Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  “What buildings are there?”

  “Med center proper. The Butterfly building they call the new one. Maybe the outpatient building where they do MRIs and such things. The professional building.”

  Calvert doesn’t answer. All he knows is he found Rosa and feared she was dead. He hoped to save her, exactly as he wishes he could retroactively save Mere and Bump and Kati. He knows Rosa is at Rush and that she hasn’t woken, that her brain may have been damaged from lack of oxygen. And if she dies, at least they will have that in common.

  Syed must see the confusion on Calvert’s face. “When I get closer, my friend.” Syed says. “You can decide as we drive.” He turns the radio up on a song Calvert knows as Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street.” Calvert smiles, but his brain won’t fire far enough into his past to tell him why. The cab joins the street traffic. The car turns left at one corner, right at the next, left then right, over and over edging north and west, block by block.

  The ID of the driver reads: Syed Sarfraz Badshah. Calvert thinks that “Syed” is a title, something like “Mister,” but he may have invented this knowledge. While stopped at a traffic light, Syed turns the radio down and asks, “You like my cab? It’s nice isn’t it? I call it the Bananafish. Because of the yellow color. You know this story by American author?”

  “I used to know it. I like your cab. It is tidy,” Calvert says, taking in details: fresh vacuum marks in the carpet, the oily sheen of cleaner on the dash and door panels. He’s happy to be out of his head.

  “I own this cab. It is my cab. Once Chicago had a great mayor. Do you know Harold Washington? The best mayor for the city. My mayor. I came to Chicago in nineteen and seventy-eight. I was here when Mayor Washington was elected. I was driving for horrible man. He took all my money. But Harold Washington is always mayor in my heart. There was lottery for taxi medallions and I was big winner. Twelve hundred people applied, and I won. It was my American dream to have my own business and work hard. It was worth big money. Maybe two hundred thousand dollars. Did you know a medallion cost so much?”

  “I did not.”

  The more excited the driver becomes, the faster he speaks and the thicker his accent gets. Syed leans his chest into the steering wheel and tucks the cab behind a delivery truck. “John is the doorman,” Syed explains. “He assigns cabs. We argued about his president. He thinks the president could be great if the press was fair. I disagree. Now John won’t give me airport fares. It’s not right.” He smacks the dash for emphasis, not particularly hard.

  “It sounds unfair,” Calvert says.

  “It is an abuse of power. Owning my cab is good, but because of ride-sharing apps, my medallion is worth half what it was. I was going to retire on my medallion. Sell it and live on the profits in old age. Now I must keep driving. Things are tight and John is mad because of his president. John is making my life hard, playing his child games. It’s racist crapshit. John is a name for toilets and that is what I think of him. Toilet John.” Syed turns the radio up to Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone.”

  The cab slows as it takes the ramp up to Van Buren and turns left over the interstate. “Martin Van Buren was the eighth president of the United States,” Calvert says.

  Syed replies, “I memorized all presidents as part of citizenship test.”

  Calvert barely hears. He’s thinking that Van Buren was Vice President under Andrew Jackson and Jackson was nicknamed Swampfox. Did I ever have a nickname? Bearcat comes to mind. Calvert knows he created the sham-memory. I was never a Bearcat.

  Kenny Loggins finishes singing. Syed turns the radio down and says, “I go through rigorous background check to drive a cab. People call me terrorist. But I am safe. They check me thoroughly each time I renew my license. Uber says they check their drivers, but they don’t check.” Syed follows traffic toward the towering medical campus. “An average fare earns eleven dollars.” The driver speaks fast, intent on making his point before the ride ends. “But airport runs make forty an hour.” Syed pulls to the curb. He pushes buttons on the meter. “Twelve thirty-six,” he says. Calvert passes him a twenty. Syed hands him a business card. “That is number for my taxi. You call me when you need a ride.” He takes a long time making change.

  “Keep it,” Calvert says.

  “Thank you, my friend. This is the main building,” he gestures toward the looming architecture. “You go in those doors.”

