The Finder

by Colin Harrison

  His father dropped the phone, panting now. "This guy lives way the hell out on the east end of Long Island!"

  "That's where I'm going, then."

  He looked accusingly at Ray. "These Chinese guys want the sister, not some bullshit sewage-truck guy!"

  What was wrong? "Dad, Dad, I'm going to break into her apartment tomorrow morning."

  "What took you so long to have that brilliant idea?" But his father didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, it's not good enough! You got to start figuring out what that girl is thinking." He pointed his finger at his own head, shaking it like it was a loaded gun, and stared ferociously at Ray, eyes unblinking, teeth bared. "Either you or somebody else! Fact, let me tell you something, you gotta go like hell, Ray, you go twenty, maybe twenty-one hours at a time now, drink coffee, get ahead of it, see, things are-this Vic, I keep almost remembering! I don't get it, something-" His father looked around wildly, like there were other people in the room, shades at the door. "Hey! Hey! Get out of here!" He looked back to Ray and beckoned with his hand, his voice in a low conspiratorial whisper. "I got a feeling that together you and I, we can — " His eyes shot over Ray's shoulder, became terrified. "No, no I can't!" he yelled, "Not yet! I got my gun here!" He pawed the covers frantically. "Ray, Ray! Get them!"

  But Ray had reached for the Dilaudid machine and pumped two boluses straight into his father, who in a minute or so looked at him with sudden passivity, his mouth munching in wordless speculation-before his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped backward into the pillow, hawing the breath-the stench-of the near dead.

  Ninety miles, rainy road. Long Island, the largest island in the United States, split at the end, the South Fork leading to the swankfest Hamptons, filled with people who wore white clothes to expensive summer parties, and the North Fork, which was traditionally more working class, populated by farmers, tradesmen, retired NYC cops, and firemen. South Jamesport was one of the first few towns on the North Fork as you drove east. Ray found the house, a little bungalow ranch on a corner, Richie's pickup truck in the driveway. Hell of a drive into the city every day, but then again, you get to leave the city every day, too. Guys like Richie lived in their trucks, anyway.

  Ray parked next to some woods and walked back to the house along the dark road. What exactly was he going to do? Not sure. He carried a short crowbar in his jacket, mostly as a weapon. He also had a battery-powered speed drill with a carbide saw attachment. Two-inch rotary blade, goes through anything until it gets dull. He slipped along the road. It was a quiet neighborhood, which meant people minded their own business. Ray edged along the back side of the house, found a window. Richie was sitting in front of his television in clean clothes, hair wet. He had a beer and a bowl of oatmeal on the arm of his chair.

  Can you tell if a man is a murderer just by watching him? Of course not. So his father would say. If you know a hundred other things about him, then maybe.

  The phone rang. Richie muted the television, kept watching. "Yeah," he said. "About ten minutes."

  Ray eased around the side of the house. A moment later Richie came out, smelling of some kind of aftershave, climbed into his truck, and drove away. On his way out for the big date.

  Now or never, Ray thought. He considered going through a window, but a neighbor, or even someone driving by, could easily see this. Same with the front door. Instead, he hunched down among some unkempt boxwoods and thought about breaking into the metal ground doors leading to the basement. You made a four-inch box cut, then reached in and pulled back the slide bolt. The carbide blade worked perfectly. A little noisy. Thirty seconds of noise. Couldn't be helped. The box of steel dropped away and Ray waited for the edges to cool, then reached in and opened the door. Then he lifted the door, slipped inside, and let the door fall soundlessly back into place. He found a light. The basement was jammed with boxes of mildewed clothes, broken furniture, sports equipment, and empty beer bottles. A weight-lifting machine sat in one corner. Ray turned off the light and scooted past a washer and dryer piled with dirty laundry-the smell of sewage distinctly noticeable-and up some internal stairs that led to a small living room dominated by a wide-screen television. All the lights were on. Why? This worried him. He kept moving. The small bedroom was taken up with a big bed. More dirty clothes. A couple of golf clubs on the floor. In the bedside table drawer he found four dirty pistols and several ammunition boxes. He didn't touch them.

