by Nenny May
“Get to the point, Olivia.” Christina urged, her patience wearing thin.
“The last few days of his radiotherapy, his heart stopped, but they'd revived him, placing him on life support.” She clutched her lips between her teeth and bit down softly on them. “They didn’t know whether he wasn't going to make it past that… but we remembered his pain and we couldn’t let him go through that indefinitely… and so Terrence and I decided...” Christina's heart shattered. It was a new kind of heartbreak, one that stung with a tinge of betrayal.
"You and Terrence took him off life support." She finished for Olivia, and took a moment to let her mother's words sink into her head. She'd taken in too much. She was dizzy all over again and she knew the longer she lingered confined in the call, she would feel weaker, more strained.
“I begged Terrence. There had to be another way to put him out of his misery… I believed my son could make it. Terrence didn’t.” They weren’t in the same room. Christina wasn’t even sure they were in the same state, but she wasn’t deaf to the wails of a woman in anguish. A woman in shambles. A woman who just needed her son to make her whole again. But in the search for that piece, she had let other parts of her break apart and like a porcelain doll with hues of earth, she was forced to sit alone away from everyone she’d loved and once loved her, her dull hollow cries to be made whole again, long overlooked.
“And the case? The charges he’d faced?”
“Terrence was very connected. He made it all go away.”
Christina had heard enough. Her phone tossed against the mattress somewhere beneath the covers. Legally, they’d killed Michel. Nothing had broken the chain of causation. Had Terrence not been negligent with Michel he wouldn’t have been put on life-support. Had they not taken the decision to take him off, he wouldn’t have died. Terrence had killed Michel, but he had done it alone. Both her parents were killers. She was no better than them, having a role to play in the death of Grace Gresham’s unborn baby.
For a moment she’d wondered if Mark and Jessica had grown accustomed to her windswept cries as much as she’d grown used to their bickering? It didn’t matter, because that morning, she’d crumbled like paper onto her room floor and drop by drop she wet her floors, poured her heart in explosive sobs. And when her throat was hoarse, she’d picked herself up off the floor and retired to the living room where sat her computer on the sofa unmoved from where it had been when it was destroyed. She hadn’t reached for it. She had a feeling if she did, she would haul it across the room just to feel the subtle satisfaction of hearing it shatter like her heart. She’d reached for the remote, not too sure what to tune into, but she’d rummaged through one channel after another.
And then, she’d heard it.
Her last name.
Her father’s name.
It was a news article with a headline that read in a bold banner, Terrence Gresham accosted for the murder of Lawrence Harrington awaiting charges by the state District Attorney’s office.
Terrence Gresham was a killer. In the eyes of the media he was a killer.
In her eyes, he was a killer.
Chapter ten
There was no guarantee that he would convince Sheriff Robinson to restore him to status quo.
He hadn’t as he’d initially intended to, gone home to rehearse what he would tell the large man. No, he’d returned to his home that evening from the apartment of Rosaline King, and he’d done a little... three hour research into her husband Morgan King.
That evening, by his round kitchen table beneath his strained kitchen lights seated before his computer, he’d deliberated calling his mother.
He’d entertained the thought, the butt of a pen between his teeth clutched with lazy fingers. He’d considered playing the apologetic son, the prodigal son. He would ask in a tender way what had lead to the affair and he would inquire about Morgan King, picking up whatever he could.
Had she known about the strain the affair had on his marriage with Rosaline... ?
Juliana had to have known, she’d mentioned his offer to leave his wife for her... and Harrington had found himself down a rabbit hole with a question on his tongue but his lips sewn shut... Had his mother been willing to leave Lawrence Harrington for Morgan King? He shook the thoughts out of his head and continued to rummage through the King family’s Facebook page. There wasn’t much on their social media. And at first, this had agitated Detective Harrington. But then he’d come across a mutual friend of both Rosaline and Morgan King. It was a man, not much older than Harrington. He looked about thirty, by name Simon King. The man already had two kids and a dog and didn’t live too far uptown from Morgan and Rosaline King. Detective Harrington wasn’t sure A was going to Direct him to B, but he was sure as hell going to give it a shot.
