by Andrew Lanh
“A confession, no less. Signed and sealed. I can sleep a little better tonight.” A pause. “Just that one loose end to take care of. The D.A. is preparing a warrant as I speak to you.”
I rushed my words. “Let me do something first.”
“Like what?”
I told him.
“Is that a good idea?” Then, his voice dropping, “What the hell. All the pieces coming together. You have an hour. Hear me? Have a good time.”
That bothered me. “I’m not enjoying this.”
He made a clicking sound. “Well, yeah, I can understand that. You got a soft spot inside you.”
“And you don’t?”
“It’s my secret, Lam.” Someone behind him yelled to him. For a second he covered the receiver. “Gotta run.”
“You’re welcome, Detective.”
“Like I said, arrogance ain’t attractive, Lam. Didn’t they teach you that in immigration school?”
“Goodbye, Detective.”
***
I pulled into Mike Tran’s driveway, hoping Simon was at home to receive the good news. I wanted to watch his face—gauge how he’d changed, if at all. He’d no longer have Ardolino hounding him, threatening, accusing, a noisome shadow that never disappeared. I wondered if the boy would care—all along he copped that tough-boy attitude, indifferent to his fate. A simple protestation of innocence. Believe me or not, it’s up to you. Then he went about his boyhood business, sinking deeper into quicksand.
Now it was over.
I rang the doorbell, and Michael Tran opened the door. I suppose I looked surprised because he laughed out loud. “I’m not an apparition, Rick.”
“But a rare visitor to the homestead, no?”
He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt that said Trinity Crew in gold stitching. “Time for a visit.” He stared over my shoulder. “And I had to deliver Simon back once again. That boy likes to run.”
“You’re talking to your father?”
“My, my. Standing in the doorway and already the personal questions.” But he looked over his shoulder again. “As a matter of fact, yes. I like to surprise people.”
“So do I.”
He watched me closely, his eyes cold. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Why are you here?”
“Can I come in?”
He stepped back. “Of course.”
Rushing from the hallway, Mike grabbed my hand and shook it too long. He put his arm over my shoulder and steered me into the living room. Lucy sat on the sofa, her body pressed against Hazel’s. The girl looked weary, ready to cry. I nodded at her, but she looked away. Lucy nodded to a side chair, and I sat. Simon was not in the room, but I heard the ping ping ping of a video game played in the family room. For a second the noise stopped as a head peeked around the corner, checking out the living room—Simon’s face, expressionless, staring. It disappeared.
Looking anxious to leave, Michael stood by the front door with his jacket in his hand.
“You’re here for a reason,” he said.
“Call Simon,” I said.
His father panicked. He rushed toward the family room, but he stopped abruptly, faced me, beads of sweat on his forehead.
“It’s all right, Mike,” I told him. “It’s okay.”
“Simon,” he called out. A voice hollow, breathy. “I let them play video games today.”
Simon and Wilson stopped their game playing, though one of the boys let out a disgusted groan. Probably Simon. Both joined us, dragging their feet. Simon stood behind Wilson, eyes slatted, uncertain, unhappy.
“I didn’t do nothing.” A scratchy voice.
“I know that,” I said to him. “We all know that now.” I caught Mike’s eye. “I just spoke with Detective Ardolino. He’s made an arrest. Simon and Frankie are in the clear.”
I expected some reaction from Simon. But there was none, simply the calculated indifference of a teenaged boy, shoulders hunched, eyes blank. Next to him his brother Wilson turned to look at him as though he expected Simon to say something. A quizzical smile on his face. He scratched absently at a pimple on his chin. Acne on his forehead, picked at until the spots bled.
Something happened in the room. Lucy stood up and stared out the front window, her hand clutching a curtain. She swiveled around, faced the TV, but seemed unable to settle down. We all watched her. She wore a haunted look as though expecting disaster. Her husband eyed her from his seat, his eyes hooded, and he said in a raspy, angry voice, “Dung lo, Lucy.” Don’t worry. Then, softly, in English, “Sit down. It’s all over.” Immediately she sat back down next to Hazel, who stared straight ahead. Silence, awful.
