American Static

by Tom Pitts

  “No, you think? Just one?”

  Carl ignored the sarcasm. “Is the guy who did this the same one who did Oulilette?”

  Tremblay didn’t answer.

  Carl continued. “This is the second crime scene you wandered into just after it happened. I’d like to know what you’re not telling us.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  “Look, Tremblay, I’d like to cut the bull. We’re both looking for the same thing here.”

  “We’re not looking for the same thing. We may be looking for the same motherfucker, but we’re not looking for the same thing.” Tremblay turned and headed for the door.

  “Where’re you going?” Carl said. “You can’t leave, you’re a witness here.”

  Tremblay whirled around. “What’re you gonna do? Arrest me?”

  “What if I need to contact you?”

  “I can’t be contacted.” Tremblay’s eyes met Carl’s for a moment. Something in Tremblay relented. “Okay, old man. I’ll take your number. You got a card?”

  Carl admitted, “No.”

  “A real professional, huh? All right,” he said, pulling out his cell. “What’s the number? If I got a reason to call you I will.”

  Carl recited his number and pulled his own cell from his pocket, half-expecting it to ring with Tremblay’s number. But it didn’t. He watched Tremblay walk out the front door and then dialed 9-1-1.

  ***

  By the time Quinn hit the sidewalk, Steven and Teresa were rounding the corner. He walked after them with a steady clip, swinging the tool bag at his side and hitting the lock button on Joe-Joe’s key fob to see if the Honda was parked nearby. Hearing no honk from any of the parked cars on the block, he increased his pace. He reached the corner and saw them crossing Haight Street hand in hand.

  Running after them would cause too much attention, so he walked. Long, quick strides. They weren’t checking behind them, they kept moving forward, Teresa pulling on Steven’s hand. As far as Quinn could tell, he hadn’t been spotted. They were only trying to put some distance between them and Joe-Joe’s. They crossed Waller and moved into Duboce Park. Quinn kept them in sight, waiting for the opportunity to move on them. He pocketed the car key and reached over to unzip the bag.

  “Let’s go.” Teresa pulled at Steven’s hand.

  “Where?”

  She didn’t say, she only pulled harder and said, “Move. He’s coming.”

  They crossed the street and kept moving through the park. “Don’t look around,” she said. “Just keep moving.”

  Steven followed, stumbling here and there. He knew Quinn had a gun—that goddamn shiny cannon—and if he was behind them, he had a clear shot at both of them. Steven wondered how the frail and sickly Teresa was keeping her pace, forcing them on. Survival instinct. The danger was real and imminent, even out here on the streets in midday. He now knew what Quinn was capable of. He turned and looked behind him. He saw Quinn duck into a doorway. No doubt it was him, bag in hand, a half-block back.

  Steven said, “Run.”

  Quinn followed them to 14th Street where they took a left. He’d just turned the corner when he saw the boy turn and glance back. He stepped sideways into an alcove, but he knew Steven had seen him.

  He peeked back out and saw they were now running toward Market Street. Quinn followed suit. He’d gained a quarter-block on them by the time they hit the main thoroughfare. Trapped by the passing traffic, he saw them both look back, look at each other, and dart out into the street. He went right after them without missing a stride.

  Taxis honked, cars braked, but nobody hit anyone. The two made it across the street only moments before Quinn jumped the curb. He was gaining on them, their pace starting to slow from exhaustion and fear. He got within a few feet and swung his bag at the side of Steven’s head. It connected, solid and heavy. Steven went down.

  Teresa paused, turning to look for Steven, and Quinn reached out with his left arm and wrapped it round her head, palming her face. He pulled her to his side, his strength no match for her puny frame. She squirmed, but was immobilized by the headlock. He punched her in the face with the fist that still clutched the bag.

  From the ground, Steven cried, “No!”

