me."

Burns and Jamison exchanged glances. They had a secret psychic connection between them. Well, not fucking really. They just knew each other's looks, thought patterns. They were synched after years on the force together. That exchange of looks said one word: Motive.

"What's that in your hand?" Jamison asked.

"My notebook," Zimmerman said and pressed it to his body like he wished he could store it inside his ribcage.

"May I see it?" Jamison asked, putting her hand out.

The change in Zimmerman was incredible. One second he's a smiling freak and the next he's one cold bastard. "No." He said one word and a chill rolled down Burns' back. He looked at Jamison. Her hand still sat there, sticking out, palm up. Her fingers curled and she pulled back.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" Zimmerman asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong," Burns said, but it was really just an admission that they didn't have shit as far as leads went. An old guy died in his sleep. Big deal. It was one of the most normal things in the world. But still. Burns had something nagging at him and he just couldn't shake the feeling that Zimmerman knew what was going on.

"Then why are you asking me about Joe?"

"Joe died a couple of hours ago."

Zimmerman frowned. His eyes went to his notebook, fluttered down and it clicked inside Burns. It was of earth-shattering proportions, the way it felt when something clicked in a case. It was a Holy shit! feeling and it was incredible. Breath-taking. Burns exchanged glances with Jamison. They could have whole conversations like that. Like right now. Like, Did you see him? Did you see him look at that notebook? Yeah, I saw it. That's it. That's the key.

"Did you have an argument with him?"

Zimmerman nodded. "He wouldn't give me my job back."

"Why were you fired?"

"He said I didn't show up for work."

"Did you?"

"No," Zimmerman admitted.

"So he fired you."

"Yeah."

"You were upset."

"Grumpy wasn't happy."

"What?"

"I was upset."

"Did you threaten him?"

"No."

"Where were you between your argument with him and the time you were attacked?"

Zimmerman hesitated. "I don't remember. I was walking. I—had a bad headache."

"You don't remember where you were?"

"I was in the Narrows. I don't have a car. I was walking."

"Okay." A pause. "Mister Zimmerman?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not leaving town, are you?"

"No. I live in Gotham. I live in the Narrows. I live with my mom."

"Okay. We might call you if something comes up. You have our cards, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, just in case you can't find them"—Burns dug into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. Jamison did likewise. "—Here are our cards. Give us a call if you think of something, all right?"

Zimmerman nodded. "I would. But I won't."

"Excuse me?"

"I have nothing else to say."

Burns nodded and smiled diplomatically. "Eh. You never know." Burns patted Zimmerman on his shoulder, making him recoil violently. But it seemed like he was more afraid Burns was going in to snatch the thin black notebook that was still encased in a clear plastic zipper seal bag. "Sorry, pal, I didn't mean to scare you. You just take care all right? Stay away from bad people. Don't want a repeat of tonight, right?"

Zimmerman shook his head and looked down at his broken arm. "No."

"And good luck finding another job."

"Thanks."

Gotham City

Day 1 of the wager.

The Zimmerman residence in the Narrows.

I arrived home on foot as dawn was beginning to color the horizon a milky brown. I couldn't stop smiling. The goddess had bestowed upon me a great gift. I clutched the notebook in my good hand. I'd never let it out of my sight. I'd keep it with me always. No one else could touch it. It was mine. A gift from the goddess.

I checked the mail as I walked up to the house. I saw one thin envelop inside. I pulled it out and checked the return address. It said Arkham Asylum. Human Resources.

Gotham City

Day 1

The Nelson residence.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Sure."

I sat and watched my mother disappear into the kitchen. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Nelson."

"Thank you," my mother called from the kitchen.

The male detective tilted his head upward and looked towards the fireplace. It looked innocent enough, I thought. Apparently, so did he, because he looked away almost immediately. He settled himself deeper in the sofa, and, just as my mother was walking back into the room, he asked me, "So what was that fire all about?"

"What fire?" My mother asked as she placed a tray of glasses of juice on the coffee table.

