by Jason Pinter
“He hit me,” Christine said of Parker’s brutalization. “He hit me a lot. I was screaming at him to stop, but he kept hitting my husband until he couldn’t talk anymore.”
She continued, “That policeman died to protect us from Henry Parker. We could both be dead. He sacrificed his life. We will never forget what he gave for us.”
And, according to several sources within the NYPD and FBI, neither will New York’s finest.
Said Kelly at an early morning press conference, “This city will not rest until Officer Fredrickson’s killer is found. This investigation will be the very definition of swift justice.”
The local branch of the FBI has been called in to aid in Parker’s capture. The Assistant Director in Charge of the New York City FBI branch, Donald L. West, said his agents would receive special jurisdiction to cross state lines if found that Parker has fled the state.
Detective Fredrickson is survived by his wife, Linda, and two children.
The pounding blood in my head slowly came to a boil.
He hit me, she said.
Christine Guzman lied to the police. So did Grady Larkin, the superintendent, a man I’d never met. The world had collapsed onto itself, and I was caught in the middle.
It had to be a dream. I was a college graduate, had just started my dream job at a respected newspaper. I was supposed to do great things, accomplish my goals, all the good stuff that would secure me respect and money, and give my reputation longevity. And now I was accused of killing a policeman. A husband. A father. A man who protected the world from criminals. Like me. How was this possible? John Fredrickson—a fucking cop—had nearly beaten two people to death, almost killed me in the process, and now I was facing the vengeance of an entire city.
Drugs. A heroin deal. That’s what the paper said. That’s what Fredrickson must have been looking for, and what the papers assumed I stole. But why would a cop go to such brutal lengths to retrieve drugs? And why did Christine claim they didn’t have it, risking all three of our lives?
And why would a cop, with a family no less, risk everything by beating two unarmed people nearly to death?
I didn’t have the answer.
And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.
I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.
Ironic. I’d always wanted to be Bob Woodward. Pete Ha-mill. Jimmy Breslin. Recognized. Now, my only hope was that the world would see right through me.
I stopped at a thrift store and bought a pair of crappy warm-up pants and a white T-shirt whose collar had already begun to fray. My sneakers I threw into a mailbox, replaced them with a worn pair of Sambas. A cheap pair of sunglasses hid my eyes. But these were only stopgap measures, using bubble gum to plug a ruptured dam.
There were few people in New York I could turn to for help, and if they came up empty…I tried not to think about it.
I walked quickly toward the subway, keeping an eye out for lurking transit officers. I felt light-headed, searching amongst unknown faces for any hint of danger. My hands could be shackled before I knew what happened, I could be beaten to death in my cell, either by cops who thought I’d killed one of their own or by criminals who’d consider it a feather in their cap to kill a man who’d taken a policeman’s life.
Stepping onto the uptown 6 train, my legs felt weak, rubbery. It was all I could do to support my own weight.
The train chugged along, and at each stop I scanned the new passengers, watching intently for the royal blue dress of the NYPD. My life, it seemed, was now entirely up to chance.
I exited at 116th Street and found the nearest pay phone. It killed me to call him after this. I had to hope he’d believe the truth.
My fingers trembling, I inserted a quarter and dialed. The switchboard operator picked up, a woman’s superficially perky voice on the other end.
“New York Gazette, how may I direct your call?”
“Wallace Langston, please.”
“Just a moment.” I heard a click, then ringing as my call was put through. I chewed on a fingernail, then stopped. Can’t draw any attention. Must act normal. Just another guy on the phone.
A guy with a murder charge hanging over his head. A dead man haunting his thoughts. An entire city turned against him. A whole life…
“Wallace Langston’s office.”
Shit. It was Shirley, his secretary. She’d recognize my voice. And once she did, I’d never get through. She’d call the cops in the blink of an eye.
I raised my voice an octave and gave myself a slight lisp. Thank God my chosen profession wasn’t acting.
“Yes, Wallace Langston. Is he in?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
“Um…this is Paul Westington calling from Hillary Clinton’s office. Mrs. Clinton is ready to give the Gazette an exclusive on her presidential aspirations.”
Silence.
“Sure…just a moment.” Another click, more ringing. Then Wallace picked up.
“Hello, Mr. Westington, is it?” He sounded rushed. Excited for the story. Sorry, Wally, Hillary couldn’t make it, instead you’re on the line with a wanted criminal.
“Wallace, it’s me.”
Beat. I held my breath, pulse quickening.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Henry. Henry Parker.”
There was a moment of silence as I waited for a response.
“Henry. Oh, Christ, Henry.”
“Yeah.”
“Henry, what have you done?” His voice was sad, ashamed.
I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. Wallace believed it, believed what they were saying.
“Wallace, please,” I said, choking back a sob. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it. Nothing in the papers is true. I…”
“Henry, I can’t speak to you. You need to go to the police. You need to turn yourself in.”
“I can’t turn myself in!” I cried. “I’ll be dead before I make it to trial! I can’t do it, Wallace. I need your help.”
“I can’t help you,” he said softly. “The only advice I can offer is for you to turn yourself in. Please, Henry, that’s what’s best for everyone. If they find you before you do that, I don’t know what will happen. God, Henry, how could you do this?”
