Paper Trail Paramaters

[Polly Smithson]

MILLER-SMITHSON #2, 11/2/96 FROM ? TO 10:28 AM

Error in recording. Tape begins at 10:07 AM.

MILLER: [indistinct] and in exchange you can tell me something about your mother.

SMITHSON: What about my mother?

MILLER: Anything you like.

SMITHSON: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

MILLER: What do you think it means?

SMITHSON: I think it means you’re a freak who thinks he’s a real wise guy.

MILLER: That’s what you think it means.

SMITHSON: Yeah. [silence] Anything I want?

MILLER: Anything you want.

SMITHSON: Ma always wore green.

MILLER: Was green her favorite color?

SMITHSON: What kind of stupid fucking question is that? Why the hell else would she wear it all the time, asshole?

MILLER: People do a lot of things for a lot of reasons.

SMITHSON: Yeah, it was her favorite color. You’re a real smart guy, anyone ever tell you that? They payin’ you real good? ‘Cause you’re worth every penny, man. ‘Was green her favorite color?’.

MILLER: So your mother wore green a lot.

SMITHSON: Every fuckin’ day of the week. She had just about anything worth havin’, and everythin’ not, in the same ass ugly shade; dresses, sweaters, knickers, shoes. Shoulda seen her on Saint Patrick’s Day. Patron Saint of who-the-fuck-cares and there’s Ma in all her glory, decked out like astroturf. That goddamn kelly green. Said she always did wanna be Irish and that it brought out her eyes, which is horseshit - exactly the same color as Ma’s eyes, incidentally.

You know what brings out horseshit? Jack shit, that’s what.

MILLER: Ireland.

SMITHSON: Huh?

MILLER: Saint Patrick is the Patron Saint of Ireland.

SMITHSON: Christ almighty. Who the fuck wants to be a fuckin’ mick, anyhow?

[Polly Smithson]

Casefile PS0809-MA.

Content stored in security box 182-08.

#4 CASSETTE TAPES 1-4, circa 20??, origins unknown (see also: projected psychometry? Audio telepathy? (Ventriloquism?)):

Cassette tape #1, labelled ‘What’s Going On?’’:

Polly, don’t freak out. This is real, okay? I’m not shittin’ you, you’re not going crazy. I can talk to you through this thing and uh, sorry about your tape, but it’s-

Cassette tape #2, labelled ‘Nevermind’’:

Jesus fucking Christ, don’t turn this off-

Cassette tape #3, labelled ‘Master of Puppets’:

Look, we can go through every damn tape in the box, Polly, I don’t give a flying fuck. It’s your goddamn collection we’re fucking up.

Sorry. It didn’t have to be like this but I gotta talk to you, I need you to listen to me. I’m not gonna do anything, Polly, I swear to fucking god, I swear on Ma’s grave when she fucking gets there. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go down. I didn’t want. For shit to go this way. This fucking city, I swear to God.

Look, this is me, a’right? It’s still me, it’s still your brother. I’ll be back soon. Look, get outta here, okay? It doesn’t matter where, go to fuckin’ Canada if you have to but get out of Boston. Get out of the fucking state. I’ll find you. I will find you.

Cassette tape #4, labelled ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’:

All this is for you, okay? Whatever you... Whatever you hear. From that fucker Miller or whoever. Whatever happens. I’m doing this for you. For us.

[Polly Smithson]

MILLER-SMITHSON #13, 12/2/2002 FROM 3:09 PM TO 4:05 PM

MILLER: I know it’s early but here. Happy Birthday.

SMITHSON: Aw, you shouldn’t have. What is it?

MILLER: It’s a daybook.

SMITHSON: Just what I always wanted.

MILLER: So, what are your plans? Six more days and you’re a free agent.

SMITHSON: Hey, I heard this joke the other day. Big Johnny told it to me, you know Big Johnny? That fucking guy. I gotta tell you this, you’re gonna love it. So this hospital director is givin’ a tour to a benefactor, right, a real fucking cash cow - paid for the new cancer ward, the whole nine. They’re pulling out all the stops; flowers, coffee with the prestigious brain surgeon, taking her by the wing where they stuff all the terminal kids that they named after her husband - who was a fucking prick, no surprise, but what the fuck does she care ‘cause he’s dead and she’s got his money now.

