20I suppose I should start my story with the tragic and untimely death of my father, Dave Quillan. He'd been on the Cainville police force for just over twenty- five years the night he was killed. In fact, there was supposed to be a party at the station in his honor, but obviously, he never showed. I found out he died when I called home from my office, or rather, when I went home on December 17th, 1992.
My fiancé and I were going to see a movie after I'd had a grueling day at work, but we couldn't get into the theatre until later than expected. Since my father was living with me at the time, I thought I should let him know I'd be a little late coming home. Unceremoniously, I dialed my home number. The phone rang a few times before a bemused voice responded on the other line.
"This is Detective Robert Court answering on behalf of the Quillan residence, who am I speaking to?"
I had absolutely no idea who this man could possibly be; Dad had never mentioned anyone by that name. I answered, "This is Anevay Quillan, I live here. What's going on?"
"Something's happened, Ms. Quillan, and you need to come home immediately."
"Why, what happened? Is it serious?"
"You should see for yourself, Ms. Quillan. Now please come home."
I don't remember what I said or what I was thinking as I hung up the phone. I sat at my desk in a chilly fear, not knowing what to do. Finally, I called my fiancé, Doug. Again, the phone rang undisturbed several times before anyone picked up.
"Doug, are you there?" I asked, my voice quavering somewhat.
"Yeah," he said after clearing his throat. I could tell by his haggard tone and glasses clinking in the background that he was at a bar.
"Something's happened at my house," I started. Doug clearly wasn't paying attention; I couldn't hear his uneven breathing through the phone anymore. I could, however, hear him gently snoring. "Doug!" Got him. "I don't think I'll be able to make it to the theatre, babe," I said a little louder.
"Do I need to come and help you?" he playfully doted.
"No. . . I think maybe it was just a burglary or something, I'll keep you posted."
"Alright, honey, I'll save you a seat," he hiccupped, "just in case."
"Fine, but I think you should get someone to drive you home."
"Love you."
Click. I was alone again. I sighed as I jammed the phone back into the receiver and began shuffling my papers together. As I grabbed my coat, my glance fell on a cluster of pictures crowding the upper right corner of my desk: Doug, Doug and I on vacation in the Bahamas last summer, friends, parties, and Dad.
My dad had become the world to me after my mom passed. She got breast cancer in the eighties and we buried her last year. In the particular picture I was looking at now, I was sitting on my dad's lap on my fourteenth birthday. That year, my father and his partner had played out this elaborate scheme in which they "arrested" all of my friends and locked them in a cell to throw a surprise party for me. It was all planned out well in advance, of course, and I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I don't remember appreciating the weird but well intended gesture at the time, but I think that it's quite funny now.
With a shudder, I brought myself back to reality. On the drive home, I could barely concentrate on the road; I was thinking about what I might find when I got home. Even before I pulled down my street, I could already see the flashing squad cars and yellow police tape barricading the front door. There were two policemen quietly conversing outside my door when I hesitantly approached my driveway. They stopped talking when they saw me pull in.
"Ms. Quillan?" one officer presumed.
"Yes, now can someone please tell me what's going on?"
A brief pause ensued. "Step inside, ma'am. I'll get Detective Court."
It was an eerie feeling, inside; I felt foreign in my own home. Everything looked the same as when I'd left it that morning, even the dirty coffee mugs, so it didn't appear as though there'd been a burglary of any kind. Detective Court, a domineering, yet slightly dowdy looking man pushed past another officer before shaking my hand with so much vigor I thought it'd snap off.
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Quillan."
"Anevay, please." What the hell was he talking about, 'thank you for coming'? This was my house!
"You may want to brace yourself," Detective Court began.
"I'm sure I'll be fine, just show me," I demanded.
He obliged with an almost mirthful sigh and led me to the living room. I almost collapsed when I saw who was lying on the floor. Through the tape and the swarm of forensic people and photographers, my father was lying on his side, covered in blood. His eyes were cold and glassy. My hand instinctively flew to cover my gaping mouth.
"It looks like stab wounds," Detective Court said with a hushed voice.
I could feel my knees buckling, but I didn't want to cause a scene, at least not here. I didn't want to cry in front of all these people.
I don't think there are really any words to describe what I was feeling then. It was like someone had just dropped a lead stone down my throat and into my stomach. It felt like that over and over. I was sort of numb, like there was a rush of Novocain; I couldn't feel my body. I lost control of all my senses, and soon enough, I wasn't even seeing. I was an inanimate object, just like the couch by the TV, or the clock on the wall. Teams of investigators and other detectives swarmed right by me, not looking me in the face. It's probably just as well, if I'd looked squarely at another human being then, I'd have cracked.
When I regained a palpable degree of composure, Detective Court put a beefy hand on my shoulder and led me away. I couldn't bring myself to look at my father's body again. That's not the way I wanted to remember him. I was glad to leave; I wanted to be anywhere else in the world but there. I wanted to leave my house and never come back. Catching a glance at myself in the hall mirror, I took note of the disconcerted look I had on my face. It wasn't a look I was used to seeing; my expression was distorted, somehow.
"Is there anyone you want me to call, somewhere you want to go?" Detective Court asked in a soft, practiced voice.
"I think I'll just go to a hotel, thanks," I said in an equally soft voice. Of course, I wouldn't go to a hotel.
"You know that you can't leave the state, and you have to leave a number where we can reach you at, alright?" he asked, regaining his superiority.
"Yeah," I half whispered. I quickly jotted down my cell phone number on a McDonald's napkin and over-cautiously paced over to my car. I was trying to look poised, but I was failing miserably. When the engine noise died down to a soft purr, my body took over and drove to Doug's house. I know it had to have been my subconscious that was navigating, because I don't remember a single detail about the drive.
With a deep breath, I rapped on Doug's door. There was a light on at his window, so I knew he was home, but I let my self in anyway.
"Anevay?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Doug. . ." I ran to him and threw myself against him. "He's dead. . . he's dead. . ." I sobbed into his shirt.
"Babe, who's dead?" he sounded concerned now.
". . . Dad. . ." I sobbed harder.
"Oh God, Anevay. . ." he ran his fingers through my hair. The rest of the night is kind of a blur after that. The next thing I remember is waking up in Doug's bed, holding his hand. I'm so glad he was there.
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