by Thomas Scott
At the mention of his parents, the boy stopped and turned. Virgil had narrowed the gap between them and they stood only a few yards apart, halfway up the hill. When Virgil asked him again about his parents, he simply shrugged his shoulders, his smile still in place. Virgil squatted down and kept his voice calm and peaceful. “My name is Virgil. What’s yours?”
“Wyatt.”
Virgil smiled at him. “Hey that’s a great name. We’d make a good team, wouldn’t we? Virgil and Wyatt.”
He gave a funny look and when he did Virgil realized he was referencing something the boy would have no knowledge of.
“What about your mommy? Is she around here somewhere?”
He tilted his head to the side and stared at Virgil’s face. Virgil had a scar that ran along his jawline, the result of an injury he sustained when pulled from the rubble during the house fire. It had faded over the years, but it remained visible, especially when he smiled and his skin stretched tight. Wyatt reached out with his hand and ran his fingers across the scar. His touch was soft and warm as the tips of his tiny fingers traveled along the side of Virgil’s face.
“Say, that’s a pretty fancy fishing pole you’ve got there,” Virgil said. “Did your daddy get that for you?”
Wyatt looked at the fishing pole in his hand as if he were only just then aware of its presence. He nodded at Virgil, then dropped the pole in the grass. “He was gonna teach me to fish.”
“Going to? You mean he didn’t?”
He shook his head. “No. He went away.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know where it’s called. Can’t ‘member.”
“What about your mommy?”
He didn’t answer and instead turned and look up at the top of the hill.
Virgil wasn’t quite sure what to do. He couldn’t leave this young boy alone in the park, yet at the same time, Wyatt wasn’t being very helpful or forthcoming about his mother or father. Virgil was about to suggest that he go with him back to the MCU. Once there, he’d be able to leave him in the hands of one of the detectives who could locate his parents. But what happened next defied almost anything Virgil had ever witnessed. The air had suddenly gone still and the birds and other wildlife went quiet as if they were suddenly nonexistent. The little boy leaned in close and ran his hand along Virgil’s scar once again then looked him straight in the eye and said, “Keep taking those pills and you’re going to die.”
His words were like a slap in the face, and Virgil grabbed him by the arms. “What did you just say?”
Wyatt slipped away and ran a few steps up the incline and pointed at the top of the hill. “I said, keep walking up the hill and you can touch the sky!” Before Virgil could process what had just happened, Wyatt crested the hill and started down the far side.
By the time Virgil got to the top, Wyatt was nowhere in sight.
__________
Virgil spent the next half hour looking for the little boy named Wyatt, but never found him. When he returned to the spot on the hill where they were before Wyatt ran off, Virgil noticed the toy fishing pole still lying in the grass. He picked it up, carried it to his truck and drove back to the MCU headquarters. He signed all the necessary forms for the state’s human resources department, answered a few questions that seemed to constitute something of an exit interview, then headed toward Ron’s office to offer an apology.
He’d realize later that he should have just gone home or to the bar.
Unfortunately, he did neither.
__________
When Virgil walked into Ron’s office he found Miles wasn’t there, but Bradley Pearson was. He was talking on his cell while looking through Virgil’s personal belongings Ron had re-boxed. When Pearson realized someone was behind him he turned around. When he saw who it was, he ended his cell phone conversation in mid-sentence by closing the phone and slipping it into his pocket. His face lit up with a huge grin, something that happened about as often as a solar eclipse.
“Jonesy,” he said, as he reached out and offered his hand. Virgil shook his hand out of instinct, but what happened next was not one of his better moments. “Did you get your new fishing pole? I sent it via special delivery. I know it’s probably not as nice as the one I broke at your house—” And that’s as far as he got. Virgil still had Pearson’s hand in his own—they were only mid-shake—when he mistakenly concluded that the boy in the park had been part of a cruel hoax initiated by Pearson. Virgil slapped him full in the face, a humiliating blow that snapped Pearson’s head sideways and caused his eyes to water. Then Virgil pushed him into one of the chairs, picked up his box of personal belongings, dumped it in his lap and smashed the open container bottom-down over his head. By the time he was finished Pearson looked like a Jack-in-the-Box with a bad set of springs. Virgil stared at him for a moment and then walked out the door.