So they walk into this one room and there’s a guy beating it, I mean really strippin’ his stick in high gear like he’s Mario fucking Andretti or something. This lady, she ain’t used to that. She shops at Land’s End and has a holiday home up in the Vinyard. Real high class broad. This shit is shocking.

“What’s going on here?” she says and the director, he steps up and takes her aside, real assuring.

“Ma’am,” he says, “it’s alright, this man has a very serious condition. His testicles fill up with semen and if he doesn’t do this every hour his balls will explode, likely killing him in the process.”

“That’s terrible!” she says but she feels better, you know, knowing there’s a valid medical reason. So they continue on the tour and everything is fine until they get up to the next floor and fuckin’ A, there’s a nurse giving a guy a handjob, right there in the middle of the ward where anyone can fuckin’ see. The lady flips her shit, totally loses it because what is this, a hospital or a fuckin’ brothel? She demands to know what’s goin on, you know, shouting: “How do you explain this?!”

The director looks at her and shrugs. “Same problem, better health plan.”

MILLER: Why do you do that?

SMITHSON: Do what?

MILLER: Try to shock in an attempt to direct conversation away from subjects that make you uncomfortable?

SMITHSON: Jesus, it was just a fucking joke.

MILLER: Would you like to know what I think?

SMITHSON: Oh, in your expert clinical opinion, you mean?

MILLER: I think you’re scared. You throw punches before the other guy can step up to the plate because that’s worked for you. Bouncing around in the system, you have to find some way to survive. I get it. But that’s become your only coping mechanism and in a week you’ll be on your own, in the real world without a safety net and the game changes; nobody gives a whit about how you feel or what you think out there. You’ll be striking at air and that terrifies you.

[silence]

SMITHSON: Wanna hear what I think?

MILLER: Yes, Polly. I would actually love to hear what you think.

SMITHSON: I think you’re paid by the state and I’m 18 next week so you can go fuck yourself. I ain’t jerking you off anymore.

[Polly Smithson]

MILLER-SMITHSON #9, 11/17/2002 FROM 2:05 PM TO 3:28 PM




MILLER: Let’s talk about Micah.

SMITHSON: How’s your mother?

MILLER: Do you recall what happened on November 2 [papers shuffling] of 2000? The incident at the Grant home with Curtis ‘Slider’ Jones?

SMITHSON: That rash ever heal up?

MILLER: According to the police report no one in the neighborhood was aware of a disturbance and yet the interior of the house was destroyed. Stripped to the studs in some rooms. They still don’t know how that happened.

SMITHSON: Of course, if I was fucking your father on a regular basis I’d break out in a rash, too.

MILLER: They identified Adam Grant by DNA samples retrieved from a small fragment of his lower mandible. Let’s talk about what happened to Adam Grant.

SMITHSON: Do you enjoy what you do?

MILLER: Sometimes I enjoy what I do, yes.

SMITHSON: Yeah, I’ll bet you fucking do. Hell, you get to sit there in your tie, looking sharp and tossin’ around your college words while your mother sits at home chasing vodka tonics with clindamycin for the fucking herpes your father gives her every other goddamn week.

MILLER: Just to restate: you’re not in trouble here. This isn’t a trial or an interrogation, there’s no cell waiting for you on the other end. I’m here to help you. But I can only do that if you let me.

[silence]

So.

SMITHSON: So. How about them Red Sox?

MILLER: Okay. Okay.

Let me tell you what I know about Adam Grant. Born in Roxbury, spent most of his youth trading calling cards with the PD until he was sixteen, when he got tossed into juvenile detention. He was there two years and the story goes he cleaned up, got on the straight and narrow, became something of a model citizen. Opened his home up to the system and started fostering troubled kids, among them you and your brother. Stand up guy on paper. Should I continue?

