Lauren rests her head against my shoulder. “What do we do, then? I mean, it is possible that two different people killed Gavin Lively and poisoned Jackson.”
“But unlikely,” I say. “Like you said, it makes the most sense that someone tried to kill him because he knew too much…unless…unless someone tried to kill him because they thought he killed Gavin or they thought he kidnapped Mary.”
“Or both,” she says, eating a fry. “It makes some sense. If we thought he was involved, it would be natural for others to think he was involved as well.”
“We still won’t be able to get a warrant to figure out who these people are,” I say.
“I wouldn’t think someone who would crucify another person would be solely found online because that’s a person of action, so we could look into who confronted him,” she says. “But if we’re assuming the person who poisoned him isn’t involved in Gavin’s murder….using poison is more of a behind-the-scenes murder. It could be someone who he’d never seen.”
I rub my face. “Okay…Jackson is still alive and we haven’t even been put on his case yet. Let’s focus on Mary and Gavin.”
“But what if they’re connected?”
“Then, we’ll eventually find the connection,” I say. My phone begins to vibrate, making such a loud clatter against the table that two other couples in the restaurant turn to look at us. I pick it up and answer, “Hello?”
“Detective Rodriguez, this is Officer Brink from the ninth precinct,” a deep male voice says. “Your father, former Chief Rodriguez, is here at the station.”
I can feel my entire body tense up. “What happened?”
“A fellow officer brought him in for being drunk and disorderly, along with brawling with another patron at a bar. Since he was once an officer of the law, we thought we would give you a call.”
“Christ. Thank you, Detective,” I say. Lauren peers at me, trying to read my face. “Is he still there?”
“Yes, he’s sobering up in our break room,” he says. “We figured we would save him the dignity of being in the drunk tank. I did notice that this isn’t the first time this has happened. I highly suggest putting him into some kind of program or facility—”
“Detective,” I interrupt. “I appreciate everything you’ve done so far, but I can take it from here.”
“Of course,” he says. “We just care about our own and we don’t want any more bad press about the police out there.”
“Let me assure you, my father’s problems aren’t going to taint the image of law enforcement any more than they already are,” I say. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bring some Kevlar,” he says. “Your father isn’t happy to be here and he’s letting everyone know about it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I hang up and turn to Lauren.
“Do you want me to go with you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Trust me, having an audience won’t calm my father down,” I say. I kiss her cheek. “Thank you, though. I’ll see you soon enough.”
It occurs to me that a romantic would say that he couldn’t see her soon enough, but I’m not a romantic. I’m just a man with a fucked-up family, a nonexistent set of beliefs, and a dwindling amount of patience.
* * *
As I drive my father back to his house, he stares out the passenger side window as if the Detroit landscape captivates him. Maybe it does—maybe he’s chased by memories of tackling suspects and arresting drug dealers. But that’s not the present. The present time shows a man in his early sixties, an older version of me except with a scruffy beard and hair that has turned thin and become streaked with gray.
“That detective thought I should take you to a rehab facility or take you to AA meetings,” I say.
He snorts. “I’m not a child and I’m not an alcoholic. I was just having a drink and this kid decided to get up into my face for no reason.”
“For no reason?” I say. “That’s not what the other guy said. He said he made a comment about abolishing the police and you flipped out.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” I say. “I wouldn’t. I would ignore him. Some people see us as oppressors. It happens. You should know that by now. If they’re in trouble, I’m going to try to save their life anyway. There’s a guy who was a suspect and he hated the police, but he was poisoned and I still want him to survive. His personal beliefs don’t affect my integrity.”
He turns to look at me, sneering. “Well, I’m glad you’re so much better than the rest of us. Has solving a few cases made you think you’re God?”
“If you remember from back when I was fourteen, I stopped going to church, so no, I don’t think I’m God because I don’t believe He exists,” I say. “But if He did exist, I’m sure He would have something to say about you.”
“If you kept going to church, you would know that God forgives everything for those who accept His son as their savior,” he says.
“I’ll be sure to tell the serial killer who nailed a man to a cross,” I snap back.
He rolls his eyes. “You have to be truly repentant. You know that. Don’t play dumb.”
“Are you really telling me to not play dumb when you just lied to me about starting a fight?”
“I was willing to fight for my pride,” he snarls. “You should try it sometime.”
“I fought for my pride when I left the house,” I remind him. “You told me that if I left, I couldn’t come back, and I didn’t care because I wasn’t going to live under your thumb.”
“But you still became a cop.”
“And I didn’t reference you a single time,” I say. “When I told you that I wasn’t going to allow you to control me, I meant it. I wasn’t going to let you control what occupation I went into and that included when I didn’t rule out becoming a policeman just because you were one.”
