Close Your Eyes

by Thomas Fincham

  Ellen was not worried, though. Her coverage of the body on the train had gotten a positive response from the public. Her social media page was flooded with comments and feedback from viewers. Her blog on the BN-24 website had gotten over five thousand hits just in the last twelve hours.

  Ellen smiled. Her coverage focused not only on the murder but also how it affected Bridgeton’s commuters. This had struck a chord with the viewers. Social networking sites were flooded with complaints from riders about not being able to find alternative modes of transportation whenever the transit system shut down. BTA was always ill-prepared to handle the major complications that hit the system.

  BTA, in their defense, blamed the mayor for not spending more money on transit. They were forced to utilize a system that relied on old buses and trains that were now becoming antiques. The cost of maintaining them was becoming astronomical. The tracks, the stations, even the collection booths were outdated. The system needed an overhaul.

  The question then came down to who would pay for the system’s rehabilitation. Surely not the public. Any hint of raising taxes to support transit infrastructure caused approval ratings to spiral downwards. No politician dared tackle the issue out of fear of being booted out of office.

  Thus, the transit system would continue to be on life support until the day when some brave politician chose to make it his or her main focus, or when the system was sold to a private enterprise to be run as they chose.

  Regardless of the outcome, Ellen was happy that her story had sparked a debate.

  Miles hung up the phone and said, “Sorry about that. It was my boss.”

  She’s up this early too? Ellen thought. “So why am I here, Miles?”

  “You know I think you did a wonderful job on the train story, right?”

  She did not like the sound of that. “But…”

  “But, my boss wants someone else to take over.”

  “No way!” Ellen jumped up. “That’s my story!”

  Miles put his hands up. “Relax. Sit down. Hear me out.”

  Ellen sat down and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Miles said, “While your coverage was great, we got hammered by SUNTV. Janie Fernandez hit the story out of the ballpark.”

  Ellen curled her lips. That slut.

  “It’s a big story,” Miles said. “It’s not every day that a body is found on the subway, especially not one where the victim’s hands are cut off.” The FBI had already briefed the media on some aspects of the case. Ellen still felt they were withholding vital information, and she wanted to force them to divulge it.

  “Did you see my social media page?” Ellen held up her phone. “My story’s got a thousand thumbs-ups, and it’s trending all over the internet.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make this station money. Ad money does. And that comes from ratings. On the six o’clock news, Janie’s segment beat your segment by a longshot. I hate to say it, but you came across as desperate and bitter.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Ellen shot back.

  “It means you can’t let your animosity for Janie get to you. It showed on the screen. The camera doesn’t lie.”

  Ellen scoffed. “This is bullshit, you know.”

  Miles let her stew for a bit.

  “So who’s taking over my story,” Ellen finally asked.

  “Dan Ferguson.”

  Ellen’s mouth dropped. “Dan retired last year.”

  “Well, he’s bored, and he wants to come back on a part-time basis. Dan’s a veteran at this. Viewers respect him.”

  “They will respect me too if you let me do my story.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Ellen. My boss thinks it’s a good idea, and I think it’s a good idea too. But to make it up to you, I’ll let you decide what story to cover next.”

  Ellen sighed. Her shoulders sagged. “Okay, what are they?”

  “The opening of a new fitness center, or the end of a long-running stage show. It’s your pick.”

  Ellen knew both were frivolous stories, but she clearly had no choice in the matter. “I’ll take the fitness center. I can’t stand talking to those artsy-fartsy actors.”

  Miles smiled. “Great. I already called Walt. He should be down here soon.”

  Ellen stood up. As she made her way to the door, she stopped and turned to Miles. “One of these days, a big story will fall into my lap, and you’ll have no choice but to let me cover it.”

  She stormed out of the office.

  TWENTY

  When Jo arrived at the office, she found Chris sitting behind her desk. “How long have you been there?” she inquired.

  “Not long,” he replied.

  “And why are you in my chair?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Pullinger.” Chris tapped his fingers together, and his lips curled into a smile.

  Jo knew whenever Chris found something. He would start re-enacting scenes from his favorite science fiction movies. Sometimes Chris was the hero, other times he was the villain. She suddenly realized that Chris preferred being the villain more than the hero. Maybe villains were more exciting? She couldn’t imagine why.

  “Okay, what have you got for me?” she said.

  He lowered his voice. “What I’m about to tell you will forever change your life. If you drink from the red glass, your world will open up to unimaginable possibilities. If you drink from the blue glass, your world will stay the same.”

  Jo rolled her eyes. “You know what? I’ll drink from the blue cup…”

  “Glass.”

  “Glass, cup, whatever. Get off my desk before I shoot you.”

  “I can dodge bullets, you know.”

  “Dodge this.” Her hand went to her holster. Chris immediately jumped up from the chair.

  “You’re no fun,” he complained.

  She smiled. “Seeing you jump like a rabbit was fun.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve found.”

