Resolve

by Hensley, J. J.

  Mile 17

  A rock band is set up in front of Mellon Park on 5th Avenue as we march into Homewood. A man in an old concert shirt is singing Bryan Adams’ song “Run to You.” When he arches his back to bellow out the chorus, I can see his belly flash some December skin under the black shirt. His three band members gyrate behind him and the bassist looks like he has to be the lead singer’s brother. The drummer is a woman who must have idolized Joan Jett in the 80s. I can’t see the guy on the guitar clearly because he’s behind a large amplifier.

  It doesn’t take much to figure out what other songs they have been playing for the last hour or two. “Born to Run” by Springsteen. “Runaway” by Bon Jovi. “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty. It’s the same at any race that has bands comprised of middle-aged men and women. Occasionally, some jokers will sing “Heat Wave” by Martha and the Vandellas or “God’s Gonna Cut You Down”—recently revived by a Johnny Cash rendition. Those songs aren’t very inspiring.

  The bend from 5th Avenue onto Penn Avenue introduces us to houses that were probably considered mansions several decades ago. Most of the dwellings are in good condition, but overgrown shrubs and dislodged bricks on walkways serve as a precursor to trouble. It’s called the Broken Windows theory. Once neighborhoods become disorganized and worn down, the criminal element starts to move into the area and a chain reaction occurs. Dilapidation begets dilapidation. Transgressions beget transgressions. In most cities this is a foregone conclusion and Pittsburgh is really no different. It’s a city of recovery, but usually things have to be worn down to the skeleton first.

  I’ve sped up because it’s that time.

  This is the fourth place it could happen.

  My adrenaline level is up again, but not like before. The fact that it didn’t happen at the previous three points tells me that everything is on schedule. The plan was far from infallible. Variables are always present when it comes to killing.

  Knives are rudimentary and require you to be close enough to feel your enemy’s breath. Handguns are noisy and can be traced. Explosives cause collateral damage and have to be timed perfectly. Even a sniper with a rifle has to account for wind direction, visibility, elevation, and distance, and must remain concealed. Always variables.

  All you can do is control them as best you can and play the percentages. If my plan fails, then I can still deny and escape. My opponent will know it was me, but it won’t matter. My biggest problem will be getting another opportunity to kill him because he’ll know it’s coming. His personal window will have been broken and he’ll see the enemy closing in on his neighborhood. His clock will be ticking and he may decide it’s time to move on to a safer neighborhood. I can’t let that happen.

  I circled the block twice and mentally recorded what I saw. Once wasn’t enough, three would be suspicious. Things were as I had hoped. The news crews were packing up from their eleven o’clock broadcasts. They would show back up in a few hours to rehash the story before the morning rush hour. A few students walked down the narrow sidewalks and illegally crossed darkened streets. A heavy bass sound thudded from a distant car. Everything was as it should have been with one exception.

  The university cop in the well-marked patrol car sat directly in front of the building’s entrance. Other than an illuminated dashboard, the inside of the car was dark when I first drove down the block. It was on my second pass that I caught a glimpse of the officer. She had turned on a dome light in order to read some papers on a clipboard she held in front of her. The white light bounced off the papers and brightened her face. Somebody should have told her to change out the bulb in the car to a dim red color, or to put some dark tissue paper inside the plastic cover. Once she turned on that bright light, her night vision was out of commission for at least twenty minutes. That would help me.

  I pulled the Jeep into a space one block south of V’s building and started walking toward the entrance. With every step, I worked on boosting my confidence and simply looking like I belonged. When you look like you belong, people rarely ask questions.

  I slowed my pace and watched a student crossing the street in front of the building. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and was twirling a set of keys in one of his hands. He was heading toward the entrance and I wanted to time my approach with his. I needed someone to open the door for me, and students who see a badge usually don’t question authority.

  Walking past the patrol car, I made sure to make eye contact with, and give a little nod to the officer behind the wheel. She turned off the dome light and I just happened to move my right arm so she caught sight of the badge. Just for a second. There was no way she could read BALTIMORE, MARYLAND at a distance of ten feet in the dark. She gave me a non-smiling wave, turned the light back on and continued reading off of her clipboard.

  I slowed down to a near stop in front of the building’s entrance, and watched the approaching student out of the corner of my eye. He was coming at me from the right side and the building was on my left. The police officer was parked on my side of the street and I had walked only a few steps past the front bumper of the car. It was going to be alright. I had it all planned out. The kid would open the door and before it closed behind him, I would catch the metal frame with my arm and hold it open, being careful not to touch the door with my hand. No fingerprints. If the kid turned around, I would simply flash the badge, say thanks and walk right past him. No explanation. None needed.

  I was the police and if there were questions to be asked, I would be the one asking them.

  I belonged here.

  I belonged wherever I was and I had the badge.

  That had to be the attitude.

  Live the part. No doubt. Rock solid. Tougher than Lucite.