I park in front of his house.
“Listen, Dad. Just think about going into rehab or getting some kind of help. I can’t force you to do anything, but you need to do something before you wake up and realize you spent most of your life drunk or hungover,” I say.
He shakes his head, opening the passenger door. “Don’t pretend that you care now.”
He slams the door. I grip the wheel so hard that it hurts. The moment he’s two steps away from my car, I shift back into drive and jerk my car back onto the road.
Some people can’t be saved and that’s the God-awful truth.
Chapter Nine
Lauren
Tobias and I meet up in front of the police station. I didn't need to study body language to know he doesn't want to talk about his father. When we step onto the third floor, it’s strangely quiet except for a single voice. Six policemen are standing in front of the TV that is affixed in the corner of the room. On the screen, there’s a screenshot of Mary Fitzgerald, tied to a wooden chair.
“The video was delivered to our news station without a return address. In the video, rock gospel singer Mary Fitzgerald seems to be reading somebody else’s words—likely her kidnapper’s,” a female voiceover says before her face appears back on the screen. She flips her blonde hair back over her shoulder. I wonder if once reporters have covered the tragedies of war, shootings, and general human shittiness, they stop feeling anything as they report it. Then again, people would wonder the same thing about me and I feel like I give more of a damn with every murder.
The reporter continued, “The kidnapper says that he wants all of the churches in Detroit to tear down any image or idol of Jesus or God and burn it. She says that the kidnapper will be watching the churches and will know if anything isn’t burned. She says the kidnapper will release her as soon as this is finished, but if it’s not finished within forty-eight hours, she’ll be killed. As Mary said this, her voice cracked. We won’t show the video now out of respect for her and her family, but it is truly a heartbreaking thing to see.”
“Okay everybody!” Captain Mattinson rushes o
ut of his office. “I just talked to the news station. They told me part of the kidnapper’s demands was that this video was aired before they gave it to the police, but they say a policeman can pick it up now. So, Romano and Hamlin, go do there and get it. Be careful though, this kidnapper is clearly someone who shouldn’t be underestimated.”
I look to my left to ask Tobias if he thinks we can even get the churches to do what the kidnapper wants, but he’s no longer by my side. By the time this registers in my mind, the sound of breaking glass shatters the strange, quiet atmosphere in the station. I spin around to see Tobias picking up one of the rolling office chairs and throwing it against the wall.
Without thinking, I run over to him and grab his arms. His left elbow thrusts back—an instant reaction I should have predicted—hitting me in the stomach. I stumble back. Before the pain can even settle in, Tobias grasps me around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I wasn’t thinking.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
I can feel the rest of the police station staring at us. I put my hand on the small of his back. “Let’s go to the break room. We can drink some coffee and plan our next move.”
If Captain Mattinson notices my hand on his back, he doesn’t say anything, which is our one saving grace. Once Tobias and I are in the break room, I close the door.
“Are you okay?” he asks, showing almost as much concern in his eyes as when I was being held captive by the PVP Killer. The profile analyst part of me feels the need to dissect this—with the PVP Killer I was in mortal danger, but this time he had just accidentally jabbed me. Is he more concerned now because he was the one to cause me pain? Or could I just be reading into it more than I should because, for all our differences, I want love to be enough to keep us together?
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “I know this is hard—”
“We now know Mary has been kidnapped and we have a guy who was poisoned in the hospital,” he says. “This is more than hard. This is someone who is both willing to nail a guy to a cross and use poison. I know we thought there may be two separate perpetrators, but that would be too much of a coincidence. This is a single insane person. The nice thing about serial killers is that they’re usually consistent. This one is not. How am I supposed to watch out for everybody if I’m not even sure how this guy will kill?”
“We just take it one step at a time,” I say. “We’ll figure out who this guy is and nail him to the wall…that may not have been the best choice of words, considering Gavin’s murder, but you know what I mean.”
I feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the name.
Peter Luctor.
That can’t be good.
“I have to take this,” I tell him. “Are you okay now?”
He lets out a slow breath. “I will be. Thank you for…tolerating me.”
“You know I only tolerate you because of that fantastic police salary,” I tease, giving him a quick kiss before I accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lauren…it’s Peter.”
“I know, Peter. I have caller ID. What’s up?” I ask.
“I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but grandma has a bad case of pneumonia.”
“What?” I ask. “Right now? Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She’s all right, but we’re at the hospital while she’s recovering.”
“Which hospital?”
“We’re at the Thiessan Memorial Hospital, room 227.”
“Thanks, Peter. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I tell him.
