As Brian appreciated his son’s artwork, a nagging hum filled the confined kitchen. Brian knew what it was almost instantly—the buzz of his cell phone. He grabbed the device. The screen read “Foster.” Brian realized his work had infiltrated his home; the signal had cut through his safe haven. He hesitated and glanced at the picture on the table as the pulsating device riled his hand. Then, he turned and faced the window overlooking the murky city. He answered the phone.
Brian didn’t say a word. It was as if his vocal cords had died, gripped firmly by the happy thoughts still swirling in his mind. But even though he didn’t speak, his call had connected and linked him with Lt. Foster, who was standing in the middle of a flurry of activity. Camera flashes bounced around Janice’s living room. Examiners dusted for fingerprints. Blood splattered the white walls like an abstract masterpiece painted by an artist mad at the world. The place reeked of sweat produced by the activity of those who came alive when a body had died. But there seemed to be a lot of focus not on the fallen woman, but on the other corner of the room.
“Boise. You there? This is Lieutenant Foster.”
Brian wavered still trying to clutch the feeling of his family, but his boss’ words swung open the door to his safe and stole its contents.
“Hello, sir,” Brian said as he watched the lights of a plane in the night sky from the window.
“Bad news. Looks like our perp again. We have some developments I’d like to fill you in on,” Lt. Foster explained.
“Uh, do I need to be there tonight?” Brian vacillated.
“This isn’t some punch-a-fuckin’-clock job, Boise. Forensics is on it, but I’d strongly suggest you get down here,” Lt. Foster explained as he moved into the condo’s kitchen. He lowered his voice. “The captain is personally here, and it would certainly add points to your promotion file, if you get my fuckin’ drift.”
Over the lieutenant’s black suit jacket, two examiners stood on both sides of a menacing man. He had the droopiness of a tired Al Pacino and the gut of a depressed Marlon Brando. What stood out about this man was not his face or his weight, but the 48-regular jacket that he wore. Two-bar insignias polished in silver were pinned to both sides of his shoulders. They were the symbol of influence, the symbol of authority. The stainless steel emblems had the power to make a woman stop talking, to make a man stand up straight, and even to deflate the air in a hot air balloon. The man standing over the lieutenant’s shoulders caused even him to waver because his single bar emblem had no power against the captain’s two.
Brian paced his kitchen, but then picked up his steps and stared at the table. His eyes filled with the framed picture of his family, a picture made from light reflected off the individuals who made him who he was. It screamed louder than words and shined brighter than a spotlight. But there next to it on the table rested something just as dominating; it was his police badge, crafted out of the finest metal, harvested by the power of his city. Both stood next to each other like two samurai ready to battle for control over a world separated by black and white. And Brian was like a god in this world, a god who could choose which side would win and which would falter.
“Boise? You there?” Lt. Foster pressed.
The overworked detective, the failing family man, closed his eyes, and then grabbed the item from the table chosen by his subconscious. It was hard like metal and weighed a ton in his hand.
“Where’re you at, sir?” Brian responded as he looked at the badge in his hand.
“That’s my man. We’re at the District Condos on Fifth Street. Seventh floor,” Lt. Foster said with his head up.
“I’m on my way.”
Brian ended the call. He stood for a moment in the kitchen and listened to the sound of the muffled city below him. Somewhere in the aural chaos a steady hum transcended, the hum of the rain. Its drone whined in the night covering the city with gloom. Brian focused on its strong rhythm. After what seemed like an hour to Brian, he marched toward his bedroom to greet the last awaiting piece to his puzzle—his dress shoes.
As Brian walked down the hallway, candlelight bounced off the wall across from his bedroom. At first, the light baffled him, but as he smelled the sweet scent of burned lavender, he realized the meeting he missed. Anne Marie sat on the bed with black lingerie hugging her feminine figure. Her legs, freshly lotioned, were bent at the knee as she hugged them like a college girl awaiting her boyfriend. Brian entered and kicked his slippers off.