  Calvert likes the easy way Syed uses the term “friend.” What would they do as friends? Would they discuss presidential history over beers at a bar fit for a man nicknamed Bearcat? Would Syed attend his funeral and tell stories about the time they drove to the hospital? Rosa called him a “true good friend.” Her smile flashes across his vision. Myelin.

  He exits the cab and goes straight into the hospital.

  Conspirators Conspire

  Ruther combs his mustache and smooths his hair. He breaths deep with his eyes closed. His eyes pop open and look from Suzuki to Whistler.

  “Detectives, I have called you here to listen to your good news.”

  Whistler starts to speak.

  “Wait,” Ruther says. “This is what I want you to say: ‘We now have no doubt who the killer is. We have an airtight case. We don’t even need a confession or an eyewitness. Don’t worry esteemed leader Ruther, you have worked hard to become the revered inspector that you are. You’ve busted your ass for decades. Now take a load off. We’ve done our job so you are able to tell the chief of Ds and the mayor’s slimy chief of staff they can have their press conference and happily allow the mayor to take credit for the work we’ve done.’ Can you repeat that guys? Can you do that for me? Preferably verbatim and in unison.”

  Suzuki says, “Well …”

  “Let me stop you there. I’ll make it clear why I need this. That’s only fair. I’ve been cussed up one side and down the other. Our most likely witness is in a coma. The doctor said, ‘Her body needs the rest.’ Well, no shit. We all need the fucking rest. I need a trip to an island with hula girls. Do they even still have hula girls? Is that still a thing? Have I missed my chance? I digress. The canvas of the neighborhood gave us dick. The tip line was a bust. Calvert Greene may have a suspicious history, but he was locked inside an institution during the Ginny Flores attack. I’m not saying it’s a dead end, and I’m not even admitting the Flores case is related. I’m saying if that’s the theory of the case we are working, then Greene ain’t the guy.” Ruther hammers his fist on the case files on his desk. “We have no physical evidence. Unless Diaz’s mystery smell and missing headband and lack of high heels counts as physical evidence.”

  “Hair tie,” Whistler pipes up. Ruther’s agitated expression makes him regret it.

  “In case you’re not getting what I’m giving,” Ruther says, louder now, “the answer is no! A mystery smell is not physical evidence. Speculating about hypothetical evidence is abso-fuckin’-lutely not evidence! You know what is evidence? Evidence! Actual evidence! The press has declared one of our suspects a hero and are now claiming the recent attack constitutes a pattern. Sound familiar, Diaz?” Ruther takes a few deep breaths. “You understand why you need to say the things I’ve instructed. Please, boys, the floor is yours.” He slumps back. “Proceed.”

  Suzuki looks at his boat shoes.

  Whistler loosens his tie.

  “Suzuki,” Ruther says, “you started to say something. I interrupted. I’m so fucking sorry. Continue.”

  “The probation officer thinks Allen is too scared of prison to be our man. It’s clear Mr. Schmidt has a capacity for violence and ample anger issues.”

  Whistler says. “Women issues too. You know his record. He broke a woman’s neck. He’s familiar with the Echelon, was clearly at the Zhang crime scene.”

  Ruther says, “Give me a plausible theory.”

  “Schmidt got to the coffee shop early, parked around back, and forced his way in as the owner opened up, attacked her, ran out when Greene showed, hopped in his van, parked out front, and
acted shocked when Greene came out carrying the vic. Ginny Flores, who may be connected, Schmidt could have known her. He could have gotten her pregnant. That would connect him to three victims. According to Gladsky at Bug Off, Schmidt was working alone the day of the Harpole attack. And—get this—Gladsky said Schmidt has been known to hook up with staff at these hotels. So it feels like the Ginny Flores shoe fits Schmidt perfectly. And with Harpole he could have left the International, driven to the Echelon, and returned with no one the wiser. The way I see it, he locks the dog in a room, sneaks out the freight elevator. It would be easy.”

  “Did you hear the part where I said ‘airtight case’ and ‘actual evidence’? A public defender could drive a garbage truck through that reasonable doubt. Speculation does not lead to convictions.”