Michael was the first to speak. “Then, I suppose, we can get back to our boring lives.”
Mike, relief on his face, asked, “Then who? Why?”
I waited a heartbeat. “Judd Snow.”
Hazel screamed as her mother gripped her shoulder.
Mike looked puzzled. “But that makes no sense, Rick.”
Simon stepped back toward the family room, his face pale.
“Judd Snow,” I repeated. “An hour ago he confessed. He was already in jail for beating up his father but, questioned by Avon cops, he broke down, confessed.”
“But why?” From Lucy.
Michael’s voice was tinny. “None of this is coming together for me. Really, Rick. I’m curious. How did they catch him?”
Suddenly Hazel was sobbing out of control. Every eye found her. She was wearing some eye makeup, and now it streaked her face, ran down her cheeks. When I repeated Judd’s name, she squirmed, twisted out of her mother’s tight hold. A low moan escaped from her throat.
We waited.
“No.” Only that one word. “No.” She repeated it. Then, slowly, “He…?”
She dipped her head into her lap. Lucy rocked with her. A choked sound, whispered. “No.”
I went on. “Judd Snow is an angry boy—man. You all know that. Striking out, battles in public.” I softened my words. “The way he treated Hazel for so long a time. The need to dominate—to hit her.” Her head jerked up for a second, then dropped back down. “And a toxic relationship with his father. A screwed-up childhood, filled with rage. A home life that…” I stopped. “Enough. Anyway, he told the cops he thought of doing those knockdowns because it was thrilling, forbidden. Bored, he could get his heart racing.”
“That seems extreme,” Michael protested.
“It is, and only one part of the story. The truth of the matter, as he acknowledged to the cops, was that he’d had that brawl with Frankie”—I shot a look at Simon who looked nervous—“a fistfight that ended with both taken to a police station. He was humiliated. You remember that he said he’d kill Frankie if they crossed paths again. Well, he harbored growing resentment—fury—at Frankie. Another scuffle at the mall. Then another fight on the lawn outside. He stalked Frankie the way he stalked Hazel, the way he stalked Liz. But then he decided a better way.”
“What?” Michael’s voice was too loud.
“He was sitting in Burger King and was irritated by Ralph Gervase. They may have exchanged words, obscene gestures. He wanted to hurt him. So the opportunity presented itself—unplanned, most likely. He said he’d been talking of Frankie and Simon and their months in juvie. Knocking folks around. At that moment he thought—why not get back at Frankie that way? He says it was spur of the moment. But ratchet it up a bit. Copy Frankie and Simon all over again. Get Frankie sent to prison. Revenge. Stupid, yeah, but it’s the thinking of a guy filled with hate he couldn’t understand.”
“Diabolical,” said Michael. “But that would mean Simon would be implicated, sent away. The brother of his girlfriend? Why?”
“What did he care?”
Michael’s eyes widened. “You mean, he confessed to all this?”
I nodded. “But only after
he was shown proof. The second killing on Whitney was different. I imagine he was looking for blood—thrills, excitement. The cops found a postcard from GameStop, addressed to Frankie Croix. It could have meant nothing, but this morning I asked Detective Ardolino if they’d dusted it for fingerprints. Of course, they had. Ardolino’s a stickler for detail. Mostly smudges, unreadable, Frankie’s own print, but one partial print of a thumb at the edge of the card. Unidentifiable. No way to use it. But I remembered that Judd was booked and fingerprinted for the assault on his father, and I wondered about it. Anyway, Ardolino had the two compared. It has Judd’s thumb on that card.”
“But how?” Michael asked. “How would his print be there?”
Simon spoke up, “That fight in the mall. He dumped out Frankie’s backpack for spite, kicked it around. He took a video game. He stepped on his stuff.”
