Witness to Death

by Dave White

  John took a long sip of coffee, feeling the burn down his esophagus as he drank. It pooled in his stomach and then spread through his body. For a few minutes, he was able to relax. The smell of coffee reminded him of school. The sixth grade teacher Kim Gomez always went out to get Dunkin Donuts third period. She picked up a huge cup for him as well. It was tradition. Every day she’d knock on his classroom door three minutes before the period ended and bring the cup to him. All his students watched. And then complained.

  How come you didn’t bring me coffee, Miss?

  Miss, I woulda got a donut if I knew you were going!

  John smiled at the memory.

  Then he turned the page of the paper and saw his face. The photo was blurred at the edges, as if the photographer’s hand had been shaking, but it was definitely him. Taken from a cell phone, no doubt. He looked up from the paper and around the restaurant. No one else was reading the paper, but two people in line had it tucked under their arms.

  John wolfed down one of the donuts, folded the paper and left with the coffee.

  He crossed Route 4 and walked down Boulevard into Elmwood Park. Michelle’s apartment was just around the corner. He saw the brick building in the distance, a squat three story cube. It looked like Ashley’s apartment building.

  The image of her turning around, bleeding, scared, danced in his mind. He dropped the coffee and it splattered against his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, the rain pounding on his head.

  He’d never seen her like that. She’d always been vibrant, confident. He shoved his free hand into his pocket.

  Fix it. Make it better.

  Maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe she was never vibrant and her confidence was a mask. She was a bitch, someone he never should have liked. Never should have loved. He didn’t know anymore. Maybe what his shrink said was true. He didn’t love her. He just didn’t want to end the relationship.

  John pressed the buzzer to Michelle’s apartment and waited for the sound of her voice through the intercom. It wouldn’t be asking how he was and telling him to come up. It would be telling him to run. Or that she was scared.

  Or that she was calling the cops.

  John looked across the street. Some of the parked cars’ windshields were covered with ice. If this were a school day, students and teachers both would be complaining about having to go to work. How any time there was even the threat of snow, they should just close school.

  John wondered what would happen in a week when they had to go back to work. What would his administration say? Would he even have a job waiting for him? What was the policy on suspected murderers?

  Pressing the buzzer again, John wondered why Michelle didn’t answer. He stepped back down the stairs to look up at her apartment window, ice creeping up the sills. Michelle wasn’t looking through the blinds. Perhaps she had already called the police. He felt his legs tense, thinking it was time to run again.

  Unless something else was wrong upstairs. He pictured Ashley once more on the floor, the life oozing from her. And then his mind’s eye replaced Ashley with Michelle. He had to see her, make sure she was okay. He used the palm of his hand to press all the buzzers, hoping someone would respond without asking questions.

  Seconds later, someone buzzed him in. He raced upstairs to the third floor, and saw Ashley’s—Michelle’s—door was closed. He gripped the handle and twisted. It didn’t give; locked. He stepped back, hand still on the handle and slammed his good shoulder into the door. It didn’t open. But now that shoulder was on fire.

  He stepped back again and yelled out Michelle’s name. This time he kicked at the door. She was behind there, bleeding, dying. Here he was on the other side, no way to get to her.

  “Michelle!”

  He kicked the door again and heard wood crack. It was starting to give way a bit. He kicked it once more.

  An old man in plaid boxers and nothing else stuck his head out into the hallway. He watched as John kicked the door once again. The wood at the knob splintered. One more solid shot would open it.

  “Get away from there. Are you crazy?” The old man swung his hand in the air, trying to get John’s attention.

  John turned his head for a minute before lining up the next kick. The old man’s mouth dropped open.

  “You’re him. The one from the news. I’m calling the police.”

  Go ahead, John thought. She’s going to need help.

  He stepped forward and thrust his leg outward yet again. The wood cracked and shattered as the door swung open.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. DeStefano,” John heard. “I can take care of this. Don’t call them.”

  When John turned, Michelle was standing at the end of the hall. The knotted muscles in his shoulders eased, and his eyes burned. The corners of his mouth curled. He took a step forward.

  There were dark circles under Michelle’s eyes.

  The old man shut his door.

  “John,” she said. “Talk to the police. Tell them what happened. Then we’ll get you a doctor. I promise. It’s the only way to fix this.”

  “No,” he said. “I can’t go back. Not without someone to support my story.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Frank. Call Frank. He can clear me. But he needs to come with us too.”

  There was a knock on the inside of the old man’s door.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” The man’s voice was muffled through the thick wood. “The police are on their way.”

