by John Griffin
He sat on the patio. It was a cool September morning, and he wondered how many more times this fall he would be able to sit on a patio. He hoped a lot. As he sipped his drink, he thought about how much danger he might be in. It occurred to him that he rushed into the assignment for ego as much as anything else. He was pulled out of the academy, singled out, and recruited for a specific dangerous assignment. He thought about the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. His parents would not understand — why a cop? they had asked. It was not the danger of the job, and it was not the lack of prestige that turned them off. It was the pay. “You won’t make any money,” they said. “Not for that level of danger. It’s not worth it.”
But they did not understand why he climbed mountains or ran marathons, either. They never understood why he would turn his nose up at being a lawyer, doctor, or Wall Street banker. “I could have opened any door you wanted,” his father said. Reg had never walked through a door his father had opened and was not about to start.
He chose Columbia over Yale, which his father would take as an insult to his grave, Reg was certain. And now this. “Why?” was all his mother asked when his father eventually walked out of the conversation, giving his blessing as meagerly as only a truly a disappointed father could.
Reg was back in his apartment. He picked up the tablet and started to read through the file again, and there it was, the feeling that he had to solve a puzzle, and that the solution mattered. That was key. Could he make a trade that made a billion-dollar ROI? Sure. Could he win a court case that got a criminal off? Of course.
But now he was the thin blue line. He had always known how fragile civilization was. His family had always been wealthy, but like every other young black man in New York, he knew prejudice when he saw it. He had been randomly pulled over by cops. And when his white friends complained about racism and threatened to have all their lawyer fathers sue those cops into bankruptcy, Reg knew that same cop wore a bullet-proof vest, and racist or not, when shots were fired and all his friends ran away from the shooter, these cops would almost universally run to the shooter, and that was the difference.
Yes, the system sucked. It stacked the deck against him, and he had enough privilege and money to overcome it, but that did not motivate him. He knew people like Psycho were out there in the cracks and corners, and he knew that he wanted to be one of the people who caught him.
He went back to Sol’s file feeling a little disappointed. He would have preferred to be chasing Psycho, but he would settle for the case he had.
Chapter Six:
Solomon
Solomon’s phone chimed. He lay in bed. The room was filled with the smell of fish. He opened his eyes. It was dark. The shades on the window blacked out all but a slim trail of light cast at his feet. He closed his eyes again, and his phone chimed twice. He reached lazily over and pulled the phone from his dresser, removing it from its cord where it was plugged into the socket. He read the texts.
The first read, Amber Lynn, 13, 3 days. Hyacinth Frogue, 14, 3 days. No sign of P. Father at same address. The next two texts had addresses for Amber and Hyacinth’s parents. Solomon exhaled and pushed himself out of bed. He went down the hall, showered, shaved, and returned to his room. He dressed in his taupe suit. He smelled his shirt from the day before but turned it aside and took his other shirt from the drawer. He left the drawer open and kept his eyes fixed down. He fidgeted in his suit pocket and took out the note.
“You or I,” he huffed. He returned the note to his jacket pocket and removed his jacket. He took his shoulder holster out of the drawer and put it on. He next took his SIG MK25 P226 out — same model as his service gun. He was comfortable with it. He walked to his bed, put his hand under the mattress, and pulled out three clips, loading one into the gun and placing the others into his holster slung across the opposite arm where the gun would sit. He holstered his gun and walked back to his drawer, removing his jacket and putting it on. He closed the drawer, went to the door, and opened it, stepping into the hallway.
He stopped and went back inside, opening the drawer again. He reached in and pulled out a leather wallet, flipping it open and looking at his badge before putting it into the inside left breast pocket of his jacket. He left his room, locked his door, and walked out of the Y into the early morning sun, finding the subway.
He came out again at 5th and West 59th, near the Plaza. He went into an apartment building nearby, flashing his badge to the doorman. The doorman stopped him anyway. “Who are you here to see? I’ll call and tell them you are coming up.”
“John Graham. Tell him Sol’s here,” he said, heading for the elevator. The doorman went to his phone and made a call.
Solomon came to the door as a maid was walking out. He nodded at her. At the door was John, graying hair and thin, dressed in a gray cashmere robe. “An hour, Rosario.” He called after the maid. “Come back in an hour.” Solomon entered, and John followed, locking the door behind him.
“There’s no one else here,” he said.
Solomon sat at the table where breakfast had been half-set and then abandoned. He helped himself to the coffee as John went to the kitchen and poured another cup. The room was larger than the entire floor of rooms at the Y. The finishings were old-money finishings, golds and mahoganies and plush. John came back to the table and sat.
“Is it over?” John asked.
“Have you seen Justin?”
John’s face soured. He stood with his cup of coffee and went to the liquor cabinet nearby. “I had hoped the next time I saw you would be the last.” He poured whiskey into his coffee. It was a forty-year-old vintage.
“You’re drinking a week’s salary, John.”
“Sorry,” he said, coming back to the table and offering the bottle to Solomon while taking a seat. John added, “I just … I had hoped it would be over.”
