Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella Page B
Authors: Barbara Seranella
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stop them. It was like they had some sort of secret pact. You
listen to my bullshit, and I'll listen to yours. Bikers did it, cops
did it, dopers did it. If someone didn't have anything new to say she
often wondered, why didn't they ever consider just shutting up? Or
reading a book? Or, God forbid, one of the service bulletins put out
by the Bureau of Automotive Repair. She also had to ask herself how
much of her resentment stemmed from the fact that the majority of her
stories couldn't be shared with the present audience.
Needless to say, she was more than relieved when Mace
St. John's Buick pulled into the driveway. He parked in front of the
office. She met him at his car.
"How are you holding up?" he asked.
"I'm about to go crazy. You could shoot a cannon
through the back room and not hit anything."
"Let's go see your friend."
Munch let Lou know she was taking a break. He
responded by looking at his watch.
They took St. John's car to Barrington Plaza Gardens.
The gate guard asked them for their names, clipboard in hand. Before
Munch could say anything, St. John flashed his badge. The gate guard
shrugged and let them on through. Fahoosy's black Mercedes passed
them going out. She recognized the custom antenna and scooted down in
her seat.
"Problem?" St. John asked.
" Just some jerk customer." She sat up
again. "What am I hiding for? You've got a gun, right?"
He smiled. "What did this guy do?"
She told most of the story only leaving out the part
where she "forgot" to put the Mercedes's spare back in its
trunk. St. John found the guest parking spaces. He locked the Buick
and the two of them walked up the path to unit 62.
Robin answered the door in a dark green jogging suit.
The thick fleece managed to accentuate her thinness rather than
conceal it, but at least she had changed out of her bathrobe and
brushed her hair.
"Can we come in?" Munch asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Please.”
Munch kicked off her shoes and left them by the front
mat. Robin directed her guests toward the sofa and settled in an
armchair. Munch made introductions.
"Can I get anyone anything?" Robin asked.
"A Coke? Water?" They both declined.
St. John sat next to Munch on the couch and said,
"I'm going to see Pete Owen later today. I'll offer him whatever
assistance I can. I'm sorry this happened to you. I want you to know
that we make catching these kinds of predators a number-one
priority."
"I hope so," she said. The refrigerator
made a loud, gurgling noise and Robin jumped as if reacting to a
gunshot. Munch squeezed St. John's arm although she was sure he'd
noticed. She was too honest with herself not to realize when she was
making an excuse to touch him.
"I know this will be difficult," he said,
using a gentle tone, "but I need you to tell me everything you
remember about your attack and your assai1ant."
Robin perched on the edge of the chair cushion,
barely making a dent. She told her story in a monotone, her eyes
never leaving her hands. She told them how she never saw it coming.
She'd been on her way home alone from an evening out. He had come up
from behind, wrapped his arm around her neck, and choked her until
she passed out. When she came to, he had taped her eyes shut. He told
her he would kill her if she didn't do what he said. She believed
him.
"He talked to me." Robin rubbed the palm of
her hand down her thigh, stopping at her knee. She did this
repeatedly as if it gave her some sort of comfort. "He said he
had been watching me. His voice was disguised, like he was talking
through some kind of vibrating filter. He said, 'You don't know how
long I've waited for this.' "
St. John leaned forward. "What about the voice?"
"The only way I can describe it is to tell you
it was like listening to static, something that shouldn't be human,
forming words. Horrible words."
"Did you tell this to Detective Owen?" St.
John asked.
"I might have. I don't remember how thoroughly I
described everything. I was pretty shook up when I spoke to
listen to my bullshit, and I'll listen to yours. Bikers did it, cops
did it, dopers did it. If someone didn't have anything new to say she
often wondered, why didn't they ever consider just shutting up? Or
reading a book? Or, God forbid, one of the service bulletins put out
by the Bureau of Automotive Repair. She also had to ask herself how
much of her resentment stemmed from the fact that the majority of her
stories couldn't be shared with the present audience.
Needless to say, she was more than relieved when Mace
St. John's Buick pulled into the driveway. He parked in front of the
office. She met him at his car.
"How are you holding up?" he asked.
"I'm about to go crazy. You could shoot a cannon
through the back room and not hit anything."
"Let's go see your friend."
Munch let Lou know she was taking a break. He
responded by looking at his watch.
They took St. John's car to Barrington Plaza Gardens.
The gate guard asked them for their names, clipboard in hand. Before
Munch could say anything, St. John flashed his badge. The gate guard
shrugged and let them on through. Fahoosy's black Mercedes passed
them going out. She recognized the custom antenna and scooted down in
her seat.
"Problem?" St. John asked.
" Just some jerk customer." She sat up
again. "What am I hiding for? You've got a gun, right?"
He smiled. "What did this guy do?"
She told most of the story only leaving out the part
where she "forgot" to put the Mercedes's spare back in its
trunk. St. John found the guest parking spaces. He locked the Buick
and the two of them walked up the path to unit 62.
Robin answered the door in a dark green jogging suit.
The thick fleece managed to accentuate her thinness rather than
conceal it, but at least she had changed out of her bathrobe and
brushed her hair.
"Can we come in?" Munch asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Please.”
Munch kicked off her shoes and left them by the front
mat. Robin directed her guests toward the sofa and settled in an
armchair. Munch made introductions.
"Can I get anyone anything?" Robin asked.
"A Coke? Water?" They both declined.
St. John sat next to Munch on the couch and said,
"I'm going to see Pete Owen later today. I'll offer him whatever
assistance I can. I'm sorry this happened to you. I want you to know
that we make catching these kinds of predators a number-one
priority."
"I hope so," she said. The refrigerator
made a loud, gurgling noise and Robin jumped as if reacting to a
gunshot. Munch squeezed St. John's arm although she was sure he'd
noticed. She was too honest with herself not to realize when she was
making an excuse to touch him.
"I know this will be difficult," he said,
using a gentle tone, "but I need you to tell me everything you
remember about your attack and your assai1ant."
Robin perched on the edge of the chair cushion,
barely making a dent. She told her story in a monotone, her eyes
never leaving her hands. She told them how she never saw it coming.
She'd been on her way home alone from an evening out. He had come up
from behind, wrapped his arm around her neck, and choked her until
she passed out. When she came to, he had taped her eyes shut. He told
her he would kill her if she didn't do what he said. She believed
him.
"He talked to me." Robin rubbed the palm of
her hand down her thigh, stopping at her knee. She did this
repeatedly as if it gave her some sort of comfort. "He said he
had been watching me. His voice was disguised, like he was talking
through some kind of vibrating filter. He said, 'You don't know how
long I've waited for this.' "
St. John leaned forward. "What about the voice?"
"The only way I can describe it is to tell you
it was like listening to static, something that shouldn't be human,
forming words. Horrible words."
"Did you tell this to Detective Owen?" St.
John asked.
"I might have. I don't remember how thoroughly I
described everything. I was pretty shook up when I spoke to
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