The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “Miss. Gresham?”

  It was all in her head… She’d tried to convince herself. He’d just been returning her calls from that evening on the subway. She’d begun cracking four of her five fingers with her thumb. It was a weird thing she’d learned as a child, she’d never associated it with fear though, not that she would remember… was she scared? On edge, yes. Tired, yes. But scared? She wasn’t sure.

  “Hello…?”

  She would like to meet with him, the John Doe. The thought of doing so alone didn’t agree with her. She’d contemplated dialing up Detective Harrington… She’d shoved the thought aside for many reasons. For one, He would be held up at his father’s funeral. From what she’d read from an article that was quickly circulating with a video of the funeral, Lawrence was allegedly being cremated and not buried. She didn’t want to disturb that; whatever the family had decided to do with their father’s remains. So instead, she’d decided she would leave him a message and head down to see the man at the other end of the line.

  “Can you hear me, Miss. Gresham?” John Doe asked. Christina cleared her throat.

  “Yes, yes I can hear you fine. I…Can we meet by a park?” She’d idly picked up a pill that sat on her lap. It was still encased in its sachet and she’d run her fingers over it. She was going to bring him to a general area, somewhere rather far from where she resided and far from Dan Marsons Medical Center. She didn’t know who the man was, or what he was capable of, she wasn’t going to let him close to her everyday life. Neither was she going to be careless and carry herself to somewhere unfamiliar to her.

  “Have anywhere in mind?” At the moment, no. She wasn’t too sure of where to bring him. But she didn’t think she had all day to decide.

  “How does Bryant Park sound?” She blurted. She’d been there quite a few times.

  “In mid-town?” Did he have a problem with that? She felt comfortable in mid-town. As a teenager, she’d been there whenever Olivia Gresham had a job that required her to be in the area.

  Olivia Gresham's voice was once the staple of Christina's childhood. It had wailed with need, cracked with a sorrow and anguish hinting to the memories of the son cancer snatched from her. Those jobs Olivia had taken up around 44th Street, those freelance opportunities doing anything and everything Olivia Gresham had gobbled up as an excuse to take her mind off Michel Gresham’s death had brought color slowly back to the broken mother’s heart. Christina had never been too curious to know what her mother had engaged in at the time. In her defense, she too had been burdened from the loss of her twin, her brother, her best friend. It was all just so sudden even if like a slowly ticking clock, Michel’s death had taken it’s time.

  Teetering back to what Olivia Gresham had busied herself with; Christina had always assumed it involved sales in some way. She would ask her, whenever she got around to reaching out to her mother. And if she couldn’t reach her, she would ask Grace… She didn’t know who she felt more comfortable talking to. On the one hand, she didn’t have the best relationship with Olivia, not like before. Not since the divorce. On the other she’d been a reason Grace had her miscarriage. It haunted her. God it haunted her! She was a reason her cousin’s baby had died… Her lips wobbled.

  “Are you still there, Miss. Gresham?”

  “Yes.” She tried to sound firm. Unbothered by the rip in her heart. The last thing she needed was to be taken to an unfamiliar part of town. Somewhere he had the advantage. He wasn’t in her head, he didn’t need to know what was going on in there. He didn’t need to know that she wasn’t sure of her decision, that… that she was scared, that she was confused. He didn’t need to know anything besides where they would meet.

  “Give me a couple of minutes to head down there.” He’d said.

  “I didn’t catch your name?” She’d asked, but the line had already died. Nothing about that arrangement pleased her, not in the slightest. Nothing about the direction her life had been heading pleased her. She’d made a single step in changing something in her life. Her perception of cancer. And even that hadn’t completely changed, but it was a work in progress… Oh! And she couldn’t forget she’d made a pact with herself, with Grace that she would answer her calls, that she would call and check in. Much like her perception of cancer, it was a work in progress. Because she was still yet to check in on Grace after their conversation that morning.

  Christina Gresham had to make a change in her personal relationship with people. One by one, on her journey to recovering if she could indeed recover, she would reach out to Terrence, she would tell him about her disease. She would reach out to Olivia… there was too much there Christina needed to cover up. There was so much they had to discuss; Christina hoped they would eventually bring everything to light. She would intervene again in Carter Wellington’s drinking. She’d spoken to him the first time, played a part in sending him to rehab. She would do it again.

  She’d instructed her cab driver to head down to mid-town. She’d quickly sent a broadcast message to Grace and Cater. She would have sent to Detective Harrington, but then she remembered, he’d collected her contact information, it hadn’t been the other way around. The message she’d sent to Grace and Carter had been lacking context. It was just the address of Bryant Park. She didn’t think the man would do anything to her… she didn’t want to think he would, but as a lady, it was better to take precaution. With a want of something to do, Christina had begun shoving her pills into her bag and organizing the back seat. When that wasn’t enough to occupy her restless mind, she’d taken to watching traffic drift by. They hadn’t encountered traffic on the Nine-A-highway. Christina had been glad. She’d found comfort, just a little in watching as the driver sped past the Hudson River.