“She’ll be happy to see you.”
I hang up and turn back toward Tobias.
“I have to go check on my grandmother. She has pneumonia and she’s at the hospital.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Uh, was that the doctor?”
“No, that was Peter.”
He pauses before asking, “Who’s Peter?”
“Oh, he’s…well, he’s kind of my brother,” I say, wincing as I realize how bad it is that this is the first time I’m bringing him up.
“You have a brother?”
“Kind of.”
“How can someone be ‘kind of’ your brother?” he asks. “And how have you never told me this before?”
“He’s my half-brother, not my brother. Five years younger than I am. We had the same mother. I don’t normally keep in touch with him. Like we send each other Christmas cards…sometimes we send a text to each other on our birthdays….but we’re not close at all.”
“I didn’t realize your parents had ever been separated.”
I wince. “They weren’t.”
“There’s a story here,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me…”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. I make my voice as emotionless as I can. This used to be painful, but I like to think I’m over it. “My mother became pregnant while being unfaithful to my father. This was when I was five years old and I didn’t even find out about Peter until I was in my early twenties. I guess my mother gave him up for adoption. I have some vague memories of her being pregnant and my father being mad about it, but…I guess I always assumed it was a miscarriage until Peter reached out to me.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you never told me you had a half-brother.”
“It’s not like you ever asked if I had any siblings. For all I know, you have twenty siblings.”
“I’m an only child and that’s not the point,” he says. “How well do we know each other?”
“You know I went to juvie,” I say, shrugging. “It’s not that important, Tobias. He’s usually not a part of my life, but he came down here about a year ago to help my grandma out after my grandpa died. I have to get to the hospital. Do you want to come with me?”
“I need to help find Mary,” he says.
Disappointment threatens to swallow me. Of course he needs to find Mary—this is our job. Still, I thought he’d at least make a show of wanting to offer me some support.
He glances up at me and must feel my annoyance. “Did you want me to come with you?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He looks puzzled, and then like he finally gets it. “No, I should come. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go with you, of course. It’s your grandma. One of your few living relatives…I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that last part.”
“Yeah, you should learn when to shut up,” I say. But it sounds too bitchy, so I raise both my hands. “But, no, if you want to stay here, you should stay.”
“No, I’ll come with you. Of course I will. I was just…momentarily an idiot.”
As he stands up, I open the door. With everything that’s going wrong in the city right now, I shouldn’t fault Tobias for wanting to stay at the station to figure out who’s nailing people to crosses and poisoning people we question, but I can’t stop this anger that’s boiling up in me.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to not kill my boyfriend in the police station.
Chapter Ten
Tobias
I am spending way more time in the hospital than I ever want to.
I suppose it’s better than a graveyard.
But only a little better.
I stand across the hall from the room that Lauren’s grandmother is in. Lauren is inside, talking to her grandmother while Peter and I are standing outside, giving them their private space. I’m not entirely sure which genes Peter inherited from Lauren’s mother because he looks nothing like Lauren. He has a wiry body with platinum blonde hair and a laid-back demeanor. Lauren told me that he’s blind, so he’s wearing sunglasses and I can’t tell if he has the same dark irises as Lauren, but it seems that his father must have had very dominant genetics and, as for his hair, some very determined recessive genes.
“So…how long have you lived in Detroit?” I ask him.
“Technically, I don’t,” he says. “I live about a half hour away. In Livingston.”
“Ah,” I say. “Not a fan of the city?”
“It’s difficult to navigate in crowds when you can’t see,” he says, tapping his black cane against the floor to drive home his point. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that look like he’s owned them for a decade and a white t-shirt. It’s a lot different from Lauren’s more professional style.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m an artisan,” he says. “I make boxes and shelves. Occasionally, I build bigger things, too.”
“That’s not hard without…being able to see?” I ask. “I’m sorry if that’s impolite.”
“I’ll answer your question if I’m allowed to ask you a personal one,” he says.
I grin. “That’s fair.”
“I was born blind, so I’ve learned how to function with my hands as if they were eyes. It’s harder with unpredictable situations—like moving people—but with wood and a carving tool—I can figure it all out pretty well.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It’s a gift from God,” he says.
“Ah, so you’re Christian too,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”
“No,” I say. “Is that your personal question?”
He chuckles. “No. I was wondering about you and Lauren. I heard some tension in your voices and I was wondering if the two of you are having issues.”
I grimace. “Uh, yeah. I think we’re just tense because there’s a psycho killer out there.”
“I don’t remember hearing anything about a psycho killer on the news.”
“Wrong choice of words,” I say. “I don’t want to alarm you.”
“I think you’re a little late for that.”
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