  Quinn looked down at Steven, towering over him with Teresa still clamped under his arm. “What’s a matter with you, kid? I gave you a simple task. You run off with her? I told you I was here to help her. Now you’ve gone and made things worse for everyone.”

  Steven tried to get up and Quinn put a boot to his groin. “Stay down, kid.”

  Teresa was telling Steven to run. Quinn tightened his grip. “I liked you, Steven. You seem like a good kid, but you’ve upset the applecart. There’s no turning back from here.”

  Teresa stomped on Quinn’s foot and he struggled with her for a moment. He hit her again—closed-fisted in the face—and regained control. Steven used the opportunity to get himself up and run. Quinn was stuck; he couldn’t pursue Steven and keep hold of Teresa. He let him go. He had the girl now, that’s what was important.

  With her head still under his arm, he told her to look into his bag. She did.

  “I’m going to let go of your head now. We’re going to walk together. You try anything and the barrel of that gun is going straight up your scrawny ass.”

  Teresa straightened up and curled a lip at Quinn. “I know who you are,” she said. “I remember you.”

  “You do?” Quinn smiled. “Good. Then you know I’m not fucking around.”

  He pinched his thumb and index finger right above Teresa’s elbow. She winced. He told her to get moving.

  ***

  Carl trotted out behind Tremblay. He had his cell to his ear. 9-1-1 dispatch had put him on hold, their usual message repeating itself in Spanish, then Chinese. Carl hung up and redialed. The operator picked up this time and Carl reported the homicide. He gave the address and explained quickly that he was a police officer and could not remain at the scene. The operator pressed him for more information, telling Carl he must remain at the scene. Carl hung up.

  Tremblay had already started his car by the time Carl reached him. Carl knocked on the window.

  Tremblay powered down the window and, before Carl had a chance to speak, said, “No.”

  “Help me, please. I know there’s still a shred of a police officer left in you. It never leaves us. You want to see justice done. Help us find this guy.”

  Maurice smiled. Half sneer. “Fuuucck you.”

  “You want this guy out of the picture. Getting that done on your own could mean you going to jail. If we take him out, you can keep yourself in the clear. C’mon, Tremblay, do this the right way. Don’t pull yourself farther into the muck.”

  Tremblay looked up. Carl could tell he’d hit a nerve.

  Tremblay said, “I’ll call you if I need any help.” He rolled up his window and pulled into the street. Carl had to jump back to avoid getting his feet run over. He watched Tremblay’s car turn the corner and called Peters.

  The phone rang and rang. Sirens drowned out the ringing. He hung up and got into the Acura and drove back toward Todos Santos.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Steven kept moving, out of breath and covered in a film of sweat. He was moving forward, but didn’t know what direction. It didn’t matter; he didn’t know what direction he was supposed to go. Finally, he plunked down on a door step. He took a moment to look around, to realize he was lost. Beyond lost. He was alone again, broke, without a phone or a friend, lost in a city where he was now being hunted. He reached for his pack of cigarettes and flipped it open. It was empty.

  He hung his head down, watching the feet of the few passersby stroll on. He felt beaten. He’d helped the predator find his prey, and now the girl was gone. The green light of Teresa’s eyes flashed in his mind. He had no idea what Quinn had in store for her, he only knew whatever happened now would be his fault. He mulled over his options: call the police, go back to the house on Page Street, or wander the city
streets hoping to find his friend. Forget it all and keep moving. Steven sighed and fought back an overwhelming urge to talk to his parents. He physically shook his head to rid himself of the idea. They would be no help, they never were.

  An oblivious young man with headphones plugged into his ears flicked a long burning cigarette butt onto the sidewalk a few feet from Steven. Steven waited until the man had moved on, checked to see no one was watching, then picked the butt up and took the last long, deep haul.

  ***

  Carl returned to Alvarez’s restaurant, but when he tried to enter, found the doors locked. He knocked, then pounded on the glass. No response. A sick, sour feeling welled up in his stomach. He called Peters’ cell again. No answer.

