The Innocents

by Nathan Senthil

  A barrier separated the prisoners and the visitors. The bottom half of it was concrete, the top half made of reinforced glass. The barrier was divided into a dozen neat partitions vertically, and a single chair was placed in front of each.

  They chose the middle, the only spot to receive two drafts of air from two different fans. Peter took the seat, and Joshua pulled himself a chair from beside.

  As they waited, a lean guy in orange prison garb was ushered in through a metal door on the other side.

  “Ten minutes,” the guard shouted and stood with his back against the wall, while the prisoner made his way towards them.

  His hair was closely cropped; his face could do with fewer scars. For a guy over seventy, his ramrod physique and black hair were begrudgingly absurd.

  “I know why you’re here. Wheeler told me,” Joey said as he sat, his hoarse voice a few decibels lower when it filtered through the holes on the glass. “Lolly.”

  Both nodded in unification.

  “Now the country fears him, but back then, he was just a little runt,” Joey put his hand out, slightly over his shoulder, “about yay big.”

  “Go on.”

  “Not so fast.” Joey grinned and scratched his cheek. Joshua noticed that he missed his right thumb. Joey caught him staring and quickly drew his hand down. “Show me your wallets.”

  Clueless, they looked at each other but obeyed the scum, brandishing the leather front to back over the glass.

  “No, you idiots. How much you got? Put it over there.”

  They emptied the wallets above the ledge and all three counted. Two hundred dollars and a bit of loose change.

  “Nice,” Joey stretched the E. “Transfer it to my JPay.”

  Joshua’s fatigued mind took a moment to understand what was happening. Joey was mugging their $200—while in prison, in front of the authorities—by making them deposit it in his commissary account.

  Peter said, “But we have just ten minutes.”

  Picking his teeth with his nail, Joey said, “Then chop-chop!”

  Joshua glanced at Peter sideways.

  “Oh, come on,” Peter whined, but got up, holding his hip. “Hope you rot in hell.”

  Then he made a show of looking around. “Oh! You’re already there.”

  “Whatever.”

  Peter’s footfalls disappeared along the corridor.

  “Okay, now that you’ve bilked us out of our cash, play your part.”

  “It’s payment. I ain’t no shyster. My lawyer is.”

  “Using the prison library, uh?” Joshua smirked. “Let’s not waste time.”

  Joey said, “My cousin was hired by MacSharp, a weapons factory that had opened near Livernois. Back then we had several people working in various plants who kicked up information to us—”

  “I’m sorry. I neither have the time nor the inclination to learn the mechanics of the Mafia. You may have noticed, it’s not the dominant force it used to be back then. Bigger and meaner evil overtook it. Heard of cartels? How about Isis? Just tell me anything you know about Lolly.”

  Joey sneered, but spoke nonetheless. “So… we got information from our guy in MacSharp about a shipment. But our soldiers were all known to the system. Though my cousin was sure it wouldn’t get reported if we ambushed it, we didn’t want to take that risk. Robbing a weapon carrier could generate a lot of heat.”

  “So you outsourced the job.”

  Joey nodded. “Roman had just become a capo, and he wanted to prove his worth to the family.”

  “He became innovative.”

  Joey chuckled. “He put a word out that he needed some lowlifes skilled in robbery but not known to the cops.” Joey’s face stiffened. “That’s when we heard about a scrawny black kid who had a rep as some kinda batshit daredevil.”

  “Wait! Lolly was renowned in the underworld even before he hijacked the MacSharp truck?” Joshua hadn’t doubted that Lolly must have committed some sort of crime prior to MacSharp, but didn’t think he would be infamous in Loserville.

  “We chose him to rob MacSharp because he was already famous.”

  Famous. Joshua rolled his eyes. “For what?”

  “Another truck job.” Joey leaned forward, his eyes beaming. “They T-boned a freaking backhoe into an armored cash van and threw it down a bridge…” Joey went on about what Lolly did that day.

  “When was this again?” Joshua didn’t need a pen. His desperate mind was sucking in new facts like the vacuum of the space.

