The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “My father.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well I can tell you right now, Detective, he didn’t kill your father.” Simon King had said turning and journeying the way he’d come, through the double-doors to the west-wing of North Shore Rangers. “I know it seems that way, what with his involvement in that conference and the ruckus he raised at Gresham Square days after.”

  “Ruckus?” Barron chased after Simon King.

  “Yeah. He went down there days after the conference to raise hell for the receptionists. He wanted to speak to the executives, Terrence and your father… but security had escorted him out of the premises.”

  “How didn’t I hear about that…” Detective Harrington had thought to himself. “Your mother, Rosaline had mentioned something about him losing a ton of their retirement fund or something from that conference.”

  “About a few hundred thousand dollars.”

  Despite his eyes broadening and lips parting, Barron Harrington calmly said; “That explains the outburst.”

  “Exactly.” Simon King, appropriately adorned in track pants and a zip-up, jogged through the property towards the parking lot. He wasn’t that big a fan of walking. “Which one of these is yours?” Barron reached into his pockets for his keys and unlocked the black Kia Soul he’d had since joining the force. He’d spent months paying it off. About sixteen months into his career as an officer. But when he’d finally claimed ownership over the vehicle, he’d been ecstatic. Simon King had climbed into the passenger side of the car long before Barron had caught up. “Detective, my father, Morgan King isn’t your guy. It might seem like it, but he’s not.” Simon had said not too long into Detective Harrington joining him and strapping on his seatbelt.

  “And where exactly does your father live?”At that, Simon King looked confused. Barron didn’t pay too much attention to it, and rather slipped his key into the ignition and woke his SUV from its slumber.

  “What do you mean where does he live?” Simon King hunched over, a hand reaching into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He settled back into his seat.

  “When I spoke to Rosaline, she said they were having difficulties with their marriage.”

  “Yeah they are… but Morgan King had a stroke after they escorted him from Gresham Square… well not immediately after… he got home, got to thinking and boom! Stroke!” Detective Harrington winced. “None of us saw it coming. Though now he’s in a vegetated state. Thus confirming my point. He couldn’t have killed your father Detective, he can barely go to the bathroom on his own.”

  “And Rosaline isn’t too proud of this?” He pulled the car in reverse and gradually pulled into the street.

  “I wouldn’t say she isn’t proud… she just doesn’t feel too good about him meeting new people.”

  Scuttling through Park Avenue Street, Detective Harrington, attempted to connect the descriptions of Morgan King he’d gotten from Rosaline King, and Simon King as well as what he’d learned from Juliana Harrington.

  “But you’re aware of the affair he’d had before the stroke?” Simon King nodded, jabbing a finger at the approaching turn to East 34th Street.

  “Juliana Harrington had stopped showing up after the stroke. This was a woman that was going to break-up the marriage he’d had with my mother for decades. And when things got tough, she just faded into the background.” Detective Harrington was tongue tied. And yet gurgling in his gut, was an intense disappointment, that threatened him with a heartburn. Who killed Lawrence Harrington then?

  Chapter Eleven

  She’d imagined her third time much differently than how things had played out.

  It wasn’t something she should have imagined at all. Things had changed.

  The circle was smaller.

  She hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  Much to Christina Gresham’s chagrin, someone had conceded the fight against their cancer.

  It was her third support group meeting, a week more and she would have endured a month with cancer.

  She’d come around to the concept of a gathering of people sharing their side-effects, their moods and reactions to their disease. Although she was yet to give her first account, she was a listener. A good one at that. During her second support group meeting—a few days after her conversation with Terrence Gresham, on the day he was to be brought to the court for his arraignment—she’d given names to those like her in her group. The listeners. There was Bionic armed Larry—because with his country straw hair and rugged biker look, she couldn’t give him any other name—Glasses girl Karen… it went unsaid that her pixie hair and thick rimmed photochromic lenses wailed of a librarian named Karen. There were two more Listeners Christina had been yet to title. In a sense it gave her a reason to return, to picture what those people’s lives were like, just as a chance to take a step back from her life, from the frequent medical appointments she’d had to meet up with from the burden of having articles chime at the top of their lungs that her father had indeed been charged and was awaiting a trial for the murder of Lawrence Harrington, that his previous case was in review and under an investigation by 28th Precinct.

  She couldn’t forget her father’s arraignment. That day, her anxiety had come like an electrical storm in her brain that, quite honestly, was painful. It was different from a headache and it felt the same as an intense sorrow, perhaps as a sort of frozen panic with nowhere to go.

  That day, maple wood had decorated the pews and desks of the Chambers Street magistrate court. The room was far from empty despite the fact that it was a mere arraignment. Officers lined the doors and walls, clerks and witnesses filled the pew. Terrence mentally was nowhere to be found. Christina knew the extent of the charges that would be filled against him, she knew the intensity of the case she was up against, and yet, she believed she could win it, she believed she could free her father from the injustice that trailed him like a shadow. He wasn’t responsible for the murder of Lawrence Harrington. He’d killed his son, Michel Gresham, but Christina had been sure her father had nothing to do with the murder of Lawrence Harrington.

