AN: Lalala updates. They're fun. So I posted a one-shot, entitled Gabriella (how do I think of these things:-P). I like the plot of it, but not how I executed it... oh well. Read and tell me your thoughts.
So I got yet another idea for a semi-tragic story, and, I gotta tell ya, these tragedy stories are bringing me down. I really want to write a happy Troy/Gabriella story, but I just can't think of one! It's so much easier to think of an original tragic story than an original happy story. But I'm going to write a happy story, I promise you! I just need to think of one.
OR, better yet, I could write a sequel to Time Will Tell! Hm... oh, the possibilities...
Title: Tales of a Broken Man: The Troy Bolton Story
Rating: T
Author: MadiWillow
Summary: A memoir on the life of famous NBA basketball player, Troy Bolton.
Genre: Drama/Tragedy
Chapter: Forever and a Day
Forever and a Day
The next few days were spent with me playing host to distant friends and relatives, all in town to grieve for the loss of Gabriella and Isabella. Even some of my third cousins whom I haven't seen since my wedding came to my house. Since this case had become such a huge media story, the Beverley Hilton was offering free hotel rooms to anyone of my family and friends who'd come for the funeral. Needless to say, more than half of the rooms were filled up.
I also had to spend much of time fielding off calls from various reporters, news shows, and magazines. Dateline, The Today Show, 60 Minutes, 20/20, Regis & Kelly, and The View all wanted to do interviews with me, and People magazine wanted to do a story on the murders. My not returning calls didn't stop them from printing the story, but they kept calling for interviews or statements.
To try and stop the calls, Captain Simpson suggested I do a nationally televised press conference on the murders. I was hesitant to at first, but the Captain encouraged it; he said that the press would start printing stories of me being the murderer if I didn't make a public appearance. It made people think of Scott Peterson.
So, about five days after the murders, I spoke in front of the L.A.P.D., before fifty various reporters and ten or so TV news cameras, on what had happened, how much of an effect it had had on me, and when we were holding the memorial service. Later, my parents told me that every single news station they'd turned to during the conference were showing it.
The hair and skin DNA results had yet to return to the lab at the time of the funeral, exactly one week after the murders; according to Officer Simpson, there'd been some kind of delay. However, he swore that they'd be in within the next week. I could barely stand it; I wanted to know who'd murdered my family right away. It was tearing me up inside not knowing.
The funeral was held in the largest church in the Los Angeles area, and with good reason. Around 400 people showed up to pay their respects to my wife and daughter, along with photographers and news cameras, and it touched me to think that so many people cared. A couple people I talked to had come all the way from Maine, which really hit me hard.
During the service, Maria Montez spoke, along with Taylor Danforth and Ryan Evans. Maria and Taylor had barely been able to get any words out due to their immense sobbing, but Ryan was able to better control himself. He talked about how much Gabriella had changed his life, how she was like a sister to him, he wished she could've gone to his wedding and seen his own children being born, and how she and Isabella didn't deserve their fate. Half of the gathers cried after his eulogy.
I spoke last, and although I don't remember at all what I said, I do remember that the entire church was crying once I sat back down. I think I talked about how Gabriella and I had gotten together and how Isabella had changed our lives so much, for the better, but I can't be sure.
After that, my close family and friends and I stood next to their coffins (Gabriella was in a gorgeous pink dress and pink shoes, while Isabella was wearing a powder blue dress, except no one could see it due to the closed casket) for an hour and a half while everyone paid their respects. It was so draining for me that I only made it half an hour before I started to weep with everyone else.
Afterwards, we took three limos down to the grave site. Isabella and Gabriella were buried right next to each other, and just before they were lowered into the ground, I opened up their coffins. Everyone gasped in horror when I opened Isabella's but I ignored them. I placed her favorite pink toy bear in her arms and on top of her heart, I set down a CD that Gabriella and I had recorded ourselves onto, singing Isabella's favorite songs. It was the CD that was playing the last time I saw my daughter alive.
