A Shattered Lens

by Layton Green

  “Are you really taking me to a high school football game?” she asked, as they headed to his car. The sky was clear and fresh, in the high fifties. Downtown was buzzing with a mix of college students, hipsters, older couples, tattooed drifters, and young professionals pushing strollers. The bars and restaurants were packed. Friday Art Walk was in full swing, and food trucks were parked on the corners. Preach still marveled at the transformation of his sleepy hometown.

  “I am,” he said.

  “Do I look like that kind of girl to you?”

  “What kind of girl is that ?”

  “The one who is almost thirty and still goes to high school football games.”

  “I’ve always thought you had an inner cheerleader.”

  “I have an inner cheerleader like you have an inner vegetarian.” He laughed, and she said, “There won’t be any there, will there ?”

  “Any who ?”

  “Former cheerleaders. You know, a posse of your ex-girlfriends? I’m not sure I’ll last through the first inning if there are.”

  “They’re called quarters, Ari. Baseball games have innings.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I expect the whole cheerleading squad from my class to be there. Why do you think I chose homecoming night ?”

  She gave him a playful smack on the cheek.

  Preach scoured the parking lot as he and Ari pulled into the high school campus, keeping an eye out for Nate or packs of kids who looked suspicious. The game had begun, so there were no streams of people walking toward the stadium. No one at all, in fact, except for two teens kissing by the vocational building.

  He parked in a spot reserved for security personnel. Earlier in the day, he had informed the principal and the security guards assigned to the game that he would be snooping around. As he and Ari left the car and walked toward the stadium, the roars from the crowd grew louder, the buzz of youthful energy vibrating the air. Once they stepped into the bright lights and smelled the popcorn and heard the trumpets from the band, a wave of memories rolled over him, causing him to grip Ari’s hand.

  “Did you see something?” she asked.

  “Just a flashback. Kid stuff.”

  “Hopefully not about Claire,” she said quietly.

  He looked over and met her eyes. “Not about Claire.”

  “Good.”

  She squeezed his hand, and he felt as good about their relationship as he had in months. His physical attraction to Claire seemed trite and far away, as fleeting as the teenage years themselves.

  “How’s the case going?” she asked, when he paused at the bottom of the bleachers to watch the game. Creekville High had the ball and was ahead by a touchdown. The stands were as full and as raucous as he remembered, a sea of purple and white Creekville Tomcats.

  “I’ll update you later,” he said. He had told her the purpose of the trip but little else.

  “Do you have a gut feeling? You usually do.”

  She was right; after the initial round of witness and suspect interviews, he usually had a good idea where things were headed. With this case, however, he felt oddly at sea. Though he sensed the answers were within reach, he didn’t quite trust anyone involved, and he felt as if there was an important piece of the puzzle missing, something unrelated to everything he knew so far.

  It was a just a feeling, an instinct, but one he had learned to trust.

  So what was it?

  “I’ll get back to you on that” he said. “How about you? Is your murder witness still bothering you?”

  “Yeah” she said, in a distracted tone. “Let’s not talk about that, okay? I’d like to enjoy the evening and not think about work.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m sorry I started it.”

  She looped an arm through his, and he led her through the home crowd all the way to the top row so he could have a view of the entire stadium and the grounds behind it. Plenty of people glanced his way as he entered: teachers, students, some people around his age he thought he recognized but wasn’t sure. None of his closest friends from high school were in sight, Denny or Eric or Wade Fee. Nor did he see any ex-girlfriends, to his great relief. Though as much as everyone had changed, he supposed one could be sitting right next to him.

  Just when he thought he was clear, someone called out, “Psycho Joe!”

  On reflex, he turned at the mention of his old nickname. A few people down the row, he spotted a balding man with a beard and glasses, about his age, waving at him. Preach thought he recognized him: Craig Shinlever, a band member and golfer whose girlfriend, if memory served, had come on to Preach at a party. They ended up making out in a corner while Craig was in the other room, refilling her drink.

  “Craig?” Preach asked, embarrassed by the memory. God, he wished he could go back and change some things. A lot of things.

  The other man made his way over, squeezing between Preach and an older woman cheering wildly. “Been a while, huh?” Craig said. “Couldn’t resist homecoming?”

  “Something like that.”

  “My kid’s on the bench,” he said, as if apologizing for his own presence at the game. “I’m also a math teacher.”

  “You were always making the rest of us look bad in class.”

  Craig grinned and nudged him on the arm. “So were you, when it came to the ladies.”

  He made the comment without pretense or bitterness, and while Preach regretted his past, he also realized how trivial it was to the people they had matured into. Everyone made mistakes; everyone moved on and tried to become better people.

  “Hey, I saw you on TV, with the case last year.” Craig winced. “That must have been hard.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  The math teacher lowered his voice. “You’re working David’s case now, aren’t you? I heard about the teacher interviews.”

  Preach pursed his lips and nodded.