  The student with the backpack was almost to my side of the street and heading right for the entrance when he did something I didn’t expect. He turned left and passed by me in the opposite direction. He pushed a button on a keychain and a loud beep came from a car three spaces behind the police car. My friend with the backpack slid into his car and drove away. I found myself standing all by my lonesome, in the cold, outside of a crime scene, with an old badge and a loaded weapon.

  I rolled my eyes at my own predicament and thought about what would be more noticeable to the officer, who by now had to have refocused on me. Walking away was suspicious. Standing there purposely didn’t seem like a good idea. The keypad next to the glass door was begging me for an entry code that I didn’t have. My mind was suddenly flooded with some discouraging thoughts.

  I wasn’t really with the police and I didn’t want to answer questions!

  I didn’t belong here!

  I didn’t belong anywhere near here and my badge was as valid as a three-headed alien Elvis baby!

  A good twenty seconds had passed and I decided to move on and hope the cop wouldn’t follow me. Time to go.

  As I took a step, a hand on my shoulder jolted me into the stratosphere.

  “They didn’t give you a code?”

  It was the police officer from the car. The lighting in front of the entrance was terrible, but I could make out some of her features. She was a decent-looking lady in her late twenties. Her black hair was pinned back in a short ponytail. She looked the type to be either the most helpful officer you ever met, or the type to quickly douse you with pepper spray—depending on how you treated her. Time to go with the flow.

  With a cynical smirk, I replied, “Nah, sure didn’t. Apparently, I’m supposed to be psychic or somethin’.”

  “Yeah, they had the door propped open all day, but once the crime techs left, they shut the whole thing down. You with the city?”

  When she asked me, her eyes had sunken down toward my obscured badge. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

  Not wanting to take a chance that she would realize the badge didn’t have a bronze plate across it, I took a big leap.

  “Nah, state Attorney General’s Office. You know, state university, state money
, state interest. The governor is going to take all kinds of shit about this. Girls getting killed on his watch . . .” I shook my head as if trying to imagine the fallout. “He’s gonna get killed in the press. Soft on crime and all that. You know how it is.”

  I hoped she didn’t, because I sure didn’t. I had no idea what the state Attorney General’s Office did or what their badges looked like. I was banking on the fact that she was as ignorant as me.

  I said, “Law enforcement and politics just don’t mix. I should have worked a beat, like you. You get to do real police work and you don’t have to deal with all the political B.S. At least you know why you’re here.”

  My partner in conversation was getting hooked, so I kept going.

  “So they tell me to get my butt down here to take a look at things and report back.” I threw my hands up in disbelief, “But what the hell am I gonna tell ’em? The girl’s dead. Cops are on it. It sucks, but it happens. But they say, ‘get down there pronto and find out what you can,’ so I do.”

  I saw a question brewing with my new buddy and I knew what it was.

  I quickly added, “But I’m not gonna rush down here in the middle of a damn press event. I figure, she’s just as dead in the middle of the night, so I’ll glide on in here once the newsies are packed up and that way nobody is sayin’ the governor is worried about this. Can’t have the man lookin’ worried. No way. It’s bad perception management.” I let the last two words drip off my tongue with utter distaste.

  I leaned in to share a secret with OFFICER M. NOKES—that’s what her nameplate read.

  I whispered, “Of course, he is worried. He’s pissin’ his pants over this. But I’m not gonna be the one who takes the hit if that’s what the reporters start sayin’. Ya know?”

  I hoped she did, because I sure didn’t.

  “Aw, that sucks. Who was supposed to give you the code?”

  Good question. For all I knew, this lady knew every detective in the city. For all I knew, she knew every patrol officer in the city. Not a single bright idea crossed my mind.

  “Detective Shand. I tried to get up with him, but apparently he’s been up forty-eight straight and he’s not returning his messages. I was hoping to still catch somebody down here.”

  “Naw, they’re all gone for the night, but I can help yinz out. Gave me the code since there’s a bathroom in the lobby. Here ya go.”

  Officer Nokes reached over and punched the keypad four times. A latch clicked and she pulled the door open for me.

  “I don’t know if they ever got that door locked back up, but if they did, you’re out of luck. I don’t have a key for that,” she said helpfully.

  “Thanks. I’ll go see. If it’s locked up, I’ll just get with one of the city guys tomorrow and get the grand tour.”

  She walked happily back to her car, having helped a fellow officer of the law. I moved quickly toward the stairs, having tested my bladder to its fullest.

  The hallway looked exactly like it had on my previous visit. The only distinction was the splash of yellow at the end of the tunnel. Crime scene tape was strung across the doorway and formed an X. It took me only a second to understand what Officer Nokes meant about the door being locked. Even from a distance, I could see that the entire area between the doorknob and the frame was broken into splinters. Somebody had kicked in the door on his way to attack V. Music thumped from one of the apartments and camouflaged my steps. My anger grew as I moved closer.

  After sliding my hands into a pair of leather gloves, I pulled down the crime scene tape and inspected the splintered area. The cops must have had the maintenance guy from the rental agency come by and put a temporary lock on the door. It wasn’t a deadbolt, just a simple rod that slid into a loop. It was secured with a small padlock. A deterrent, not a countermeasure.