  DeStefano, Michelle’s aged neighbor, opened his door, peeking through the crack, as if to see if they were still there. Michelle didn’t move toward him. Why had John said Frank could clear him?

  Her apartment door swung inward then back and bounced off the jamb slowly. She hadn’t thought John had that kind of strength in him. His eyes bore through her, unblinking.

  Her heart sped up and her throat tightened, a rock forming in it.

  “Mr. Destafano, I told you not to call them,” she said. “I told you it was okay.”

  “He’s a murderer. It’s on TV.”

  “He’s not . . . Please. Go inside.” She used her teacher voice, the one that froze a known gang member in his tracks when he was without a hall pass. DeStefano took one last look at the two of them and slammed the door shut.

  John was breathing, his shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. His cheeks were red, and his face was scratched up. Even though he hunched over, he looked somehow taller. He stood at an angle favoring his left side. He looked like he would collapse.

  Instead, John stepped away from the door, moving toward her, quicker than she expected.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “Ashley’s dead. They came for me. They came for Frank. I didn’t do it. Call Frank. He’ll tell you.”

  Michelle felt the wall at her back and looked at John. He kept saying Frank.

  “What do you mean they came for Frank?”

  John stared back at her. Didn’t speak.

  John, who’d held her the night her mother went into surgery after the car accident. John, who used to bring her lunch every day while they were dating. John, who, even after they broke up, would call and ask if she wanted coffee in the morning.

  John put his right hand to his forehead.

  “Not they. Her. A woman with a gun and a knife. She shot Ashley. And she stabbed me.”

  It was as if he was in shock.

  He dropped his jacket, half turned toward her, and pulled the collar of his shirt down. Gauze was taped to his shoulder at an angle. Some of the tape was peeling away from his skin. The gauze was stained red and brown. The edges had yellowed. His skin was red around it.

  “The woman twisted the knife in my shoulder and asked where someone called Peter was.”

  He took another step toward her. Michelle stepped forward this time. Three steps would get them to the stairwell. The police would be here any minute. She didn’t know what to do.

  “You said they came for F
rank.”

  “He’s involved in this somehow.

  Despite counting to ten in her head, her voice rose as he kept walking toward her. She felt the warmth of the tears tickle her cheeks. “I can help you, John. We’ll get you help. We’ll talk to someone. It’s going to be okay. Oh my God, this is crazy.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Frank killed all the men on the dock. Not me.”

  The name made her skin cold. Michelle’s knees buckled, but she tensed all her muscles and didn’t fall.

  “Your Frank, Michelle.”

  This time Michelle took a step forward. Not to run. She clenched her fists.

  “What did you do to him? What happened to Frank?”

  “Nothing. The last time I saw him, he was fine.”

  Michelle charged John and pounded her fists on his chest. She wanted to punch through him. John grunted and took the first few shots. Then he caught her wrists and pulled her close to him.

  “Call him. He’ll tell you,” John said.

  Michelle twisted hard, freeing her wrists, and dropped them at her side. She looked up into John’s eyes.

  John took a step back from her, squinting a bit, as if he was rolling what he wanted to say over in his head.

  “Hurry,” John said. “The police are coming.”

  “Oh, oh my God, John.” Her cheeks felt hot, as if the flesh was burning from her body.

  “Call him. Please, just give me that. Call him. Ask him.” His voice was soft, yet unwavering.

  John, who’d always been there for her, whenever she asked.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. Frank picked up on the first ring.

  “Michelle! Are you okay?” Frank’s voice was the opposite of John’s, loud and shaky.

  She didn’t answer at first, waiting for him to continue.

  “Where are you?”

  “I told you I stayed with my dad last night. I just got home.”

  “And everything’s okay?”

  “I’m with John.”

  “Is he all right?”

  John stepped away from her and looked out the hallway window on to the street, pulling the Venetian blinds open with his fingers.

  “The police. They’re coming. You said—you said—you needed to tell me something, in person.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. It felt like her throat had completely closed up. She couldn’t swallow.

  “Is the whole world going crazy? He says you were involved in the shooting.”

  John turned back from the window. His eyes cut through her. Frank didn’t say anything. Michelle swore she could hear a church bell on the other end of the line.

  “Frank. Are you there? I love you. If you love me, you’ll tell me the truth.”

  There was silence on the end of the line. She then heard Frank take a deep breath.

  “Listen to John, Michelle. My real name is Peter Callahan. I work for the government. Department of Homeland Security. I’ve been undercover since we met. But someone found me out.”

