Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

Hieu noticed a scrape on Pablo’s face and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Sorry about that.”

  Angel came running down the hill. His eyes were big and scared.

  Pablo touched his cheekbone, and said, “Shiiiit, what’d you do that for, bro?”

  “You gave me no choice.” Hieu waited.

  Pablo shook his head and stared at Hieu.

  “Look, man, let’s just be friends. I’m not here to arrest you or get inside your head.”

  Angel brushed off tiny specs of debris wherever he could find them on Pablo.

  Pablo said, “Stop it.”

  His voice had changed. It was fraternal.

  “You just owned me, and now you wanna talk. Leave me alone.”

  Hieu thought the encounter was finished, so he turned to Angel and said, “Your brother’s okay. It’s over.” Hieu was about to leave when something inside himself changed. He heard his mother saying, “Church isn’t out ‘till they stop singing.”

  “Look, Pablo, I know you think I’m the enemy, but you’ve got to see things differently. Just let it out.”

  “No way.”

  Will he sing?

  Angel repeated, “No way.”

  Pablo looked down at his feet, paced, and whispered, “I’m gay.”

  “What’s you say that for, Pablo?” Angel pushed his brother on the arm.

  Pablo pushed back, and regret appeared on his face, regret for not living right, regret for being a bad brother, regret for being a bad son. It was all there for Hieu to see.

  “You don’t look so good. What you go on and say that for, bro? Let’s go.”

  Pablo put his arm around Angel and gave him a hug.

  Hieu breathed deeply. “Right. I’m glad you told me.”

  Hieu was close enough to see Pablo’s cracked lips and unclear eyes.

  “I have friends who are gay. They’re okay, just like my brother.” Angel looked at Pablo and said, “You gotta accept what you are.”

  “It doesn’t make you hate me?”

  “No,” Hieu pled.

  “I don’t like people.”

  “No one?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Yes, I do.” Hieu reached out a hand and said, “I get it. It’s not that bad, Pablo. No one’s going to hate you.”

  “That’s right, Pablo.”

  “Yeah, they are, Larissa, my mother, everyone, except Angel. They hate my ass. I hate myself. Do you understand that?” Pablo asked angrily.

  “I don’t like myself sometimes. Everyone feels that way.”

  “No! You’re a cop. You got it all going right. Not me.”

  “Why not stop? Stop running away. Find someone to run to?”

  “Who? Who’d want me?”

  “You need someone to talk to, someone who listens, someone who knows what you’re going through...like me.” The look of astonishment on Pablo’s face confirmed that it must have been the right thing to say.

  “You mean that?”

  Hieu brushed off his pants and said, “Yes.”

  “Sorry, man, about your clothes.”

  “It’s all right. So, what about it? Are we friends?”

  Hieu stuck out his hand and waited.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Hieu spotted his notepad lying on the road and picked it up. A few feet further down the roadway was his pen. Pablo picked it for him.

  “Here’s my phone number.” He scribbled the numbers and handed Pablo the page from his notepad. “Put it in your pocket. Call me when you want to talk. I’ll always answer, no matter what.”

  “Thanks, man. No one ever did that for me. Why you doin’ this for me? I mean, you’re a cop.”

  Angel pulled on his brother’s arm again.

  “Let’s just say, I think you need me...and maybe I need you, too. You can’t run for the rest of your life.”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”

  “What for? Did you kill MacKenzie?”

  “No way.”

  “I just want you to stay out of trouble. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “What? You’re a cop. I did a whole bunch of shit lately.”

  “I’m also a man, and I want to help you out.”

  “So, you just gonna let me go?”

  “Yep. Shake on it?”

  “Sure.”

  Hieu shook hands with Pablo and then Angel.

  Without looking back, he walked down the long road, pulled the light brown leather jacket from the car seat, carefully put it on over a sore shoulder, got into his vehicle, and looked up for the last time at Pablo and Angel standing next to each other. On the way to Central, he began framing a report for Larry. Pablo had stolen nothing, although he had made several attempts, so the most he could be charged with was attempted robbery by force.