And so, he’d clicked the message bubble and hovered over his keyboard. He couldn’t tell Simon King who he was... he couldn’t hide it either. Harrington wasn’t a man too obsessed with social media, he hardly got the time, what with darting about like a headless chicken to solve one homicide after another. Even still, he had a feeling the man would find his way around Harrington’s online profile eventually... there was no point concealing his identity. As for the reason he was reaching out to the man, that could dawdle in the shadows a tad longer. An eye sweep of his darkened home put him at ease; the silence of the night wrapped its lean arms around him. He messaged Simon King and organized a meeting.
He hadn’t assumed the man would reply, let alone that late into the night. Simon King had agreed to entertain Detective Harrington’s company while running errands through the afternoon. The man’s offer had been a tad... bizarre to say the least, but to Harrington, it was a step closer to an answer to the question that still lingered on the minds of many in Manhattan... Who had killed Lawrence Harrington?
Detective Harrington begun his journey from the parking lot that already had a gridlock of cars lining each spot. It was a busy morning for the Bronx county Sheriff’s office. The soft click and clack of shoes against concrete filled the Detective’s ears. With the chirpy summer noon sun glaring down on him, a dry breeze slapping his cheeks, Harrington had kept his eyes on the ground and his pace, quick despite having to pant beneath his breath. He wasn’t in the best shape. He wasn’t willing to change that. The time he’d had to change that had been invested in building a name with 28th Precinct. And for what, for a doughy man to haul him off what was arguably the most important case in his career? He wasn’t going down without a fight. Through the doors, Harrington was recognized by Harriet, the receptionist from the evening prior.
“Just in time Detective, you can head right in. Third door to your left.” Harriet had smiled over his computer. The man seemed to be at peace with what he did. Harrington wasn’t at peace with his career, not anymore. He didn’t want to think too far ahead on matters concerning the future of his stay with 28th Precinct. It was only so long before his grip keeping them below the surface would loosen and they would bobble to the surface.
Harrington didn’t have it in him to mirror Harriet’s morning smile. Maybe if he came out of that room with some sort of consensus with Sheriff Robinson, then he would flash the man at the front desk a smile. Heck, if he could someway bend the Sheriff over in his favour, he would grin like a child. Until then, his lips had been worn in a thin line.
Nodding, Barron relied on the man’s instruction and made his way down the hall. It was unlike 28th Precinct whose walls had been lined with either pictures of the officer of the month, a bulletin board that seemed much too occupied for that floor and or faulty wall lights. In his career, he could count on one hand the amount of times he’d made his way down to the Bronx county Sheriff’s department... It was there about three times.
He perched by the third door. The words Sheriff had been engraved into a gold plaque on the door. He’d knocked once, then twice and let himself in. Sheriff Robinson had been by his desk chair, beety eyes towing Harrington from the moment the Detective had shut th
e door to the office. The room featured a dull barbeque and cigarette swirl. It was stuffy, but bearable. Unfazed by Robinson’s unspoken attempt to intimidate him, Harrington plopped down on one of the chairs opposite the Sheriff’s desk and said;
“I want to be involved with the Harrington case. I don’t care if I’m not sitting point, I don’t even care if people know whether I’m on it or not, but I am not taking no for an answer Robinson.” The bulky man huffed. Closing the document he’d been working on.
“I like your spunk there Detective. But Let me tell you, It’s not going to get you far.” Robinson reached into his pocket pulling out a packet of cigarettes. “And I’m Robinson now? I could have you out of the business if you don’t watch that tongue of yours.” Barron shrugged. The man pulled out a stick and shoved the packet back where he’d taken it from. On his desk sat a lighter, he reached for it, bringing his cigarette to life.
