Revolver

by Duane Swierczynski

  Just talk to the sorry asshole who was almost convicted of the Madrid train bombing back in 2004. Whose fingerprints kinda sorta matched the ones found at the scene. Only…he had nothing do with it.

  As another professor put it: “There’s just not enough science in forensic science.”

  The same professor: “Folks, it’s all about angles and distances.”

  That, Audrey can do.

  Hence the string, scissors, and tape. All pilfered from Will’s apartment.

  She’s going to retrace the path of each bullet fired in this joint over fifty years ago. And while the bar isn’t made of ballistic gelatin (and if it were, for the record, it would quickly become Audrey’s favorite bar ever), a huge slab of heavy wood can hold a bullet trail almost as well. Sure, there are decades’ worth of nicks and bumps and cracks. But they’re easy to distinguish from bullet holes.

  “The essence of good forensic science?” her favorite professor once asked. “Look at the competing explanations of an event. Like Sherlock Holmes once said, if you can rule out the impossible, whatever remains—however seemingly improbable—must be the truth.”

  Audrey kneels down, scissors and string in hand, and begins to work.

  “Back up, kid,” she says. “I need to work.”

  Pizza Counter Guy raises his hands in surrender, takes a few long and slow steps backward.

  As Audrey works, Pizza Counter Guy, leaning against a table, arms folded, fires questions at her anyway. He probably should be in the back, hurling a circle of dough into the air or whatever, but he seems fascinated by what she’s doing.

  “So your last name is Kornbluth. Does this mean you have a husband?”

  Snip snip.

  “No, it means I have an asshole father. I was born a Walczak, but I took my mother’s maiden name a few years ago.”

  “Wow that’s fairly…hard-core.”

  “Well, Dad’s a pretty hard-core asshole. He’s a cop, by the way. Retired, but knows a guy who knows a guy, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “I’m sure you know exactly what I mean, Pizza Counter Guy.”

  “I have a name, you know.”

  “That’s nice. Everybody does. But please. Shut the fuck up.”

  Snip snip.

  Tape tape.

  She’s basically working in reverse, starting with the bullet hole and tracing its path backward. It’s not as simple as a straight line, of course. There’s air resistance, wind, good ol’ gravity. And that’s assuming the bullet was in pristine condition. Imperfect bullets can tumble and yaw. Or maybe the shooter loaded the wrong caliber, which can really screw with your spin rate and velocity.

  But she can get into the weird physics shit later. You have to start with the bare bones—how many bullets were fired, and where did they come from?

  Right away, Audrey realizes there are issues with the stories in the newspaper.

  “No way.”

  “What?”

  She doesn’t need fancy physics. After all, she can count.

  When Audrey returns to the apartment from an honest day’s labor of snipping and taping and conjecturing, she’s surprised to learn she has a guest. There he is. On the couch, ankle resting on his knee, arm sprawled over the back, Mad Men style.

  “We need to talk,” her older brother Staś says.

  Fucking Cary, Audrey thinks. Can never, ever, keep his mouth shut. Then again, she’s as much to blame for telling him in the first place.

  Audrey doesn’t reply. Instead, she ticks off an invisible count on her fingers. One two three four.

  “Audrey, are you listening to me?”

  She continues the count. Five six seven eight nine ten, while nodding her head and pursing her lips in mock astonishment.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Staś finally asks, exasperated.

  “Counting words,” Audrey says. “You know what? That’s the most you’ve spoken to me in five years. Impressive, really. You’re practically gushing, Stoshie.”

  Claire, meanwhile, hovers around in the kitchen, silently bearing yet another round of sibling arguments. Will quickly spirits himself off to another room—possibly the bathroom, to hang himself.

  “Let’s go,” Staś says.

  “I just got home.”

  “This isn’t your home. Come on, I need a cup of coffee.”

  “There’s a cozy little Starbucks a couple of blocks away, I believe. Try the Mocha Fucka Offa!”

