The Last Alibi

31

Jason

Thursday, June 20

I look through the magazine rack and settle on the current issue of Sports Illustrated, the cover featuring two brothers, twins from South Korea, Hee-Jong and Seung-Hyun Lee, each of them seven-foot, three-inch centers, one a senior at Stanford, the other a senior at UConn. They are freaks of nature, the Lee twins, expected to go number one and two in the NBA draft next week. The headline beneath the two men: “Is the NBA Ready for the Lee Twins?”

I drop the magazine in front of the clerk, along with a box of plain envelopes, multicolored construction paper, a pair of scissors, Scotch tape, and a pair of rubber gloves. I assume I look like a father buying art supplies for his kid, who also likes sports. The rubber gloves might stand out. Probably should have bought some dishwashing liquid or something.

I pull out my wallet for my debit card. I hardly ever use cash anymore. But then I catch myself, slip the debit card back in my wallet, and pay in cash.

When I was a kid, we used to steal the current edition of Sports Illustrated from the local library. Pete, the more handsome and charming of the Kolarich brothers, would chat up the librarian, divert her attention while I slipped the magazine into the back of my pants after ripping off the stamp sensor-or what I thought was a sensor. When I was in high school playing football, I used to dream about seeing my name in that magazine, maybe a photo of me catching a pass in the Super Bowl. I would imagine some kid in a library just like me, stealing the magazine or ripping out my picture to put on his bedroom wall. I want to be just like him. I want to be Jason Kolarich.

Most of my fantasies, illusions of grandeur, used to involve sports, and almost always football. The acrobatic, impossible catch at a clutch moment, the crowd chanting my name, the announcer singing my praises over the roaring crowd. But as I’ve moved into my mid-thirties, it’s sometimes more about coaching, inspiring a group of ragtag kids, given no chance to succeed, and impossibly winning the state championship or a national title. Occasionally it’s a fantasy related to my profession, usually the innocent-man-on-death-row, a last-minute discovery that compels the governor to call the warden and halt the execution.

Lately, I’d be happy just to feel normal.

I check over my shoulder as I leave the convenience store. I’ve taken lately to suspecting that someone is following me. I can’t place why, just a sensation that something is trailing behind me, stopping when I do, starting along with me, shadowing my every move.

I get into my SUV and drive. With the library on my mind and a local branch in sight, I pull into the parking lot and walk in. Over the main desk, there are signs welcoming me in multiple languages-Bienvenidos, Mabuhay, Suswagatham-and notices in vibrant colors for the “Summer Book Club” and “Rock and Read,” an advertisement for a children’s author appearing next week, a program on “The Secret Language of Peruvian Cuisine” that I would love to attend were it not for having to reorganize my sock drawer that night.

I’m not sure why I chose a library, other than the fact that it’s not my home and not my office. Untraceable to me, in other words.

A young African-American woman behind the desk smiles at me. She seems pretty for a librarian, I think, but then I catch myself and realize I haven’t been to a library since I was a punk kid, so what do I know about librarians? Plus, speaking of fantasies, the naughty librarian look-hair pulled up tight, horn-rimmed glasses-was a staple of my adolescence.

I find a carrel in the back corner on the second floor and remove the items from my bag. I find the words I need in the magazine, cut them out with the scissors I bought, wearing the rubber gloves I bought, and tape them onto a piece of green construction paper. When it’s done, the piece of paper says:

It has the chaotic look of such notes, sometimes featuring entire words-James from a story on the NBA’s LeBron, WOMEN from a headline about the WNBA’s fiscal problems, dead from an article about a hockey player who overdosed on amphetamines, Drink from an advertisement for Dewar’s-and sometimes partial words and individual letters and numbers of varying fonts and sizes.

I feel like I’m demanding ransom for some wealthy family’s child or blackmailing a cheating spouse. It’s not that bad, but it’s bad. I’m betraying my oath. I’ve taken some liberties with the rules in the past, but this isn’t a step over the line; this is taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But I’m done with sitting around like some do-nothing chump just because of some stupid rule. Four women are dead, and I’m not waiting for a fifth.

Getting the address is tougher, but just as important. They will print and analyze the envelope as meticulously as the note itself. Detective and Vance and Austin require a lot of cutting of various words, police is easy-the overdosing hockey player story-the street name, Dunning, a challenge, and the zip code a complete nightmare.

When I’m done, I find a mailbox downtown, north of the river, and drop the letter in. The last pickup is at two P.M., and I’m here ten minutes early. So with any luck, this should arrive on the desk of Detective Vance Austin tomorrow.