“You really shouldn’t mix this.” Solomon drank the rest of his coffee in a few gulps and then poured the whiskey into his mug. “And I had hoped I’d have killed your son, too, by now. I dream about it every fucking night. How’s Marjory?”
“Dead,” John said. “Dead three months.”
“I’m sorry. Lovely woman. How did she die?”
“Knowing,” John said. “Knowing it killed her.”
“Suicide?”
“No, Sol, no. If I was her doctor I might call it failure to thrive. But she came to believe it — it was harder for her than for me, but she came to believe it. The evidence was clear. It became more clear and heavier every day. About a week before she died, she turned to me and she said, ‘I still love him.’ Said that and just cried for an hour and then added, ‘I wish I knew what I did wrong.’ That’s what unconditional love is, you know. She didn’t love me unconditionally. We had a marriage with conditions — fidelity, respect. Like anyone. If I hit her or cheated on her she’d leave me, she’d stop loving me. There are conditions to that love. But the love that wonderful woman had for her son? She finds out he’s a serial killer and all she thinks is, ‘I still love him,’ and, ‘I wish I knew what I did wrong.’”
“You know it had nothing to do with you.”
“I know, Sol. Some weird genetic mutation, and I have a son without the slightest problem with … against. Oh, God.” He emptied his cup into a vase filled with white Gerber daisies and replaced the coffee with the whiskey. “I can barely think about it. And I gave him… Even after you told us, I gave him lawyers and money. I wish I could take it all back. Much as I love him, too, I wish I had… If I had known… I’d rather have that tragedy than know my son caused… God, Sol. God. If I had believed you sooner, we could have stopped him sooner or just… He never would have gone underground or wouldn’t have the means.”
“This isn’t on you, John,” Solomon interrupted. “This is on him.”
“A parent’s burden,” John replied, taking a gulp of whiskey.
“You’ve been helpful enough since then,” Solomon said, tapping his right index fi
nger on the table. “More than helpful.”
“What should I do?” John asked.
“He might try to make contact. In which case…” Solomon tapped his finger again.
“In the meantime?”
“I’d go on a long boat ride.”
“After thoroughly checking the boat,” John said, chuckling nervously.
“Goodbye, John,” Solomon said, standing and offering a limp handshake.
“I had so hoped this time would have been the last time,” John said, seated.
“It probably will be.”
John nodded as Solomon walked to the door. “Just save her. Just save her,” he repeated, before adding, “And yourself, if you can.”
“If I can,” Solomon said, leaving an envelope on the table near the door.
Chasing down another missing girl, the inevitable feeling that he would fail again to stop Psycho, made Solomon morose. He started to think of the last time he felt failure like this creeping up on him. He was standing in a hospital room with Greg. “Nothing we could have done,” he said. Solomon shook his head. Greg added, “Girl’s family will be here soon.” Greg left the room. Solomon stared at the girl, her ventilator pushing air into and pulling it out of her lungs, the heartbeat monitor beeping.
A woman entered. She was mid-thirties and robust, dressed in green scrubs. Solomon looked over to her and nodded. The woman stopped in the doorway and put her hand on her mouth. “Never seen a vegetable, nurse?” Solomon said.
The woman burst into tears and fell to her knees. Solomon went over and helped her into her chair. “Sorry about my crudeness.”
“I’m her mother. Maria … Rodriguez,” the woman said.
“I thought…” Solomon said. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez. I’m Sol. Greg, he just left. He’s better with these things.”
“You’re the one who found her?” she said.
“Yeah.”
She leaned on him. “You saved Juanita’s life.”
Solomon looked at the girl. “No,” he said.
“They told me you almost caught him.”
“Not close enough. Got there in time for this. What do the doctors say?”
“They say that there’s no recovery. We wait a few days, a few weeks. They say I’ll get a chance to be at her side when she dies, and that’s where I should be. Who would do this?”
“A very sick person.”
“Why?” she said, sobbing stronger. “Why?”
“I can’t know. It’s not a reason people like you or I would understand with these people.” Maria hugged him, pushing herself onto his shoulder. “Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
“My only little girl. My baby.” She sobbed as Greg came back into the room. Solomon made eye contact with him.
“Kill him,” she whispered. “Find him. Kill him.”
“I will,” Solomon said. Here he was a year later, still trying.
Solomon pulled up his phone. Amber: 2020 Amsterdam Ave, apt 412. The front door was locked, but a side door that led into the stairwell was propped open. He walked by a group of men on the second landing. They watched him pass, and he looked back to see blue bandanas in their back left pockets. He barked, “Wrong building,” and continued on to the third floor.
The doors here had no numbers. He knocked on the third door on the left. A man called out from behind the door. “Rodrigo, it’s Sol.”
The door opened. “You’re not a cop.”
“There are some Crips in your stairwell. East side.”
“Yo, fuckface!” Rodrigo called out to a giant of a man sitting on the couch playing video games. “Yo, grab your club, man!”
The giant paused the game, stood, and stooped out the front door. On his way he grabbed a tree limb the length of Solomon. “I hope he doesn’t kill them,” Solomon said as Rodrigo closed the door. Solomon sat on the couch and took a bag of chips and started to eat them.
“Get your own damn food, cheapskate,” Rodrigo said.