  Craig’s eyes roved to the sidelines, as if confirming the physical presence of his own son, safe and secure. “David was a really good kid.” He stood and put a hand on Preach’s shoulder. “Good to see you, buddy. The past doesn’t feel so far away at these games, does it?”

  “Not so much. Hey, Craig?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know a student named Nathan Wilkinson?”

  “Sure. Bit of a rough background. I think he’s on suspension.” “You haven’t seen him around tonight, have you?”

  “He’s not allowed on school grounds.”

  “Which means he’ll want to be here even more,” Preach said.

  Craig chuckled. “You’re right about that. You might want to check the parking lot by the baseball field. I’ve seen kids hanging out there during games. They’re not supposed to, but it’s a big campus.” “Thanks.”

  Craig pointed halfway down the stands and to his right. “See the Latino girl, puffy black jacket, sitting on the edge of the row ?”

  “With the cast on her leg?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Preach eyed a pretty, slender teen with short dark hair chatting with a group of girls. Her face was turned to the side, toward Preach, and her left foot was in a cast. A set of crutches was propped on the cement bleacher next to her.

  “That’s Alana Silver, Nate’s girlfriend.”

  “Do you know how long she’s been injured?” Preach asked.

  “A few weeks, I think. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” Preach murmured. Crutches meant that Alana Silver was probably not the second person Sharon had seen walking through Claire’s study.

  After Craig wandered off, Ari said, “Psycho Joe ?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  She gave him a soft poke in the ribs. “Really? It was that bad?” “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  As he debated approaching Alana, Ari squeezed his arm and said, “What’s he doing here ?”

  “Who?”

  “Opposite stairs, just coming in.”

  Preach turned to his left an
d saw, standing at the bottom of the stairs separating two of the bleacher sections, a young male with his hands in the pockets of his gray hoodie, standing in place as he scanned the crowd. Preach guessed he was in his mid-twenties, Latino American but darker-skinned than Alana, thick eyebrows, short but compact. His face was square and handsome, and his eyes moved among the fans like heat-seeking missiles, eerily calm and focused amidst the chaos.

  “His name’s Cristo Rivero,” she said. “On the street he’s known as Cobra. He’s an enforcer for Los Viburos in Durham.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “He’s a real predator, Joe. A killer.”

  “Is there a warrant out?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing’s stuck, yet.”

  Cobra slipped his hood up, concealing his face, then climbed the stairs and took a seat at the top, just like Preach had. A vantage point to watch the crowd.

  Preach rose and started scooting around Ari.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Joe, maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

  She trailed off as he walked across the back of the stands, right next to the railing, and made his way toward Cobra. Though Preach had a different agenda that night, he couldn’t stand the thought of a gang enforcer strolling into a high school stadium and looking for marks. His high school stadium.

  Cobra saw him approach, studying him in silence. Preach sat right next to him. “Hey pal, are you an alum?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know someone here ?”

  The gang member’s eyes flicked to the field, as if deciding whether to claim he knew one of the players. “Is that any of your business ?” “You’re a bit old for high school football, don’t you think?”

  “And you’re not ?”

  “I went to school here.”

  “And I enjoy watching football.”

  “Do you also enjoy selling drugs to kids? Or recruiting them to gangs?”

  Cobra’s jaw tightened.

  Preach slid his badge out and held it against his thigh. The people around them were chatting or focused on the game. “I’m a detective.” “Good for you. And what have I done wrong, officer?”

  Cobra’s voice was cold and measured, a professional for sure. “You joined a gang and came to the wrong place on the wrong night.”

  When Cobra turned back to the game, Preach gripped him by the forearm. It was a muscular arm, and Cobra tensed, but Preach was much larger and had an iron grip. “You should leave.”

  Cobra’s other hand twitched. Preach prepared for action, sinking his weight into his heels and watching the gang member for signs of drawing a weapon. Instead of making a move, Cobra’s voice lowered and took on a breathless quality, as if the thought of impending violence excited him. “Is there a law against watching a game ?”

  “Do you really want to do this?”

  “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Not around kids, it’s not.” Preach let his arm go. “Walk away, and don’t ever let me see you around a school again. This one or any other.”

  Without changing his neutral expression, Cobra stood, eying Preach the entire time as he backed toward the stairs. As the detective continued to watch, the gang member turned and walked away, his focus straight ahead as he exited the stadium.

  When Preach returned to his seat, Ari gave him a kiss on the cheek and squeezed his hand.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “For being you. Why do you think he was here ?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, recalling the members of Los Viburos infesting the trailer park where Nate Wilkinson lived. Was there a connection? Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to run Cobra off. “Sending a message to someone, maybe.”

  When it was halftime, the band started playing, and people rose to make their way to the aisles. Alana was on the move too. She had picked up her crutches and was limping down the stairs, supported by one of her friends. Another girl trailed behind them.

  “Sorry, got to run again,” he said to Ari.

  “I’m going with you this time.” When he protested, she said, “If you trail those girls yourself, they’ll think you’re a perv.”

  He had to concede the point.