  They have the ability to go on like this for hours, it seems. So it’s fortunate that Claire interrupts with a sharp “Audrey!” Both kids stop speaking and turn and look at her with sheepish expressions on their faces. Yes, even the badass Philly cop.

  “For Christ’s sake, go have coffee with your brother.”

  You know it’s serious when a Jewish lady invokes the name of Jesus to get her kids to stop fighting.

  Audrey talks him into drinks at McGillin’s Olde Ale House, right around the corner and one of the places she and Cary hit last night. If she’s not mistaken, there’s a corner where he may have puked. Audrey suggests the bar. Staś says no, a table. Oh boy. He’s serious about this conversation.

  Staś asks for a club soda and lime. Audrey calls him a pussy. Staś changes his order to a Jack on the rocks, Yuengling back. Audrey asks for a Bloody Mary, Yuengling back. The bartender doesn’t bat an eye—a Bloody Mary at 7 p.m., sure, why not. This is the same place that serves pickle martinis every January twenty-first in honor of Ben Franklin’s birthday. (Long story, don’t ask.) So a Bloody Mary is nothing.

  Staś blinks. “You do know it’s not Sunday morning, right?”

  “If it were Sunday morning,” Audrey says, “I’d be drinking the vodka straight.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. There might even be a smile there.

  She mentally racks up the score against Bitchanne, who probably hasn’t tasted alcohol since the last time she had a slight cough. But before the drinks arrive, her brother gets serious again—down to business.

  “Look, I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be, and you’re going to sit there and listen. This project of yours is over. I know you’re claiming this is for school, and if that’s the case, I’ve got access to a dozen other cold cases that are far more interesting. I’ll let you see everything. Access nobody else has. You hearing me?”

  “So this isn’t really a conversation,” Audrey says, nodding her head. “More of an edict.”

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  “Well, yeah, see, I don’t respond very well to edicts. Especially from you.”

  Their drinks arrive. Service is lightning quick at McGillin’s. The waitress asks Staś if he and his daughter would like to see menus. Audrey giggles. You old buzzard, she whispers. Staś says no thanks. Audrey sips her Bloody like a grade-schooler with her first Shirley Temple. My, how that refreshes!

  Once the waitress is out of earshot, Staś continues. “There’s something you don’t know. About Dad’s heart.”

  The straw flicks out of her mouth. “What about Dad’s heart?”

  Staś: dead earnest look. “You’ve really got to stop this shit.”

  “You asshole. What about Dad’s heart?”

  Oh, he’s enjoying this. The man with the scoop. Staś tells her only the basics: congestive heart failure. Brought to the hospital four times over the past three years—minor heart attacks. Audrey’s about to scream at him: Why didn’t any of you pricks think to pick up the phone and tell me? But then she remembers she hasn’t picked up the phone, either.

  “So you start digging into this stuff? Now? It’s going to push him over the edge. Is that what you want? To put him in an early grave?”

  Audrey’s still thinking about her father. Sure, he’s an asshole, but she also doesn’t want to have to fly back to Philly to bury him in a few weeks.

  Staś leans back, takes a big swallow of his Jack. He sees her reaction and now he’s all smug and
satisfied—conversation over. Audrey mimics him, draining half her Bloody in a single go.

  “Well,” she says, “there’s something you don’t know.”

  “What’s that?”

  Audrey doesn’t answer. Instead she digs into her purse for her notebook. She opens up to her crude diagram from earlier today, pressing the pages down with her palms.

  “I went to the murder scene today. Took apart the counter. Spent all day tracing the ballistic trajectories.”

  But Staś is already looking through her fingers at the diagram. He reaches out with both sets of fingers, pressing them down on the notebook, then spins them around so he can take a better look.

  Staś is a jerk. But he’s also supposed to be a really good cop. Methodical, slow, but ultimately right. He knows what he’s looking at. He realizes the implications right away.

  “There were two shooters?”

  Audrey lifts her Bloody, clinks Staś’s glass on the table, then takes a long swallow. Bet you don’t have a cold case like this, Stoshie.