  I thought about the girl with pigtails, who I had made cry, and I kicked the door with all my might. It flung open easily and revealed a dark interior. Pulling a tiny flashlight out of my pocket, I started scanning the area. Some of the windows were visible from the street out front, and I didn’t want to turn on the lights in case any passing city cops got curious about why someone was in their crime scene.

  The first thing my beam caught was discoloration on the floor. Blood was soaked into the carpet about four feet from the door. It had pooled heavily in one particular spot, and there was some splatter all around. Somebody had really worked her over before delivering the killing blow. I took care to walk around the morbid puddles and streaks.

  Remembering how V had pulled the flash drive down from the mantle, I headed in that direction. The unlit candles stood at both ends, but there was no sign of the flash drive. Not wanting to spend any more time in the apartment than absolutely necessary, I began searching the place. Lindsay and V had separate bedrooms and it was easy to distinguish between the two. Lindsay’s walls were bare, with the exception of some framed movie posters. They were from recent dramas that I hadn’t watched, but I remembered seeing the commercials. I looked in every conceivable hiding place. The flash drive was nowhere to be found.

  V’s room had walls that were covered from top to bottom with Salvador Dali prints, signs from environmental rallies, and a wrinkled print of the painting The Lady of Shalott, inspired by the Tennyson poem. A copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance waited for her on a nightstand. Not one picture of a half-naked guy, or an issue of a magazine inviting her to throw-up after eating, found its way into the flashlight beam. Sadly, the memory stick wasn’t in view either. A wave of guilt hit me when I held the flashlight in my mouth and searched through her dresser and desk, but only a few marijuana leaves on the bottom of her underwear drawer gave me pause. She must have stored a small stash in the dresser. Most likely, the cops had searched the place and taken the drugs with them for disposal.

  I stood up, turned off the flashlight, and let my eyes readjust to the dark. Rotating my sore shoulder to loosen it up, I readied myself to search the living room and kitchen. Reigniting the beam, I followed the lit circle on the floor out of V’s room. The circle flickered and I smacked the side of the flashlight to bring it back into line. I decided to start with the furniture and then move on to the fireplace before giving the kitchen a quick look.

  When it’s dark, your other senses awaken to compensate for what you have lost. Therefore, my hearing should have warned me that someone else had entered the apartment while I was in V’s room. What would have been even more helpful would have been if my ears had alerted me to the fact that I was about to feel a freight train burrow into my skull.

  The pain was more shocking than excruciating. I had once been in a small room when a flash bang went off. When in close proximity, the reason that police occasionally throw the non-lethal stun grenades into a particularly dangerous room before entering becomes very evident. The concussive force of the mechanism creates several seconds of disorientation and blindness. If you are within fifteen feet of the short controlled blast, you’ll feel like every cell in your body has front-row tickets to a Metallica concert. That’s similar to what I felt when the impact hit me above the left ear.

  Somewhere between unconsciousness and consciousness, I knew a light was being shined into my face. Mentally, I started doing a diagnostic check, much like a mechanic looking at a car.

  Body—

  Feeling in hands: Check.

  Movement of toes: Check.

  Vision: Minimal.

  Hearing: Breathing and footsteps—not mine. Check.

  Position: Floor. Check.

  Pain level: Awful. Fail.

  Equipment—

  Flashlight—I felt the area on the floor around my left hand. Check.

  Gun—Don’t reach to see if it’s still holstered. Not unless you absolutely have to. Unknown.

  My overall status read more like a magic eight ball.

  Outlook: Not so good.

  Standing over me was a ball of fire being held by a thick hand wearing a glove. The voice behind
the light was one I recognized.

  My attacker demanded, “Where is it?”

  Another glove came into focus. A gun was being leveled at me by the same man. The smack of the gun barrel had been what brought me to the floor. This was turning out to be a terrible semester. First, I was attacked by my own graduate assistant with something that looked like a lead pipe and now by a man holding a gun. What the hell was this, a game of Clue? If Ms. Scarlet had come at me with a rope in the conservatory the very next day, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least.

  “Where is it?” he repeated impatiently.

  “Where is what?”

  “Don’t screw with me! I’m not letting you take me down. Not you. I’ve worked too hard. And I certainly won’t be blackmailed!”

  My eyes started to focus past the light and I oriented myself in the apartment. I was on the edge of the living room. The door stood a lifetime away. A sliver of flickering fluorescence trickled in under the exit. So far away.

  The kick to my side was unexpected. He moved quickly for a big man. I fought to regain my breath.

  “I don’t have it,” I sputtered as I searched for oxygen. “The police must have it. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Bullshit!”

  This time I protected my ribs with my arm. My arm did not thank me after the foot left its second impression.

  “I got your message and now you’re going to get mine.” He put the gun a little closer to my head, but still out of reach. “I don’t care what you think you know, but you’re going to give me that flash drive. I followed you from your house, so I know you came straight here. There’s no reason for you to be here unless the information is still in this apartment.”