I nodded. “Yes, and he obviously pocketed a postcard that fell out. Or maybe it was attached to the game. In any event he pocketed it, saved it.”
“But to kill guys? To hurt them?” From Lucy, her voice trembling.
“He may not have intended to kill. Or maybe he did. The idea of inflicting real pain…well, perhaps he wanted the feel of fist against bone. It happens.”
Lucy shivered. “How sad.”
“But there’s something I don’t get.” Michael looked puzzled. “He had a buddy with him, no? And didn’t I read that one witness thought that he was Chinese or something?”
The room felt hot, close, no windows opened to let in the brisk spring air. A cluttered room, too much furniture packed into the small space. I found myself staring at the wall of awards and commendations. A family’s proud display of academic achievement. Plaques from the American Legion and the D.A.R. Too many of them.
I looked at no one but said in a loud voice, “Ego non baptize te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diabolic.”
I waited, watching the stunned faces.
All but one, that is. One face offered a wistful smile.
Mike frowned. “What the hell you talking about?”
Michael, brow furrowed, translated. “I baptize you not in the name of the father but in the name of the devil. Latin 101. Thank you, Kingswood-Oxford.”
I hesitated a moment, nodding at him, but continued. “Hank told me about a video on YouTube uploaded by Simon and Frankie. SaigonSez.” Simon, I noticed, blinked wildly. “I watched it over and over, fascinated. Clever, really. Intriguing.”
Simon spoke up. “Yeah, it’s cool. All my friends…”
“What’s this?” Mike thundered.
I went on. “A celebration of Satan. A dark view of the world. Life is tough. It’s no good to cry about it. Give the devil his due. We mortals end up in hell, but Satan lives forever.” I waved my hands in the air. “Sort of a quick summary of it.”
Simon was not happy with my glib summary, and looked ready to argue the point.
“I don’t understand,” Lucy added.
“At first I thought the YouTube video was a confession from the boys, given that it talked of street life, souls in black hoods, practical jokes, an unforgiving world. I watched it over and over. All the time I never noticed one thing about it.” I paused, deliberated, uncertain.
“Well?” From Michael, impatient.
I lowered my voice. “Tell us about it, Wilson.”
Every eye shot to the young boy, standing by his brother but shuffling from one foot to the other. “Come on, Wilson. I saw the credits. Those rap lyrics were written by you. W. Tran.”
“So what?” From Simon, feisty. “He writes stuff.”
“No, Simon. Suddenly some things made sense. Wilson, the would-be writer, lost in his room and his books, punished by his father for not studying. Hazel had told Michael that she was afraid of something. Simon told her he had a secret, but kept it to himself.”
“A secret?” asked Mike.
“I suspect Simon suddenly realized something one day.”
Simon quaked. “No, I…”
“He put two and two together. Smart boy. I remember watching him play a video game with Wilson. A familiar storyline—the bookish nerd who overtakes the powerful evil force, becomes the hero, triumphs. Exalts. A violent game. The hero leveling foes.”
“So what?” From Michael.
“But I also remembered his love of Moby Dick. I checked out my copy. Captain Ahab, filled with overweening pride. ‘I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.’ A baptism in the name of the devil. The lyrics on YouTube came from Melville. ‘Who ever heard that the devil was dead?’ ‘I was a black and hooded head.’ Ishmael, plagued with boredom and ennui, going to sea to prevent him ‘from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking peoples’ hats off.’ Other lines.” I struggled to recall and slipped a note card from my breast pocket. “I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.’ ‘It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a great secret in him.’ A great secret. So many lines taken from Moby Dick. Even that line about a bloody battle in Afghanistan. Melville, over and over. And the last bit from Mark Twain, Huck Finn when he decides to give up his soul for a black man. ‘I’ll go to hell.’ A refrain—‘Awright I’ll go to hell.’” I stopped. “Enough.”