__________
He was about to get in his truck when he saw Miles turn into the lot and get out of his rental car. He walked over and said, “Hey, Ron. Listen…I was out of line. Everything seems to be happening sort of all at once for me and well, I don’t know…I just lost my shit for a minute. I’m sorry.”
Miles puffed out his cheeks. “Forget about it. And I’m sorry too. I mean, your job, Jonesy. Jesus.”
“Ah, it’s not like I need the money. I just liked doing what I do.” Virgil looked down at the rental car sticker. “You having car trouble?”
“Something like that. Listen, Jonesy, I’ve got to run. I’m late for a meeting with Pearson.”
“Yeah, he’s waiting for you in your office.”
“Great. What’s he doing in there?”
“Oh, you know…he’s doing what he does best.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s thinking inside the box. See you around, Ron.”
__________
Thirty minutes later when Virgil walked into the bar, Delroy motioned him over. “Those two Red Stripes at the other end of da bar, mon, they say they need to talk to you. What you do, you?”
Jamaicans use the term Red Stripe for two things. One is their beer. The other is a slang term for police officers. “Probably something I shouldn’t have.”
That earned Virgil a sideways look. “Yeah, mon. There’s a lot of dat going around lately.”
Virgil glanced at the other end of the bar. Two uniformed city police officers were sitting very still and watching him through the mirror. The older of the two let out a heavy sigh before they both got up and made their way over to where he stood with Delroy. Virgil couldn’t recall the name of the older cop, but had seen him in the bar a number of times. He’d never seen the younger one at all.
“We’d rather not cuff you up, if you promise you won’t give us any grief,” the younger of the two said.
Virgil shook his head and fixed his gaze on the veteran. “Who’s the boot?”
“What did you just call me?” the young cop said.
“What dis about, now?” Delroy said.
The rookie turned and looked at Delroy. “This is about baldheaded island jerk-waters like you knowing your place. If that’s too complicated for you, let me put it this way: butt the fuck out.”
Delroy started to respond, but Virgil beat him to it. “You’re in our place of business. You’ll show some respect, or you’ll be shown to the door, badge or not. If you think I’m not serious, say something else to him or me and see what happens.”
The rookie took a step forward and the veteran cop drew his nightstick from the chrome loop on his belt. But instead of using the stick on Virgil he laid the tip across the edge of the bar and blocked the path of his trainee. “The man’s right. Show some respect. Do you know who you’re talking to here?”
The rookie cop suddenly looked very unsure of himself. “Isn’t this the guy we’re supposed to bring in? I thought you said this was him.”
The veteran looked at Virgil and then shook his head before he spoke to his partner. “Go wait out by the squad
. I’ll be out in a minute. Don’t touch any of the buttons on the radio.” Then to Virgil and Delroy: “On behalf of the city of Indianapolis and the Indianapolis City Police Department, I’d like to apologize for my trainee’s behavior. I don’t know where they get these guys anymore. I really don’t. This kid’s a perfect example. He’ll be fired, or he’ll quit, or he’ll be dead on the job inside of a year. I guarantee it. No one knows how to do this work anymore.” Then, almost as an afterthought he said, “Your old man knew how though.”
“He sure did,” Virgil said. “Did they cut a warrant?”
The cop shook his head. “No. I don’t think they will either.”
“Look, uh…” Virgil glanced at the cop’s nameplate on his uniform. He still couldn’t remember his first name. “Officer Nagy…”
“Jim.”
“Ah, that’s right. Jim. Sorry. So let me ask you something, Jim. Pearson is the Governor’s Chief of Staff. Why does he want city to roll on this instead of state?”