  He thought about calling the police, have them bang on the door, but he wasn’t convinced they’d have any better luck than he was having. He kept banging. He thought he saw a flicker of movement inside to his right. Nothing.

  Carl’s cell rang. He answered it without looking.

  “Where the hell are you? You got me worried.”

  It was SFPD. 9-1-1 dispatch calling him back.

  They wanted to know where he was, told him he needed to immediately return to the address of the homicide he’d just called in. Police were on the scene and they needed a statement from him. They’d be happy to send a cruiser to his location. Carl said that he’d be back there in less than ten minutes and hung up. He gave the door one last knock.

  Richard Alvarez’s diminutive frame appeared behind the glass. He made a production of pulling his key and opening the door, as though he had been wakened in the middle of the night.

  “Yes, Mr.…”

  Carl didn’t repeat his name. He said, “Where’s my partner?”

  Alvarez’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, he left. He said something about going to find you. Didn’t you see him?”

  They locked eyes for a moment, Carl trying to gauge the truth, Alvarez throwing up a dead blank stare. Carl glanced over Alvarez’s shoulder.

  “You can come in if you like,” Alvarez said. He swept his arm around behind him, showing an empty dining room.

  Carl slowly shook his head. “No, there’s somewhere I gotta be.”

  As Carl turned away from the door of Todos Santos, he heard Alvarez’s cell ringing.

  ***

  Steven summoned his strength and stood. He began to backtrack toward the house on Page Street. He had no reasoning; instinct drove him. There was no other place, he felt, Quinn would take her. At least he knew no other place. The bars they visited wouldn’t work. There was the motel, The Franciscan Bay; he’d call them as soon as he could. No, it had to be Page Street; it was the closest on foot. He’d roll the dice and go there. He’d retrace his steps and hope that a better idea would spring forth. Besides, he had no other options.

  As he walked he thought again about how he could reach out, to who he could reach out. Facebook, email, collect calls, he struggled to think of someone, somewhere he could go to for help. What would he tell them? He didn’t even know Teresa’s last name. Quinn could kill her and he’d never even know. He quickened his pace.

  They’d fled so fast, traveling in a panic; it was hard for him to find his way back. He moved up the streets toward the Lower Haight like it was déjà vu. He knew he was on the right track when he found Duboce Park. He kept moving.

  By the time he reached Haight and Pierce, he knew the police were on the scene. He could sense it. One block up on Page and he saw the patrol cars, at least five of them. Several unmarked cars as well, Crown Vics and Tauruss, even two black SUVs. And the coroner’s van.

  He stood waiting at the corner, watching the SFPD personnel buzz around the door. He weighed his options, his conscience. Should he just walk in and announce he was a witness to whatever had gone on? What could he really tell them about Teresa? Would they hold him? Arrest him?

  A car pulled up beside him and the driver’s window powered down. An older man was alone behind the wheel. He, too, appeared to be gawking at the spectacle.

  The man said, “How’re ya doing, son?”

  Steven looked at the old man, gave him a short nod, but didn’t say anything.

  “Hell of a thing,” said the man in the car.

  They were both quiet for a moment more, watching the police do their work, like any other curious onlookers. Then the man said, “My name is Carl. I’m looking for the guy that did this.”

  “Did what?” Steven said. He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.

  Carl smiled. “I think you know what he did, or at least have a pretty good idea.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Son, I saw the way you came up the street, saw the caution you took. Tiptoeing like you’re sneaking up on Santa Claus. I also saw the look on your face when you turned the corner. If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time. Unburden yourself. Maybe we can put a stop to this before it goes any further.”

  Maybe it was the way the old man looked, the kindness in his eyes. Maybe it was the chance of actually stopping this, of saving Teresa from the madman, Quinn. Or maybe it was the way the man said unburden, but Steven, suddenly feeling more tired than he had in his whole life, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and got in.

  “I might know something,” he said.