“Who were you talking to?”
Brian stared at the lifeless fold in his 500 thread count sheets and expelled the air in his lungs.
“Honey, I’m so sorry. But I have to—”
Anne Marie turned her head and her back on her husband. Her perky grin transformed into a depressed frown. Her inviting stare faded into a rejecting glare. And the passionate thoughts of her husband vanished into a void.
“It’s not like that. The captain—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m doing this for you and Jonathan. All of this. Everything.”
“You’re not doing this for us! Wake up, Brian! Look at yourself in the mirror and you’ll see that you’re definitely not doing this for us.”
Brian didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
“Just get outta here,” Anne Marie continued.
“I’m sorry,” Brian whispered, but it was too late for apologies.
Brian grabbed dress shoes from the bottom of the closet. If he had the time to contemplate the best match to his black slacks, time to get his wife’s opinion, he would not have selected the filthy brown imitation leather footwear beyond their miles. But he did, and he would be mismatched for the rest of the night.
Chapter 14
The city streets flowed with traffic. The tires of the vehicles hurled water from their grooves. Night dwellers dodged puddles on the sidewalk. Some knew where they were, and some knew where they were going, while others were lost in the loneliness of night. It was nearly midnight, a time when one day died and another was born.
An American-made SUV cruised in the middle of traffic, a mass-produced vehicle seemingly straight from the assembly line. There were no markings on its body, only the blankness of white. On further inspection, the vehicle’s high-grade tires, dual exhaust, extra leaf springs, and glow from the computer monitor inside proved it to be more than just generic. The police interceptor package fitted the sport utility vehicle, a package selected by all of the city’s police-ordered vehicles. Inside, Detective Brian Boise commanded the machine as he traveled through the darkness. The SUV blasted a puddle, but Brian failed to flinch, putting faith into his machine. He kept his speed up, but a traffic light mocked him with red. He pressed his right foot on the brake pedal, and then reached his right hand into the center console. Brian juggled a red police light to the roof. After flipping the switch, the cars spread.
As Brian drove, he thought about what his wife had said inside his bedroom. He wondered what his motivations in life really were. He knew he was slaving at this job, putting his life on the line day and night, for his family. But perhaps he was just fooling himself. Perhaps he was hiding from something or someone. Perhaps he was hiding from his subconscious and the secrets buried deep inside.
Thirteen minutes later, a doorman stood under the cloudy sky wearing his trench coat and protective hat. He was the same doorman who had helped Janice into her building, and the same doorman who also helped an army of the city’s finest to enter to clean up her corpse.
Brian trekked down the sidewalk with his brown shoes battling the dank concrete, his SUV holstered in the neighboring parking garage. He saw the doorman see him. Brian removed his badge, but the doorman knew exactly whom the approaching man was and where he was going.
“Excuse me, what floor—”
“Seventh Floor.”
“Thank you,” Brian responded with a sad grin as he entered.
Down the hallway on the seventh floor and inside the room marked “71
7,” police filled the two-bedroom condo like a viewing for an Italian grandfather. Lt. Foster stood tall as he directed the Crime Scene Investigation team in front of van Gogh’s masterpiece. Only one body in the condo knew who painted it, and she was on the floor with a hole in her head.
“…make sure all blood stains are marked—” Lt. Foster ordered, but then a shadow near the door caught his attention.
Brian stopped at the doorway as yellow police tape mocked him. A bulky patrolman stood guard. Brian flipped his badge. The brute simply nodded as Brian entered.
“Boise. Over here,” Lt. Foster shouted from his perch. “Excuse me,” he said to his subordinates.
Brian slid past two examiners who were analyzing the broken heel from Janice’s shoes. The place bustled with morbid activity, a playground for a mad scientist. The stench of sweat hit Brian’s olfactory nerve, but his thoughts prevented any physical reaction. His mind switched into its highest clock speed. His eyes swept the area—blood on the wall, glass on the carpet, bullet shell on the couch, flat-screen still on the wall, body on the floor.
