by Abbey, S. C.
“Sup Bertie–” Harvey said, as he approached and joined Bertram at the table, holding on to his lunch tray.
“Don’t call me that in school. I’m still a professor you know. I have students around.” Bertram admonished. He glanced around to see if there were any familiar faces. “If fact, don’t call me that at all. What kind of name is that, Bertie? Reminded me of a pup I once had.”
Harvey laughed as he poked at his food with a fork. “Got it, Bert.”
They were having a quick lunch in between classes at the Harkness cafeteria in the Harkness commons, also fondly known as ‘The Hark’ by staff and students alike. The food wasn’t incredible, but it was good enough considering it was a school cafeteria. Harvey was having sesame noodles with seasoned tofu, peppers and onions, garnished with scallions and garlic, while his foster father chose to go heavy – barbeque grilled ribs with jalapeno corn bread. The old professor bulldozed through his food, he looked like he was really enjoying it. Harvey frowned at the choice of Bertram’s lunch.
“Bert, isn’t that a little too much for lunch. You ought to be watching your diet, you’re not getting any younger–”
“Damn right I’m not.” Bertram replied as he licked the barbeque sauce off his fingers. “When am I gonna start enjoying some real food if not now? When I’m dead?”
“Don’t think I don’t know about your cholesterol levels.” Harvey said in a serious tone. “It’s freaking off the charts–”
“Those are just numbers for reference, nothing to worry over.” Bertram grinned as he swiped the plate with a morsel of cornbread. “What’s important is to listen to your body. Like I do. I feel healthier than ever.”
No one can win an argument against Bertram Moore, thought Harvey, as far as he is concerned. He should have pursued litigation when he was younger – Harvey doubts he has the stamina to even walk to court now.
Bertram looked at Harvey with a raised eyebrow, wondering about the sudden silence. “Still thinking about yesterday?”
The memory waiting patiently at the back of his mind rushed to the front of the line the moment it heard its name being called. Harvey sighed. “Yeah, kinda.”
Bertram stopped attacking his food. “You couldn’t have done anything more you know.”
Harvey shook his head. “No, I’m not exactly guilty about it. I’m more perplexed about the situation as a whole.”
“What about?” asked the professor as he resumed eating.
“Something that Terry Gallagher said last night just didn’t sound right.”
“The dorky boy?”
Harvey nodded in silence. He replayed the conversation he had at the bar in his mind over and over again, trying to make out any inconsistencies. He exhaled in frustration when he failed to.
“Would you like to eat your dessert?” asked Bertram softly, trying to catch the attention of Harvey who looked like he was deep in thought.
“You can have it.” Harvey reacted before he realized what he said. “Oh wait, on second thought–“
Bertram scooped a generous amount of fruit pudding from the plastic cup and delivered it into his mouth. The sugary sweetness of the dessert exploded on his tongue. “Oops– my germs–” Harvey did not hear what Bertram said for his attention was momentarily kidnapped by the sight of a familiar person approaching the small table from the back of Bertram Moore. He found himself forgetting to breathe again.
“Looks like your notoriously ferocious appetite has not waned since I last saw you, professor.”