The muscles in my jaw tensed. My outlets had just diminished by fifty percent.
“They won’t find me,” I said, and slammed down the receiver. Wallace. Jack. Could Jack have known about Luis Guzman? He was a lone beacon in the sea of journalistic turmoil, the man whose allegiances could never be bought, whose opinion never corrupted. But now I wasn’t so sure.
Wincing, I glanced around. Nobody seemed to have noticed the outburst. Shaking, my throat dry, I took another quarter and slid it in. Dialing the next number, the last number, I said a silent prayer. After three rings, a voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Oh, thank God. Mya.”
“Henry.”
“Mya, listen to me. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but none of it’s true. I need to see you. I need to talk to your father. He can help me.”
“Henry, I…I saw the newspapers. It’s all over the television. I don’t think my father can speak to you unless you go to the police.”
“I can’t do that, Mya. I can’t…”
“Wait one second, Henry.” I heard a soft clap—her hand covering the receiver—then a shuffling sound in the background.
“Mya, are you there? What’s going on?” Then she was back, her voice distracted.
“Oh, sorry, Hen. I’m just in the middle of breakfast.” Her voice seemed rem
arkably calm. It unnerved me.
“Anyway, I need to come over. I need somewhere to stay for a bit until I figure things out. What the papers say, that’s not what happened last night. Your father could…”
“I can’t do that, Henry, I told you.”
“Dammit, Mya,” I said, starting to lose it. I didn’t care if anyone was watching. “This is my life! You can’t just shut me out.”
“I don’t want to, Henry. I don’t have a choice.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Joe Mauser pinched his thumb and forefinger together and pulled them apart. He mouthed the words, “Keep stringing him along.”
Mya nodded, her face grim. Denton was on his cell phone as he waited for the line to be traced. He held up three fingers. After a moment, two fingers.
“Twenty seconds,” Denton mouthed.
Mya nodded. Mauser had to give the girl credit. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she was biting her lip so hard he could see white where the blood was being forced out, but she was remarkably composed. Sitting next to her on the bed, hearing Parker’s faint voice through the earpiece, it took all of Mauser’s patience not to grab the phone and tear it to pieces.
Denton dropped one finger, then held up ten. Slowly counting down.
“Nine…eight…seven…six…” Denton mouthed. Mya watched him. She shut her eyes, squeezing out several drops that spattered onto the comforter.
Joe’s heart fluttered. Just a few seconds and they’d have him.
“Four…three…two…”
Suddenly Mya yelled, “Henry, run!”
She bolted off the bed, the cell phone still in her hand. Denton lunged for her, catching the cuff of her jeans. She wriggled free and ran to the other end of the apartment. A door slammed shut and a latch clicked. She’d locked herself in the bathroom.
Mya screamed again, then Joe heard a beep as she severed the connection.
“God damn it!” Joe shouted. “Len, tell me we got something.”
Denton ran for the door, signaling Mauser to follow.
“Parker’s at a pay phone two goddamn blocks east from here. NYPD’s on the way.” Mauser thought he saw a disappointed look on Denton’s face as he threw the door open and raced into the stairwell.
Denton said, “Joe, we gotta find this kid before anyone else does.”
Mauser looked over his shoulder and smiled as he felt the reassuring weight of his Glock against his ribs. “Tell the NYPD to throw a fucking vise on this entire city. If anyone lays a goddamn finger on Parker before I fucking find him, I’ll be bringing two bodies to the morgue today.”
12
I shouted into the phone, “Mya? Mya? What happened?” Run, she’d said.
Not a simple Please go, Henry. She was pleading with me, warning me.
I stepped away from the phone booth like it had contracted the plague. My cheeks felt hot. I looked left and right, saw nothing out of the ordinary, only the familiar sounds of traffic horns and pedestrian conversation.
Run.
It didn’t make sense. What had made Mya so afraid? A rumbling in my gut said I needed to get out of there. I’d come uptown with the hope of seeing Mya, but I also had a backup plan in case she couldn’t help. Now I’d have to scrap them both. I wasn’t safe. Unease swept over me like a frigid wave.
Then I heard a sound that froze my blood. Footsteps. Not just the pitter-patter of feet stepping in tune to their bodies’ rhythm, but the hard pounding of sprinting strides. I listened closer. There was more than one set of feet.
I spun around, and to my horror saw two men running toward me, less than a block away, their eyes deadlocked on mine. One of them held a gun. Light glinted off another object that I instinctively knew was a badge.
Run.
“Henry Parker!” the taller, thinner one yelled. “Don’t you move a fucking muscle!”
My feet moved before I could think, and suddenly I was sprinting east down 116th Street, cutting between two lanes of traffic. The honking of horns filled my ears, drivers cursing at me in foreign languages. A car’s bumper sideswiped my leg, knocking me off balance. I pulled myself together, saw a turbaned man in a taxi giving me the finger.
I darted to the other side of the street, rounded a corner, then wound my way through stunned pedestrians. Heads turned in unison as I sprinted past. My lungs felt ready to explode, the wind ripping at my face. I had no concept of how close the cops were, the pounding in my ears as loud as thunder.
Suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed me, tearing a large hole in the fabric below my armpit. I managed to spin away as a muscular man in a sweatshirt yelled, “That’s Henry Parker! Stop, you fucking cop killer!”
My only salvation was the subway. No chance I could make it anywhere on foot. I had to get out of New York. People had begun to recognize me. Even if I could outrun the two cops, I couldn’t outrun an entire city.
I dodged a line of garbage cans on the corner of 115th and Madison. Bracing myself, I shoved the cans one by one, sending them rolling down the street, littering the sidewalk with foul-smelling debris, creating a makeshift rolling barricade.
“Parker! Stop where you are!” a voice shouted. It was close; too close. I weaved in and out of traffic, my body a strange mixture of burning heat from the sweat and cold from the wind and fear. Every nerve in my body was on fire.
I beat the next traffic light, running as fast as I could, legs churning, my bruised ribs throbbing.
“Parker!”
“Henry!”
I made out two distinct voices. Both angry, vigilant. They weren’t going to stop.
Between Lexington and Park, I finally reached the entrance to the downtown 6 train, my sides aching, ready to collapse.
Then a terrifying crash ruptured the air, like lightning on a clear day, and pedestrians around me ducked for cover. I felt something pinch my leg, like a bee sting.
Jesus…what was that?
I leapt down the stairs three at a time, knocking over a Hispanic woman who called me horrible names. No time for apologies.
I slowed down as I entered the station, reached for my wallet. Jumping the turnstile would draw unwanted attention. The station manager would see me, call the transit cops. Finally my slippery fingers ripped the MetroCard out and ran it through the scanner.
“Please swipe card again.”
Oh, God. Not now.
I swiped it again, and a beep confirmed the fare was paid.
Breathing hard, I walked quickly to the end of the platform, trying to stay inconspicuous to strangers buried in newspapers and paperback books.
I went to the far end of the platform and ducked behind a column, my lungs heaving. I leaned over the yellow line and peered into the dark tunnel. Two bright lights were visible, and they were drawing closer. The train couldn’t get here fast enough. I looked at my thigh, saw the hole in my jeans, my blood reddening the blue cloth. There was no pain, as though my nervous system had shut down. Oh, God…
Please let it get here before they do. Just give me more time.
Glancing at the turnstiles, my heart sank as I saw the two cops run onto the platform, their eyes darting back and forth. I plastered my body against a grimy pillar, trying to slow down my breathing. I couldn’t hear any footsteps; the train was too close, the screeching of metal drowning out all other noise.
The first car of the giant metal snake rushed past, the air around me shattered in an instant, damp hair plastered against my forehead.
Come on!
Then the train began to slow down. Brakes grinding against the tracks, the wind subsiding.
When the train came to a halt and the doors slid open, I waited for the passengers to exit then slid inside the last car. I took a seat next to a young woman in a navy pinstripe suit wearing headphones, her head bobbing to a silent rhythm. A man across the aisle was reading a folded newspaper. Neither of them looked at me. I took slow breaths, my heart rate mercifully dropping.
I exhaled as the doors
began to close. I knew exactly where to go next. It would only be a short few minutes before I got there.
Then right before the doors sealed shut, they sputtered open. Someone was trying to enter the train at the last second. Nobody in my car was holding the doors, so I stood up and peered through the windowpane into the adjacent car.
No.
Two pairs of arms were prying the door open like spiders caught in a Venus flytrap. I recognized the glint of a badge, then saw the faces through the window. The cops were coming inside.
Trying to act casual, I stood up and inched toward the opposite end of the car.
The conductor’s scratchy voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Let’s go, people! There’s another train right behind us!”
I had no time to think. When the doors opened again, right as the cops entered the train, I bolted back out onto the platform. I sprinted toward the subway entrance, noticed a gun barrel jammed between another set of doors. The cops had seen me leave and were trying to pry their way back out into the station. The conductor’s irritated voice echoed once more as the subway doors again flung open, the cops spilling back out onto the platform. Less than twenty feet away from me.
Run.
I followed the exodus of people who’d gotten off the train at 116th, ducking between two men, then sidestepping a woman lifting a baby carriage. I ran up a flight of steps to the upper platform. The musty smell of spilled coffee and extinguished cigarettes coated my nostrils with every sharp breath. The entrance to the street loomed just past the turnstiles, but I wouldn’t make it outside. The cops had surely called for help. Any minute now they’d be circling the station like sharks aching for blood. In this situation, evasion was better than confrontation.
I ducked into a newspaper kiosk and grabbed the nearest magazine. Penthouse.
Whatever.
I splayed the pages open, standing just behind the soda cooler so I was out of sight. Peering over a picture of breasts the size of beach balls, I watched the cops scamper up to the platform. They spoke in staccato bursts, gesturing wildly around the station, then the younger one pointed to a mass of people walking up the stairs to the street. They ran toward the exit, shouting and elbowing past frightened commuters. When they disappeared from view, I collected myself and slowly walked back down to the lower platform. Another train was just pulling into the station.