“Jesus Christ.” Parker lay back on the mattress. She was breathing as though she’d just run a marathon. “I can’t believe we actually got in. It doesn’t even matter that we didn’t get the file, that was some seriously impressive shit.”
“I got it.”
Parker shot up. “You’re shitting me, right?”
The room was still distorted around Wren. As if the world around her were melting like a Dali painting. She felt detached from it all, an observer from another time, another dimension. A spectator to the end of something.
“I got it,” she repeated.
“Oh my God.” Parker laughed. She stood up and punched the air in front of her in celebration. “The others aren’t going to believe this shit. We just single-handedly kicked the entire FBI cybersecurity team in the balls. This is the stuff of legend. Holy shit. I can’t believe it.”
“I got it.”
“You’re a freak, Wren. A beautiful fucking freak.”
“I got it.”
Parker pulled Wren into her, her hands running along her spine, pulling at her skin. But Wren didn’t feel it, any of it. Because when she closed her eyes, she was somewhere else entirely. A dream world of numbers, a world of codes and algorithms—things that don’t change, things that you can always control. Images were passing by that couldn’t be real, only simulations, but she reached a hand out and found her fingers meeting warm skin, something real, something here in front of her.
16 “UNKNOWN”
MARCUS WATERS WAS KNEELING in his garden, plucking weeds, or at least what looked like weeds in the light from the half-moon. He hadn’t thought to change out of his chinos and his collared shirt, both of which were now covered in topsoil. But he didn’t notice this. He focused all of his attention on the small green sprouts alongside his tomatoes, his cucumbers. It felt almost good to invest his attention fully in this mindless and unnecessary task.
After parting ways with Peter, Marcus had arrived home to a cascade of news vans lingering about his street. As he pulled in to his driveway, passing Jeremiah’s cruiser, the vans broke formation. Reporters and cameramen jumped from sliding doors like paratroopers from the belly of a plane, microphones extended for a sound bite. “Mr. Waters, did you see the latest video?” Another, “Mr. Waters, do you believe the Kingfisher is still alive?” Another, “Mr. Waters, do you think Gregory Stetson should release the ME report?” As the garage door shut behind him, he heard Jeremiah shouting at the hungry masses, “Get back. Nope, nope. Get back. I swear to God, get back.”
He immediately turned on his television. Another video, this time depicting a hostage Marcus didn’t recognize, but he hadn’t expected to. It could be Jeffrey Jenkins, Baxter Bedford, or some other poor soul altogether. But whoever he was, he was still alive, for the time being. And that was something, a small something. He thought of what Peter had revealed to him—the mystery woman who might have known the Kingfisher. But whoever she was, Marcus had no way of finding her. There was nothing to be done.
So he had turned off his television, gone to his garden, knelt in the dirt, and begun plucking weeds. Or at least what looked like weeds. A half-moon risen. A day ending.
After his legs began to ache, he returned inside and drank a glass of water. He searched his refrigerator for a beer. He wasn’t much of a drinker, never had quite gotten used to the taste. But he wasn’t concerned about the taste right now.
He found a Budweiser his son had left behind after his most recent visit. He sat down in the living room, the chilled glass bottle pressed into his dirty palm, and opened his never-to-be-finished crossword. He stared at the clues and tried to remember characters from television shows he had never seen, song lyrics he had never heard.
He didn’t realize his television was on until a fanfare of trumpets announced more breaking news. Marcus gripped the bottle tighter.
The newscaster spoke hurriedly, off-prompter. “We have just found out that the supposed ME report of the Kingfisher has been released through the Liber-teen Twitter account just minutes ago. Right now, we are attempting to verify the authenticity of this document, and we are awaiting a statement from police spokespersons, but we have decided to show it, with the understanding that it has not yet been verified. We ask that our viewers keep this in mind.”
The television broadcast an image of the document. Marcus turned up the volume, as though this would sharpen his eyesight. But from the first, blurry glance, it looked like the few other ME reports he had seen before. He noticed the Cook County insignia at the top of the typewritten page. At the very least, it bore the signs of legitimacy.
The newscaster said, “Notice at the top of the page, the date matches with the date the Kingfisher’s body was reported found in the Chicago River—January 4, 1984. And here in the middle of the page, where the medical examiner of Cook Country was prompted to write out a cause of death and a manner of death. The cause of death referring, I’m told, to how the person died, and the manner of death being whether or not it was a homicide, a suicide, et cetera. You can see that next to each item the medical examiner wrote—and this is of particular interest, considering recent claims from the Chicago police chief—Unknown. Again, we are not able to verify this document at this time, but if this is in fact the actual ME report of the body claimed to be the Kingfisher, it may contradict previous statements made by the police. We are still waiting for their response to this latest development.”
Marcus dug his phone from his pocket. He wanted to call his daughter, Lisa. He wanted to hear her voice, soft and unchanged, through the speaker. He wanted to ask her mundane questions that would fill the moment unfurling before him.
“And here,” the reporter continued, “at the bottom of the report. It’s very hard to see, but at the bottom of the page, it appears as though the examiner jotted down a few notes. It appears that he wrote—I’m struggling to read the handwriting—it appears that he wrote, ‘Chemical burn compromises tox reports. Null. Dental negative. Physical build resembles anecdotal descriptions of K.F. No possible identification available.’ That’s quite a lot to take in, and we’ll have an expert analysis as soon as possible, but in the meantime, we’re going to go to a quick commercial break. Stay tuned for up-to-the-minute analysis of this potentially enormous development in this ongoing story. We’ll be especially interested to see if the release of this document brings an end to the horrible violence we have been witnesses to.”
