by Nick Keller
About the time Anthony Sola Jr. was being arrested and hustled back to the L.A.P.D. jail, William sat in his cage without a twitch. He’d been there just over twenty-four hours, and once the processing was complete he found himself sitting on a cot in an eight-by-eight cell with nothing on his mind but Richard Rothwell.
He played the man’s death over and over in his head wondering what it had looked like. Did he crumple to the grass in stages—first reaching for the wound feeling a hitch in his breath, then bending at the waste, mouth open, eyes beaming shock and fear, then breaking at the knees and hitting the ground, then falling flat on his face, one foot twitching?
Or
Did the shot drop him straight down faster even than gravity would allow, dead before he met the earth?
Or
Did he get knocked back by the concussion, spinning under an ocean of shifting inertia watching his own blood explode into the air?
And
What had it sounded like? Did he gag and choke? Did he scream one final death howl? Was it a tiny sound, like a child receiving a Tetanus shot? William needed to know, so he sat there unsatisfied. And he knew he always would. He’d never killed a man, yet somewhere buried under Dr. Oaks’ therapy and Bernie’s suspicions, buried even deeper than his own father’s genetic contributions, he’d always wanted to kill a man. He wanted to taste that power. His fantasies were wrought with sticky, fleshy yearnings. Every day he looked at reminders of them hanging on his walls. All his impulses pulled him toward that need. Even his dreams unveiled his dark passions. And all those passions had dictated the death of Richard Rothwell. Ultimately, he had killed him. Not Anthony Sola Jr. Not his father. Not even God. It had been him—William Erter.
Yet, the satisfaction was not his to enjoy. He wasn’t the one that had experienced it. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. All he could do was sit and wonder about it. He tasted bitterness in his mouth.
Bernie waited outside the entrance to the jailhouse smoking a cigarette at a hundred miles an hour. When he spotted Captain Heller making his way to the double entry door, Bernie smashed it out and joined him. He knew why Heller was there, and in turn, Heller knew why Bernie was there. It was no secret. Bernie’s and William’s association went further than some stupid collegiate research.
“The hell are you doing here?” Heller asked.
“Just seeing to an innocent man’s release,” Bernie said, innocently.
“Yeah, right, Bernie, and I shit fucking rose pedals—Jesus. I’m not even going to ask.” They entered the jail.
At the inmate-processing desk Bernie motioned the guard over with his finger and said, “We’re here for William Erter’s release. Let’s get the show on the road.”
Captain Heller said, “Bernie, step back, would you?”
Clenching his jaw, Bernie took a step back.
The process went quickly, expedited by such official presence as the captain. Within minutes they moved down the cellblock to William’s holding cell. When Heller yanked open the barred door he said, “You’re free to go, Mr. Erter.”
William offered an expectant nod and stepped out. Once his belongings were returned he scooped them up and stepped into the exit block. He was ready to get the hell out of there. Facing the corridor, he started power walking toward the door to freedom at the end of the hall, but Bernie put a hand on his arm halting him. They made eye contact. Bernie said, “We do this part slow, partner.”
William nodded, and the two paced toward the light of day in tandem, moving leisurely, confident, one step comfortably in front of the other, leaving the jail. It was slightly after one o’clock on a Wednesday.
Back in the Process lobby, the place was buzzing. Bernie spotted Mark Neiman across the room. The whole scene was as kinetic as a battle zone, with department morale sky-high. Mark was completing the admissions process for Anthony Sola Jr. The guy was cuffed and guarded, but the look on his face showed no more duress than a man deciding on fresh produce at the avocado vendor. He seemed almost pleased to be in custody.
Amidst the commotion, Mark Neiman caught sight of Bernie. He took a double take and they saw each other across the crowded distance. If it hadn’t been for Bernie’s investigative prowess they would never have collected the necessary evidence against Sola, and Mark would never have made the apprehension. Their common objective, for once, was clear. Mark owed him. So, he gave Bernie a nod of acknowledgement, even made the half-motion of a two-fingered salute. He didn’t smile, but his sentiment was clear. Bernie found it within himself to nod back, returning the salute. He had to dig deep, but he found the humility within himself. He figured if Mark Neiman could drop the asshole cloak for a second, so could he. From there, Bernie and William left the county jail smiling like kids at a candy store.