“I’m sorry.” Barron turned away from the man with a chimney between his fingers.
The office of the hefty man was large. There was a full length bookcase pressed against one of the brown walls. It wasn’t all that full, neither was it empty, and in the middle sat a glass case that held a badge. A Sheriff’s badge. Barron looked to Robinson and back at the bookcase. Now that he thought about it, he’d never seen Sherriff Robinson with his badge adorning his uniform. Was that legal? Didn’t Sheriff’s have to have their badge on them? This wasn’t the time for such a thought. It wasn’t a time to acknowledge the decor of the office either and yet Harrington still did a sweep the room noting that a black leather couch and a coffee table as well as a cart featuring an array of bottles Harrington wasn’t sure he could afford had given the workspace a voice. He couldn’t as well overlook the two United States flags that hung on either side of the mans desk.
“Now, be a good boy and do as Watson says. I already told him to reassign you to another case. I don’t know why he let you make your way over here and bother my afternoon.”
“You can’t be serious, Sheriff?” Barron Harrington sat up. “I’m the best person for this case!”
“You have a conflict of interest. If you didn’t know that already, let me clear that up.”
Barron ran a hand over his chin.
“I’ve had a conflict of interest since the beginning and I was doing a great job with the case.”
Robinson shrugged.
“It’s possible but neither of those reports had made their way to me.”
Barron Harrington’s brows snapped together.
“I sent regular emails to Watson documenting my findings and my progress with the Harrington case!”
The man brought the burning tobacco stick to his lips and drew a cloud of smoke.
“I guess you didn’t hear me the first time. Neither of those reports had made their way to me. I know nothing of your progress, hell all I’ve been seeing is Mathews addressing the public and putting them at ease. Lord only knows what you’ve been doing.”
“Don’t act like you weren’t there at Jeffery’s office when I was looking for our suspect profile!”
“I was there and highly disappointed. It took our fielded detective days before he reached out to the criminologist about the suspect profile. The Harrington case is a high profile murder investigation. And I agree with Watson, we can only field our best men.”
“Mathews knew next to nothing about the case!” Barron steepled his hands and gulped a breath.
“You don’t have that many moves, Detective. I don’t want you anywhere near the Harrington case. I don’t care that he’s your father the conflict of interest is drawing too much attention to 28th Precinct and they don’t need that. Mathews will do a good enough job. And I expect you to do the same with whatever Watson assigns to you.”
“I need to be on my father’s case...” Barron tried again. He’d glimpsed out the man’s window. What a view, no wonder the man had his head up his ass. Barron could bet he would too if he had to look directly at a brick wall each time he endeavoured to glance in the general direction of his window.
“I’m going to say it again, Detective. And this time, try and listen. I don’t want you anywhere near the Harrington case. Either take up what Watson has to offer or send in your resignation hand in hand with your badge and weapon.” At that, Barron slumped back in his seat. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with Robinson. The man was a painted nail on the wall and there was no way Barron was going to use his hands to budge that. And so, as he sat there deliberating his next move. He needed to talk to Watson. There had to be a reason the Lieutenant hadn’t been forwarding Barron’s findings on the Harrington case to Sheriff Robinson. He released a sigh, nodded and rose to his feet.
“Fine. You won’t catch me anywhere near that case. But don’t think I’m happy about it.” Sheriff Robinson chuckled at that. Barron wasn’t sure he’d seen the hefty man laugh.
Barron had turned on his heels and retreated from Sheriff Robinson’s office, down the hall to the front desk and passed Harriet without a single glance in the direction of the receptionist.
Back beneath the scrutinizing sun, Harrington shoved a hand into his pocket and reached for his phone dialling Detective Mathews. They would have to do things a bit... differently. He’d continued on, towards where he’d left his car by the rear entrance to the parking lot. Mathews had picked up at about the time Harrington had made it to his car. “What can I do for you, Harrington?”