“Lost yer manners?” Solomon said.
“What do you want?”
“What do you know about the family in 412.”
“Daughter is young but hot. Gets lots of attention in the halls. Have had to remove a couple guys chasing her. Mother repays us in enchiladas and goat roti. Great roti. She smokes weed. Girl left a few days ago. She dead?”
“I hope not.”
“Runaway, man. Nothing. Stupid girl.”
“Maybe not.”
“That makes me angry, man,” Rodrigo said. “In my own building, man? Who?”
“It’s not about that.”
“It’s disrespectful.”
“It’s not about that.”
“What’s it about?”
“Me,” Solomon said. Rodrigo collapsed in the chair.
“Oh,” he said. “That fucker?”
“New tear?” Solomon asked, pointing to his left eye.
Rodrigo nodded. “I’d have another if I found that fucker. Fucked-up shit.”
“It may not be him. Just following a lead.”
“Still living at the Y?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, you got money.”
Solomon stood. “It’s not about that.”
“Loads of it.”
“If you see the girl come back, call me.”
“Life or death?”
The giant came back in. The tree limb was clean. He walked straight to the couch and sat, continuing his game. “If she comes back, it’s life or death for someone else.”
Solomon went back into the hall and up to the fourth floor, finding apartment 412. He knocked on the door. “Who is it?” a woman answered.
Solomon held his badge up to the spyhole. “Detective Roud. Here about your daughter.”
The door swung open. “Is she alright?”
“We haven’t found her, ma’am. May I come in?”
“Yes, please.” Solomon entered and stood in the doorway, sweeping his gaze across the room. It was in tatters. The woman was clearly distressed, wearing clothes that held dirt from days of use. Her glasses were slipping off her nose, the skin on her face oily from being ignored. “Stressful time, Mrs. Lynn…”
“Ms. Moore,” the woman said. “Lynn was her father’s name. And yes. Sorry about the mess.”
“Ms. Moore, I’m here following up on some leads.”
“Officer Grant told me that this was just a runaway. They’d keep an eye out for her, but… She’s done this before. I don’t think this is that.”
“Neither do I,” Solomon said. Ms. Moore put her hand to her chest and inhaled. “I don’t know what it is, but I believe you.” She started to cry.
“Thank you. We weren’t fighting or anything. She ran last time after we fought.”
“Is this her?” Solomon asked, pointing to a picture on the wall.
“Yes.”
The girl was pretty, a thin brunette with a good smile but a large gap in her crooked teeth. Solomon turned his head to the side and looked back around the room. Tatters. There was a university degree on the wall from William and Mary. The small dining room had a Robert Bateman print half-wrapped in brown paper on the ground. He turned back to Ms. Moore.
“Who supplies your drugs?” he asked.
“What?” Ms. Moore said, her tears drying.
“It isn’t someone local.” He looked at her. The glasses slipped off her nose again. “Cocaine.”
“I think you should leave,” she said, going for the door.
“Ms. Moore, I’m here to help. I can get you help for your addiction, but if you aren’t able to work on that now, let’s talk about who your dealer is. Does he know your daughter? Do you owe him money? This is about her.”
“He’s seen her. I don’t owe him anything.”
“Is he your only dealer?”
“For coke, yeah. I get weed from Rodrigo in…”
“Yup,” Solomon interjected. “Who is your dealer?”
“I got a phone number. I ca
ll him Gyp.” She took a piece of paper and a pen off the table and wrote down the number. “Do you think he has something to do with it?”
“Criminals are not good people, Ms. Moore. I’ll follow up on this.”
“Don’t tell him…”
“I’m not looking for drugs or drug dealers. If he has your daughter, he has a problem. If not, I really don’t care,” Solomon said, heading for the door.
“Don’t sell the Bateman. It’s signed,” he added as he left. “It’ll double in value in a decade. It will pay for her school when I bring her home.”
Later, Solomon’s phone rang. He answered, and a loud voice yelled, “Happy, happy birthday, son!”
He looked at the watch on his wrist. It was dark. He slapped his black-out blinds, and neon flooded his room as it bounced off the wall. “What time is it?”
“Stakeout time!” the voice answered before hanging up. As Solomon sat up in bed and rubbed his face, his door opened. In walked a short South Asian man, skinny with wisps of a beard and wearing a knitted cap, chambray shirt, and blue jeans with sparkling white sneakers.
“Fuck, Sham. I’m practically naked here.”
“Dude,” Sham replied. “None of these doors have locks. I’ve seen mad old poor man wiener just walking around. And someone’s making fish in the hall. Fish in the hall! And I’m going to rob a fucking house with you. That’s a little more intimate than knowing you wear tighty-whiteys.”
“I’ll get dressed.” Solomon stood.
Sham looked around the room and opened the lone drawer in the dresser. “In what?” he asked. “You ain’t got no clothes!”
“Fuck, Sham. Take it down a notch. I’ve got neighbors.”
“They’re all drunk and high and stupid. Why do you live here?”
“I’m unemployed.”
Sham laughed. “I’ve been unemployed since discharge from the navy, and I still live in an apartment like a person with a shower and an oven.”