She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be

by J. D. Barker

  Horton looked down at his dirty tie, mumbled something, then tugged it off, and used it to wipe at the soot on his shirt. When he realized the stains were only spreading, he gave up and shoved the tie in his pocket and turned back to the window. “Last year alone, Henry Crocket was responsible for nearly 30 percent of the drug traffic in this city. 10 percent of all the nastiness in Philly, he branched out. Recently, he’s been sniffing around Chicago, too. I don’t care much about that, busy worrying about what’s happening here in our city. Last year, twenty-three of his customers died, overdosed. Doesn’t matter much, though, because plenty more stepped up to fill those shoes. He merged with at least four of his competitors. And by merge, I mean he had them killed and took over their territory. So, more of a hostile takeover. Until this morning, he was well on his way to owning 40 percent of Pittsburgh’s drug trade by year’s end, a 10 percent bump over last year. Maybe more. Some of his remaining competition has been bowing out of the trade altogether—better that than merging like the others. Things were going well for Mr. Crocket, right up until today when a car with four armed men rolled up and filled him full of bullets, took half his head clean off, in that diner.”

  The image of Crocket’s head popped into my mind, his ruined body slumped over the table. “Normally, I’d drop some pictures in front of you at this point, try to spook you with the images, but I know you saw him, and real life is far worse than a picture. You get the benefit of those other senses, smell, touch. Your friend Bellino had part of Crocket’s head on his neck, his shirt. You got closer to that nastiness than anyone should ever have to. Trust me, it stays with you. Forgetting a photograph is one thing, but you’ll think about Crocket every time you touch something sticky for the rest of your life. Every time you smell meat cooking, your mind will go back there.”

  “Am I a suspect, or something? Why are you telling me this?”

  Horton said, “I’ve been tracking Henry Crocket for years, recording every movement. The guy picked his nose, and it ended up in three different reports. I can tell you when he shits, when he jerks off, his favorite TV shows…in all that time, you know what I’ve never seen him do? Not once? Sit at the front of a restaurant with his back to the door, let alone a window. Guys like him, they just don’t do that. They sit in the back, someplace where they can keep an eye on everything. Someplace less…vulnerable.”

  “They were sitting in Dunk’s favorite booth. He always sits there.”

  “Always?” Horton replied.

  Faustino leaned forward in his chair. “Not always. The first time I saw the two of you, you were sitting in a booth at the back, near the bathrooms. There was even a sign that said it was your booth.”

  “We were kids. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “When did Bellino’s, Dunk’s, favorite booth become his favorite booth?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Six months ago, nine months ago. He just started sitting there instead, said he liked to be able to see what was happening out on the street. He asked Krendal to start holding that one for him during rushes. He ate at the diner all the time, so Krendal took care of him.”

  Faustino and Horton both looked at each other, unspoken words passing between them. Horton went on. “A little under a year ago, we picked up a conversation between your friend, Dunk, and one of the other guys who works for Crocket, low-level guy named Alonzo Seppala. They were in the park; we got them with a long-range microphone. They were talking about ways to get Crocket out of the picture, take over the business. One of the suggestions that came up was to lure Crocket to a meeting and set him up for a roadside hit.”

  I was shaking my head. “That’s ridiculous. Dunk would never do something like that. He doesn’t have it in him. Sure, he’s into some bad stuff, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Bellino started sitting in that booth two days after the conversation with Alonzo Seppala,” Horton said. “Moved from the booth in the back, your booth, to that one in the front. Always the same side, facing out toward the street.”

  “So he could see what was happening out there, something to watch while he ate, that’s all.”

  Horton reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. This time he did drop it on the bed in front of me. “The surveillance we had on Bellino, the van you know so well, caught this.”

  I looked down at the photograph but didn’t pick it up. A blue BMW parked in the handicap spot in front of Krendal’s Diner, four men climbing out with guns. The driver was circled with red marker.

  “That’s Alonzo Seppala. Your friend, Duncan Bellino, set this all up.”

  6

  After the hospital, Detective Faustino Brier returned to the Pittsburgh PD Homicide Division’s pen. He pulled the Wall of Weird out from the corner and turned the board around, studied the pictures and text and the last dozen or more years of his life. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the copy of Jack Thatch’s letter he made at the Xerox store off 79 on his way to Mercy to talk to the kid with Horton.

  He pinned the letter to the board in the bottom right corner, right next to the hand-sketched poster of the girl followed by the message, Have You Seen Me? Beside both of those were three surveillance photos of Jack Thatch hanging the posters on Brownsville Road and down 51, dozens of them.

  From his desk, he retrieved the folder containing all the data on the 1978 murders—the man and woman found brutally murdered in the Dormont house, 98 Beverly, the three bodies found upstairs in the room that appeared to belong to a child.

  He leaned into the letter—

  Eddie, they know about the baby.

  The baby.

  Later in the letter, he says she’s walking, the baby.

  Faustino never had children, never married, but he knew many people who did, and their kids all started walking around a year old, maybe a year and a half.

  Walking! The letter said.