  He poked his head into the bedroom closet, meeting a strong whiff of shoes. What am I doing, he asked himself, what am I looking for? Even assuming Richie was the guy who killed the two Mexican girlsjust a speculation-what connected him, a meatball who lived in this low-rent dump, to Jin Li, a highly educated, stylish Chinese woman who worked in midtown Manhattan ninety miles to the west?

  I need to find something, Ray muttered to himself. In the kitchen he opened Richie's refrigerator: beer, milk, orange juice, batteries, a baggie filled with unidentified pills, several cartons of muscle powder, perhaps $200 worth of nice steaks, and, in the freezer, what appeared to be a giant frozen rat wrapped in a plastic bag.

  A sound?

  No. Yes! A truck had pulled into the driveway, speakers booming. Ray wasn't sure he could make it to the basement stairs. He back-pedaled blindly and was confronted with a choice of the bathroom or Richie's bedroom.

  "… shoulda cleaned up," he heard Richie say, coming inside the house.

  "I like it," came a girl's voice. "It's cozy-like."

  He chose the bedroom, nearly tripping on a golf club. Where to go in such a small room? The closet. He opened it and stumbled atop a pile of golf shoes and balls. He pulled the door shut. The crowbar was tucked by his side. It was a good weapon but not in a closet.

  The minutes passed and Ray felt himself becoming stiff. Maybe he should have tried for the basement stairs. He could hear a low murmur of voices, a little music. The bedroom light, he realized, was on. Had he turned it on? He couldn't remember.

  "… waiting for?" came Richie's voice, as he walked in to the bedroom. He flicked off the light.

  A girl followed.

  "I redid your totally terrible drink." She giggled.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah, I made it better, too."

  "So I never went to bartending school. Come here."

  "I will," she sang back. "I like this bed. Wait, let me just smoke. The train was so slow! I really needed a cigarette. Drink your drink and I'll smoke one."

  "I thought that was for after."

  "Gets me in the mood. You guys are always in such a hurry."

  Ray could smell the cigarette. He felt a golf ball under him and quietly put it into a shoe.

  "How long you lived here?"

  "Four years."

  "Rent or own?"

  "Rent. Shoulda bought a few years back."

  "Tell me about it."

  "But you know, I pull down some good dollars, make a little on side jobs."

  "You haven't told me if you like the drink."

  "I do, I do."

  "Good, or else my feelings were gonna be hurt."

  "So this is kind of nice," Richie ventured. "This isn't in a hurry."

  "That feels good," came the voice a few moments later.

  "Want to roll over there?"

  "You seem pretty relaxed," she said. "I mean, most of you is relaxed. Some guys, you know, they get nervous… first time out of the gate."

  "Yeah, you know, whatever." The great lover, shrugging humbly at his own talents of seduction. "Plus, I got the home field advantage."

  "I guess. Why don't you lie back, let me start relaxing you."

  "Can't argue with that."

  "First finish the nice drink I made you. I worked hard on it, too, just so you know."

  "— right?"

  "Yeah, that's it. Just lie back… good… take a breath.. so, you been living here long?"

  "Four years, remember? Come on, give me a little action here."

  "Keep your pants on, guy, I'm getting t
here."

  "Thought you wanted my pants off."

  "I do, definitely."

  "I'll take them off."

  "You go, boy."

  Sound of clothes, a belt buckle.

  "So you were saying about living here?"

  "That's better."

  "Good."

  "You're good at that."

  "Just relax, Richie."

  "I am, very."

  "Good, good."

  "You?"

  "Right here."

  "Sleepy, kinda."

  "It's okay, it's nice to lie here with you."

  The room was quiet. A minute passed.

  "You-" came Richie's voice.

  "Shhh, it's okay."

  "Wait, wait… fuckin' sleepy."

  "Shh, don't worry."

  "Did ya-? I'm very…"

  Ray could hear Richie breathing. It slowed, deepened, and a rasp of a snore introduced itself. He hadn't heard the girl move. Maybe she'd fallen asleep, too.