“Still…” said Michael, faltering. “I mean…”
“Stop,” I demanded. “The first clue for me was a ten-second tape from Little Saigon, an aborted attack. Reconstructed by Hank, played in slow motion, rehearsed by friends, I was bothered by two things. One was that the attacker moved jerkily, while the other didn’t, even though the video was unclear. Then I realized the attacker was limping. Judd Snow with the bum leg after the fistfight with Frankie in front of this house.”
“And the second?” Michael again, his voice sharp.
“The second culprit, smaller, standing apart, appearing for a second but turning into the sun. A sharp piercing light on his head.”
“Which was?”
“It took me a while but I realized that person was wearing thick eyeglasses, and the glint from the sun was what the camera picked up.”
“I don’t understand this.” Mike Tran was looking at Wilson.
“Tell us, Wilson,” I said softly. “Tell us.”
The boy fidgeted, looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. He wrapped his skinny arms around his chest, and for a second I thought his look was cocksure, his eyes steely. Captain Ahab. I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.
“Tell us,” Michael coaxed, surprisingly gentle.
I prodded him. “Judd Snow has already told us your name, Wilson.”
That startled him. In a surprisingly strong voice, he said, “He promised.”
“But why?” From his father. “You hated him. He pushed you around. He…”
“He told me I had to be quiet about it. He threatened—scared me.”
“Is that true?” I asked, suspicious.
He nodded furiously. “We went to the boys’ club to teach chess. The advisor sent us, you know. I took the bus but sometimes he said—ride with him. He told me…he said, ‘You wanna get a thrill? You wanna make some excitement in your boring life?’ He drove around the city like a maniac, top speed, daredevil. He told me I was a wimp. He…you gotta slap the world in the face. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him. But I felt…you know…important in that car, his attention, laughing, making fun of people…walking down the street. But I didn’t know he was going to hit that man from Burger King. Yeah, he was pissed off and we followed them. I mean, he just ran at the guy.”
I broke in. “But after the first time you did, Wilson. You knew what to expect. Come on.”
He looked wild-eyed. “It always surprised me. It did. He said—‘I can get away with murder.’”
“You didn’t have to go.”
He looked up into my face, his glasses slipping down h
is nose. “I had to. He told me I had to.” His eyes sought his father. “I had to, Pop. He said you only live once. He used to whisper: ‘YOLO.’ You only live once. Grab it. Seize the day. Carpe diem. You gotta feel…like the world is yours. For a minute I felt like I was on top of the world. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘Get in the car now. I don’t wanna have to hurt you.’ ‘I will hurt you.’ I mean, he told me.”
He kept talking until he ran out of words. He rocked back and forth on his heels.
A long silence settled in that stifling room. Lucy’s eyes were stark, frightened. No one moved. The clock on the wall tick-tocked monotonously. The shape of Vietnam. Tick tock. The same clock that Grandma had in her house. One that I’d seen in so many Vietnamese restaurants. Cheap kitsch, yes, but an odd reminder that once upon a time we all lived in a tropical country, where water buffalo grazed next to the Saigon River under the shade of banyan trees…rattled by cyclos zipping through the narrow streets…the helicopters and the napalm and the B-52s and the VC hiding in the elephant grass…where there was a different sense of time and place…the long tropical nights filled with green bottle flies. A land of exile and longing. The geography of memory. In America everybody looks at those clocks. Every day. They took you back to New Year’s. Tet. Everyone listening for the first sound after the clock struck twelve. A rooster’s cluck signaled a bad harvest. A dog’s yip meant good fortune.
My mind replayed some words from my childhood. The good nun telling me it was all right to hit the little black bui doi. The black monkey. Khi den. A mongrel race, she insisted. The mother a whore, the father American scum. Like you, Lam Van Viet, touching my forehead. But worse than you, if possible. Hit him. Hit him. Knock the devil out of him. Satan has branded his black soul.
No good to cry.
A bout of dizziness, my eyes blurred.
Then, an awful keening began. Mike Tran slumped against a wall and moaned like a wounded animal. The cries grew louder and louder until the only sound in that room was his unbearable sobbing.