  Did I do the right thing, letting him go?

  •••

  Pablo stood at the corner of Eighteenth and Castro and spotted the same blond-haired panhandler.

  The sun was directly above. No one would recognize him, because it wasn’t Saturday.

  He threw his cigarette into the street, but a slight breeze blew the butt to the edge of the panhandler’s kaftan. He picked it up and asked Pablo for a light. The panhandler puffed a couple of times and stuffed the butt into his belongings. The dog lying next to him moved.

  “Hey, bro, I need to make a buy. Whacha got?”

  “What?”

  “Any good shit?” Pablo felt like walloping him.

  “Nah, I don’t sell, bro.”

  Liar.

  “Know anyone around here who does?”

  “Sorry.”

  Pablo started walking down Eighteenth Street. His pace was slow, and he asked the same question of every person lying in a doorway. The same two cops he had seen before walked past. He noticed them talking to a man lying in one of the doorways. Pablo’s thoughts were muddled, and he felt himself moving slowly.

  The female cop caught up. “Whacha doing out here, today? It’s not even lunch time.”

  Pablo stepped back. “Nothing.” Words were slow in coming. “I was supposed to meet someone.”

  “Who?” she asked. “You’re slurring your words.”

  “Just a friend...a girl.”

  Wish it was Saturday.

  “You were asking if anyone had some meth. Weren’t you?”

  “No! I was just kidding.” He wiped his brow and his mouth.

  “Turn around.”

  Pablo snapped to. He knew what was coming next.

  Dolores Park is close. It won’t be crowded. I can outrun her.

  He took off. When he got to the bottom of the park, he looked up. The view was enough to make him sick, but he knew he could make it.

  The chain that clipped the wallet to his belt jingled on the grassy slope as he passed the children’s playground. When he looked back, the bold, gold paint on an old church dome blurred his vision. The cops were at the bottom, and, at that moment, every sound, whether of man or nature, died.

  He picked out a sunbathing couple sitting under a row of new palm trees. Their baby crawled around on the grass and chewed a pacifier. Dampened by warm sweat pouring down his face, he asked for some water. The woman was dressed in a blue tank top, and her husband had a long beard and a blue and yellow checkered shirt that made Pablo dizzier. The man adjusted his dark-framed glasses. She handed Pablo a bottled water. He drank half, poured the remainder over his head, took off his wife-beater off, and wiped his face.

  He couldn’t hear what she said. The cops were passing the dog-play area and getting closer. He threw the plastic bottle down and ran up the hill, veered to the right, and tripped over the shiny J Church streetcar tracks. He tried to focus on the big homes above a wall that divided the street into one-way traffic. Up he went on the stairs imbedded in the wall. The upper street made him invisible to the cops.

  Outside a big house with a dark blue garage door, there was a black Lexus and a tall man a
bout to get into the driver’s seat. Pablo rushed to his side and, leaning with all his weight, pinned the man against the car door.

  “Dude, can I have a ride? I...lost my friend, and I don’t have any money to get home.”

  Cracker.

  The man shook his head. Pablo put his hand into his pants pocket. “I have a knife. Now, get in the car.” Pablo put his hand on top of the man’s head, pushed down, and pushed him inside. He ran around to the other side and jumped in.

  “What do you want?”

  “Start driving and shut up.” Pablo reached across and, with his right hand, clamped on the man’s chin, jerked his face sharply and said, “Get going.”

  “You want money?” the man asked, his words nearly muted by Pablo’s wet fingers.

  Pablo let go and grabbed the outside of his pants pocket. “I have a knife.”

  The man backed out of his driveway and stammered, “Where to?”

  “Just go.”

  Pablo rolled down the passenger window and felt the breeze cooling his bare chest and neck. They drove for ten minutes, Pablo directing the way. At Market and Van Ness, Pablo saw a parked taxi cab. “Give me a twenty, and I’ll let you go.”

  The man pulled out his wallet.

  Pablo opened it wide.