  “We met Lolly’s gang in December of ‘81. This robbery would’ve taken place some three to six months before that.”

  “Alright. Tell me about your meeting with Lolly.”

  Joey massaged the stump of his missing digit. “We made a really simple deal with the little Satan. Bring the MacSharp truck and get paid.”

  “But you guys planned to kill them,” Joshua spoke out his suspicion. “Lolly shot Roman and possibly you and escaped?”

  “We didn’t plan to kill them!” Joey implored and told him what happened.

  By the end, Joshua was appalled. He hadn’t imagined the story to be this sadistic. The deeper he went, the darker it got, giving him the chills.

  “I don’t understand the need for torture. It doesn’t fit Lolly’s pattern. Did your Don do something to Lolly before you guys met him?”

  “If we remembered every bad deed we did our brains would go like this.” With his left hand, Joey made an action of explosion beside his temple.

  Good point.

  “You haven’t figured it out? No suspects?” Joshua asked.

  “We had a lot of enemies. But the guys—no the kids—who did us in were blacks. Our Don always kept them at distance, both in friendliness and enmity. Still he rounded up the bosses of all the black neighborhoods in Detroit. He got their permission and put out an offer, which is still valid.”

  “What offer?”

  “Time!” the officer behind Joey said.

  “Bring Lolly’s blue-eyed head, you get two million.”

  “How many for alive?”

  Joey stood up, with a lopsided grin. “I’m a finger shorter to show you.”

  * * *

  Joshua resigned to sit at the passenger side of the car. His brain worked double time, computing the latest data, while his eyes studied the mirrors.

  They drove on the 8 Mile Road, made famous by Eminem. It did seem like it separated the poor inner city from the wealthy suburbs.

  They turned onto Livernois Avenue, and a mile ahead was an overpass the GPS called the Michigan highway. Joshua asked Peter to take this route because Lolly had killed two people there almost four decades ago. The sparse road allowed them to cruise at a leisurely pace of twenty miles per hour.

  In the side mirror, Joshua noticed something. A beat SUV, driving two cars behind, took a sudden turn and accelerated.

  As the SUV gained on them, the driver’s face behind the windscreen became visible.

  The guy was wearing a balaclava.

  The SUV was almost flanking them. Another man in a balaclava, sitting in the second row, was aiming a shiny pistol with both hands. A Desert Eagle, not an Uzi or similar types the drive-by shooters preferred. Both men were black. It hadn’t crossed Joshua’s mind until now. Could… could it be Lolly who was after Joshua?

  The guy took a shot at the car, the bullet bouncing off the metal. For a split second, the deafening boom whelmed the sounds of the busy road. Joshua watched the recoil fold the shooter’s elbows and his forearms hit the rim of the window, making him scream in pain.

  Grabbing the hair at the back of Peter’s head, Joshua ducked and yanked the gear stick. The car teetered to a stop, and the SUV flew past; but it skidded around in front of them.

  Blood pounding in the ears, Joshua sat up straight.

  “Holy panties!” Peter finally understood what was happening. As he shifted the car into gear, Joshua noted the gunman holding his ears. Since the shooter was on the left side of the SUV, Peter swe
rved the car right and floored it.

  The Audi zoomed ahead at incredible speed. Joshua turned around. The shooter got down from the SUV and aimed at their car. But he twisted his face away from the gun. Like he was as afraid of the cannon-gun’s trigger as they were of its bullet.

  However, he managed to confront his fear. Twice.

  Both shots missed them. Not surprising. Closing his eyes shut and turning away from the target had proven to have adverse effects on accuracy.

  Peter climbed onto the ramp that merged with the highway. Good thinking. Interstate meant more room for speed, which their could-have-been killers’ SUV lacked.

  As the g-force pulled them back, the glorious Audi unleashed the full might of its fleeing capacity.

  Chapter 24

  April 8, 2019. 06:03. P.M.

  “You guys got your car back?” Wheeler asked as he filled some paperwork on the desk.

  “Uh-huh,” Peter said.