  She sat down and faced him.

  “I ran the victim’s photo through our facial recognition software and got a hit.”

  “And who is he?” Jo asked.

  “Silvio Tarconi.” Chris pulled out a six-by-eight photo and handed it to her. Tarconi had a frown. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were glazed. “A year ago, he was arrested for a misdemeanor assault outside a bar. His blood alcohol was twice the legal limit. He said he didn’t remember what happened. I bet he didn’t.” Chris pulled out a sheet of paper. “That’s his address.”

  Jo quickly got up. “Find out anything else you can on him.”

  ***

  The apartment building looked nice from the outside but became something else the moment Jo stepped inside. She could tell the building was run by the city’s social housing program. The program was heavily underfunded, leaving many buildings neglected and in dire shape. This had caused an uproar a few years back, with citizens picketing outside the mayor’s office.

  Instead of infusing more money and rebuilding the housing projects, the city instead opted to only renovate the exterior of the buildings. They were not concerned with what the tenants in the building thought. They were low-income citizens who hardly ever voted, so their opinions held no weight to the politicians. The renovations were done for the average citizenwho could pass by a building like this without knowing how bad it was inside.

  Jo waited for the elevator but realized that out of the three, only one was working. She decided to take the stairs. Fortunately, Tarconi lived on the third floor, so the walk up didn’t put too much stress on her heart.

  She found the apartment and unlocked the door with a key she had picked up from the superintendent. Even run-down buildings had someone responsible for their upkeep. The superintendent had not been paid for months, but he was still helpful nonetheless.

  She flicked on the hall light and moved inside the apartment. There was a kitchen to the left. The garbage bin was overflowing, and dirty dishes were piled high in the sin
k. There were fruit flies everywhere.

  It looked like Tarconi was not big on cleanliness.

  The living room was no better. The sofa was worn with stain marks everywhere. In some places, the wool was sticking out. The coffee table was completely filled with beer bottles, old magazines, and newspapers. And there was an ashtray full of stubbed out cigarette butts.

  She sensed movement behind her.

  She immediately reached for her gun. She relaxed when she saw a gray cat stick its head out from the bedroom.

  The cat stared at her and then moved to the kitchen. He licked at an empty tray on the floor. Jo went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a bag of cat food. She filled the tray and headed for the bedroom.

  She stopped and took a peek inside the bathroom. The smell deterred her from going in.

  The bedroom had a mattress on the floor, which was covered in old laundry. Next to the mattress were rolled up joints of weed and a bong. Jo spotted more bottles of beer and some medication bottles. She leaned down and saw that the latter were painkillers.

  She went back out to the living room. Next to the television cabinet was a side table. On it were several envelopes. There were letters from the disability office, from social assistance corporations, and even some from marketing companies.

  Jo quickly went through the pile until she spotted something underneath it. She picked the object up. It was an ID card from the Bridgeton Mental Care Institute. Tarconi had not changed much from the photo on the card, even though it was dated five years earlier.

  She walked to the middle of the living room and surveyed the area. How did a man living on disability checks end up dead on a train? And why were his hands cut off and the words WHAT THE HANDS TOUCH carved on his chest?

  It did not make any sense to her.

  Tarconi lived alone save for his cat. From the way he kept his apartment, Jo could tell he did not get many visitors either. Plus, he was unemployed.

  Who did he piss off so badly that they wanted to not only kill him but leave his body for others to find?

  Jo had no idea. And spending time inside the filthy and smelly apartment was not helping her find any answers either.

  The cat had already gone through the bowl. Jo picked him up and walked out of the apartment. She would drop the cat off at an animal shelter while she was on her way back to the office.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Rhodes felt refreshed after a good night’s sleep. He could not say that same for his roommates. Almost all were suffering from some form of ailment. One coughed all night. Another would have fits during his sleep. The person next to him snored constantly.

  Through it all, Rhodes did not wake up once. It was something he had learned in prison. The first couple of nights were terrible, he remembered. He would spend them wide awake. The noise in his cell block was too much to ignore. It felt like the walls amped up each sound. If someone coughed, it could be heard throughout the cell block. If someone moaned or cried or even mumbled, it could be heard inside multiple cells.

  He had tried to cover his ears with a pillow or blanket. He even went as far as to stuff toilet paper in his ears, but after many sleepless nights, he was able to tune the noise out.

  Maybe he was just tired then, like he was the night before. After spending most of the day walking the city, he was exhausted.

  He was up before Father Mike came to wake everyone up. He was able to shower and shave, then he went to breakfast, which consisted of a selection of coffee, tea, bagels, toast, or egg sandwiches. Rhodes opted for the coffee and the sandwich. They both were warm and filled his stomach.

  While Rhodes was on his way out, Father Mike reminded him that he was welcome to come back. Rhodes thanked him for the offer, but he knew he could not keep going back to the shelter. It was a short-term solution. He needed something long-term. And in order to do that, he needed a job.