Chapter 13
IGNACIO GARCIA WAS anything but the definition of his name, in fact, they were entirely opposites of each other. His first name meant ‘fiery’ in Spanish, derived from the Latin word Ignis which meant ‘fire’. Mr. Garcia, however, was nothing feisty in nature - he jumped at the sight of anything remotely amphibious. Ignacio was by all means, a man of unimpressive statue. He was 5-foot 6, sported a head full of shaggy looking jet black hair, a bushy moustache, and sad-looking eyes. He was a timid and soft-spoken man who lived his life walking on the edges of pathways and following the shadows of greater men, skipping along the outskirts of life, not truly living, yet organically conscious and very much still alive. That was till he met his wife, Maria. Maria was the mirror image of Ignacio – they were the epitome of the theory that opposites attract. She was a stocky, thick limbed lady who could probably strangle a rattle snake by her bare hands if one snuck up on her, and then laugh about it after killing it. No, she was not cruel, she was far from that. Maria Garcia was one of the kindest, sweetest souls, one of the few things on earth God has done right about. She was always the joy of any party, for she was the embodiment of life itself, despite her worse than humble beginnings in life. But she never complained. She knew her life was cut out to be a tough one, of which she accepted it wholeheartedly, with gratitude. She would always say to Ignacio whenever he was in despair that it was a wonderful thing to be alive, just being alive. She would say, look at her. Out of a million probabilities, she was born of her mother, and out of the triplets she was from, she was the only one that survived to adulthood. What was there to be worth to be bitter about? As far as she was concerned, absolutely nothing. And for that, Ignacio loved her, profoundly. He always said that she was and mostly likely will always be the best thing that happened to him. She reminded him of the flowers that blossomed in the warm summer heat, a camp fire on a cold rainy night, the moonlight light that never wavers despite all else being dark. That was till God realized the mistake he made – placing such a woman on the face of this earth. She was too good for it. She was too good for him.
The heavens have always preferred to play jokes on lesser men.
Ignacio Garcia was once a man of few vices, if any at all. He never smoked, seldom drank, and avoided wagering of all sorts. But today, he stomped down the shabby street in the light drizzle – half tipsy from starting early in the morning, all because he already ran out of alcohol. This recently acquired habit caused him quite a few troubles, but no one had the heart to urge him otherwise. Everyone who knew them knew that when Maria died, a part of Ignacio died along with her. A huge part. If not for the alcohol numbing his senses, life would surely be too much for him to bare.
He pulled the swinging door a little too hard, the hinges creaked under the undeserving pressure. He mumbled an incoherent apology.
“Ignacio–”
He ignored the storekeeper. He didn’t exactly did it on purpose, he just didn’t see him. He headed straight toward the refrigeration at the end of the row and opened the cooler. Ignacio picked out a six-pack of Corona Extra, briefly losing balance with the weight of the glass bottles before steadying himself. He looked at the package he was holding on to and paused for a moment. He then muttered an affirmation to himself, as if he was answering a question he was asking himself in his mind. He reached out to take a second six-pack.
On the way back to the front of the store, Ignacio stopped briefly at the chips section, staring at a packet of Lay’s. He shook his head and continued on his way. He placed the twelve beer bottles on the counter, and sighed in relief.
“Ese– how are u doing?” asked the storekeeper.
Ignacio shook his head in response. He did not seem to be in the mood to open his mouth to verbalize his thoughts.
“You shouldn’t be drinking this much.” The storekeeper frowned.
Ignacio placed the cash on the table with his right hand while rubbing his face with his left.
“Take it easy okay? I’m sure Maria would hate to see you like this–”
Ignacio, for the first time since he stepped into the store, stared straight into the eyes of the storekeeper with his bloodshot ones at the mention of Maria.
The storekeeper flinched at the intensity of the gaze. He did not speak further.
Ignacio swept up the twin packs of beer off the counter and left the store. He took a left turn and continued along the streets of the poor neighbourhood �
�� he could not wait to get home. He hasn’t been to work for days, ever since he had to identify Maria at the mortuary. He wondered if he still had his job. Ignacio had his cell switched off 3 days after losing his wife, he was sick of all the calls from his co-workers, friends, and family – every Tom, Dick and his mother wanted to offer their condolences, which meant shit to him.
He swaggered by a newsstand and took a casually glance to the right, the proprietor was reading the day’s Boston Globe. He turned his attention back to the road when something caught his eye the second he turned.
And there it was, on the bottom left front page of the Boston Globe, the face of the man Ignacio hated most that instant.
Chapter 14
“KATIE MOULIN YOU scrumptious little– come here!” Bertram said as he stood to give his former student a huge embrace. “I was wondering when you would pop by to see me. I heard from Harv that you were back in town.”
Agent Moulin returned the cuddly embrace from her favorite teacher and smiled widely at Dr. Moore. “Only for a short period. Sorry for taking so long, I was a little occupied with work.” She said. “Still terrorizing students at Harvard I see.”