  That day, Chandler B. Colby, a respected judge in Manhattan whose candor spoke for him, had heard the arraignment of Terrence Gresham.

  That day, Colby had read the court Terrence Gresham his charges;

  "Mr. Gresham, you have been charged by a copy of the indictment, count one of the indictment for the murder of Lawrence Malcom Harrington, a first degree felony punishable by up to death, as the state has filed a notice to seek the death penalty in this case, count two, obstruction of justice in the investigation of the Lawrence Harrington murder case, count three being the provision of a false alibi and by way leading to count four refusal to corporate with an ongoing investigation, the indictment being a document that has been reviewed by Mr. Gresham, meaning he is aware of the charges placed forth by the state prosecutor and district attorney Harper Berkeley."

  She’d had two weeks after that to build a defense and prove that Terrence was innocent of two out of the four count charges against him. Two weeks. At the time, she hadn’t been sure she could handle that, but she knew no one else could do it for her.

  That was then.

  A week had passed since then.

  When the support group meeting had started, nothing had been said about the missing member of their circle. And Christina Gresham had used the time to evoke a memory of working in an office where the atmosphere of tension had become so severe and pervasive that she could barely see more than a few feet in any direction. She remembered her colleagues, the people she considered friends; Carter Wellington and her former receptionist Kenneth. She’d reached out to Carter on the day of her second support group meeting. They’d organized a conversation over coffee soon after her second appointment. He hadn’t looked well that day. He’d worn the look of a beggar. He’d lamented his regret having fallen back into the rabbit hole of alcoholism and had been dragged back to rehab by Cohen Wellington. She hadn’t asked about her friend’s fath
er.

  The morning after their talk, she’d given him a call and they’d talked about her day, and he’d been thankful.

  She was making progress.

  Little by little.

  She was becoming a caring person.

  Little by little.

  It was half-way through the hour long meeting, when a non-listener, a speaker Caroline Grand who was much like Judy Cole, had been narrating her week and pointed out; “… We haven’t even heard anything about Tony Comley. He was here for the last meeting and… I haven’t heard anything about him in this one!”

  It was then Rebecca Hetherington had glimpsed down at her clip board and risen to her feet.

  Tony Comley, hadn’t survived his cancer. He’d been a victim of Kidney failure as a result of the cancer cells that had destroyed his kidney.

  Christina Gresham had been up at night deliberating what her third time at support group would be like. Would she finally muster up the courage to speak to her idol Judy Cole? Would she lose herself in the world of yet another listener? Nothing had prepared her for the slap of reality that cancer could take anyone at anytime. It was something she’d known… it wasn’t something she’d believed. Hadn’t Terrence promised that people lived long lives with cancer? ‘

  …He hadn’t promised. He’d just pointed it out.

  He was wrong.

  People couldn’t live long healthy lives with cancer. It wasn’t just another cell in her body. It was a cancer. In her blood.

  She wasn’t safe.

  Judy wasn’t safe.

  Bionic armed Larry wasn’t safe.

  None of them were safe.

  She was dying.

  Much like Augustus Waters, her CT scan had lit up like a Christmas tree.

  He'd died from cancer. He'd been the last person she'd expected to pass away during the course of the book, his death had been the most painful.

  She remembered Michel, not too clearly, his last months and she knew she didn't have long. The disease was as fatal as it was disarming. She could fight with her might, but cancer will always bring her to her knees, it will always be stronger.

  She hadn’t known Tony Comley. As far as she knew, he was a listener much like her. But that hadn’t been why her lips had parted and her frightened soul had unleashed a demon in the form of scream. It hadn’t been why the tears had run like a newly released inmate. It hadn’t been why her shoulder’s had violently trembled or her hands had sung every which way as arms gathered pinning her in place.

  She wanted to tell them…

  All of them,

  That she was fine…

  She wasn’t.

  She hadn’t known Tony Comley but he was the second person she’d met that had died from cancer. The thought of dying from her disease gave room to the scream that tore through her rigid open mouth.

  She could hear it…

  Rebecca Hetherington pleading for someone to get help. Medical attention. “It was a mental episode…” Rebecca Hetherington had claimed.

  “…a panic attack?” A voice had asked. No answer.

  With each violent thrust of Christina’s convulsing body, her face gaunt, chalky and eyes fluttering like a long overused light bulb, the gathering around her had multiplied; the voices more distant, more frantic. And all of a sudden, they’d stopped. Blurred into a bitter darkness.

  She wasn’t home. Neither was she with a familiar face. When she’d come to, she’d been cold. Isolated, but not alone. She’d been watched, but there was no one close enough that she could see. Her head throbbed, her tongue danced with the metallic taste of a concussion. She was in a hospital bed, but she hadn’t been hooked up to IV machines. She was just put to rest. She needed it. The weeks trudging to Terrence Gresham’s arraignment all seemed like a drowsy blur. This was a new chapter. She’d claimed to Harper Berkeley that it wasn’t going to get to this. She was wrong.

  She could picture in a blurred clarity the smug grin on the District Attorney’s features.