  Michelle felt as if all the air around her had gone cold. Her vision blurred, and her eyes burned.

  “I can’t tell you any more. If I do, you’ll be in trouble. Hell, you might already be,” Frank said. “The police are coming for John. You need to get him out of there. Get out of the state. Be safe. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll find you.” He hung up.

  Michelle’s stomach twisted and she thought she was going to throw up.

  “What did he say?” John asked.

  She put her phone back into her purse, laying it next to her small package of tissues as if it were an egg she didn’t want to crack.

  “I have to go. What did he say?”

  She breathed through her nose, as she cramped hard like it was the first day of her period.

  “You were right.” Michelle dug her nails deep into her palms. “He said I should go with you.”

  As Callahan pulled off Route 18 into New Brunswick, he tried to figure things out. Whatever was going on had put him in the bullseye. The question was: Were they always the targets, him and Ashley? Or had his presence interfered with the trenchcoats’ plans? He tried Weller’s line and didn’t get an answer.

  The trenchcoats had seemed to know he was coming. Maybe someone tipped off Omar, who in turn called for help. But help from where?

  He took the New Street exit and parked his car in the first open spot he could find. Stepping out of the car, the harsh morning wind slashed through his ears and made his eyes water. The icy rain fell from the sky, and he cursed. It was thickening into snow. The weather would only slow him down. The Parkway always came to a complete stop with even the threat of snow.

  He’d told Michelle. He’d told her the truth, and when he had, he’d felt a warmth in his chest. He was making a mistake, blowing his cover, but when she asked if he loved her he couldn’t stop himself. He hadn’t counted on that. He hadn’t counted on actually falling for her. He was supposed to be professional, not let feelings get in the way. He wasn’t supposed to be like John.

  He walked up the hill toward George Street. Not many people were out this early on a Saturday morning. It was as if the whole city had a hangover. A few college aged kids milled about outside the Dunkin Donuts. He asked one which way the C Town was. The kid looked confused and then pointed over Callahan’s shoulder.

  It was tough for Candy to say a whole street was safe, but he’d called her again on the way down. She didn’t see an army of mercenaries waiting for him. That would have to be good enough.

  As Callahan walked he pictured the trench coats pulling their guns the other night. Were they already out? No, they definitely had their backs to Callahan at first. But how did they know they were being followed? He’d barely rounded the corner when they aimed at him. Callahan didn’t cough, didn’t kick anything over. He hadn’t made a sound. Nothing gave him away. They knew. They must have.

  Once past the theater district, the neighborhood changed distinctly. It was gentrified, with construction vehicles everywhere. Condos were being built, a convention center’s skeleton loomed in the air. But the broken down homes and churches still crumbled around the construction. An old man sat on the stoop of a small Baptist church and brushed snow off his shoulders. Next to him stood a brown paper bag, the tip of a bottle peeking through the top.

  The C Town, a gray concrete supermarket was a block away. A Hispanic man in a puffy black winter coat leaned against the wall of the store. The guy’s hands were jammed in his pockets.

  When Callahan passed him, the guy said, “You need somethin’?”

  “Jose?” Callahan stuck out his hand like he wanted to shake.

  “You a cop?” Jose laughed. The pencil thin mustache outlining his upper lip curved upwards. “Nah, you ain’t a cop. I know all the cops in this town.”

  “I’m not a cop,” Callahan said, just to say it.

  “Whatchu need man?”

  “To talk.” His hand was still extended, waiting for Jose to take it.

  When his hand came out of the pocket, Jose did it slowly, as if moving too quickly would cause the hand to fall off. Callahan saw why, his fingertips didn’t have nails. They were growing back, but the tips were red and scabbed. Jose didn’t shake his hand, instead bumping knuckles.

  “What d’ya want to talk about?”

  “I heard about you from Omar Thabata.”

  Jose smiled. “My Jersey City boy. How he doing?”

  Callahan shrugged. “Same as always.”

  “He sent you down here to see me? Something fishy about that. You sure you’re not a cop?”

  “I’m sure. I work for the government. I’m actually looking for Omar. Hoping you can help me find him.”

  “How I know you work for the government? Got ID?”

  Callahan looked at the building across the street. He saw a glint of light coming out of the second floor window. Probably a mirror.

  He pointed at it. “See that window, something shining out of it
? That’s one of my men. He’s got a rifle aimed at your head. You try anything, he puts one in you and disappears. I give a signal you’re not being very helpful, he’ll just send two men around the corner to arrest you. We’re also recording everything you say.”