“What do we got?” Brian asked Lt. Foster.
Both stared at Janice’s corpse as two examiners snapped pictures. Her face, once soft and sexy, was now hard and hideous. Every man used to yearn to have a taste of her sexuality and to enter one of her holes with his hard dick. But now, that man would turn in horror, go flaccid without even thinking, because the newly created hole in her head, a dark hole filled with fragments of skull and brain matter, was the last place he would want to enter. A look of terror permanently toughened the muscles in her face as her once clean and perfect pores were now filled with blood that had seeped from the largest pore on her face—the bullet hole into her brain.
“Looks like our perp again,” Lt. Foster finally revealed.
“God…”
“God is right.”
“Is the ballistics report back yet?” Brian asked.
“Same silenced nine millimeter. Three shots this time. Two to the shoulder and…you see the last one.”
“There he is. Detective Brian Boise,” a boisterous voice roared.
Brian looked up at The Starry Night as his mind registered the voice. A knot constricted deep within his belly, an all-too-familiar knot. He knew whom the voice belonged to because he was anticipating this moment ever since the lieutenant had lowered his voice on the phone. Brian turned and set his eyes on the captain, the man feared by most and envied by all who carried a shield.
“Hello, sir,” Brian replied as he stole a glimpse of the two-bar insignia reflecting the condominium’s spotlights.
“We’ve got ourselves a madman. And this person, rather, this piece of shit, is ruining our image,” the captain growled, moving closer.
“I totally agree, sir.”
The captain leaned in and lowered his voice.
“I think solving this case will be good for you. Your father would be proud.”
Brian stopped breathing for a moment. Thoughts of his father’s badge and his father’s deadpan stare scratched his mind. He knew his father would be proud, wherever he was. But then the last moment that Brian had with his father, the last moment on the cusp of ten years ago, stopped his heart. “I’m working around the clock. I have some leads to follow up on,” Brian forced himself to say.
“Well, you better follow up quickly before this fuckup blows some more brains out,” the captain said as he stared at the deceased Janice. “It’s a shame, such a nice pussy wasted. I’m going to leave you with this one, Boise. She’s mighty pretty…from the neck down. I hope you’re not one of those people who fuck dead bodies. What’s that called?”
“Necrophilia, sir,” an examiner said.
“Yeah. Necrophilia. Hell, if I had one too many, I’d just put a bag on her head and shake her real good. Ha! It’s past my bedtime.”
Lt. Foster and Brian stood at attention as they watched the captain stroll toward the door. The bulky patrolman removed the tape as the captain and his entourage exited. Only two examiners remained, which limited the life in the room.
“You heard him. You solve this one and you’ll be promoted to my pay scale,” Lt. Foster said, breaking the silence.
Brian felt the knot tighten in his gut. He looked at the corpse again as his focus transferred from his stomach to his brain.
“Looks like close range again,” Brian observed.
“The two in the shoulder probably injured her. We found a blood trail through the apartment,” the lieutenant explained.
Brian looked down the hallway as squares of yellow tape covered the floor and wall.
“The suspect got her with the last shot right here… Oh, I got some news back from the lab regarding the strange smudge of gray,” Lt. Foster added.
“And?”
“Dried shoe polish.”
“Hmm.”
“A real expensive brand. The interesting thing is it’s a unique shade of charcoal gray only produced by certain European tailors,” Lt. Foster explained.
Brian stopped and analyzed her lifeless hands.
“Already checked. We didn’t find anything on her or in the apartment,” Lt. Foster said. “Or at least my guys didn’t.”
“I was researching the past murders and found that both victims were prosecuting attorneys. I have a strong hunch she was an attorney as well,” Brian explained.
Lt. Foster thumbed through his notepad.
“Miss Janice Davis, age twenty nine, occupation…attorney. Hey, you’re fuckin’ right. We found copies of her paystubs in the kitchen.”