  Just started walking, in 1978.

  That would make her about sixteen or seventeen now.

  About the same age as Jack Thatch.

  You get it. You’ve got a boy.

  About the same age as this girl in the poster.

  My best to Katy and your boy.

  Definitely Jack’s parents.

  Stay safe—Richard Nettleton.

  Who the hell was Richard Nettleton?

  Faustino made a pot of coffee—he’d be here awhile.

  7

  They raided Dunk’s apartment while I was still in the hospital, while Dunk was in his third surgery. They were able to remove the bullets from his chest and gut, repair the damage to the tissue and muscle. They set the broken rib bones. The bullet at his shoulder went straight through. That was good. The two in his left leg turned out to be the most problematic—one grazed dangerously close to his femoral artery and severely damaged the femoral nerve, the other shattered his femur. He wasn’t in danger of losing the leg, but he’d never walk the same, if he walked at all. A doctor came in and updated me on all this a few minutes after the detectives left.

  I heard about half of what he said.

  As they were leaving, Detective Brier asked me who the man in the black GTO was. Said he’d been seen at my building, was at the funeral, too.

  I told him I had no idea.

  Brier left the letter. He took my pants and sweatshirt in his paper bag. Evidence, he said.

  Detective Brier’s partner, Joy Fogel, led the raid on Dunk’s apartment. They tore the place apart. Nothing incriminated Dunk, though. Whatever might have tied him to Crocket’s business had been kept elsewhere.

  They found Dunk’s father dead on the couch, a dirty heroin needle still sticking out of his arm. He had been there at least a day, maybe longer.

  When they picked up Alonzo Seppala, he said Dunk had nothing to do with the hit on Crocket. He hung himself in his cell that same night—used his pants.

  They kept me in the hospital for two days for treatment and observation, although I didn’t much care for the lat
ter and had no need for the former—Brier was right; I didn’t have a single scratch on me. Not a bump, bruise, or lingering cough.

  I wouldn’t get the chance to talk to Dunk about any of this for nearly three weeks. The ache in my stomach grew with each passing day.

  Log 05/20/1993—

  Subject “D” within expected parameters.

  Audio/video recording.

  “Where’s Warren tonight, Carl?”

  Carl stared at the monitor, at the boy looking back at him. He reached for the microphone button, hesitated, then pulled his hand away.

  “It’s not often you and I get to spend time alone, Carl. We have a lot of catching up to do. Did Warren call in sick, or did they finally nail him to the wall for the Great Toilet Paper Caper?”

  Carl pressed the button. “Shut your face, shit knocker.”

  The thirty-second delay elapsed. “The last time I was alone with Warren, he was kind enough to read me all the newspaper headlines, even a few of the stories. Do you think you could do that? It really does help to pass the time. You have a copy of the paper there, don’t you?”

  Carl glanced down at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette sitting on the console. He leaned back in his chair and said to nobody in particular, “For the record, I have no idea how the kid does that, but it creeps me the fuck out. Like he’s got eyes and ears in here. For my friends at corporate—how about putting a little something extra in the budget so we can keep a backup on call for days like today when someone does call in sick? Third time this year for Warren, not that I’m counting. I shouldn’t be alone with our little buddy, here. Nobody should. If we had a union, they’d be all over this.”

  Subject ‘D’ stood from his bed, crossed the room, and looked directly into the camera. “There’s no harm in keeping up with current events, right? How about you just read the first page to me?”

  Carl pressed the microphone button. “When your dad did that to your face, it must have hurt like a son of a bitch. Wish I could have heard it, you little shit. I bet you squealed like a stuck pig. I can’t imagine what you said to him to bring that on, for a father to do that, for a mother to stand by while he does it.”

  The delay, then: “I told him what he needed to hear.”

  “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I bet Subject ‘S’ wanted to run out of the room when you told her you loved her. Nobody wants to be around Frankenstein’s monster when he gets all touchy-feely. You realize, as soon as they’re done with you, they’ll put you down like a rabid dog, right? Subject ‘S’ will probably be riding some guy in the back seat of a Ford when it happens. You’ll be the furtherest thing from her pretty little mind. What did you expect her to do? Slap a wet one on your lips? Drop to her knees and wet your whistle? I suppose you could tell her to do that, but it wouldn’t be the same as her wanting to do it, right? Only way someone like you will ever get laid, though.”

  “You’re not a very nice man, Carl.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Carl stood and pulled down the blackout blind on the observation window. He flicked off each of the monitors in the observation room before turning to the camera watching him. “You want to write me up, go ahead. Cocksucking bureaucratic asshats.”

  —Charter Observation Team – 309

  8

  The eighth of May came and went, and for the first time since 1986, an envelope containing $500 did not mysteriously appear in my life. I had been home that day, as I was most days now, and kept looking to the door, the window, my room, expecting the envelope, but it never came.

  Somehow, I knew that era of my life was over, my benefactor as unknown now as the very first time one of those envelopes appeared.

  I didn’t need the money.