  Coming back to the concerns of traffic, Christina Gresham couldn’t vouch for W44th Street. The narrow one-way road had been clustered with cars. On either side, many had been parked by the businesses that lined the street. She knew it wouldn’t be that much longer before they turned up at Bryant Park.

  Picking up her phone, Christina Gresham deliberated calling John Doe back and asking for a little more information. How did he look like? Was he a tall man with green eyes… middle aged? Was he generous in the middle with his stomach? Did he know what she looked like? She hadn’t even told him where in the park they were to meet. She didn’t bother to call, but left a message. In it, she’d told him she would be by the entrance. She’d described what she’d thrown on that morning and a little bit of how she’d looked.

  At W42nd Street, the cab had pulled to a stop, though not without a few choice words from a Camry that had been eyeing the same spot by the curb. Gathering her belongings, Christina pulled out a twenty and satisfied the cab man and climbed out of the car. The afternoon sun bawled of the rapidly approaching summer. She didn’t really have a favorite weather, but if she was to have, summer wouldn’t be her favorite season. The weather always found a way to leave her feeling… humid.

  She’d waited and waited and waited a little more for John Doe. Restless, she’d taken a walk about Bryant Park and returned to her spot by the entrance. She’d begun to think she’d made a mistake going there, alone for that matter. And just when she’d been about ready to leave, a strange familiar voice called out to her. He’d come.

  Lawrence Harrington’s cremation had taken there about a hundred-and-fifty-minutes. Two hours and fifty minutes in a push and pull conversation with Juliana Harrington. At a point during this time, Claire Harrington had grown bored of the company of the crematorium operator and returned to her family. At the presence of Claire Harrington, Juliana Harrington had bit her tongue and coiled into a silence that rattled Barron Harrington. It was almost as if his mother had felt cornered by her two children and had refused to face their questions.

  “Can you at least tell me what you did with my room after I… left?” He asked instead. It was clear he wasn’t going to get any further with Juliana in the presence of Claire.

  “Why do you sudden
ly want to know all these little details, Barron?” The woman was near frantic. His mother was near frantic, and he didn’t know what to make of her reaction to his questions. Maybe he was pushing too hard? She’d been the closest to Lawrence, it was possible she was the most affected by his death and there was nothing more. But he couldn’t help himself. “We didn’t turn it to anything, it’s just a storage room.”

  “Why was it locked?” Claire Harrington looked between her mother and brother.

  “How do you know your room at home is locked?” Claire wanted to know.

  “Why was the room locked?” What exactly did he have in mind? Why had he held his grieving mother down with questions that visibly tore her apart? And then he remembered, he was doing his job, he was avenging his father’s death, at any cost. Did that mean tugging at the lose thread of his family and watching it unravel? Where did he draw the line? There was no line when it came to his father’s murder. There was an empty slot that needed to be occupied by a suspect.

  Did he think his mother was a suspect? No, she didn’t meet the profile 28th precinct had created for their suspect neither did her lover, he assumed. Her lover, Morgan King had to be the husband of Rosaline King the sweet woman he’d met at his family home. Neighbors to Claire and Juliana Harrington. Barron had assumed the man’s age would be on the elderly side, and even if he weren’t, among other factors, the weapon used in the murder of Lawrence Harrington wasn’t that easily acquired and unless the family had a history on the force, he doubted the man could have gotten his hands on a Glock 19.

  The ashes of Barron Harrington’s father after the cremation had been placed in a gold urn that was handed directly to Claire Harrington, though not by the dumpy operator. Another man had walked through the entrance, he’d been taller than the operator, and leaner. His skin had been a deeper shade as well. Barron hadn’t paid the man too much attention. He’d merely acknowledged the urn the man had in his hands.

  It was done; Lawrence was nothing but dust in a jar. Barron was nauseous and upset with the thought. The Urn was given to Claire. She’d held it at a distance at first… had she been scared of it? Later on, as if discovering that it was harmless, that it was merely an overly decorated jug containing her father’s remains, she’d almost hugged it.

  Barron had wanted to ask where in their home they would put Lawrence, particularly since he had paid his family home a visit—by trespassing onto the private property—and he hadn’t seen anywhere that seemed suitable to rest the remains of a man with as much class as Lawrence Harrington.

  For a fluttering second, he’d deliberated what Lawrence would have wanted and if it entailed returning to the place he’d learned of his wife’s affair? Barron had dissociated himself from the thought. His father was resting in peace, in a better place with a supreme being, it didn’t matter too much where his remains found a home. And quite frankly, Barron didn’t think he had a case to keep the urn of his estranged father. Lawrence had never even been to Barron’s home in Harlem. He’d let Claire clutch tightly onto Lawrence Harrington’s ashes. They could keep it.