SMITHSON: Don’t stop on my account. I love a good monologue. Makes me feel like I’m on Law & fucking Order.

MILLER: On June 3, 1998, the body of Danny McMannis, age 14, confirmed to possess the X-Gene, is found in an alley in Mission Hill, shot in the head until he didn’t have a head, his skeleton dismantled. Last listed place of residence is dated three months prior, Grant’s address. When informed, Grant is so distraught he can’t be questioned for three days. Police transcript has Grant going on record that McMannis ran away sometime in May, school and neighbors confirmed it.

You and Micah moved in just before McMannis left, right? In February of ‘98.

SMITHSON: Aren’t we supposed to talk about feelings? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? All that touchy-feely Oprah Winfrey bullshit, right? Because I’m feeling like I want to fucking slap the shit out of you if you don’t shut up. Does that qualify as emoting?

MILLER: Shortly after this, Leah Walker is brought to the house as a temporary foster. She winds up staying for three weeks -

SMITHSON: Peter, I am not playing with you. Shut the fuck up. I don’t feel like holding your goddamn hand on a mosey down memory lane.

MILLER: And commits suicide two months after being moved to a permanent placement, but not before using her blood to paint, and this is a direct quotation from Staff Sergeant Michaels, ‘seriously freaky shit’ on the walls of her host family’s den. She had no history of mental or emotional instability prior to her death.

SMITHSON: Well ain’t that a mystery. Fucking teenager commits suicide - what’s this world coming to?

MILLER: Micah was close to her, wasn’t he? She wrote a lot about him in her journal.

SMITHSON: Go fuck your mother.

MILLER: Not my complex. Listen, you can sit in that chair and be a wise ass all you like. I got all day, my seat is from IKEA and it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than that plastic piece of shit you have. So if you want to play that game, go right ahead, I’ll keep reading.

SMITHSON: Gonna try act like a tough guy now, huh, throw in a few profanities, think it’ll make me feel more comfortable with you - like we’re on the same level or some shit. You don’t got any-

MILLER: Any idea what the fuck I’m talking about? Yeah, you’ve told me that before. Let’s drop the bullshit, Polly. I’m from Southie, you think I don’t know? You think I don’t know about how the system works for throwaways like you? You’re a black chick from Boston, you were fucked from the second your mother conceived you, nevermind adding all the other shit. Save your breath on the entitled bullshit, kid, because I don’t care.

Bottom line is, you know what happened in that house and I know what happened in that house and you know I know. My job is to figure out how much it fucked up you and your brother.

SMITHSON: Me and my brother are fine.

MILLER: [laughs] Oh, yeah, you’re fine. You’re real fine. Where is Micah?

SMITHSON: Doing his fuckin’ Christmas shopping. He’s picking out a real pretty number for you, Peter. Lace and everything, real racy shit. If you sweet talk him maybe he’ll let you call him ‘daddy’.

MILLER: Because the word is he’s got some new friends. Not exactly the sort that are going to help him figure out his head.

What happened in that house?

SMITHSON: He’s my brother.

MILLER: What happened to Adam Grant?

[tape interrupted; proximal noise disturbance]

Don’t do that. Don’t do that, don’t hide from this. I’m here to help, Polly. Don’t

Where are you? Don’t do that. C’mon. Where are you?

[door slams]

Fuck.

End of recording.

[Polly Smithson]

[Polly Smithson]

Casefile PS0809-MA.

Content stored in security box 182-08.

#3 LG DARE CELLULAR PHONE, sent messages, selected portions February-November 2008. (History unknown, files unavailable from database):



11.16.2008
17:56

dont. please dont. come home. just come home.

11.14.2008
10:17

where r u?

11.13.2008
8:32

where r u?

11.13.2008
6:46

where r u?

11.12.2008
24:36

please dont do this. not again. ur better than this.


11.11.2008
22:07

u home?

11.11.2008
21:23

no, just lock. i'll talk 2 him. fucking moron. be home soon.

05.15.2008
12:21

no

05.10.2008
03:45

u need to stop this

05.02.2008
23:27

just let me know ur still alive

04.22.2008
13:31

fuck u

03.31.2008
09:02

micah?