  One of Alana’s friends broke away at the concession stand. Alana checked her cell phone and nudged the third girl, a chubby redhead with a Mohawk and nose piercings. They started walking again, out of the stadium and down a paved walkway that ran behind the Driver’s Ed trailer, spilling into the furthest parking lot from the main road. Off to the left was the baseball field, to the right was a patch of woods. Preach could see movement in the darkness of the infield.

  Alana struggled along with her crutches, determined to get wherever she was going. Preach and Ari lagged behind, not wanting to spook anyone.

  Cobra, too, could be there. Preach debated calling for backup and decided not to, but he also decided he couldn’t take Ari any further. She protested again, but he insisted and told her to get the car and park by the baseball field.

  After Ari left, he slipped closer to the dugout where Alana and her friend were headed. They didn’t notice him and he stayed to the shadows, drawing close enough to see four boys sitting in a circle on the infield, smoking and drinking beer.

  One of them was Nate Wilkinson.

  As Alana and her friend managed the gate beside the dugout, Preach hopped the low fence, causing the boys in the circle to scramble to their feet. They gave him belligerent but guilty stares, trying to figure out who he was.

  Nate looked just like he did in the yearbook picture Preach had seen. A skinny kid an inch or two shy of six feet, a face pockmarked by acne, oily dark hair, and ghoulishly pale skin. Not just white from lack of sun, but the unhealthy pallor of a poor diet and probably some drug use.

  “Who the hell are you?” Nate said.

  Two more kids stepped out of the dugout to back him up. They shared a similar dress code: ripped jeans, tattoos and piercings, vinyl jackets, and insouciant stares. Nate’s gang, Preach presumed. At least Cobra was nowhere in sight. Preach thought he might have been here to distribute some product. If not, then why was he here ?

  The kids puffed their chests out and edged forward, emboldened by their leader. Preach held his badge out. “I’m Detective Everson with the Creekville Police.”

  That cowed them for a moment—everyone except Nate. After flicking his eyes at Alana, who was standing off to the side, he stepped forward and sneered. “Creekville Police? Don’t you have some deer to round up ? Old ladies to help across the street ?”

  Snickers rose from the group.

  “How about a murder to investigate ?” Preach asked.

  Nate remained indignant. “What’s that have to do with us?”

  “I heard you and David Stratton had a fight a few weeks ago.”

  Nate’s eyes slunk toward Alana.

  “Busted you up pretty good, huh?” Preach said. “You get mad at him, decide to save some face?”

  Nate shuffled his feet and ran a hand through his lank hair. “He jumped me the last time, from behind. I didn’t have a chance.”

  Preach could tell by the shifting glances of Nate’s friends that the truth lay elsewhere.

  “Too bad he up and died on me,” Nate said, which elicited a few snorts. One of the kids, the side of his cheek swollen with tobacco, spat and said, “Fucking pretty boy.”

  Preach leveled his gaze at them until each and every kid looked away. “One of your classmates is dead,” he said quietly. “Show some respect.” He turned to Nate. “Where were you on the night of October 2?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone, man.”

  “Answer the question.”

  He looked at Alana. “With my girl. At her place.”

  “Is that true ?” Preach asked her. He could see her profile out of the corner of his eye.

  “Yeah,” Alana said. From her hesitation, he could tell she was
n’t telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth. “He came in through the window and stayed the night.”

  “What time did he get there?” Preach asked. When Alana glanced at Nate, he cut her off with a palm. “I need you to tell me.”

  She shrugged. “Nine ? Ten? Not that late.”

  Preach curled a finger at Nate. “You’re coming with me.”

  “What? Why? I swear I didn’t kill no one.”

  “We’ll talk about that at the station.”

  “You can’t just arrest me. I got rights. You got no evidence about that.”

  “You’re trespassing on school grounds during a suspension,” Preach said. “I have every right—”

  Before he finished the sentence, Nate turned and sprinted through the infield. Preach gave chase, but a leg came out and tripped him, causing him to sprawl face-first on the ground. Spitting dirt and holding his knee, he cursed and lurched to his feet, unable to tell who had tripped him. He took off after Nate, watching him hop a fence on the other side and sprint into the outer edges of the blacktop. Grunting in pain as he ran, his knee on fire, Preach reached the fence and leaped to grab the top of the fence. He pulled himself over and dashed onto the pavement, just in time to see Nate disappear behind a shed. With another curse, Preach darted after him, realizing he had fled into the woods behind the school. Reaching for his cell phone as he ran, Preach flicked on the flashlight in time to illuminate a tiny footpath Nate had taken.

  The detective pressed deeper into the patch of forest. With the chirp of crickets all around, he slipped on a fast food wrapper, then crunched on broken glass as he came upon a narrow stream with a makeshift campsite on the bank. Half-burnt piles of wood and cigarette butts littered the site, along with dozens of crushed beer cans. On the other side of the creek, a wider trail led alongside the water in both directions. There was no sign of Nate, and Preach wished he were a better tracker in the woods. He poised to listen, straining for the sound of footsteps above the insect chatter, but only the hooting of an owl interrupted the night chorus.