  It was reflex, it was frustration. A hand had risen and slammed against the bed, once, twice…

  There was knock at the door. She froze, her head snapped in the direction of the sound. She was for a moment convinced she’d given herself whiplash. She cradled her neck. At the door perched Detective Harrington. It had been a while she’d seen him. Weeks. He didn’t look all that different. He just wore a lot more black… he hadn’t put his father behind him.

  “Can we talk?” How did he know where to find her? How long had she been there? How long had he been there at the door before he chose to knock? “I called your phone and a nurse answered. She told me you were here…” He read the confusion that was a blanket over her features.

  Her fingers huddled together in a clenched fist, she sat up further in the one person bed.

  “Sure… Umm… what do we have to discuss?” He strode into the tiny room. It wasn’t much but it was quiet. It had been too long since she’d had quiet all to herself. Her home wasn’t quiet, not with neighbors like Mark and Jessica. Not with her own problems hitting play on the music of her sobs.

  “Before we get into that, how are you feeling? The nurse was very descriptive with your… situation.” Skin of autumn blazed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me anything?” Was he being polite or did he actually care? She wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of a reaction. No.

  “I’m fine.” She was vague. She wasn’t going to get into anything. It was obvious she wasn’t well. For godssakes, she was in a hospital bed after having some sort of stress induced episode… If that didn’t broadcast her situation, she didn’t know what would. Did she still care that her head was as smooth as a baby’s rear? A little…Judy Cole had worn the shaven head look like a model on the runway. Christina Gresham wasn’t Judy Cole. And no matter how many times she stood before her bedroom mirror idolizing the brave woman in her support group, she had to admit to herself. She was a sick woman. She was a brave woman much like Judy, but for her bravery to reflect, she had acknowledge that she was sick. Christina missed the warmth of hair on her head, she missed running her hands through her shoulder length bed of ruffled mushroom hair. She was burdened that she had to depend on beanies and scarves to keep her scalp warm…

  It had been a day much like any other when Christina had journeyed to the full length mirror in her room, clothed only in Ralph Lauren shirt, one that fell above her thighs. She’d been tired that day, but pushed ahead. That evening, she’d looked at the girl in the mirror, evaluating as her fingers worked the buttons, undoing them slowly, how healthy she was looking despite her diagnosis, despite the downward spiral her life had taken since the night Lawrence Harrington's body was uncovered. She'd starred, head crooked to one side at the girl in the mirror, the girl who seemed to be adding weight despite the pills that warned weight loss as a side-effect, and her skin that in the beginning had lost its lively hue, it hadn't only darkened, it shone with melanin that told a story, that told her story. She was sick, but she wasn’t dying. She was sick, with hair that refused to show signs of regrowth, but she wasn’t too far gone…

  Not yet.

  Why then did droplets of concern pool at her gut when yet another person had to know about her… disease? “I’ll ask again Detective, what brings you to my… hospital room?” She played off her discomfort with an idle shrug and a voice barren of the displeasure lodged in her throat.

  “Not into small talk…” He bounced on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t all that tall, broad, and much bigger than her petite frame. His stature against the squished room didn’t work in his favor. “I don’t know if you know this… but I was reassigned from the Harrington case, to reviewing Terrence Gresham’s murder charges with regards to… Michel Gresham.”

  He was reassigned to the case the public had called law enforcements to look into. He’d been reassigned from his father’s case to her brothers. He would be digging up old wounds… Were they considered old wounds since the Harrington case had caus
ed them to harsh up new sores?

  Terrence Gresham had taken Michel Gresham off life support. He’d been selfish and believed that Michel would be better off buried. There were too many people at fault. For one the medical practitioners at the time, had failed in their duty of care to advise Terrence and prevent him from carrying out such a heinous crime from beneath their noses. The judge that had dismissed the case per incuriam… and even the lawyers that had disgraced the dignified career path by not following up on the case.

  He was her father.

  He’d been a good father.

  He was far from perfect.

  He was a killer.

  A flawed one.

  And he was going to serve the time for his crime.

  But Christina Gresham was a lawyer and she would die before she let her father serve time for a crime he probably didn’t commit.

  “You’re off the Harrington case?” She sat up further, the starched sheets ruffling beneath her. He nodded.

  “Lieutenant Watson and I aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye.” He’d had his hands shoved in his pockets. Detective Harrington shrugged.

  “And you’re not going to do anything about it?” He was hesitant to address her. Almost startled by her concern. Wasn’t that what people expected from her? To care less about herself?

  “I… we already have our killer. Terrence is already facing criminal charges.”

  They’d charged Terrence for the wrong murder.

  “You think he did it?” Her question had been a whisper in the wind. He sat by the foot of the bed, he’d left room on the tiny bed, almost unsure. He couldn’t be comfortable, she jumped to the conclusion. She couldn’t see his face. He’d had it fixed on the door. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling.

  “I…He already confessed to it…” She’d watched him, from where she’d been seated on the bed. He’d let his head hang solemn on his shoulders. “…I don’t know what I think. I don’t have 28th Precinct’s backing to investigate further… But I promised myself…” He didn’t need to go further for Christina to see the naked man before her.