“Pearson? What are you talking about? I have no idea. I got the call on my cell phone, straight from central dispatch. It was Cora LaRue. She’s the one that wanted us to pick you up.”
Delroy looked at Virgil, then the cop. “You say Bradley Pearson? Ha. Delroy almost forget.” He walked behind the bar, bent down and then lifted a brand new cane pole from underneath and set it gently in front of Virgil. “He had it sent special delivery. It arrived ‘bout an hour ago, mon. Dat’s some nice pole, no?”
__________
“Look, Jim, I know we don’t know each other all that well, but if I said that you have always known me to be an honest and straightforward cop, or at the very least a man of my word, would you be inclined to agree with that statement?”
Officer Nagy didn’t hesitate in the slightest. “Absolutely.”
“Then I want you to know I mean you and your department no insult or disrespect whatsoever when I say this: No warrant, no ride downtown.”
Nagy thought about that for a half beat, then took out his phone and made a call. “No dice,” was all he said to the person on the other end before he closed the phone. He twirled his nightstick between his fingers with the precision and dexterity of a gunslinger before he slid the baton back into the chrome loop on his belt. Then he smiled at Delroy and sat down at the bar. “I’ve never been to Jamaica, but every time I come in here you make me feel like I’m right at home. Got any more of that chicken cooking back there?”
“Yeah mon, you bet we do.” Delroy turned to go get Nagy a plate of jerk chicken, but then he stopped and said something that surprised Virgil. “Don’t you give up on dat rookie of yours.”
Nagy cocked his head to the side. “Why’s that?”
“Because it the ones we don’t give up on that make it in the end. Anyting less and you not only fail them, but worse, you disrespect yourself, you.”
Just then Virgil’s cell phone rang.
The caller I.D. said WORK. It was Cora.
__________
When Virgil answered the phone she was already speaking. “You listen to me, Jonesy and you listen good. There is no excuse for what you did today. Do you hear me? None.”
“Cora—”
“Don’t interrupt me. I’m not done. I wanted to have this conversation in person, but I guess we’ll do it your way. In case you haven’t noticed, your life is spinning out of control. I’d like to know what on earth makes you think that it is even remotely acceptable that you can come into a state office, assault an official of the state and then walk out as if nothing happened. Would you care to explain that to me?”
“I don’t think I can. It obviously wasn’t one of my better moments.”
“That might be the understatement of the decade. I’ve somehow convinced Pearson not to file assault charges against you. I hope that wasn’t a mistake on my part.”
“Thank you.”
“Shut up. I’ve tried to be kind. I’ve tried to be compassionate. I’ve even tried to be your friend. Now I’m going to try the truth. You know what the difference between a victim and a martyr is? They both eventually go down in flames, except a martyr deludes himself into thinking that he’s done it on his own terms. By the way, I’ve got your final paycheck in my desk drawer. You’ll get it when you fish your badge out of that pond of yours. My God, you infuriate the hell out of me.”
She hung up before Virgil could respond.
12
__________
Augustus Pate was mad enough that he was having trouble maintaining his composure. He’d met Pearson in a parking lot not far from his office and now the two of them were seated in the back of Pate’s limo, along with Pate’s assistant. The assistant was large, like a pro linebacker. Pearson had never seen him before. “Who are you?”
“That’s Hector,” Pate said. “He’s my assistant. Never mind him. We’ve got some things to discuss. I told you I wanted his head on a stick. Why hasn’t that happened yet?”
Pearson was seated in the rearward-facing seat, just behind the tinted glass partition that separated the men from the driver. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about any of this in front of someone I don’t know.”
“Hector is well versed in all of my business dealings, Bradley. All of them.”
“Still, as I said, I’m not—”
Hector leaned forward in his seat. “Answer the man’s question please, Mr. Pearson.”
Pearson saw the look in Hector’s eyes and decided to answer. “I got him fired, didn’t I?”
