“He attacked me,” the bouncer-looking guy said. “Went crazy. Does it a lot. He’s nuts.”
The guy he was referring to stood off to the left in a corner. He was staring at me like a frightened doe. Dark bags hung under his eyes. It was hard to believe he was the aggressor as Bouncer Guy was claiming, but I knew not to read too much into first impressions.
In the middle of the room sat a tattered couch and a small coffee table. Two glasses, a bottle of Cuervo, and a saltshaker stood next to a wooden cutting board with lime slices and a paring knife. One of the glasses was knocked over. Sticky liquid pooled on the table. A white ceramic lamp lay on the dirty carpet, broken into large pieces like a cracked egg.
“You stay right here,” Railes said firmly, and came over to me. I kept my eye on the bigger, bearded guy because he was amped up, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might break, his hands bound up in fists. He bounced up and down like he was warming up for a sporting event. I wondered if he’d done drugs in addition to tequila.
“Couldn’t wait for you,” said Railes. “Too much yelling and I heard some things breaking.”
“What’s the story?”
“Your average kinky homo bullshit.”
Railes’s upper lip was raised in disgust.
His body cam was off. With some personal DV or sexual assault situations, we were allowed to turn them off or leave them in the car for the sake of privacy of the individuals involved.
Mine was on, so apparently, he was cocky or stupid enough that he didn’t care about his homophobic smack being recorded for posterity.
“Care to elaborate?” I said.
“He called the cops.” He gestured to Bouncer Guy. “He says Leon”—he tilted his head to the other—“went ballistic on him for no good reason. He’s got scratches up and down his arms from Leon’s keys and from his fingernails, too. When I came in, Leon was holding up a glass like he might throw it.”
I waited. I knew the debrief wasn’t over.
“He claims Leon goes wacko like this all the time and he usually just takes it since he’s bigger, but this time he lost it.”
Both guys watched us intently. “What’s his name?” I motioned to Bouncer Guy.
“Don’t know yet. Still trying to calm things down.”
“Okay, well, you take him into that room.” I pointed to what looked like a bedroom. The house was squalid and rough. “Get his information. Find out if he has a record. I’ll get Leon’s version.”
Not a fan of being ordered around, Railes shot me a look of disdain.
I ignored him and introduced myself to Leon.
“What’s your last name?”
“Spencer,” he said.
Small-boned and skinny-shouldered, he couldn’t have been more than five eight. The leftover wounds from my days with Sophie falling apart still sent raw pangs through me, and all I could think of as I approached this frightened young man was that I wanted to help him.
Thomas Leon Spencer told me he went by his middle name. He lived in Kalispell, was nineteen, and had gone to Flathead High School.
I was a trained interviewer, and I’d been studying up to take the detective’s exam, so I felt fresh with knowledge. I knew to find commonground quickly, to be encouraging, so I told him I’d gone to school there, too, graduated, and moved on. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’d rather not.” He looked at the camera on my chest, then down at his hands. He nervously fingered a key chain—a smooth, colorful agate shaped like an arrowhead and a square plastic Daffy Duck memento, both attached to a ring with his keys and a bottle opener. His vulnerability and apprehension were palpable. I was hoping he wouldn’t clam up. I turned my camera off and scooted over to block his view of Railes talking to Bouncer Guy.
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t feel right.”
“How so?”
“The other officer. I don’t think he approves of our lifestyle.”
“Well, I’m not him, and this isn’t being recorded.” I pointed to my device to show him the little green light was off.