Bertram released a deep rumbling laughter. “Not anymore– I’m starting to not really enjoy it anymore. Teaching isn’t as fun as it used to be.” Bertram said, settling back into his uncomfortable chair. “I think perhaps that’s fate’s way of telling me I should be pursuing other passions in life. A different career, a different lifestyle, maybe a different city?” Katie chose a seat between the two men as she caught the sparkle in Bertram Moore’s eyes.
“Really?” Harvey said in a slightly off pitch tone. He cleared his throat at once. “But you’ve been teaching your whole life Bert, sans the occasional art dealings and consultation trips. Isn’t it a waste to give it all up?”
“Not exactly my whole life, just ever since you’ve known me. 20 years of college kids – I’m bored Harv. I want some action in my life, I need some excitement!”
Harvey Nolan paused in deep though, thinking about the man sitting in front of him. He never really questioned him about his past – he only knew the things that Bertram chose to say himself. He felt bad that he knew so little about the man who had given up so much to bring him up as his own. He never once felt he was ill-treated as an orphan. If fact, life had been more than great, it was luxurious, in both material and emotional sense.
“I think that’s great!” Katie said. “One is never too old for a drastic change of routine in life. Boston’s a beautiful city, but I’m sure your heart has always been with your hometown.”
Bertram nodded with longing eyes. “I do miss New York. There’s a reason why there are more books written, movies made, and songs sung about the damn city than anywhere else in the world you know.” Bertram paused and gazed a little further. “This situation with Golan, sort of given me some perspective, if you know what I mean. Not that there’s good reason for anybody to shoot me.” Bertram chuckled. “I’m just not entirely convinced I’m done with myself, and that this is where I choose to put up my feet, so to speak.”
Harvey glanced softly upon his foster father. He knew that half the reason Bertram was still in Boston was because he was here. He sighed mentally. He shouldn’t procrastinate this conversation any longer than he already had. He needed to speak to Bertram soon.
“How’s the investigation coming along by the way?” Harvey asked, choosing a lighter conversational topic but failed miserably. “Any clue who was it?”
“Not really. We popped by Golan’s, wanting to speak to his wife yesterday, but it seems like she has gone missing.” Katie replied. “Agent Womack’s tracing her down. I wound up ending my day at the mortuary last night. Needless to say, I wasn’t too thrilled about it.”
“The mort?”
“Maria Garcia. Golan’s housekeeper. 10 days ago.”
“How?”
“Heart failure, deadly bacteria. Coroner ruled death by misadventure, but I suspect foul play. I don’t think it was a simple accident.” Said Katie.
“Come to think of it, Bruce was telling me about this that day–” Bertram said as he scratched his nose.
Harvey and Katie both gave Bertram an incredulous look.
“What?” Bertram said, eyes slightly widening. “I didn’t think it was important.”
“What exactly did he say about it?” asked Katie.
“Nothing much really. He was just feeling kinda out of place you know, that he allowed something like that to fester under his own roof despite being one of the most celebrated medical researchers in the state. I think he probably felt that he could have done something more.”
“And when was this?” asked Harvey.
“Two days after her demise? Maybe three. I can’t recall the exact day.”
The ringing sound of Katie’s cell interrupted the conversation.
“This is Agent Moulin speaking. Yes– okay, I got it. I’ll look into it before heading back, I’ll see you back at the station. Okay– later.”
Katie ended the call. “That was Womack,” she said, “they found Tracy Golan, turn out she was at her mother’s residence. Apparently, her elderly mother fell and needed her to tend to her. Tracy Golan was just told about her husband, she claimed she didn’t know. They’re on the way to the hospital to see him before they take her to the station for questioning.”
Harvey tried to reply. “Katie, I have to–”
“I need to go.” Katie said, interrupting Harvey. “I have to look into Garcia’s place before heading back.”
“Dinner before you leave Boston? My place, I’ll cook.” Bertram said.