“Fired? You think I need you to get someone fired? I could have handled that without getting out of bed. I’m not talking about his career you idiot. I’m talking about finishing him. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Don’t get your ball sack in a bunch, Gus. If it weren’t for that degenerate son of yours, we wouldn’t be in this mess. You said you wanted Jones taken care of, so that’s what I did.”
Augustus Pate, the late Samuel Pate’s father held Virgil responsible for the death of his son. Virgil’s most recent case—he’d been looking into the death of Franklin Dugan, one of the city’s more prominent citizens—had focused almost exclusively on Samuel Pate as the suspect. Pate had been the senior pastor of Pate Ministries, and Dugan’s bank had just loaned Pate five million dollars. When Dugan turned up dead, Virgil began digging into Pate’s background where he uncovered, among other things, the junior Pate’s bloodlust for child pornography. When it became obvious that he was about to go down for his crimes—the kiddie porn was just part of it—Pate confessed his sins to hundreds of thousands of faithful views on live television. Then he put a gun in his mouth and blew the back of his head off. That was on TV too.
“Jones is responsible for Samuel’s death. What part of that don’t you understand, Bradley?”
“Let me tell you something, Gus. I understand exactly what you’re saying and now I want you to understand me. First, it wasn’t my fault that your kid took the chicken-shit express to hell. But that’s on him, not me. As far as Jones goes, the man is wrecked. He’s been relieved of duty, fired from the department and he’s hooked to the gills on prescription pain medicine. That’s just for starters. I’m hearing rumors that he’s walking around having conversations with his dead father. A father, I might add, that your son’s wife shot to death. He’s gone from one of the most powerful cops in the state to the co-owner of a corner tavern. He is without question coming apart at the seams. All in all, from my perspective, that’s about as good as you’re going to get.”
“Sounds to me like you’re still playing in the minor leagues, Bradley. I would have thought you could do better than that.”
“Think what you want, Gus. If you want the man ‘finished’ as you say and make no mistake, I completely understand what you mean by that, you’ll have to do it yourself. That was not part of our deal.”
Pate waved his words away like the annoyance that they were. “What about the funding? Where are we with that? The union people are br
eathing down my neck and the investors are starting to get jumpy.”
“There’s been no change. The legislature passed the bill. The rest of it is on autopilot.”
The passage of the bill had cost Pearson dearly, politically speaking, but the payoff had the potential to be massive. Pearson had set up a blind trust and the trust had then made an investment in Pate’s corporation, Augustus Pate International. API was nothing more than a holding company, but its holdings were substantial. Among them, a multimillion dollar company called Pri-Max, a construction firm that built state-of-the-art prison facilities all over the world. Pearson’s blind trust held stock options that if exercised would net him millions of dollars. But his options could only be exercised if certain conditions were met, chief among them, the passage of a house bill which stipulated that unclaimed lottery winnings would be appropriated into a fund designed to match—dollar for dollar—the completion of the state’s first private prison. The unclaimed funds were starting to trickle in, but the big one, the three hundred million dollar unclaimed prize was the one they were after and the time frame for anyone to claim that prize was just about to expire. Once it did, the funds would revert back to the state. After that, the bill would kick in and the money would be distributed into a discretionary fund, a fund that was by its very nature, discretionary.
Pate wouldn’t get the money directly. That would be completely illegal, but Pri-Max would. They’d get subsidized by the state—dollar for dollar in matching funds—to not only build, but also run the prison. Pri-Max would turn the money over to API and from there it would get shuffled, rounded, disbursed and eventually distributed back to Pri-Max to cover cost overruns on the operational side and as dividends to their primary shareholders.
Of course Pri-Max had inflated their numbers almost beyond belief when it came to construction costs, ongoing maintenance, staffing and direct operating expense projections. So with the inflated numbers—just shy of twenty-million dollars—and the state’s generous matching program, Pate was looking at a massive influx of capital that was his to spend as he saw fit, and Pearson, or more specifically, Pearson’s trust, would walk away with almost twenty percent of the take.