  Joshua said, “May I borrow your PC and access the crime records?”

  Wheeler dropped the pen and stared flatly. “You’re kidding me?”

  “No, why?”

  Wheeler frowned. “Two masked men just tried to murder you in broad daylight.”

  Joshua counted with his fingers. “The report’s filed, the slug’s recovered from the car, we’ve given our statements, the detectives are out there collecting CCTV recordings. What else is there?”

  “Your mental health!” Wheeler said.

  Joshua glanced at Peter who shrugged impassively.

  “Don’t you guys feel shaken?” Wheeler asked.

  Peter said, “I’ve been shot at more than a dozen times when I was in Gang Squad. It’s no biggie, as long as you don’t compel me to visit a shrink.”

  Wheeler looked at Joshua. “And you, Chase?”

  “I admit, I’ve never been in a gunfight before.” Joshua lifted his hands. “And I was scared shitless even as we drove into the precinct. But then I remembered my choices. Either tuck my tail and run away. Or stay in Detroit and finish what I came here to do, what I started doing twenty-six years ago. When I simplify it like this, it’s easy for me to put my foot down and deny myself the chance to feel scared. Maybe later in the night, but not now, when I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Is that norm— You know what? Never mind.” Wheeler stood up, pulled his chair out, and motioned at the monitor. “Here. Use it all you want. It’s already logged into the police servers.” He walked around the table and took Joshua by the shoulders. “I’m not supposed to, but I am because: A) You guys are old detectives and B) I’ll do anything I can to help catch that bastard.” Wheeler let go. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  Joshua sat behind the desk, while Peter leaned on the wall beside Joshua.

  Michigan’s crime database wasn’t unlike the NYPD’s. With Peter’s help, Joshua sifted through the files from 1981 and found the armored cash van robbery Joey had told them about.

  On July 26, 1981, a group of three boys bulldozed a van, killed a man, and robbed $51,900. An upwards of $150,000 by today’s value.

  “Hey! You’re going too fast,” Peter said, as Joshua scrolled to the next page.

  “Let me read first,” Joshua said. He knew he was an asshole sometimes.

  “Cocksucker,” Peter mumbled and pulled his phone out.

  Joshua read through the reports and discovered something peculiar. Lolly had apparently puked before he shot the security guard. It didn’t make sense. Normally, murderers never vomited before committing the mortal sin.

  After the nasty episode, Lolly’s friend had given him a lollipop, and he became better.

  When Joshua scrolled to the next page, his heart paused for an instant before fluttering like a butterfly. A pleasant tickle originated within his being and sent a mild electricity across his skin, blanketing it with goosebumps. His vision blurred and an uncontrollable smile spread across his face. Years of toil, agony, and sacrifice had finally paid off!

  “A-are you crying?” Peter asked.

  Joshua, unable to control himself, hugged Peter’s waist and yelped.

  “Let go, goddamn it.” Peter wrestled away.

  Wheeler, standing in the doorway with two mugs, was staring at the duo. “Um… I thought you guys were partners. Didn’t know it was that kind.”

  “What the—” Peter looked at Joshua and then at Wheeler. “Good grief! This hideous psycho isn’t my lover.”

  “Then why’s he all emotional-like, like you just proposed to him?”

  “Beats me.” Peter turned towards Joshua and smacked him on the back of his head. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Joshua rubbed where Peter had hit him. Then he beckoned Wheeler over, who skirted the desk and handed each a cup, and tilted the monitor.

  Squinting at the tiny words, Wheeler asked, “What is it?”

  “D,” Joshua dabbed at the corner of his eyes, “fucking NA.”

  “Get outta…” Peter said and read the report with newfound enthusiasm.

  A bandana soaked in Lolly’s puke was recovered from a bush in the crime scene. As there was no statute of limitations on murder, the DPD had stored it safely. All they had to do was derive the genetic profile from it. No tests were done on the stained cloth because the DNA Identification Act was only passed in 1994, thirteen years after Lolly barfed his intestines out under the bridge he’d just broken.