  He grabbed bills.

  He jumped out.

  Chapter 17

  Friday, July 12

  Larry sat in his office and waited for Hieu’s return.

  He had picked up a new history book from a local book seller. The third chapter caught his notice.

  Emperors Diocletian and Galerius shared power amicably. Under an order from Diocletian, St. Romanus of Caesarea had his tongue cut out. After Diocletian retired, Galerius issued the Edict of Toleration in 311AD, declaring publicly that the persecution of the Christians had failed.

  He thought about Constantine, who would succeed and preside over the Catholic council that issued the Nicene Creed.

  The phone rang.

  Is it Mark?

  “Inspector Leahy, we have a possible jumper at the Golden Gate Bridge. We believe the jumper is Pablo Morales.”

  “How do you know it’s Morales?”

  “The cab driver gave a description: Hispanic male, twenty to twenty-five, short dark hair, tattoos on hands, pierced eyebrow. Before the cabbie knew where they were headed, he asked his passenger what his name was.”

  “Has Inspector Varton been notified?”

  “Affirmative. Inspector Varton has been notified.”

  “And the Negotiation Team?”

  “Affirmative. The Negotiation Team is on the way.”

  “Thank you. I’m on my way.”

  Larry punched number five for Father Ralph.

  “Ralph, I need you right away. We have a jumper on the Golden Gate Bridge. I can pick you up in ten minutes. Can you be ready?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The red Chevy siren blared.

  Five minutes later, Larry reached across and pushed the door open. “It’s Pablo Morales.”

  “Pablo Morales?”

  “Employee at the Greenwich. We’ve been trying to find him. We think he may be involved in Cornelius’ murder.”

  “I see.”

  Father Ralph opened his breviary and read the passage he had prepared.

  Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him, he will bring forth justice to the nations...He will not fail or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his law. Isaiah 42

  “The coastlands on either side of the bridge are waiting. Let’s do some good today.”

  “Pray God has mercy on this young man.”

  Pray God has mercy on us for our part in it.

  When they arrived, the Negotiation Team was already on scene. Vehicles moved unimpeded in all lanes but the one next to the walkway. Spectators near the action huddled in small groups like mourners. Larry pulled up behind a police vehicle and turned off his engine. It was near the middle of the bridge. The ugly suicide prevention barrier was yet to be constructed.

  Larry looked at his watch: a few minutes before one o’clock.

  Both men leapt out and rushed to the waist-high, easily-scaled railing. Larry’s coarse hands ran across the prickly surface, and they stood just a few feet from a set of cables securing the roadbed to the suspension cable. It was anything but peaceful.

  Pablo was perched on a beam below and leaning outward. From above, he looked like a circus acrobat. Gusts of wind brought up the smell of salt and fish and mixed with engine exhaust. The sound of tires hitting sections of the pavement had the rhythm of a freight train rolling across tracks. The deck trembled.

  The straps of Pablo’s wife-beater clung to his shoulders, and he looked sweaty, weak, and cold in the fierce gale.

  Father Ralph held onto his black fedora.

  Larry’s legs felt like mush. Leaning over the rail induced an unwanted memory of a family trip at age ten, when the Grand Canyon had gifted him with a fear of heights. The gale whipped off cold sweat beads that tried attaching to his forehead.

  “Ralph, hold onto me. I get sick out here.”

  Larry turned in the other direction and shouted, “I know this young man. May we talk with him?” Larry could barely hear the answer. The cold wind howled and the ringing sound that came when he was in high places started.

  “Has he spoken?” Larry asked.

  The officer stepped toward Larry and shouted, “Very little. We got here about ten minutes ago. He’s a wobbler.”

  Larry yelled, “Pablo, I didn’t expect to find you here…what’s wrong? It’s Inspector Leahy. I have Father Ralph with me. Can we please talk?” Larry wasn’t sure Pablo could hear. He felt Ralph’s firm hand and smelled burning rubber.

  “Hey, man, go away and leave me alone.”