  Carl could tell the boy was shaken, nearly in shock. “Take your time, son. You’re gonna be all right now. What’s your name?”

  The young man said his name was Steven and Carl introduced himself. When Carl told him where he was from, the kid followed by saying he was from the north, too. The north, that was how he put it. Carl asked him where, and the kid told him. Carl said he knew exactly where that was. Then the kid put his head on his knees, just folded up onto himself, and started to softly cry.

  Carl stayed parked, a block up from the crime scene. He was supposed to go in and give a statement. Instead he sat with the boy. That’s what he was, only a boy.

  His phone rang and he checked the screen to see if it was Peters. 553 prefix—an SFPD number. He set the phone to vibrate. The kid began to talk.

  Steven told Carl about getting robbed in Willits and meeting Quinn. He told him about their ride to the city. Carl interrupted and asked if they’d stopped for lunch in Calistoga, but didn’t ask about the winery, not yet.

  Steven said, yes, they’d stopped for lunch, then moved on to the city. He told him about the motel, the search for Quinn’s daughter. Then he told Carl about Teresa.

  Carl asked if he knew where the house was located, the one where they went to look for Teresa. Steven said he didn’t know where in the city it was, but the street was called Treat, and it was near a park. He knew that much. Carl pursed his lips.

  Steven told him about what happened on Treat Street, the fear Teresa had of the man who’d claimed to be her father, how they jumped from a back window and ran. How they spent the night in Golden Gate Park. Steven didn’t mention the drugs. Or how he felt about Teresa when they woke up together in the park.

  Carl stayed quiet, letting the boy tell his tale, but his mind was racing, trying to piece together the puzzle. Big parts of the story were now falling into place. Big parts were still missing. What was it about this girl?

  Every couple of minutes, as he listened to the boy talk, Carl’s cell phone would vibrate. He’d glance down at it. More 553 numbers. The police up the block wondering where he was. He wouldn’t be able to postpone that for much longer. The boy kept talking, really starting to let go. The story kept getting muddied. Carl didn’t understand who this girl was or how it all related to Tremblay.

  Then the phone vibrated with another number. Caller’s name withheld. Carl held up an index finger to Steven and said, “I gotta take this.”

  It was Tremblay.

  “You tell ’em I was there?”

  Carl said, “I haven’t talked to them yet.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I was pulled away. I went to get my partner and he was gone. You
know anything about that?”

  There was a pause, then Tremblay said, “His name is Quinn. Quinn McFetridge. But he goes by Quinn.”

  Carl said, “I know. Who’s Teresa?”

  More silence on the other end. Carl could hear Tremblay breathing, the hot air whistling through his nose. Tremblay said, “We need to talk.”

  “Sure.”

  “No bullshit. You and me.”

  Carl said, “Okay.”

  “You really ain’t been back there?”

  “No. Are you with Alvarez?”

  “No,” Tremblay said.

  “Where’s Peters?”

  “Your friend? I don’t know.”

  Carl thought about what that meant. “Alvarez know you’re talking to me?”

  Tremblay said, “No. That’s why we have to talk now. Meet me at the Cliff House. You know where that’s at?”

  Carl thought he did, but didn’t know if he could put off giving a statement to the SFPD.

  Tremblay said, “Sure you can. Cliff House. Fifteen minutes,” and hung up.

  Steven had listened to Carl’s side of the conversation. He asked, “Was that him?” Fear rising up in his expression.

  Carl told him, “No.”

  “Are we going to talk to the police now?” There was a resigned inevitability in Steven’s voice.

  Carl said, “No.” He put the car in drive and pulled a quick U-turn, away from the clot of police vehicles, away from the crime scene.

  Fifteen minutes later, Carl and Steven pulled up in front of the famous Cliff House. It was a tourist destination that sat on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, hanging off a sheer face of rock. Low and white on the street side, the ocean side opened up to three stories of glass-walled restaurant, boasting one of the most beautiful views the city afforded.