In the hospital, the atrium has cushioned benches lining the walls, in addition to a few rows of chairs positioned back-to-back on the floor. It seems that the facility is designed to cater to quite a lot of traffic.
The walls are the traditional white, and in the early hour, I’m the only one waiting here. The nurses bustle through now and then, but it’s nothing, I’m sure, compared to the fast-paced anxiety that will no doubt take over this place when the sun rises in a few hours.
As far as cities go, Albuquerque is not among the biggest, most densely populated. Indeed, it can’t hold a candle to, say, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Chicago, or Portland. But even so, its citizens can be found here and there throughout the night. In sleepy towns like Wometzia or Riverdell, there is a time when even the town itself dozes into a light sleep, and the only people conscious are the people whose professions require them to be so.
And me.
I’ve always had a close, intimate affinity for life at night. The sunless hours offer a sense of tranquil quiet soothing to the parts of me riddled with anxiety and various other sorts of mental damage. As the prodigious, prolific young detective of Riverdell, none had suspected that I’m also the product of years of physical, mental, emotional, and sexual abuse. My success, like anyone else’s, came as a result of hard work, but many of Riverdell’s residents seemed to think that mine was an adolescence riddled with family support.
The reality was far from that, but it was also a reality that I was not willing to share with my peers, teachers, or other figures, either in adolescence or adulthood. What good might it have done anyway?
Reflecting on the difference in nighttime hours makes me feel anxious, a particular brand of anxiety manufactured by the same machines that produce claustrophobia en masse.
The perpetuity of the passing of time has always been a sort of comfort to me, I suppose. In the most desperately broken stages of my youth, I could always count on there being something beyond my current circumstances. And even if the next day brought with it the same horrors as its predecessors, a tiny, indomitable flame of hope within me shone on: Someday, it will end, and you will be free.
As an adult, the same mental coping skill exists on a much smaller scale: the day will end. Night will come and relieve me of my compulsions, my anxiety, and, against convention, my fears. Many people fear the dark and its many unknowns, its shadows eddying about as if they’ve taken on sentience, but those flitting shadows became my favorite company over the years, replaced and bumped to second place only recently, by Todd.
The night has no eyes with which to judge, no sun bearing its scrutinizing gaze, no people going about their days as a colony of ants, each catering to a colony of problems. The only real downside is that, for the life of me, I can’t find anywhere to get a half-decent cup of coffee at three o’clock in the morning. Go figure; as it turns out, that’s not an hour during which many people are looking to java up.
The city is different. Time passes just the same, sure, but it no longer carries with it the promise of serene calm. The night never settles into its deep rest the way that it does in my hometown.
A nurse—pediatric, judging by her Minions-themed scrubs—emerges from the hallway behind me to my right and goes to the nurses’ station carrying a clipboard.
“He’s still awake,” she says to another nurse, one with a messy bun and light pink scrubs.
“Is he trying to rest?”
“No,” says Minions. “He keeps asking if he can see his mom. Any luck getting ahold of her?”
“Not since that first call.”
“First call?” I say. They both look up, surprised, as if the wall itself had asked the question. They look at each other, wondering whether or not to tell me any more—whether they’ve said too much already.
I show them my badge and the tension unwinds a great deal, but it does not dissipate entirely.
“We called his mother after he was first admitted, and she picked up. She sounded frightened even before we told her who it was or why we were calling. She sounded even more terrified afterward, but after we asked her if she could come to the hospital, she hung up. At first we thought maybe she was just in a rush—hang up the phone, pick up your keys, and peel out, nice and dramatic—but we still haven’t seen her, and she will no longer pick up when we try to call.”
“She seemed scared even at the beginning?”
“Petrified.”
“And she didn’t mention why? Did her tone change at all during the first few seconds of the conversation, like she had been expecting someone else?”