  Suzuki speaks up, “We’ve taken this as far as we can without Mrs. Zhang or a warrant. The crime scenes, the canvas, the bodies, the video evidence is all a bust. If Zhang’s brain is vegetable soup, that only leaves one option: fish for evidence in the most likely pond. That’s Schmidt’s van, Schmidt’s house. It’s time to twist arms, Inspector. If the chief of Ds is so invested in seeing results, he needs to point to the judge that will give us a warrant.”

  “So it’s on me?” Ruther says. “Is that what you are fucking telling me? This is somehow my problem? I guess that’s why I’m a living legend.” He fishes a comb from a pocket and gives his mustache a thorough grooming. The comb goes away. He clears his throat. “Diaz, you figure out exactly where Schmidt is at the moment. Suzuki, bet his wife might have feelings about his reputation for hooking up at work. With any luck, she’ll blow her top and offer to testify against the prick. Only one way to know. Have her come in. Be persuasive. Diaz, I’m going to use your theoretical scenario to convince a judge this is more than a fishing expedition.” He stands. His leather chair bangs his file cabinets. “But you better be fucking right. Now get the fuck out and wait for the bat signal.”

  Thinning the Soul

  The door to Rush Medical Center leads down a hall lined with photos of former hospital administrators, their gilded frames screwed to the wall to prevent theft. At a turn in the hall sits an oversized semicircle of built-in counters, behind which a tired-looking attendant waits.

  “May I help you?” The man’s curly hair is black at the roots but white on top, as if age has dusted his head with powder. His tag reads “Lucky.” Calvert assumes it is a name and not a declaration.

  “I’m here to see Rosa.” He tries to recall her last name. She told him a story about the father of her son. Chinese name. “Rosa with a Chinese last name.”

  Lucky gives Calvert a slow, appraising look. “You want a doctor or a patient?” He already sounds exhausted by the exchange.

  “Sorry. I was unclear; my brain is disintegrating. A patient. She’s very nice, Rosa, in a coma. Does that help? We are true good friends.”

  “Wait.” Lucky holds up his whole hand, suddenly full of energy. He looks hard at Calvert. He takes up his phone and taps away at the screen. He waits, he flicks, he taps. He turns the phone to Calvert. “That’s you,” he says.

  On the screen, Calvert sees an image of himself standing with a microphone in his face. He feels no connection, no sense that he is the person in the man’s phone. But it is his likeness. He nods to Lucky.

  “I knew it! You came to see the woman. I recognized you, but when you started talking, that’s when I knew. You saved her life.”

  Calvert knows the characterization isn’t accurate. He wants to explain that, given his imminent death, walking into danger posed no risk. He was only looking for coffee, perhaps a bagel. His stomach grumbles. He focuses on his current reality and says, “I’m here to see Rosa.”

  “Oh, cool, man. Can I get a picture? My girl is gonna flip her wig.” Lucky moves around the counter and throws an arm over Calvert’s shoulder, tucks in close, and holds the phone at arm’s length. “Say ‘bags of money.’ Three, two, one, bags of money.”

  Calvert does not say “bags of money.”

  Lucky looks at the image on his phone. “Dope,” he says. “You need to walk on down the corridor.” He points around the bend in the hall. “You’ll find some elevators. Go to the fourth floor. When you get off, turn right. You’ll find another desk, and they can tell you where to go. Okay? You tell them you’re the one who saved that girl. They’ll know where to send you. Okay?”

  “This way. Elevator. Fourth floor. Turn right. Ask at desk.”

  “You got it.”

  Calvert walks away. He sees through the floor-to-ceiling windows along his right that the hallway runs parallel to the street, and he’s moving against the closest lane of traffic. The sun glares in, bounces off the hard white surfaces, and makes his upper lip perspire. He fears his meat will cook before he reaches Rosa. He picks up the pace and steps into the waiting elevator.

  Inside, the air is cool, the light dim. His body chemistry stabilizes. He thinks of Lucky taking pictures. Does capturing a likeness shave off a thin curl of identity? Am I infinitesimally less than I was before the photo?