I closed Isabella's coffin and then opened Gabriella's. She looked so peaceful, it was hard to believe she'd been brutally slaughtered. I ran my hand over her soft, ice cold cheek and through her hair. I swallowed a sob before placing a framed picture of the three of us taken just weeks earlier. It had been taken by Gabriella's mother; the three of us had flour on our faces as we stood around the kitchen table where we'd been trying to make cookies from scratch. Gabriella was holding Isabella in her arms, who'd also managed to get some flour on her face, and I had my arms around the two of them. We were all laughing. It was the last picture we'd taken together as a family.
A couple of tears dripped down my nose and splattered the picture. I whispered, "I love you both," before closing the casket and allowing them to be buried. My mother wrapped her arms around my neck and wept while my dad patted her on the back. I hugged my mom back and sobbed, watching the two loves of my life being lowered into the ground, forever.
After the service, my close family and friends came over to my house for wine and hors d'oeuvres. The whole afternoon was spent with me being approached by people apologizing over and over again about my loss. I know they all meant well, but it began to irritate me after a while and I was happy when everyone left.
I turned on the news and wasn't surprised to see the reporter talking about my family.
"Earlier this afternoon, the memorial service for Gabriella and Isabella Bolton was held in the St. Mary's Church, located in downtown Los Angeles. Speaking at the funeral was Maria Montez, Gabriella's widowed mother, Taylor Danforth, best friend of the victims and husband of Kings player Chad Danforth, Ryan Evans, the famous theatre performer, and Troy Bolton himself."
The camera cut from the anchorman to a clip of Ryan talking during the service.
"...of us who knew Gabriella knew that she was one of the sweetest, kindest person on Earth. It didn't seem to any of us that she had a single enemy in the world, which makes this murder even more shocking. Who would want to do this to an amazing girl and her innocent daughter? What kind of viscous monster could kill them like this?"
The image cut back to the anchorman, who said, "Earlier this week, Troy Bolton held a press conference to discuss the murders, and urged anyone with information to please come forward. Anyone with information would be rewarded with $500,000. Also earlier in the week, Captain Brian Simpson, head of the L.A. Police Department, confirmed the cause of death to be severe head trauma. He said that both victims had been sexually assaulted, and semen collected from the crime scene is being examined, among other DNA samples."
I never slept at night anymore. Nights were spent with me lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling that Gabriella and I had once stared at together when we would discuss things late into the night. I no longer had someone I could talk to anything about; someone had ripped that person violently from my life, and I was left alone. My nights instead consisted of me thinking back to my wife and daughter, not letting myself forget them one little bit. I would smell their clothes and pillows to make sure I never forgot their scent. And whenever I did fall asleep, I had terrible nightmares.
When the murders first happened, my dreams, as stated in Chapter 2, were more like real life, as it felt like my own life had become a nightmare. But when things started to settle in, my dreams became dreams again, and horrible ones at that. I would sometimes dream that I was Gabriella or Isabella, being tortured and murdered, the same fear and hysterics running through my body that had most likely ran through theirs. Sometimes I was watching the scene; those dreams always ended with me waking up by vomiting. And a couple times, I was the killer. Those dreams scared me more than anything else.
A couple days after the funeral, after all of my friends and family had gone back home and I was all alone, Captain Simpson called me to tell me that the results from the tested skin, hair, and DNA samples had come back and for me to come to the station immediately. I naturally rushed their as fast as I could; I think I got there within three minutes of the call.
The samples had matched up with a man named Bailey Martin, who'd been arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol four years earlier. He looked a bit like David Spade, with the blonde hair and blue eyes; the only big difference Troy could tell between the two was that this man was clean-shaven. Definitely not someone that looked capable of murder.
"Will it be hard to arrest him?" I remember asking Captain Simpson as we piled into police cars on our way to visit Mr. Martin, who lived some thirty minutes away. "I mean, I don't really know any legal stuff, but we have his DNA."
The Captain shrugged. "Who knows. It depends on what the judge says. He could say that he wants more evidence, or he could decide that the DNA is enough. There have been rape and murder cases where a person's DNA was found on the victim and under the victim's fingernails but they didn't get arrested."
None of that made sense to me. To me, if someone's DNA was found all over a murdered person, they must be the ones who did it, right?