“Watson within earshot?” Barron reached into his pocket for his keys and drew open the driver door.
“No, what’s this about?”
“I’m going to remain deputy on the Harrington case. But you’re not going to spit a word about this to anyone.”
Into the car, Harrington shut the door and slipped the key into the ignition. He didn’t start it, not until he’d reached a middle ground with Mathews.
“Never thought you’d be the type, Harrington. Going against the Sheriff’s orders.”
“Are you in or are you out? You get to take all the credit, I do the background work. I address Slater and Jeffery and if anyone asks, I’m just helping out a friend.”
Mathews hummed. The Detective didn’t seem too sure about Barron Harrington’s plans. “What about the case Watson wanted to assign to you? And just a heads up, he’s not too pleased that you weren’t here this morning.”
“He knew why I wasn’t there this morning... You know what forget it. And as for his case... I’ll find my way around that. Are you going to help me, Mathews or am I wasting my time?” He turned the key in the ignition and settled in as the engine hummed. With his free hand, he’d buckled his seatbelt, pulled the gear in drive and navigated the tight parking lot.
“Let’s see how things go, Harrington. But I will do the face to face with Slater and Jeffery. I’ll fill you in on everything. This better not cost me my job or your father’s murder wouldn’t be the only Harrington homicide case.”
Detective Harrington smiled to himself.
“You got it.” He’d cut the call. He still had a bit of time to spare before he would have to meet with Simon King. With his phone still in his hand, he managed to dial Christina Gresham. The last he’d spoken to her she’d mentioned a letter claiming to know what happened to Lawrence. Why hadn’t he remembered to call her? What if she’d met with their John Doe and couldn’t reach him? Her number hadn’t gone to voicemail.
“Defence Attorney Christina Gresham speaking,”
“It’s Barron, Harrington. I’m calling because of the letter we discussed when we last spoke. Did you find the opportunity to speak with the writer?” There was a pause and maybe even a... sniffle? He was probably over thinking things.
“Yeah. I did. He was an employee from Gresham Square...” There it was again! That pause and sniffle. “He’d been there at the scene at the time of the murder.” Detective Harrington’s brows shot up.
“Was there anyone that could vouch for this?” A cough and a sniffle. There was something wrong.
“Terrence. He was there at the scene as well.”
“Would you like to talk in person, Attorney?” Harrington merged onto the I-95 S.
“I don’t particularly have the time. Terrence has been accosted and I’m on my way to 28th Precinct to make sense of the entire situation.” She hadn’t said more. He understood. They could discuss this another time. He’d let her disconnect the call soon after. If she was still there when he returned to 28th Precinct later that day, he would speak to her in person. Until then he was on his way to an elementary school in East Village where Simon King had requested they meet.
Her mind felt befuddled, clouded. Everywhere she found herself seemed fogged up. Terrence wouldn’t survive prison. She knew that from the beginning. Not at his age. At sixty-four, he didn’t need to be exposed to the harsh conditions of a prison cell; to the violence of agitated inmates. He was awaiting charges. That’s why he hadn’t been able to come to the phone. In the confines of a taxi cab scuttling towards 28th Precinct, she’d called Grace and Olivia and told them not to bother about Terrence. She’d filled them in on his situation and that she would be heading over to him.
That was much earlier.
It was about the time she’d spoken to Detective Harrington.
She hadn’t had much to say to him.
She was glad the feeling had been mutual.
“It’s been a while, Christina.” Terrence had said. He’d been looking up at her from across the room. At the time, she’d been by the door, a coat in her hands and her bag beneath it. She’d been lost for words seeing her father there, knowing that this time, he had nowhere to run. That like a dog chained outside a restaurant he just had to sit still and wait.
“We need to stop meeting like this, Terrence.” She offered a hollow grin, forcing legs of concrete to take her from the door to the tiny room.