  Professor Greene once had a layover in Madrid. He ordered gelato from a kiosk and stood watching people pass. A woman in a long floral skirt and a colorful shawl was asking for money. An American businessman said, “Five dollars if you let me take your picture.” He pulled money from his pocket. “US dollars,” he said, flapping the bill in the air. He took his phone out, preparing to steal an image. His voice was too loud and his behavior abrasive. Professor Greene didn’t want to be associated with him. He tried to eat his gelato in a European manner.

  “No, no,” the woman said, distressed by the loud American aiming the flat back of his phone at her. She had turned her bent back to him and left without the money.

  Calvert knows now what Professor Greene once knew: some cultures believe a camera steals a piece of the human soul.

  When the elevator opens on the fourth floor, Calvert wonders: Can a body go on in the absence of a soul? And what of my students with their habitual selfies? Are their souls as thin as tracing paper, ready to rip loose and blow away? And why do they always stick their tongues out? He remembers the gelato he was eating that day had been smooth and flavored with espresso. The lingering memory of smooth, sweet espresso reminds him of Rosa, and he picks up the pace as he moves down the hall.

  At the reception desk, Lucky has called ahead to explain Calvert’s needs. The woman leans over the counter to point at the floor under Calvert’s feet.

  “You see the colored dots? Follow the orange dots to the orange elevators and go to the sixth floor. There’s a nurses’ station. Someone there will know the number for Mrs. Zhang’s room.”

  Calvert looks between his shoes. He sees yellow dots, green dots, blue dots, and orange. He follows the trail of orange dots with his eyes. They lead across a busy atrium packed with people in white lab coats or pale hospital gowns. There are people with crutches and canes, people in wheelchairs with oxygen plugged into their nostrils, and two people taking wheeled IV stands for a walk. Past the motion of sickly humanity and the shuffle of feet crisscrossing at random angles, Calvert finds the mouth of a hallway, forty yards away, marked by more orange dots.

  “I see the dots,” he says. He keeps his eyes down, afraid of losing the trail. He follows the dotted line as if seeking treasure on a pirate’s map. He imagines Rosa’s room marked with an X. He smiles like a kid, so excited to see his friend that he hops from one dot to the next.

  Publish or Perish

  After their meeting, Abbey escorts Moe to the main building to meet Greene’s psychologist, and lets her in through a series of security doors. Now Moe waits at the front desk. She starts composing descriptions in her mind for the article to come.

  “You here about that Calvert cat?” the kid on the other side of the security desk asks, interrupting her process.

  She takes in his wrinkled uniform, the bill of his cap twisted off center. She says, “I’m doing background for an
article. Did you know him?”

  “I know when I was trained I was told to keep an eye out for him. He used to hang around and watch people come and go like he was plotting his escape.”

  “Did he ever actually try to leave?”

  The kid stands to shoot the shit, adjusts the brim of his cap to show Moe a fledgling wisp of a mustache. “It was the night shift. The patient rooms are locked so patients can’t go for a midnight stroll, right?” Before he can say more, his eyes register something behind Moe. She hears heels clicking her way. The boy says, “You have a nice day,” and sits back down.

  Moe turns to see a woman with luxurious auburn hair, wearing the hell out of a dark, knee-length wrap dress and chunky heels. Moe’s reminded of the woman who bumped her on the train. It’s not her, but definitely a member of the same clan.

  “You are the reporter?”

  “Moe Diaz. I appreciate your time.”

  “Katherine Davis. Why don’t we go to my office?”

  They walk to a cluster of offices and common rooms at the center of the building, a spot called the Hub. Moe sits and listens patiently to the psychologist give a carefully orchestrated spiel. She shares no information that isn’t publicly available. It feels like a waste of time. Still, Moe tries to probe a little.

  “Would you say Professor Greene’s recovery was unusual? Sounds like he went from nearly brain dead to the toast of Chicago in a short span of time.”

  “It’s gratifying when a patient responds well to a treatment plan. As you can imagine, every brain injury is unique. Some people heal faster than others. Our team has had a lot of success.”

  It’s clear the woman has decided exactly what information she can divulge and is careful to say no more. Ten minutes after meeting Katherine Davis, Moe is escorted back through the building. Moe hoped to ask the security kid some follow-up questions on the sly, but Katherine ushers her out the security doors.