  Then came trill of a cell phone. It scared him and he had to stop himself from reacting. She picked up quickly, after just one ring.

  "Hey. He's asleep… you owe me. I had to touch his dick! Goddamn disgusting. What? No, the door is open. I'm not moving, in case he wakes up. Just get here fast, okay?"

  She hung up. More cigarette smoke.

  The snoring had become a deep sawing gasp that reloaded and gasped again.

  Ray tried to slow his own breathing and concentrate on not moving. Someone was coming to the house, and it made him nervous. If the girl left the room, he could run for it-maybe. Golfballs all over the floor. The room had a window. Maybe it opened easily, maybe not. He felt one foot slipping, pulled it back. Once the girl stopped watching the drugged man on the bed, her attention would begin to drift and she would notice Ray. She might not consciously hear him but she would feel him. It was a proven thing. Tibetan monks with their ears plugged and eyes covered with a satin sash could be led into a room, breathe a few times while turning in a circle, and identify in which corner of the room another monk sat motionless on a prayer rug. You see that once, you never forget it.

  The girl was just sitting there in the dark. He heard her slide open the drawer.

  "Guns!" she whispered aloud.

  Then the door to the kitchen opened. Ray heard the heavy footsteps through the walls.

  "Hey, Sharon?" came a man's low voice.

  "Here!" she whispered loudly. "In here!"

  The steps approached the doorway. "He's really out?"

  "Think so."

  "Get in the car."

  "Let me put on my shoes."

  "Did you let him fuck you?"

  "No."

  "I think you did."

  "No way, he's disgusting."

  "You touched his dick, Sharon."

  "He made me. I was doing it for you."

  "Blow job?"

  "No, I swear."

  "You're fucking lying."

  "No, no-"

  "You just better get in the car."

  She left. Ray could hear the unconscious man breathing loudly. He thought he smelled something like cinnamon.

  "Fucking douche bag."

  "Come on," came the girl's voice down the hall, "what are you doing? There are guns in the drawer, by the way, mister jealous motherfucker."

  "You touch them?"

  "No."

  "Get in the car!"

  She left. Ray could hear the back door open and close. The lights flicked on. A line of light ran between the closet doors now. He heard the drawer slide open, the clatter of the pistols being taken, followed by the boxes of ammo.

  "Hey, hey, fuckwad," came the voice. "Look at you, Richie, try to fuck my girl. Plus you fucked up, which means now you're going to fuck me up."

  There came the lowest groan in the bed, as if Richie had heard this accusation and was trying to respond.

  An ominous silence followed. Then came a whipping crack.

  Richie gagged out a delirious, inchoate howl. The golf club, thought Ray. Another crack, this time wetter, more awful.

  "Fucking made her touch your-!" Then came two, three, four, six, eight blows, in rapid and savage progression, each making the same wet cracking noise, the assailant breathing quickly, panting in a frenzy, grunting at the effort, the splatting blows ending after twenty seconds at most, whatever ability to respond that Richie might possess now obliterated.

  "Ugh, fuckin'… fucked up," breathed the voice. "I fucking told you, Richie. Somebody calls me, then some guy is looking for you! You blew it, you fucked up!"

  No answer came back.

  There seemed to be a deliberative pause-as if the assailant was weighing what he wanted to do next versus what he needed to do. Ray heard him shift his weight from one foot to the next, lining up the swing. Then the blows came, another savage series, wet-wet-wet, so fast Ray knew the club was being whipped up as fast as it was whipped down, ten-fifteen-twenty blows or more, the assailant grunting in spasmodic exaltation, taking pleasure again and again-and then, just as abruptly, the wet whipping sound stopped, the club flung heavily against the wall.

  Footsteps disappeared through the doorway, through the kitchen, and out the door. Ray heard a car start up and disappear.

  Silence now.

  He smelled blood.