“I guess now that you mention it, maybe a little, but in memory it might just be because I’m trying to remember that specific thing rather than that it actually happened. I know that’s not very useful, but I don’t want to mislead you.”
What a delight. Contrary to what seems to be the unanimous opinion of witnesses everywhere, evidence speaks for itself, and making some up to try to be useful to a case will always do more harm than good. In fact, no good at all will come of it, barring the most bizarre of exceptional circumstances.
“Let me see if I can reach her,” I say. I pull my phone out of my pocket. “It is Stanley we’re talking about, right?” It just occurred to me that neither Minions nor Pink actually said his name at any point. But Minions nods and I place a call to Husk.
“Thorn,” he says, “any news?”
“Well, the nurses here said that they tried to reach Mrs. Romero, but she hung up on them and won’t pick up. Will you let her know that Andre is in holding and that it’s safe for her to come visit? Based on what they told me, it sounds like he might have threatened her and told her not to leave the house.”
“I’ll talk to her. What’s going on up there?”
I explain how Perkins tried to frame me and his odd connection to Romero, and that we’re having trouble finding him; we don’t really have a place even to start looking.
“Well, I’ll ask around here, see if anyone knows anything. It sounds like he would know better than to be seen with his accomplice, in his accomplice’s hometown, but maybe someone saw him on his own, doing something he shouldn’t have, or being somewhere he didn’t belong.”
“Good call. Thanks, Chief.”
“You got it. Also, seeing as he’s the local and all, maybe you should look into where Romero likes to spend his time. Probably it’ll get you closer to Perkins than trying to go directly for him anyway.”
“Huh. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Yeah, I know. Get on that, and I’ll talk with you again soon.”
Well, Husk holds Wometzia down nicely, and I doubt that Perkins is there right now, anyway—too foreign of terrain, and too much commotion in too small of a town with too few hiding places. Not to mention that the town would have seen all of his moves, being an unfamiliar face and all. Even I’m still under that particular microscope. I wonder whether Perkins anticipated that or if he was taken aback from the smallness of the town.
I’m sure he at least attempted to have a presence in town, but was driven out by people noticing and talking to him left and right. It probably frustrated him, but he would probably have had to operate using his consort, at least during daylight hours.
So where might a supposed family man spend his time? Home and work, really. Maybe a bar, but he would need to be extremely cautious. Or just get a hotel room. I call the Albuquerque station this time.
“Hey, Lund,” I say after the receptionist gets him on the line, “do we have credit card information for Romero? Like where he’s used it and such?”
“We have a bank statement,” he says. I hear a shuffling of paper and he reads it to me.
Most of it is typical: gas stations, takeout, grocery stores, hardware stores, and that which isn’t so typical isn’t all that alarming, either: a handful of transactions from websites like Amazon, and the others are sites I don’t recognize, but the names are innocent enough. I remind myself that, if Andre and his wife have a joint account (a
nd Lund says that there are two names on the statement), any of this shopping could have been done by his wife, as well.
They must either use the same card or have two cards pulling from the same account, because their checking account is the only one listed on the statement.
“It was a pain in the ass to get all of this on time during the weekend,” says Lund.
I’d imagine so. Jumping the appropriate hoops, even during the week, is a pain in the ass, but to obtain a subpoena after hours would be a mighty pain in the ass indeed.
“I’m sure it was just as bad last week, too,” I say. Maybe Perkins has a normal nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday sort of deal going on.
Or maybe his hiding place does.
On my phone, I pull up the website for A3D. They have a ‘Contact Us’ link at the bottom of the page. I tap it and it directs me to a page containing a customer support number, an e-mail address, and the Holy Grail: a non-PO box street address. They include a photo of their staff standing in front of the building, like a shot plagiarized from a workplace conflict resolution manual that HR makes you read as a new hire.
Romero is among them, smiling just like he belongs. I wonder if he had ever taken a life by the time that photo was taken. Had he always been a killer?
Have I?