  As he walked the streets once again, he realized he never had a plan on how to get employment when he came to Bridgeton. He figured the money he was bringing with him would last a couple of months or maybe longer. This would give him enough time to get a feel for the city. I will eventually find something to do, he had told himself.

  Now things were different. He had to start earning some cash soon. Without money, he would be returning to the House of Hope every night.

  There was another reason Rhodes did not want to do that. He was taking a bed from someone who genuinely needed it. There were people there who were in worse situations than him. They were mentally or physically ill. Some were battling addictions.

  Without the House of Hope, they would be on the streets, surrounded by drugs and alcohol. The House of Hope not only gave them a meal but also a warm place to stay, and more importantly, it gave them hope.

  Rhodes turned the corner and suddenly stopped. He was once again in front of the police station.

  It finally dawned on him why he kept passing it.

  Most of the homeless had criminal records and many were in and out of prison, so it made sense to open a shelter near a police station.

  Rhodes did not know why, but something made him want to go inside again. Maybe he was feeling nostalgic about his time as a detective.

  He followed his instinct and stepped through the front entrance.

  He headed straight to the bulletin board. The notices had not changed from the day before. It was sad, really. He wished someone would provide closure to all these families, whether it was finding someone’s missing child, finding the person who was responsible for a death in their family, or even just telling the family that their loved one would never return. He felt this was an important part of the grieving process.

  “You lose someone too?” a voice asked from behind him.

  Rhodes turned and realized it was the same man he had seen here yesterday.

  Rhodes shook his head.

  “Hey, weren’t you here yesterday?” the man asked.

  Rhodes nodded. I should leave, he thought. He was surprised the man had seen him or even remembered him. He had been too busy giving the officer at the desk a hard time.

  The man pointed at a photo on the bulletin board. “That’s my son,” the man said.

  Rhodes leaned over. Reed Yates. He was seventeen. He wore round glasses, and his teeth were girded with braces. In the photo, he wore a suit, which told Rhodes it was probably taken at a wedding.

  The man said, “Reed was a good kid. He wanted to follow in my footsteps. He wanted to go to Columbia. He wanted to become an architect like me.” He looked at Rhodes. “I’ve got a much younger daughter, but she’s more like her mother. Reed? He was just like me. He was my future. I loved him so much.”

  The man’s eyes moistened.

  Rhodes finally said, “You should get your lawyer to write to the police board. As the family of a murdered victim, you have every right to get an update on your son’s case. In fact, you can also contact a victim advocacy group. I’m sure there are good ones in Bridgeton.”

  The man looked confused.

  “I heard you talking to the lady at the desk the other day,” Rhodes explained.

  The man nodded. “Are you a police officer?”

  “I used to be.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “I’m new in Bridgeton.”

  “So are you looking for a job?”

  Rhodes paused.

  The man pointed at his son’s notice. “There is a ten thousand dollar reward for anyone who provides information that leads to an arrest. I put up that money. If you help me find who killed my son, I will double the reward for you.”

  Rhodes stared at him for almost a minute. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can help you. I’m just a civilian now.”

  “What did you do when you worked for the police?” the man asked.

  Rhodes knew where this was going, but he did not want to lie. “I was a detective.”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Then you have t
o help me.”

  Rhodes was not sure. “What’s the guarantee I’ll be able to find anything if the police haven’t found it yet?”

  “To them, Reed is just another homicide victim, one of maybe a dozen or even hundreds in the city. But in your case, he’ll be your only focus.”

  Rhodes hesitated.

  “I’ll even give you an advance.”

  Rhodes bit his bottom lip. He was desperate for money. He did not want to line up again at the House of Hope.

  “My name is Tim Yates, by the way.”

  “Martin… Martin Rhodes.”

  “Mr. Rhodes, you have to help me, please,” Yates said. “Do you have any children?”

  Rhodes shook his head.

  “I was going to say if you did, then you would know what it feels like losing a child.”

  Rhodes paused. It was a father who had shot and killed his young son. Rhodes had shot the father in reprisal and went to prison.

  Tim Yates was a father whose situation was the exact opposite.

  “Okay, but on two conditions,” Rhodes said.

  “Name them.”

  “I need five thousand in advance.”

  The man frowned. “That’s a lot of money up front.”

  “I don’t have a place to stay, and I don’t even have a mode of personal transportation. I need money to get settled and then I can start work.”

  “Okay, fine. What the second condition?”

  “Get the file the police have on your son’s case. I want to see everything. When you have the file, meet me at the bar down the street.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rhodes was at the bar an hour before Tim Yates was supposed to arrive. He was certain Yates would come. He had to believe that. Rhodes did not have the money for the beer he held in his hand. If Yates failed to show up, well, Rhodes and the bartender would have a long discussion.

  Rhodes knew it would not come to that. Yates was desperate, and he would do anything to find who killed his son.