  By the time Audrey returns to the apartment she’s had two more Bloodies, two Yuengling backs. But Claire is up waiting for her, plush robe wrapped around her body, cigarette between her middle and ring finger. There are a half dozen dead ones in the ashtray. She’s Philadelphia’s last unrepentant smoker, and clearly she’s been up for a while now.

  “So you talked to Staś,” Claire says. She doesn’t bother to phrase it as a question, because she knows the answer. Knows what Staś told her would happen.

  Audrey nods as she fishes a beer from Will’s fridge. Oooh, a Blue Point Toasted Lager. Probably buys his beer by the six-pack so he can enjoy the variety.

  Claire nods in return. Good, good. “So I’ll be driving you to the airport tomorrow.”

  “Not exactly,” Audrey says, cracking the cap off the top.

  “What do you mean?”

  Now it’s time for the hard sell.

  Audrey explains her independent study project, how important the project is to her academic future, what she’s discovered, and how she needs to stay here for at least a few more days to do some more fact-finding. Maybe a little more, certainly no more than a week, and hopefully you guys would be cool with that…?

  “Actually, Audrey…” Claire says, letting the thought finish itself.

  “Seriously? I can’t stay here?”

  “It’s not my apartment.”

  “Okay. So fucking Will won’t let me stay here?”

  “You’re putting me in a very awkward position.”

  Awkward? How about being in no position? She doesn’t have the money or credit for a hotel. If the Captain hadn’t sprung for her plane ticket, she would be back in Houston right now. What is she supposed to do?

  “Mom…come on.”

  “Oh, when you want something I’m Mom. Otherwise, I’m just dumb old Claire.”

  “What did he say? I want your bitch adopted daughter out now? Do I have time to collect my things, or should I report to the sidewalk immediately?”

  Claire takes a final drag on her cigarette before mashing it out in the ashtray. Will’s probably trying to get her to stop smoking, too. Keep up the good fight, Mom. Don’t let the bastards change everything.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure out something, Audrey,” she says. “You always do.”

  And with that, Claire rises and makes her way to the bedroom. Will’s bedroom, that is, which is situated next to Will’s guest room, which currently contains Audrey’s things…at least for the next 120 seconds. Because she’s getting the fuck out of here immediately.

  Audrey wanders toward Broad Street, then walks around City Hall and its giant off-white boner tower with the jaundiced-yellow clock in the center. As she rounds the other side, Audrey waves at the ten-foot-tall statue of former mayor Frank Rizzo, who is stuck waving back for all eternity. “Yo, Frank.”

  She tries her grandma again on the phone. Gets the answering machine with the voice message that hasn’t changed since 1990 or so, as far as Audrey can tell. Come on, Grandma Rose, answer. It’s not that late.

  As she’s cutting through the City Hall courtyard, something catches her eye: the two memorial tablets devoted to Philly’s fallen officers.

  She stares at the police memorial, which is off to the right, near the East Market Street portal. So many dead cops, they needed to build a second memorial to keep going.

  Audrey runs her fingers down the names and finds STANISłAW WALCZAK.

  And GEORGE W. WILDEY.

  Audrey runs her numb fingertips over the stubby brass letters of her grandfather’s name.

  Don’t know if you’re out there, or up there, or whatever, Grandpop. This is your granddaughter speaking. I’m not using your death to get ahead, I swear. If anything, I’m using your death to avoid drowning.

  So help me out here.

  Let me figure this out.

  If he’s up there listening, Audrey has no idea. Because there is no reply. No soft whispers. No lightning claps. No acknowledgment whatsoever.

  She fishes two bucks and a quarter out of her bag and rides the El all the way to the end of the line, Bridge and Pratt. Not a great neighborhood. A thriving drug corner just up Bridge Street. She doesn’t want to stand around all night waiting for a bus, so she decides to blow five more bucks on a cab out to Ditman Street. It’s going to suck staying out here in Frankford for the week.