  True to his word, Mr. Matteo saw to it my bills were paid. He opened a checking account in my name and provided me with a debit card. The initial deposit was $2000, and he told me another $2000 would appear with the first of the month and every month thereafter. He also told me if $2000 proved to not be enough, he could increase the amount, I only had to ask. We were to meet at least once every three months to review my current circumstances and make adjustments as needed. More often, if my grades faltered and college appeared in jeopardy.

  Considering he took care of my bills, and these funds were meant to cover my day-to-day expenses such as groceries and clothing, I couldn’t imagine spending that much. I couldn’t imagine spending close to that much, so I simply thanked him and took the debit card.

  The doctors placed Dunk in a medically-induced coma for nearly a week following his final surgery, his sixth. They said unsupervised movement of any kind couldn’t be risked. His blood pressure dipped dangerously low twice on the first day, and one more time three days later. His heart stopped for nearly a minute. There was worry of brain damage. They placed him on a ventilator for the next four days. For the past week, he breathed on his own, and it appeared he would continue to do so.

  I learned all of this as the rest of the city did, between the pages of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. As the sole survivor of the Massacre at Krendal’s Diner, as the press dubbed it, reporters engulfed the hospital, bribing employees for any tidbit of information they could obtain. The story remained on the first page for the first three days, then the second and third page. By two weeks, updates on Duncan Bellino faded into the local section.

  The front-page story that ran on May 4, the day after the massacre, featured photos of all seven victims. Gerdy was the third image in on the first row. Lurline Waldrip was the first in the second row. The largest photo was last, an old image of Elden Krendal—no hearing aids, all his hair, and about thirty pounds lighter. Following his brief bio, the reporter included a few paragraphs on the diner’s history. Efforts were under way to try and raise funds to restore it, as a city landmark. I hoped that wouldn’t happen. I don’t think I could bring myself to look at that place ever again.

  I didn’t know the people in the other photographs, not by name, anyway. A few seemed familiar, probably people I had seen at the diner. I read all their bios. I wanted to know them, felt I should.

  The first few newspaper stories included something about a boy who ran into the fire, pulled out Duncan Bellino, and attempted to pull out Elden Krendal. Some thought he perished in the explosion, others said he got out. Nobody knew his name, though. The police wouldn’t comment. Somehow, my part of the story faded away, and for that I was grateful.

  Gerdy’s funeral was held on May 6. I sat in the second row, behind her parents. I had never met them. I should have introduced myself. I didn’t. Three other funerals took place at the same time. It rained that day. I counted the tents.

  Gerdy’s clothes were still strewn around my apartment, her toothbrush in the glass on the bathroom counter with mine and Auntie Jo’s. I couldn’t bear to move any of it.

  I had no more tears.

  I walked through life as a zombie, all motion and no thought. Unwilling to think about anything that had happened in the past few weeks. Worse still, unable to think about the days and weeks to come.

  I found a bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum in Auntie Jo’s room. I finished it over two days and nights, grateful for the thick blanket of fog it placed between me and the world.

  Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I hadn’t picked up that bottle, if I hadn’t liked the taste, the numbness. I did like it, though, a little too much.

  I didn’t return to Mercy General until May 20.

  I had no reason to believe what Detective Horton said about Dunk. He hadn’t been charged with a crime, there had been no mention of his involvement in the shooting, the fire, or the deaths that took place at Krendal’s in anything I heard or read. He was, and always had been, my friend. I should have gone on the first day and each day that followed, but I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  I told myself the police were twisting facts, adding a few of their own, trying to find someplace to put the blame. They wanted to pin t
his on Dunk so they could roll him on Crocket’s organization, give them the chance to dismantle everything before the snake grew a new head.

  Dunk wasn’t a killer.

  Dunk wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  Dunk was my friend.

  Dunk was my best friend.

  Why did Dunk change his favorite booth?

  The question nagged at me more than any other, not only because of what the detectives said, but because of something Dunk said years ago while sitting at my booth in the back corner near the restrooms. You can see the whole place from here. Nobody ever wants to sit near the bathrooms, but this is the best seat in the house.

  Dunk hadn’t been arrested, but when I called Mercy General to get his visiting hours, I was told Pittsburgh PD would have to approve the visit before I would be allowed in to see him.

  I left my name and number.

  Thirty minutes later, Detective Horton called me back. He wanted me to wear a wire, get Dunk to confess.

  I said no.

  He cleared my visit anyway.

  At the visitor desk, the nurse said Dunk was in room 307—take the purple elevator to three, make a right.

  When the elevator door opened on the third floor, I had no trouble spotting Dunk’s room. Two uniformed police officers sat on one side of the hallway, while two of Dunk’s “friends” sat on the other side—both looked familiar, but I didn’t know their names.

  All four men eyed me as I walked down the hallway. One of the uniformed officers asked me to sign a clipboard before entering the room.

  I scribbled my name, then pushed through the heavy swinging door.

  Although it was twenty past four in the afternoon, Dunk’s room was dark. The blinds were pulled tight, the lights off, the only illumination in the room provided by the television mounted in the far corner—The Price is Right on the screen, the sound off.