Group 17
Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: An Interrogation room
Object: A handwritten invitation
1,000 Word Limit
Author: Mike Hammer
Stealing songs and souls
By Mike Hammer
Courtney
had been in police stations before, locked up for drugs and drunkenness and
disorderly conduct, and B&E and shoplifting and slappin’ bitches, but she
had never been ‘in the box’ before. She pushed up her bra, proudly displayed
her chest and looked unfazed as the officer escorted her into the tiny room –
concrete walls, a single table, 3 chairs and the famous one-sided window were
all there; she held her breath, sat down and exhaled slowly – where she would
wait for the detectives.
She
had been on the edge for so long, trying to be mastermind, to be Head Bitch In
Charge, trying to control everyone and everything, so maybe it was time to take
a break. Let the cops charge her, ride it out and disappear. She was never good
at disappearing tho, even if she wasn’t the center of attention she was around
the fringes of it.
“Ms.
Love,” the first detective through the door greeted her. He held a manila
folder, with her doom.
“Ms.
Love,” repeated the second detective.
Love,
ha. Is that why she killed Kurt? Was it for love, so he wouldn’t leave her
because she loved him too much? Was love always the reason when she poisoned
and punched and paraded naked?
“Why
am I here?” she asked the Junior G Men as they pulled out their chairs and sat
across from her.
“Just
routine Ms. Love, we always interview loved ones after someone commits
suicide,” said the first detective. “We have no reason to suspect you of
killing your husband.”
“Are
you sure,” the second detective asked the first. “She has a history of
violence, she had a P.I. following Kurt, she threatened her first husband, she
allegedly offered to pay multiple people to kill Kurt. I am not so sure Ms.
Love isn’t facing the gas chamber.”
“Kurt
killed himself,” Love said, icy, dismissive, only 3 days after Kurt’s body was
found, full of Heroin with a shotgun wound to the head, in the greenhouse above
their garage - a garage they had hung out in, kissed, undressed, made love,
fucked furiously and fought in. “He left a note. Read it. I’m leaving.”
Love
stood up to walk out at the second detective stood up and shoved her back in
the chair.
“You
can leave when we tell you to leave,” her spat at her.
“If
you wanted to get your hands on me you just had to ask detective,” Courtney
responded, pulling down her shirt and revealing her breast. “There are more
than a few cops who with give you a statement about my fantastic dick sucking
skills.”
“Did
you kill you husband Ms. Love?” asked the first detective.
“I
loved Kurt Cobain,” she said soft, to herself, a mourner, a former groupie,
testifying at a memorial.
“That
isn’t what I asked,” the first detective said.
“He
left a damn suicide note, I didn’t so shit, asshole,” Love barked.
“I
know you got a lot of money from HOLE and showing your titties off in magazines
and in film and on stage and I know you could hire a hit man to kill Kurt while
you were out of town,” the second detective said. “You could get him waxed
before he divorced you, you evil doping, whoring ball and chain.”
“He
did call you a doping, whoring cunt in one of his notes,” the first detective
said.
“Yeah,
that was the more bitter angry aggressive note,” the second detective said as
he opened the folder on the desk. Inside the folder Courtney recognized the
handwritten invitation Kurt had gotten from Greg Sage. Kurt idolized Greg. In 2
weeks Kurt was supposed to go to Portland to record with Greg, some real old
bluesy stuff, full of emotion, no gimmicks, no trendy lines and catchphrases,
just heartbreak. Kurt was so excited. It was the last coherent thing he talked
about before she shot that dickless cunt “The handwriting experts haven’t
compared the notes yet, but lots of killers have tried to put fake suicide
notes into the scene, and they always get caught. Did you know that Ms. Love?”
“I
don’t know anything,” Love said. “Except my husband is dead and I am grieving.”
“You
don’t sound real broken up,” the first detective said.
“She’s
not broken up man, she’s happy,” the second detective said. “Kurt was gonna
leave her, he wrote half her fucking songs, he supplied her with drugs and fame
and a family, what would she do without him? I think she did some shitty heroin
with him, got him so high he couldn’t move then took a shotgun to his head,
that’s what I think.”
“Do
you get paid to think up crazy shit?” Love asked.
“I
do, I do, mostly ‘cause people do a lot of crazy shit. I get to think like
them, get inside their jealous, pathetic, selfish minds. I get to pretend I’m
forgetting about my daughter, jonesin’ for a fix and abusing people who love me,”
the second cop answered. “It’s scary inside your head isn’t it Courtney?”
“You
can’t get inside my head, you fucking cop,” she replied, cold, menacing.
“Oh,
I had you wrong. You sound like a sweet girl,” the first cop said. “Why don’t
you help us out then, explain to us why a we should believe a crazy, druggie
hooker like you?
“You
gonna let me leave yet?” Love asked.
“You
gonna tell us if you wrote that suicide not we found a couple inches from the
inside of Kurt’s head? How about the second note we found in his wallet?” asked
the first cop.
“She’s
not gonna tell us shit,” the second cop said. “She isn’t interested in finding
out why her husband was killed.”
“Kurt
killed himself,” Courtney yelled.
“Why
would he do that?” the first detective said. “Why would a famous young man with
a famous band and millions of dollars kill himself?”
“For
love.”
:) - Squii
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