Katie stood and adjusted her jacket. “Absolutely, professor. It was nice meeting you after so long–”
“Katie, I really have to tell you something–”
“Can this wait, Harv?” Katie asked. “I’m really have to run–”
“It’s about Golan.” Harvey said.
Katie responded with a questioning look on her face.
“I’ll drop you off at Garcia’s. I’ll tell you along the way–”
Chapter 15
HARVEY PARKED HIS car by the sidewalk of the row house. He twisted the key at the ignition and the engine cried its last crank before it faded into the silence. He had yet to open the door on his side of the car, but Katie was already out of it, on the sidewalk. He alighted from his vehicle and slammed the door shut.
“This is it?” asked Harvey.
Katie nodded solemnly. They stood in front of a row of dusty and paint-cracked old houses – the paint from the stretch of homes was already peeling at its final coat, revealing the rotting wood that made up the bones of the houses. It was a rough neighborhood. Crime was not exactly sky-high but the residences here mostly compromised of low-income folks who were struggling to make ends meet. It was a life that neither Katie nor Harvey was familiar with.
“You should wait in the car–” said Katie as she approached the unit they had stopped in front of.
The first thing that assaulted her was the stench that came from the piles and piles of poorly secured trash that laid by the side of the entrance to the house. They certainly didn’t look like they have been freshly collected. The sour tinge in the air made Harvey hoped that he didn’t had so much for lunch. He covered his nose with his right palm. It didn’t work.
“Mr. Garcia?” Katie said, as she knocked on the front door of the shabby-looking porch. Debris seemed to materialize whenever her knuckles got in contact with the wooden entrance. “Mr. Ignacio Garcia, can you please open your door if you are there? This is Agent Moulin, FBI. I wish to have a word with you. It’s regarding your wife.”
There was no sign of an approach. “There’s no vehicle parked at the front. He’s probably out.” Harvey said.
“I don’t think he owned one.” Katie said, as she drew her pistol and held it close to her body. “Stay behind me.”
Harvey did not arg
ue with that command. Katie reached out for the door knob and tried her luck – it twisted open freely – she nudged the door gently in. The waft of garbage from the inside of the small dwelling proved to be worse than the outside.
It was a modest house – the span of the entire living space plus the kitchen could be seen entering the front door. A threadbare couch laid on the right side of the space flushed toward the wall, facing an old television on the opposite side of the area. A coffee table stood in front of the couch, an opened box of pizza left half eaten on it. Numerous takeaway containers, and empty beer bottles and crushed cans littered the floor and surface of the space. The television was left switched on – it was the channel 5 news.
“Seems like he left in a hurry.” Katie said as she lifted a cold opened beer bottle from the coffee table. “This one’s still full.”
Katie did not stand her guard down, keeping her gun un-holstered. “Stay here.” She whispered. She disappeared through the door of one of the bedrooms, taking a good 5 minutes before reappearing and disappearing again into the other one. Within a span of 10 minutes, she was done combing the house. She lowered her gun as she reentered the living space and slid it back into her shoulder holster.
“It’s clear. Ignacio Garcia is not home. There were no signs of struggle or violence.” Katie said. “He’s probably just out.”
Harvey glanced to the open kitchen. “It must have been a terrible time for him now, having just lost his wife.”
“I called his workplace.” Katie continued. “His supervisor said he hasn’t been to work since Maria’s died. They tried contacting him but no one could reach him. Attempts at the door didn’t work as well.”
A header for latest news on the television flashed and the newscaster announced. “Today on Crime: Acclaimed Harvard Medical Researcher, Professor Bruce Golan, awoke late last night, after the cold-blooded attempt on his life. He is said to be out of danger. The professor was going about his daily routine at his personal clinical laboratory the day before when an assailant fired a single shot at the celebrated researcher. Police have yet to identify the suspect in this bizarre attack. Channel 5 reporters who tried arranging an interview with the professor have been refused at the door by local authorities who were seen guarding the hospital room. According to unnamed sources, Professor Bruce Golan was said to have escaped death by a mere inch – had the bullet hit slightly lower, he would have died instantly. In other news–”