03.31.2008
07:30

ur lying

03.31.2008
07:25

when i find u im gonna kill u 4 bein such an idiot.

03.31.2008
07:18

what have u done 2 him?

03.31.2008
06:56

pick up u asshole

03.30.2008
22:07

dont do this. dont trust him.

03.16.2008
14:33

made u look

03.02.2008
04:41

yeah ok

03.02.2008
01:19

im not sorry

03.01.2008
16:22

ok. u wanna play it this way fine by me. get ur sorry ass back here so i can kick it.

03.01.2008
16:14

funny story. all the $ from freezer is gone.

03.01.2008
16:09

im gonna fuckin kill u

03.01.2008
16:03

pick up

2.24.2008
20:46

whatever

2.24.2008
17:30

seriousy u mad about tues? fuck u

2.24.2008
16:04

this isn't fuckin funny. pick up ur phone.

02.24.2008
15:56

what the fuck, where r u?

02.23.2008
13:29

asshole. better be a fuckin sock on da door

02.23.2008
12:38

where the fuck r u?

02.23.2008
10:16

where r u?

02.17.2008
23:42

hey stud. weave @ 3oclock is checkin u out. tap dat, playa.

02.10.2008
19:55

ur a funny guy

02.10.2008
19:06

extra cheese, no olives

02.07.2008
15:37

running late, c u @ flats. byob

[Polly Smithson]

Article A) May 18th, 2009. Escondito, CA. Castle Creek Inn, rm 113:








Article B) May 19th. Origins unknown:

[Polly Smithson]

“Hello?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Who is this?”

“Jesus fuck, Peter, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do.”

“...Polly?”

“Who the fuck do you think it is, retard, Sylvia Plath? Oh shit. Oh shit. I don’t know why I called you, why the fuck did I call you? We finished we you. We were done, man, we were out of there, we were through the fucking - “

“Polly, what’s wrong?”

“Who’s with you?”

“No one.”

“I am not joking, Peter. I am not fuckin’ around here. Who’s with you?”

“Polly: no one is with me. My wife’s upstairs, asleep. I’m in the den. I’m watching the game, taped it because I can’t stand commercials anymore.”

“You’re at home.”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you at the office? It’s Wednesday.”

“It’s two in the morning, Polly. I’m not at the office because it’s two in the morning. What’s going on, what happened?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“... is this about your brother? Polly, is this about Micah?”

“He’s not... he didn’t. Nothing happened. Nothing happened, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.”

“I’m in Nevada.”

“Why are you in Nevada?”

“Because it’s in the way of goddamn California.”

“What’s in California?”

“Look, I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I gotta go. Sorry I called, a’right? Get back to your game.”

“What’s he doing in California, Polly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, he’s what, twenty now? He’s not a kid anymore.”

“Fuck you, what is that? What is that, ‘he’s twenty’ shit? That doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter, this isn’t the goddamn system. Jesus Christ, that’s just like you. All of you wellfare assholes, can’t get your heads past a number, like it even means anything. Like it changes something, like it stops anything.”

“Polly, do you need me to call someone?”

“Like who?”

“You tell me.”

“Don’t try get in my head, Peter.”

“The police, a lawyer. Do you need me to call someone?”

“No. No. Nothing happened. Nothing happened, I just need you to know that. You hear me, Peter? You put that down in our file. You put that down. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. Nothing happened.”

“Goddamn right nothing happened.”

“Polly?”

“What?”

“It’s not just a number. It’s not. If it were just a number, you wouldn’t be in Nevada making a long-distance call that you probably can’t afford to some cocksucker who was just a pain-in-the-ass footnote in your life once. It’s not just a number. Okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

“He’s your brother.”

“He’s my brother.”

“But Polly?”

“Yeah?”

“If nothing happened... if nothing happened, why are you heading west?”

“...”

“If nothing happened, why are calling me at two in the morning?”

“...”

“Polly?”

“Because I don’t know what to do."

[Polly Smithson]

[Polly Smithson]