  Then again, Audrey thinks, maybe this will bring her closer to her grandfather. You know, that fourth source that Susan Cheever was talking about. He was living at 2046 Bridge when he was killed. He ate here, slept here, dreamed here. Maybe staying in his house will reveal some kind of new dimension.

  But when Grandma Rose opens the door, smiles nervously, and says, “Your mother called,” Audrey realizes she’s screwed.

  Stan Goes to Church

  November 4, 1964

  Rosie nudges Stan. “Honey, wake up. Someone’s here to see you.” Stan groans. It’s still afternoon. Hours before his shift at least. He can tell by the bright sunlight stabbing him in the eyes. When he sits up he’s dizzy. He reaches over on the floor for his pants. The belt buckle bangs against the metal frame of the bed. He’s about to ask Rosie who it is, but she’s already left the room.

  There’s no rock music playing, so Jimmy isn’t even home from school yet. What the hell’s going on?

  Pants on, belt buckled lazily, Stan shuffles out of the room and ambles downstairs.

  Turns out, it’s Wildey, fully dressed for work, standing in his doorway. “Hey, partner.” Stan with no socks or shoes, no shirt, and self-conscious about the way his lower gut hangs over his belt buckle.

  “Hey, Wildey. What’s going on?”

  “How about LBJ, huh? No real surprise there, I guess. Though I didn’t think he’d bury Goldwater like that.”

  Yesterday was Election Day. The president won by a landslide. Not that it matters to Stan. Who the hell cares about which person sits behind that big desk in the Oval Office? They’re all the same, the politicians. But Stan knows better than to get into it with his partner, who has yet to meet a topic he doesn’t love to expound upon.

  Rosie eyes his partner suspiciously. She’s waiting to hear what this is all about, too.

  “I was just telling your wife here how great it’s been working with you these past few months,” Wildey finally says. “I’m even getting used to the liverwurst sandwiches.”

  “Uh-huh,” Stan says. Then after a pause, “So what’s going on?”

  “Let’s talk about it in the car.”

  “It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  Wildey’s eyes widen slightly. He doesn’t want to raise his voice in front of the missus here, but…

  “This, uh, can’t wait.”

  The door opens behind Wildey. It’s Jimmy, home from school, backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks at his pop, then at the stranger in the police uniform.

  “You’re Officer Wildey, aren’t you?”

/>   Wildey looks at Stan and beams with pride. “Boy even pronounces it correctly.” He turns his attention back to Jimmy and extends a hand. “How are you doing, young man?”

  Jimmy reaches up and shakes his hand, a little bit of awe in his expression. He has this man’s photo up on his wall, but seeing him in real life is something else. While Stan goes back upstairs to dress, Rosie does the best she can, offering Wildey a cup of tea while he waits. Stan can hear the conversation through the floorboards.

  “Do you take sugar and milk?”

  “Yeah, honey, lots of both, thank you.”

  “My pop said you go to the Cadillac Club. What’s that like?”

  “Two teaspoons, Mr. Wildey?”

  “Call me George, please. And that would be fine. Young James, how do you know about the Cadillac Club?”

  “I hear about it on WDAS. The Cadillac, the Zanzibar, all those places.”

  “Your daddy didn’t tell me you had such fine taste in music.”

  “How much milk…er, George?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mizz Walczak. Unless I can call you Rose?”

  “Well, the Beatles and the Stones were influenced by soul music so I figured I’d go straight to the source and listen to what they’re listening to.”

  “Of course…Rose is fine.”

  “Smart man. So who are you digging?”

  Stan doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation because he splashes cold water on his face in an attempt to shock himself back to full consciousness. He brushes his teeth, then combs and parts his thinning blond hair. By the time he gets downstairs Jimmy is showing Wildey the LP collection by the stereo console. Stan sees his Sinatra, Crosby, Como, Mathis records out. Wildey sips his tea, then points, looking at Stan.

  “Johnny Mathis? For real? You make your family listen to this stuff?”