I seethed inside at the question but I took a glass for myself and took a sip. Nonchalantly as I could manage, I replied, "Oh, nothing really. I feel sort of embarrassed saying this, but I'm a bit of a pryomaniac."

"Is that so?" The cop asked as he reached for his own glass. "Well, I guess that would certainly explain the fire. Why do you enjoy burning things so much?"

Stalling for time, I shrugged slightly and took another sip. My mother watched with a disturbed frown on her face, but said nothing. "I guess it calms me down. I mean, after such a stressful day, you can imagine how upset I was."

"Yes of course. Now, why don't you tell me what happened exactly?"

I went over everything except the fact that I wrote Frankie Pierce's name in my notebook. And of course, the fact that I had weapons stashed in the car for a planned multiple-murder and suicide. And I didn't tell them I had dumped the weapons or what I'd burned in the fireplace. But, I told him I was late for class in the morning and that the students were already taking notes when I came in. If I made it sound like I was too perfect, then it might seem like I was hiding something.

"Why were you late for class?"

"I was feeling sick."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I guess because I didn't sleep enough the night before." That was totally true. I was stressed and worried sick about what I had planned today. But all that was the past now. I was still alive and so were so many of the people I wanted dead for tormenting me.

"Yes, now that you mention it, you do look very tired."

I forced a laugh. "Shouldn't have had that late night cup of coffee."

My mother didn't laugh, but the cops offered small chuckles. They looked very serious though. Of course they did. They were investigating a suspicious death. Not murder. Yet. And if I was smart, suspicious death would never turn to murder.

"So, why did you leave school?"

That was probably the hardest question for which to create a lie. So I answered with blunt honesty. "I was scared."

"Why?"

"I guess, well, when this guy in my class, Dave, said that it was weird how Frankie died after I came to class, I just started to panic. You know? I started to think that it would get pinned on me because I stood out because I was late to class or whatever. I just got really scared."

The cop nodded, and surprisingly, he seemed sympathetic. "I can't tell you how many times people said they did things they didn't actually do because they were scared. It's a natural response sometimes."

I nodded. "But he's really dead? It wasn't a mistake?" I could barely believe it.

"No mistake. He's really dead."

After a long pause, the cop asked, "Were the two of you friends?"

I sighed and shook my head. It was bound to come up sooner or later. "Look, I know how it will look if I told you we hated each other, but that's the truth. He hated me and I hated him."

The cop nodded and looked down at his glass. "Thank you for your honesty."

I was about to ask him something. It was on the tip of my tongue. Am I a suspect?

But he put his glass down and asked, "Do you mind if we take a look around your room?"

"Why?" I asked, unable to hide the suspicion from my voice. They really thought I could be connected to Frankie's death.

"Of course you can."

"Mom!"

"Just let them!"

"We'll be in and out, we promise."

"That's my room! It's totally private!"

"Come, I'll show you," my mother ignored me completely and stood up, leading the way. The cops glanced at me and followed.

I felt my face growing hot from anger. With my fists at my sides, I followed them to my room. My mother opened the door and walked in. I followed closely behind the cops as they entered my room. They were taller than me, so I didn't get a good look at the inside of my room until they were all within. But I froze in my doorway when I saw that thing.

"Well, this doesn't look any different from my son's room," the detective said with a small laugh.

"Ryan, this room is a mess!" My mother scolded, distressed. She started picking up shirts and socks and tossing them in my hamper. My jaw was to the floor, and my eyes were glued to the thing in the room. It was hovering over my bed, it's wings like a dragonfly's and its body like a grasshopper. It tilted its praying mantis head back and gave a raspy cackle. Then it talked. "You're not imagining things."

I closed my mouth and swallowed hard. I tore my eyes away from it and looked at the cops and my mother who were moving around the room. None of them could see the thing. They didn't even bat an eye when it talked.

The thing nodded, its face totally blank. Only it's voice held emotion. "That's right. Only you can see and hear me. Because only you touched the Death Note. If you get these humans out of here, I can teach you all about it."