We drove across town to a different set of suburban houses and went to Bailey Martin's house. I don't know what happened, or how it came over me, but the sight of him when he answered the door enraged me. I was convinced that this was the man who had destroyed my life, and, as soon as the door opened, I cocked my arm back and punched Bailey Martin in the face.
Almost immediately, the officers who had come with us grabbed me and held me back, but I kept struggling. "You bastard," I remember growling. "You killed my family, you fucking-,"
"Troy!" Captain Simpson said in alarm. He'd seen me wracked with grief over the murders for over a week, and this was the first time he'd seen me in such a rage. "Troy, we don't know if this is the man who killed Gabriella and Isabella. I need you to calm down. Please don't make me arrest you."
I was breathing heavily, but I nodded anyway. I rubbed my knuckles, which were throbbing from the impact, and glared down at Bailey, who was lying on the ground, his cheek swollen. A woman who greatly resembled Catherine Zeta-Jones was bent over him.
"What is the meaning of this?" she cried in an Australian accent. "What makes you think you have the right to show up at my house and starting beating up my brother for no reason whatsoever?"
"We apologize for that, miss," said Captain Simpson. The woman helped up her brother and stood, glaring at me.
"Shouldn't you apologize? You're the one who hit him!" She spat.
I glanced at Captain Simpson, who had his eyebrows raised, and shook my head. "I won't apologize."
The woman crossed her arms indignantly as her brother said hoarsely, "Um, why don't you all come in... come sit here and we can get to the bottom of this..." He talked in the same accent as his sister.
I started to follow but his sister stopped me. "I want to know why you're not apologizing!" she screeched.
"Because," I said irritably, hot fury still coursing through my body. "You're brother is a suspect in the murder of my wife and daughter, okay?" I pushed passed her, into the living room, and sat down next to Captain Simpson on the sofa. Bailey sat down across from us, in a large, antique-looking chair, with his sister standing behind him, looking dazed.
"Mr. Martin, my name is Captain Brian Simpson," said the Captain, holding out his hand to shake Bailey's. "I work for the L.A.P.D. This here is Troy Bolton."
I didn't hold out my hand; I just nodded my head slightly.
"Nice to meet you," said Bailey. "Oh, and this is my sister, Christina." Christina also nodded in acknowledgement. "Now, why are you here and why did Mr. Bolton attack me?"
"You wanna know why I hit you? Because you-," I started viciously, but Captain Simpson held up his hand to silence me.
"Mr. Martin, were you aware that Mr. Bolton's wife and nine-month old daughter were murdered a little over a week ago?" asked Captain Simpson.
"No," said Bailey coolly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his sister give him a strange look, and I knew he was lying.
"How could you not?" I asked nastily. "It's been all over the news and papers, especially in this area."
Bailey stared me down, and said, in the same cool tone, "I was unaware."
"Well, Mr. Martin," the Captain's voice was a little cooler, due to the fact that he also was suspicious. "Can you explain how your skin and hair DNA was found under one of the victim's fingernails? Or that your semen was found on both of the victims?"
"Why, no, I cannot, Mr. Simpson," said Bailey, displaying such a fake expression of surprise that I almost laughed. "Perhaps someone framed me?"
"How was someone able to get a hold of your semen?" I spat.
Bailey just shrugged. "Search me."
The Captain and I exchanged incredulous glances, both of us thinking the same thing; this guy was almost gloating about the murder. He was definitely guilty and yet so confident that he would get off that he didn't care about how obvious he was sounding.
"Do you own a golf club, Mr. Martin?" I asked him.
The man opposite raised his eyebrows a little and I swear I remember him giving me a small smirk. "Nope."
I let out a small sigh.
Not long after that we left, with Captain Simpson leaving behind his card (although it was in vain, because we both knew that Bailey wasn't going to call us), and then later that night, I received a call from the Captain, solemnly informing me that the judge didn't warrant an arrest for Bailey Martin.
Enraged, I inquired as to why, and he just said, "The judge wants us to find the murder weapon, which, in this case, would most likely be a bent golf club. However, the judge won't give us a search warrant, so I don't know what's going to happen."
"What if he confessed?" I asked angrily.
Captain Simpson laughed bitterly. "Well, yes, a confession would get him an arrest, but do you really think he would after the way he acted today?"
That night, I cried myself to sleep.