Sure, by definition, it’s the verb, the actual event and status of having taken a life that makes us killers. But a person capable of taking a life outside of the heat of rage, with the distant stoicism necessary to continue living as usual, has been a killer for a long time. Perhaps their history suggests that there’s a mass of darkness present—a child who enjoys ripping insects’ legs off, or a small-town Oregon boy who had seen enough of someone’s perverse behaviors without the armless justice system able to do anything about it.
But sometimes, witnesses retain that the killer is the best, most stable person they know, even with a mountain of evidence pointing in the exact opposite direction. These people are, of course, the surprises, but also, by nature, the most dangerous, if only for that nobody has their guard up against them. Nobody is going to second-guess that guy when he buys a gun for protection. That man has all the access, emotional and otherwise, to unleash quite a heap of damage.
So is that man, the latter, the Perkins of this dichotomy, born hardwired to extinguish people’s flames of life? Has some sinister mutation granted him the much-feared ability to kill without remorse?
I thought I had that ability once. When I realized that I don’t, I thought I wanted it. Beth and Todd helped me realize that, indeed, I neither have nor want that ability. My contact with my humanity was introduced to me just in time, I think, to keep me from adopting that dark, ruthless mindset.
Now, I wonder if I could still take a life. Even beyond jail, losing Todd, and the various other fallouts that would follow without fail, a mercy factor awakened in me upon finding that I’m capable of real human connection. That factor, thus far, has not come into play, but I look upon the future with apprehension about when it might manifest.
But that’s another issue for another time.
“Ma’am, may I speak with Stanley?” I say.
Minions studies me for a moment.
“I can let him know what’s going on with his mom and dad.”
“Try not to upset him,” she says. Pink shoots an alarmed, incredulous look at Minions, but I’m not about to sit and wait for them to argue it out. I have my yes and I’m running with it—almost literally, as my trot down the hall escalates rapidly from that to a canter, and comes in hot on the line between a canter and an unbridled gallop. And even as I canter-gallop away, I hear their argument breaking out and then increase in both volume and intensity.
Fortunately, the damage inflicted upon Stanley is almost exclusively superficial. He has a sizable gash across his abdomen, but aside from the blood loss, that was the extent of the damage. The cut had not been deep enough to hit any organs, but it spans across his belly almost entirely, each end sitting a few inches below the respective floating ribs. The incision, according to the report, is perfectly symmetrical and centered.
Due to all of that evidence, it seems to be that Perkins was planning to carry out the murder just like the other two, but aborted that endeavor when he saw Todd and me show up. He must have slipped away while Todd and I were in the barn. To think that we had been so close angers and excites me.
And despite that, the evidence points toward a twisted sense of revenge, my mind still echoes the word: Sacrifice.
Stanley is hooked up to several machines monitoring his heart rate and various things I don’t recognize. When he sees me, he only acknowledges me by looking at me. I need to use my quiet, gentle demeanor to speak with him. Even if he’s in a position to have the necessary conversation, it’s best for the case as well as his well-being if he can keep calm. Besides, I like being on good terms with both witnesses and nurses.
Stanley’s eyes surprise me by looking the same as they had when I spoke with him about Firenze. Although, I suppose, he has never really had a break from fear. His life has been built on a foundation of trauma, like me. Those layers of fear are deep, strong, and almost inaccessible. And in the eyes of the child lying on this hospital bed, the lights of hope and life have long since been doused, drowned out by the walls and barriers erected as a result of the abuse he’s endured.
“Hey, Stan,” I say. He reacts only by nodding in my direction. While his face was unscathed by his encounter, it still bears the pain and scars of an abusive father, which is even more heartbreaking. He swallows audibly.
“You feelin’ up to talking?” I say.
He nods. “I want my momma, though. Where’s my momma?”
“We’re trying to get ahold of her. She was just scared.”
“Of my dad?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What time is it?”
“About five in the morning,” I say.