  “Pablo, I know things are tough right now and everything’s going wrong but think this through. Is this what you really want?”

  “Back off!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m here. I’ll stay right here.” Larry kept his eyes focused on Pablo’s left hand gripping the cold, thick, steel cable.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Just give me your hand, and we can talk about it.”

  “No.”

  Larry looked down at the swirling whitecaps. He wanted to keep Pablo looking up at him, but he wasn’t sure Pablo could see his face in the glare of the bright sun.

  “You talk to him.”

  “Pablo, this is Father Ralph.”

  Now he may listen.

  Pablo would not look up.

  “Pablo, tell me how it went down,” Larry shouted.

  “I stole the gun from the office. O’Hara gave me $500 and I blew it. I can’t get out of this now.”

  Larry turned to Father Ralph and asked, “What did he say?”

  “He says he stole a gun from the Security office. Is that the gun that killed Cornelius?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Larry’s straining to hear voices was increasing. “Yes, you can get out of this. There’s hope, Pablo. Just look up at me. Look at my face, Pablo.”

  “I saw Chase at the office. I didn’t kill MacKenzie. I swear it.”

  “Look up at me. Tell me again what you just said, but this time, look at me.”

  Father Ralph pleaded, “Pablo, think about your family and how sad they will be. They need you. Think about your mother.”

  The wind blew so fiercely it hurt the backs of Larry’s ears.

  Larry yelled, “Your son needs a dad, Pablo, and Larissa needs a man to raise her son. Look at me. I spoke to your mom, and she told me you couldn't have killed that man. She knows you’re in trouble but not capable of murder...she told me ‘I didn't raise a killer!’ She believes you Pablo...and so do I...my job is to find the killer...I need your help to get you out of this mess...help me clear your name...for your mother...for you...”

  “Lo
ok after my brother.”

  Larry gulped the wind and exhaust.

  At that moment, Father Ralph’s fedora blew off.

  Pablo let go.

  Larry said, “Shit.”

  Father Ralph made the sign of the cross.

  The distant splash was inaudible.

  The sun kept shining.

  Time drifted.

  Larry heard Varton’s cowboy boots on the sidewalk. “Too bad. Troubled kid. Not surprising it ended this way.”

  Larry snapped to attention. “Shut up, Varton. C’mon Father, we’ve got nothing more to do here.”

  On the way to Loyola House, Larry said, “I wish we had done the job.”

  “Larry, death has a certain kind of logic. For Pablo, death was a release. We shouldn’t despair over it. Pray God forgave him in that moment. Because of our own limitations, we cannot possibly understand, and God will take care of Pablo and bring him home.”

  Street signs passed by without notice or significance.

  Father Ralph pulled a prayer card from his breviary and left it on the seat.

  Larry joined in reciting a Hail Mary; Father Ralph read the prayer for the dead; they concluded with another Hail Mary.

  Larry’s left hand gripped the steering wheel. “Over and over I heard God saying, ‘take my hand and come with me.’ If only Pablo would have taken my hand.”

  “I know. God has his hand now.” He slipped a small crucifix into Larry’s and said, “You may need this.”

  •••

  In Joe’s office, a debriefing occurred.

  Hieu listened quietly and somberly.

  “I’m sorry for what I said, Joe.”

  “Like I said, I expected as much from this kid.”

  “Pablo said O’Hara gave him $500 to buy a gun.”

  “What!”

  “Well, now we know where the missing $500 went. O’Hara wanted Pablo to kill Cornelius. He must have propositioned Pablo the same way he propositioned Gerald Smith, and Pablo agreed. He must have used the $500 O’Hara gave him and bought a gun at Burton High School for less. With the extra money and the money from pawning the gun, he could buy more dope. So, it looks like he stole the gun from the Security office and changed his mind, which is why O’Hara was there, to make sure Pablo did the deed. If Pablo didn’t kill Cornelius, who did? Smith told us Cornelius was already dead, and that was before he saw O’Hara, so O’Hara couldn’t have killed Cornelius.”