The trial would later prove to be quick. Once the date arrived, the Public Defender assigned to Anthony Sola Jr. offered a plea of no contest. No jury was summoned, no court process was needed. There was an informal hearing in which a team of state-appointed psychologists assessed the case from every conceivable angle, determining Sola’s sanity with great qualification. Their objective was to decide upon a mutually agreeable treatment for Sola, and advise the court. It was decided that Anthony Sola Jr. would spend the first years of his sentence in the Twin Towers Psyche Ward being properly handled by a team of state doctors in the effort to slowly bring him back to mental health. Sola was calm and subdued through the whole process, and once their conclusions were drawn, he appeared perfectly amenable to their solution—perhaps even slightly oblivious to the entire proceeding.
44
All The Parts
Partners drank together. It was in Bernie’s rulebook. Unfortunately, in all his twenty-two years on the force, he’d never had a partner he figured he could share drinks with. They were either too religious or too family-oriented, or too goddamn dick-headed, like Mark Neiman. But finally, he’d gotten a partner that was a nutjob—maybe someone he could talk into drinking with if he could just loosen his bootstraps a little. At the very least, he figured William for a special occasion drinker. Tonight, Bernie figured that would do fine. After all, they solved the case, saved the city, and lived to tell about it. And as a bonus, that fucker Richard Rothwell was dead and gone. There would be no more twittering kids from that pervert. Yes indeed, the special occasions were raining on them tonight.
They went somewhere familiar: Shankley’s Sport and Port, and sidled up at the bar. Bernie declared the first round on him, insisting that William join him. They were both doubles. J.D. Black Label. When the drinks arrived, Bernie held his tumbler high. “I don’t do so good with people or partners, but, uh… yeah, so I guess cheers.”
“Cheers, Bernie” William said.
They clinked glasses and drank, Bernie with a drinker’s full-throttle acumen and William with a slower, cautious air. After a moment, Bernie said, “Job well done, pard.”
William let out a long, lung-emptying wheeze, collected himself and said, “You too, my friend.”
“So, where’s that nerd?” Bernie said.
Jacky. William gave a humored retort thinking Bernie would get the whole world drunk if he could, and said, “Jacky’s too young to drink, Bernie.”
Bernie chuckled. “Yeah right. Still, I hate to admit it, but you’d be in jail right now if it wasn’t for him. I’d say we owe him one.”
William nodded agreement.
“So, here’s to him, too,” Bernie said, draining his drink. He tapped his glass indicating another pour, “How’d you two…”
“He’s one of my students, actually.”
“You went to a student for help?”
“It was… something like that.”
The bartender poured another round for Bernie who put a hand around William’s shoulder catching his attention and said, “Richard Rothwell.”
William looked at him, waiting.
“How’d you work that?” Bernie said.
“It was, uh—it was luck more th
an anything.” William sipped on his drink and breathed out baring his teeth, just like they did in the movies. For a second, he realized how true-to-form it was to see Humphrey Bogart lick his jowls after pulling off a stiff drink. William’s eyes drifted toward Bernie who stared at him, still waiting for an answer to his question. William plopped the glass down on the bar, settled back looking Bernie right in the eyes and said, “Sola had you scoped. Anthony Sola Jr.—he was going to shoot you, Bernie.”
Bernie didn’t even blink, just stared at him, frozen.
William continued, “I told him you weren’t the enemy.”
Bernie squinted, tilted his head.
“I told him Richard Rothwell was the enemy. So, we traded. Your life for his,” William said. “I think we… connected.”
After a minute Bernie broke his stare, smacked the bar and said, “Whatever works!” Then he popped his drink back. “So, you never answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“From before.”