  * * *

  As they drove back to the hotel, a FedEx building flickered past. So did a wild impulse. Quickly turning on the indicator, Joshua stopped the car. He took his notebook from the glovebox and began writing on it.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked.

  “We had a close call today.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “So I’m updating the notes and gonna send them to Gabe.” Joshua emitted a tiny smile. “Just in case.”

  Peter pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. Joshua hadn’t been paranoid. His fears had proven to be valid.

  “Okay. I see a Mickey D’s across. Let me grab us some food.” Peter exited and jaywalked to the shop.

  Once Joshua had completed his notes, he went inside the FedEx and mailed the notebook to New York City.

  After Peter returned to the car with mouthwatering goodies, Joshua resumed driving. Eyes mirror-hopping, he found no vehicle following them.

  * * *

  Joshua tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. Light on the window, footsteps outside, shadows underneath the door, everything unsettled him. Oh, and what a splendid time for his brain to vividly reminisce the near-death experience he’d had just hours ago!

  A close brush with the Reaper’s scythe had put things in perspective. Joshua wasn’t safe in Detroit, but he couldn’t go back home, not when he’d made such a tremendous leap in the case.

  Though his will power surpassed his fear, it couldn’t mask the nefarious truth. There were people itching to kill him. They had tried once—possibly three times—and failed. If they were the kind to learn from mistakes, they would eventually succeed.

  Joshua desperately needed something to calm his nerves. And then, amidst the cluster of dark thoughts, a bright light shone through. An epiphany.

  Gabe doesn’t need you.

  His mind was correct. Joshua had stopped drinking to nurture his son. Now that the boy was a full-grown man, Joshua shouldn’t be this cruel to himself anymore.

  Yeah. You shouldn’t.

  “Yeah,” Joshua whispered. “I shouldn’t.”

  * * *

  “What was I saying?” Peter said, his words slurred. It’s alright. A lightweight wasn’t in a kinder place than in the presence of an alcoholic. Plus they were in Joshua’s room. As a responsible drinker—an experienced drunk mostly—Joshua had given his car key to the receptionist, ordering him not to return it until morning. They had enough liquor and fast food to last for two days.

  Peter stretched on the bed and turned onto his stomach as he droned on, “… my ex-wife always told me you were
a bad influence.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Joshua said. That was true. He’d woken up Peter and explained his desperation to him. Then he dragged him out.

  “We can pretend we’re celebrating… didn’t we find something today?”

  “We did.”

  “Just figured something out,” Peter said.

  “What is it?”

  “You know, when you delete a message on your phone, it pops up an option, asking if you want to ‘Delete it for Everyone’, and if you select it, the receiver can’t see the message?”

  “Yeah?” Joshua asked, thinking, no more heavy stuff for you.

  “It’s a good tool, that option. I mean, someone gets real angry and types a page long venom and sends it. Then they sleep and wake up the next morning, feeling like a total douche, regretting they sent it. With this tool, you can delete the hate before the damage is done.”

  “You just figured this out?” Joshua asked.

  “Nah, I figured something else. You remember the time when random assholes tossed a matchstick into mailboxes? I don’t think it’s meaningless vandalism anymore. It could be the old school way of ‘Delete it for everyone’.” Peter laughed and pulled a pillow under his face.

  Smiling, Joshua poured the fourth round in his glass.

  His long-lost comrade, Jim Beam, filled his heart with blissful warmth. Joshua took a sip and held it in his mouth, twirling and sloshing it around, before swallowing. The aroma, the taste, the texture, it all felt just like yesterday. If Joshua were smaller—or the glass bigger—he would have plunged his head into the brown ambrosia. And sucked the goodness in with all his holes and pores, like a sponge.

  People might judge him for his love of Jim, but those people hadn’t been shot at with a gun that could make baseball-sized holes through their bodies. So fuck them.

  “Petey,” Joshua called. “French fries.”

  Peter said something, but the pillow had muffled the sound.

  Joshua got up and turned Peter. “The fries. Where are they?”