  Just wait another minute, he told himself. Be sure. Finally he pushed open the closet door and stumbled out to the floor, legs numb, pulling golf balls and shoes with him. On the bed lay Richie, his face a bloody mass-no nose, no cheeks, a hole that had been a mouth. His smooth chin had been driven into his windpipe, and in general the oblong spherical shape of the head had been flattened. Nearly every blow had hit Richie's face, cratering his skull. The few errant swings had glanced off the wet mass onto the pillow, leaving golf-club imprints. For the brief period that Richie's brain had continued to deliver information to the heart, the left ventricle had kept pumping blood up through the aorta and out the crushed face, leaving Richie's head in a pool that now faithfully followed every wrinkled depression in the bedspread, soaking downward as it went. After the heart stopped beating, lividity occurred-the seepage of fluids from the highest part of the body to the lowest, which meant in this case that blood and other fluids would continue to leak from Richie's ruined head for some time to come. Indeed, Richie's crushed forehead had now paled to a purplish white, the flesh drained. His popped eyeballs seeped blind tears of viscous matter.

  Richie had never had a chance, his shirtless body still sprawled in the position of deep sleep, hands out, shoes off, his boxer shorts askew, belly soft, a tattooed lightning bolt adorning his hip bone. Next to him, the bedside table drawer had been yanked open. On the floor lay the bloody golf club, bent in the middle now. Blood had sprayed the walls and ceiling. The police would have no difficulty re-creating what had happened.

  The police. The Suffolk County detectives knew what they were doing, would be all over the place sooner or later. No doubt Richie's killer and the girl had left all sorts of indicators of their presence-her prints on the edge of the glass, etc., but maybe there was an explanation for that; they visited Richie earlier in the evening. It was Ray who was the anomaly in the life of Richie. So now he took the trouble to find the Clorox in the basement, wet a rag with it, and wipe every surface he had touched. Clorox destroyed DNA. Nerve-racking as hell; he had to remember every one of his steps in the house. He felt a thin trickle of sweat begin under his arms. Of course he'd left skin cells and hair fibers around, especially in the closet. The cops would swipe hundreds of different surfaces. His DNA was on file, too, somewhere. The department took it in case they needed to identify your remains.

  He forced himself to find a vacuum cleaner and vacuumed out the closet, every golf ball and shoe, and then threw them in again. The problem was that flecks and spots of blood were all over the floor and he was walking in them. Blood on my shoes, soaking into the minute scratches in the soles, he thought, I have to get rid of them. Didn't help to have
the dead Richie behind him, watching, sort of. He flicked off the bedroom light, in case a neighbor looked in and saw the faceless body on the bed. He pulled the bag out of the machine, then dropped it, the Clorox, and the rag into a trash bag and took it with him, right through the basement again and out the ground doors.

  He let the door close quietly, aware that he had not turned out any other lights in the house or checked to see if the front door was locked. Was that good? He wasn't sure. But the fact that he had broken into the basement doors disturbed him. It suggested the entry point of Richie's murderer. The police would examine the minute edges of the place where the metal was cut and see no weathering, that it was fresh. Ray had accidentally created a false clue-one that could point at him. He knew that the paint on the carbide blade would match the paint of the metal ground doors. Another thing to get rid of, he told himself. Shoes and saw blade. Also get rid of the saw itself; the matching paint dust would have been sucked into the motor; they'd find that in five minutes, match it using gas chromatograph tests. Wait! he thought. There would be matching paint dust on his clothes, too. Shoes, bag, saw, all clothes, he told himself, get rid of them.

  He retreated into the woods again, half expecting police cars to pull up any minute. The night breathed a soft warm breeze. He slapped at a mosquito. A car passed. He had not seen Richie's killer. Maybe I should have jumped out of the closet and stopped him, thought Ray. But the guy was swinging a golf club with murder in his heart. Ray wasn't quite satisfied at this line of rationalization. He would've had a moment of surprise. It was at least possible he could have saved Richie. But then what? He'd have to have fought the guy. He thought he remembered the guy taking guns out of a drawer, the sound of it. Yes, the girl told the guy about the guns and opening the drawer was the first thing he did. Were the guns loaded? If so, Ray could have jumped out of the closet and the guy could have wheeled and shot him in the face.

  Maybe it was better he'd stayed in the closet.