  Detective Harrington had taken his leave then and returned to 28th Precinct. Initially, he’d set out to find Detective Mathews. They had unfinished business, though as Barron poked his head through his colleague’s door, the room had been empty. A mess of papers flung about the desk and chairs, but empty. The room was almost twice the size of Harrington’s office. Cocooned in a darkness disputed by the beams of the afternoon sun that peeked through the pores of Bennett Mathews barely shut blinds, the office on the spot seemed eerie. Detective Harrington had walked further into the room switching on the overhead lights as he did so. A brightness ran across the floors and walls, it was still subject to the eerie sensation that had plagued the room. That wasn’t his concern. That wasn’t what had brought him into the room.

  His interest had been peaked by Bennett Mathews’ crime board. Barron scrunched his nose. There was a smudge on the wall by the file cabinet between the window and the board that reeked of sweet. Barron tried to ignore it. Not only did Mathews have Terrence Gresham penned down as a suspect, he’d had a defined motive for the actus reus.

  Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, Harrington pulled out his phone and captured an image of Mathews’ findings. If Bennett had known anything about the Sustainable funds conference, he hadn’t made it known by penning it down on the board.

  According to Mathews, Terrence had relieved Lawrence of his corporate duties with the enterprise, because he’d come across a better person to play the role Lawrence had been playing. Mathews had perceived the imported Italian Fir desk and camera alterations as a way to welcome their new member. In that desk, a document to institute a new named partner had been taken into evidence. Mathews had deduced that Lawrence had returned to his old office, found this new desk, this document and the former friends had engaged in quite a brawl that lead to the strangulation of Lawrence Harrington during which time, Terrence had finished his former ally off with a single bullet to the head.

  How could Terrence have gotten his hands on a Glock 19? If it were a Glock 26, they would have been able to bring him in. Institute a request for a warrant to search his belongings and charge him for the murder… then again, Emily Jeffery’s had painted quite a picture of their suspect and Detective Harrington didn’t think he could see his father’s colleague playing that role.

  Time had become a blur, Harrington remaining in place. This was a lead, but it wasn’t enough of a motive. There were too many loop holes with Mathews perspective. For one where did the Sustainable Funds Conference fit into Mathews claims? For another, had Slater gotten back to him with the report regarding the fingerprints? Had those been Terrence Gresham’s fingerprints? And Was Terrence that agile to carry out such a brawl as Bennett had so put it?

  “Harrington, put your old man to rest so soon?” Mathews emerged from the hall. The Detective had walked straight for his desk and occupied his leather chair tugging out a paper from his drawer. Harrington walked over to one of the many chairs in the room and leaned against one of them, the one closest to the door.

  “He’s in a better place.” Barron responded. “I was looking at what you put together…” Barron scratched the bridged of his nose, then jabbed a finger towards the board that had brought him into his colleague’s office. Bennett glanced up at it and flashed that smile the media hadn’t been able to get enough of. Barron’s hand returned to the neck of the chair he was leaning on.

  “Yeah. It’s not complete yet, but I think when Slater gets back to me, we’ll have everything we need to bag our suspect.”

  “Edward Marsh and Ruth O’Flynn ever get back to you on Gresham Square’s call logs?” Mathews’ eyes squinted, his head shook.

  “What for?”

  “Slater had them look into Gresham Square’s Call logs. They were looking for a replacement order for the faulty company cameras.” Mathews leaned forward, a hand reached for the office phone on his desk. Cradling the receiver to his cheek, Mathews had placed a call to Slater requesting the criminalist to report to his office with utmost urgency. He’d put the phone away and looked back at Harrington.

  “When was he supposed to get back to you?”

  “Days ago, thought he would have reported to you since you’re the boss now.” Mathews chuckled.

  “I might be in the front lines, Harrington but I am not captain, that’s for sure. You’re farther than me on this case. I won’t lie. You’ve put in more dedication and precision in this case than I have.” Detective Harrington nodded. “This is still your case, I’m just the face of it.”

  Reading from the silence in the room—the kind of silence that Barron knew if given the opportunity he would be able to hear a pin drop—both men were uncomfortable. Barron returned his attention to Detective Mathew’s crime board.

  “You really believe he’s our guy?”

  “You don’t?” Barron hadn’t gotten the opportunity to respond. Even if he had, he
sure as hell didn’t know what he would have said. A knock at the open door had derailed his train of thought. Lieutenant Watson had been perched by the door.

  “I’m glad to see you both are satisfied with my decision.” Watson let himself into the room, chest puffed. “It’s the best cause of action for the precinct.” The Lieutenant in the button down and dress pants had said. Barron had a contrary opinion. “With that said, Harrington, I would like to reassign you to a different case.”

  “I thought I was working deputy on the Harrington case?”

  “Sheriff Robinson doesn’t want you anywhere near this case.” Detective Harrington drew in a long breath. He glimpsed up and the wrinkles decorating Watson’s face, it shone like a lamp-post in the middle of the night, bright and clear. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.