“I’d like to do some analysis of the area,” Brian said, as he knew his night would be long and his mind would be sore.
“Analyze all you want. You heard the captain. This is your case. Don’t fuck it up and don’t fuck her,” Lt. Foster said with a pound on Brian’s back. “I’ll let you do your thing.”
Brian didn’t respond.
The lieutenant walked a few steps toward the exit, and then turned. “Hey, Boise. One question. What the fuck is up with your father?”
Brian’s bodily functions halted. If time had stopped, even just for a microsecond, Brian would have been considered dead. But luckily for the detective, time was not dead. “I need to get started, sir.”
“Come on, Boise. I hear all these rumors. Set ’em straight,” Lt. Foster pressed.
“I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk about it!” Brian yelled, transferring his deadness into rage.
“Whoa, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Boise,” Lt. Foster said, as he witnessed a side to his subordinate that he didn’t know existed.
Brian felt a group of brain neurons trying to fire, trying to claw at his mind and to resurface memories buried inside pits of fire. He focused on The Starry Night on the wall, the swirls pacifying the evil. As Brian’s mind mollified, the lieutenant walked out of the condo. Brian watched his immediate supervisor glide coolly, glide like a man who just handed his problems to another. As Brian looked around and saw the bloody mess, he realized the lieutenant, in fact, did just that.
The pale green abstract flowed over Brian. It removed him from the morgue for only a moment—a moment that he needed. The detective grabbed a pair of latex gloves from an examiner’s kit. Then he removed a small notepad and pen from inside his suit jacket. He opened it to a fresh page and drew a rough map of the room, a map that would fill his eyes and his brain over the course of his investigation, even more so than the smile of his wife. He numbered different locations in the room that contained the various pieces to the puzzle, and then he made a small legend at the bottom of the page.
Brian walked around the corpse like a sculptor appreciating his masterpiece. The only problem for this sculptor was that he was out of clay. The two examiners were parked near an end table in the living room and were filling out paperwork. Brian studied the fallen shards of glass. He saw a stain of brown on the carpet. Although the ice had melted, the cubes left a discoloration on the rug that even a novice dete
ctive could deduce. To its right, another glass rested on its side—the glass that was offered to the suspect.
“Were there any other prints found?” Brian asked without taking his eyes off the glass in front of him.
“We found about two dozen different prints,” one of the examiners yelled.
Brian looked up.
“All in and around her bed. Plus there was more semen inside the room than inside a Maytag at a donor clinic,” the other one added.
“Well, run the prints,” Brian instructed.
“They were all more than two days old.”
Brian looked around the floor searching for a clue, the clue—a smudge, but nothing pulled him. Brian refocused and lurked toward a splatter of blood on the wall. The dried bodily fluid had no effect on him. He shifted toward the kitchen, his movements slow, his eyes wide. The tile reverberated Brian’s brown shoes. He stopped just past the entryway and drew another map labeling it with more items of interest—groceries on the table in a bag marked “Al’s Natural Foods,” stainless steel refrigerator, a red bowl in the sink, blender, coffeemaker. Then, Brian rested his gaze on an open bottle of alcohol. He prowled toward the object, keeping his focus on it as it grew in size with his advancement. He wrote “Christian Brothers Brandy” in his notepad. He left the alcohol in its resting place, but lowered his head and took a sniff of the poison. It smelled bitter, yet it enticed him. The booze triggered a memory in his mind buried not in a pit, but in a hole deep enough to hold a teenager’s self-aborted fetus. It was a dark time ten years ago when alcohol not only invaded his nose, but also his taste buds, numbing them to the world around him.
Brian left the kitchen and continued down the hallway. He kept his hand on the pen as he added to his third-grade drawing. A picture on the wall of the beach painted with oil-based paint caught his attention, but then Janice’s handprint painted with blood quickly trumped it. Police tape circled the blood as Brian studied the intricate ridges and valleys of the unique thumbprint—the thumbprint from a thumb that would never again touch.
A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Page 8