“What do you want to know?” He’s not looking to help so much as he’s looking to get this over with so he can move on and bury these thoughts and memories with the rest of his trauma. Perhaps this visit is indeed premature. Even so, I need to confirm one thing.
“Did you see the one who kidnapped you?”
Stan nods. “He was a white guy. Same kinda body as you. Light hair I think, but it was too dark for me to know for sure.”
“Thank you,” I say. Determining that it would be unwise to push him any further now, I say a quick goodbye, and relay a text I didn’t notice before, saying that his mother was on her way with a police escort.
Before I reach the door, Stanley speaks up.
“Wait,” he says.
I halt and turn to face him, but I am reluctant to stay for more than a minute or two; he truly needs rest, and laboring through conversation so grim can only be counterproductive in that endeavor. I've underestimated the strength and resilience of youth before, but I’ll be damned if he’s had a quiet hour in his life.
“What was your name again?”
“Thorn. Detective Thorn. But you can call me Remy.”
“Remy, why am I here, alive?”
“Because we got you to a hospital and the doctors and nurses are taking good care of you.”
His eyes begin to flood, a rare breach of the emotional dam behind them. “No,” he says, “that’s not what I mean. Like, why are Tony and Firenze dead, but not me? Is it my fault they died?”
Survivor’s guilt is a bitch of a condition to work through, especially for youth, and ever more so for those with protective personalities. Even twenty, thirty—hell, seventy—years from now, Stan will be visited—nay, violated—by the thought: Why them? Why not me?
I sit back down and put a hand on his arm. At this, more tears escape, now cascading down his cheeks and onto his gown without reserve.
“You are not responsible for any of this,” I say. “This was done by a very evil man, and we’re going to find him and put him away. Okay?”
Stanley nod
s. My heart aches on his behalf. He doesn’t believe, at least not entirely, that he didn’t have anything to do with his friends’ deaths. After all, they were a trio. A set. They had long since decided that their lives would remain intertwined over the years. But now, that reality will never come to pass, leaving Stan, the sole remaining strand of that rope, to wonder: What did I do wrong?
“Are people gonna be mad at me?”
“No, buddy. Nobody will be mad. At least, nobody worth paying attention to.”
“But what if they are?”
“Did you do anything wrong?”
“No.” He looks dejected at first, then he raises his head, fierce, determined.
“So if people get mad at you, it’s probably their own problem and not yours, right?”
“Yes …”
“So you don’t have to worry. Anybody who’s mad at you doesn’t deserve to have you in their life.”
He nods, but doesn’t focus on anything in particular, his gaze swallowed by nothingness. We sit in silence for a time, but when I move to stand up, he says, “Please don’t leave me alone. Will you please wait until my mom gets here?”
I nod and we continue waiting in silence. Though there are many active and passive forms of comfort in the world, perhaps one of the lesser appreciated is silence. There’s nothing more to be said between us, and the steady humming of the machinery is all that breaks the quiet. Perhaps this is the break that will finally lead to Stan’s healing. But even using the utmost strength of my imagination, I can think of little that will help him move on, short of his friends rising from their graves and stitching themselves back together.
Thirteen
Death is ugly, nasty business. When a life is no longer, and particularly when those close to it have no time to prepare, the only thing to do, it seems, is to cry. Even if one can find a mode of distraction, anything resembling recreation will be experienced only minimally, and any joy derived thereof seems like an act of despicable betrayal.
My life has been relatively free of death, which is an odd thing to say, as a detective. Mostly it comes from a lack of significant people in my life. My friends are young and healthy. I never knew my grandparents, either maternal or paternal, and both of my parents were only children, thus permitting me no aunts, uncles, or cousins. I only have one sister, with whom I almost never speak—Trina is off living in New York, and no part of me could justify urging her return for anything short of an apocalypse or winning the lottery—and the latter would certainly be a sure sign that the former was on the horizon.
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