William looked at him, guessing.
Bernie grunted then said, “Why you doing this?” They made serious eye contact. “Is it all really just a public service or…” Bernie looked at him from the side of his face, “…is there something more?”
William gazed into his glass. It was empty. He suddenly wanted another. When his eyes came up, Bernie flinched at the sincerity in him, the look of cold, resigned truth. William said, “My dad’s legacy is a ghost I’ll never outrun, Bernie.”
Bernie gave him a look of perfect understanding thinking back on the ghost in his own closet—something about an innocent twelve-year-old girl screaming for help in the dark. He blinked trying to shake away the thought, and said, “Yup. I got one or two of them myself.” They shared a silent moment. Bernie muttered, “But I know a cure.”
William said, “What’s that?”
Bernie looked up and called, “Bartender!”
They parted ways in the parking lot just as William was starting to buzz. It was an overall alien sensation he hadn’t experienced more than a handful of times in his life. But never on Jack Daniel’s Black Label. He found it to be a stimulating undressing of his judgment, and it made his mind grab tangentially at the thoughts in his head. His taxi was just pulling up so he headed that way. As he watched Bernie’s cruiser leave the parking lot, one of those thoughts was what Bernie had said of Jacky a bit earlier.
You went to a student for help?
William remembered saying, “It was… something like that.” Because he didn’t want to have to explain the whole situation about Jacky coming to his office at school and telling him about an illegal hacking crew he was involved with, and about how William was hesitant to solicit Jacky’s help at first and yadda, yadda, yadda.
But it was the truth. He hadn’t gone to Jacky. Jacky had come to…
William stopped walking, just stood in the parking lot thinking.
… him.
Doubt filled William up as he thought back on Jacky Lee Hobar’s involvement in the Parks situation. The timing was too perfect. Jacky offered his services precisely when William had needed them. He must’ve known William was on a case, at least in an unofficial capacity. That’s why he approached him in his office that day. But how did he know? And why had he hidden his objectives, whatever they were?
“Hmm…” William slid into the taxi cab.
The guy said, “Where to?”
“Pasadena.” The taxi started to pull out but William called out to the driver, “Wait… we’re going to make a stop first…”
It didn’t look like anyone was at Jacky’s place when the taxi pulled up to the curb. The light was off in the upstairs window and there didn’t seem to be any commotion inside. William got out of the cab keeping his eyes on the unit. He went up the stairs and down the railed walkway. The closer he got, the more he felt something was amiss, like looking at one of the portraits on his wall and wondering if they weren’t actually looking back at him. His padding slowed and stopped. He reached the door. William started to knock, but hesitated. Instead, he put his ear up to the door probing for sound. There was nothing—no TV, no mind-sucking video game, no human voices.
Next, he peeked through the peephole in reverse fashion, expecting to see nothing, hoping to glimpse movement.
Again, nothing.
He took a nervous breath, lifted his hand, and knocked. Standing there waiting he started to have to pee, the JD black label now spinning inside his bladder. He knocked again, “Jacky!”
Jacky didn’t answer.
“Okay.” He pulled out his wallet, snuffed out a credit card and went to jab the card into the jamb, but the doorknob clicked open when he turned it. William took a startled step back with a fist up, ready to fend away an attacker.
Nothing met him at Jacky’s door but darkness.
He probed a hand inside, felt for a light switch and flipped it. The place was empty. No computer hardware. No game consoles. No command chair. No big screen TV. No wires and jacks and power strips. No nothing. Just vacuumed carpet.
On the ride home, William conjured up a number of theories to explain Jacky’s sudden absence. As a believer in the richness of the human psyche and its ability to conjure up anything it wanted inside a person’s mind, he had to consider the possibility that Jacky was a figment of his mind all along. After all, how would one justify such a swift and total disappearance of an entire human being? But that was ridiculous, so William moved on to the next theory.
It could be that he simply moved. Rent was an ever-changing variable in this part of L.A. and most contracts were month-to-month. Maybe Jacky headed for cheaper ground and the movers came in a single day. Outside of his equipment, truth be told, Jacky didn’t have a lot of belongings. With the right process in place, which Jacky excelled at, it wouldn’t have taken more than an afternoon to move him out.
But one theory filled William with a certain dread. Maybe the responsible party for Jacky’s absence was that Big-Brother-entity called they that Jacky had mentioned a few weeks ago. Maybe they had become aware of Jacky’s activities and shut him down, made him move his whole operation. It worried William, hoping Jacky had only been joking when he mentioned they’d kill him if they ever found out. Surely, that was just hyperbole.
The next few days would tell. Hopefully, he’d see the kid at school, and all would be set right. Until then, William was afraid he’d wonder about his wayward student, and why Jacky hadn’t been completely up-front with him.
45
That Which Meets The Eye
William had always thought it sadly ironic that a man who’d served his country in wartime, reenlisting on the week of 9/11, was sent to the Twin Towers Correctional Facility to serve out his time as a sniper. Deep down, though, he knew Anthony would be proud of that fact. But a question burned deep inside William, one that had kept him awake on certain nights, one that would feed his beast. So, it was time to ask it.
The prison wasn’t far, and it had a psyche ward for guys just like Anthony. The place had an attentive staff, all the resources to offer the criminally insane everything they needed to get well, so it was the right place for him. William pulled into the lot, entered through a dozen buzzer gates after acquiring the right permission and escort, and went in to ask his question.
When Anthony Sola Jr. came out into the visitor’s secure area, he looked healthy and bright-eyed. But when he saw William sitting there, there was a flash of shock, almost trepidation. Anthony recognized him. He sat down at the table across from him.
“A. Soldier,” William said in low greeting.
Anthony blinked and said, “Mr. Erter.”
No William Erter. No will you murder.
Anthony was making progress. They were teaching him his choice—do I play a role in the world, or do I live a moral life? He was choosing, slowly.
“How are you?” William asked.
“Good. They’re helping.”
“That’s what I hear.”
William looked around at the place, swimming uncomfortably in the silence. “You look well,” he said.
“Oh yes, I—I’m getting better.”
“They’re treating you well?”
“Oh yes.”
“Making friends?”
“Uh—I guess. One, or maybe two.”
A thought came to William that made him smile. “How’s the food?”
“Excellent, sir. Er… good enough. Three square meals.”
“What’s your favorite?” William asked.
“Uh—I like the soup. Beef soup, sir.”
“Dessert?”
“Uh—they give pudding.”
“Chocolate?”
“No, I—I like vanilla.”
“Ah. And your quarters?”
“My quar—they’re good, sir. You know—it’s good.”
“Does The Eye still see?”
Anthony looked at him, quietly desperate. His breath deepened, eyes started to glaze. He looked away trying to escape.
William looked down pursing his lips. He’d made a mistake. That was a horrible question. But it wasn’t the one he needed to know.
“When you shot him, when you took his life, what did it feel like?” That was the question William so needed to ask. It burned him, and drowned him. What was it like? What was it like?
To which he hoped Anthony would beam almost hysterically at him with a wild grin and admit, “It was beautiful. It was gorgeous. It was like an orgasm of blood. At first, I could feel my heart pound all around me, taste it in my mouth, feel it feed me. It made me in touch with my carbon body, know—not feel—but know my positive space, like God was in me, teaching me to live and breathe and even die at the same time. And when I pulled the trigger and felt the kick, I knew the world was made of energy, and we could control it and manufacture it. We could determine what it did. We could even steal energy from the people around us, take it from them in our fist and squeeze it and hold it like it was our energy now, not theirs. And when that man went down on that golf course I could see the separation between our bodies and our souls, the delicate, simple finger of life holding the two together, then snapping that finger, breaking it, and shattering the bond between the two, because I was God. I was God. That was my role, to play God right here on Earth. Yes, William Erter, that was my role….”