Marcus opened his phone to call Lisa—her eighth-octave voice would bring him back to earth—but as he did so, he saw on his phone an email notification. The subject line read: STETSON INVESTIGATION FILE—IMPORTANT. The sender’s address was just a string of numbers attached to an email server he didn’t recognize. The email had no opening salutation, no greeting aside from a wash of blank space, followed by the words: I’m sorry Mr. Waters, but I didn’t know who else to send this to. You are the only one who I will send this to at all. I only ask that you not share how you received it. Do what you think is best. Attached to the email was a pdf file, which Marcus opened with a clumsy finger. He was still getting used to technologies that answered to his fumbling touch.
Marcus held the phone close to his face as he used his fingers to zoom in on the document. It was a photocopied letter, originally written on a typewriter. The top of the letter was dated 1983:
Dear Chief Gonzalez,
Several detectives of the Chicago Police Department have become increasingly concerned about one of our colleagues’ possible collusion with a wanted criminal actor—the vigilante heretofore known as “The Kingfisher.” We have reason to suspect that this colleague is not only assisting “The Kingfisher” in his illegal activities, but also benefitting professionally from this unlawful and unethical partnership.
The colleague in question is Detective Gregory Stetson. Prior to and during Det. Stetson’s time as a homicide detective, Det. Stetson has been the arresting officer for at least two-dozen criminals reportedly incapacitated originally
by “The Kingfisher,” whom the Chicago Police Department has identified as a criminal actor in regards to his vigilantism. This far outpaces other officers’ arrests of criminals who were reportedly incapacitated by “The Kingfisher.” This seems to us more than circumstantial.
Moreover, we are concerned that Det. Stetson’s possible communication with “The Kingfisher” has been not only condoned by various officials within the Chicago Police Department, but in fact encouraged and rewarded with his promotion to CPD Detective. Due to the above concerns, we fear that Det. Stetson is willfully withholding his knowledge of “The Kingfisher”—identity, whereabouts, etc.—as well as his personal involvement with “The Kingfisher.” We write to you today to request a formal investigation into Det. Stetson’s ties with “The Kingfisher.” We understand the complex nature of this request, but we are acting on the interest of the integrity of the Chicago Police Department, and we hope that you will respond in kind.
The letter was signed by a number of detectives, none of whom Marcus recognized, except for one: Paul Wroblewski. Marcus’s old contact at the station.
He stared blankly at his phone, the words of the letter melding into an amorphous clump the more he parsed through each sentence. He found himself distracted by the most banal of details: Why did the detectives who wrote the letter put quotations around the Kingfisher’s name? What distance did these marks provide and from what?
He had always assumed it was something of an open secret that the police, Stetson included, had cooperated in some capacity with the Kingfisher—how else could the Kingfisher know of all the wanted criminals in the city? But that the Kingfisher had cooperated solely with Stetson was a different matter altogether. It was true that Stetson had gladly taken credit for the most of the arrests that the Kingfisher provided, but that certainly didn’t mean that he had been working with the Kingfisher. It was equally plausible that Stetson’s disproportionate arrest rate was a result of his unflagging ambition. As an officer and then as a homicide detective, Stetson had a reputation of working around the clock—hitting the streets and establishing contacts. He was far and away the most hardworking cop Marcus had ever encountered on the police beat. It hadn’t ever seemed strange to Marcus that Stetson would be the one to bring in most of the criminals the Kingfisher had left in his wake. And on the rare occasion that Marcus had managed to pull a quote from Stetson about any of these arrests, Stetson had deftly avoided acknowledging the Kingfisher at all. Marcus had always assumed this was purely an act of self-interest—Stetson’s meteoric rise in the department ran parallel to his arrest rate, which he could not afford to share with a criminal vigilante.
Even so, if it was true that Stetson had cooperated directly with the Kingfisher—well, Marcus didn’t know what it meant. It was clear how Stetson would have benefitted from the partnership, but what the hell would the Kingfisher have wanted from Stetson?
It was the Liber-teens who had sent him this document, Marcus knew. They must have taken this file when they hacked the ME report. But if they were trying to insinuate some larger conspiracy with this letter concerning Stetson, why not make it public? And why send it to just him? He wasn’t a journalist anymore. There were working journalists who would gnash their teeth, claw their skin at the opportunity to report this information. Whoever had sent this to him, what did they expect him to do about it?
These questions tangled into knots the harder he pulled. But still he pulled.
The newscaster returned from commercial and shuffled papers on his desk. “We have reached out to the Liber-teens via their social media accounts for a statement, but have not yet received a reply. Obviously, this release of the possible medical examiner’s report raises many questions and concerns regarding the Liber-teens’ involvement with the video released this morning, but it answers almost no questions until we are able to verify its authenticity. We simply are unable to say what it means at this time.”
And as if in response, Marcus spoke out loud to an empty room in answer to a question unasked. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
If there was one thing Marcus knew from a career in journalism, it was that there were a hundred explanations for every mystery, every lie, every half-truth. The inconclusive ME report, a letter indicting Stetson, the Liber-teens, the Kingfisher himself. Anyone could shape and rearrange coincidence into some grand narrative that was halfway believable and halfway comforting in a world whose only order was chaos, a back-alley gambler with blank-faced dice.
They showed the ME report on the television once more. The scratchy handwriting—Unknown … No possible identification. And that was when Marcus remembered a detail from his reporting: Stetson had been the first on scene after the call had come through about a body floating down the Chicago River. It had never struck Marcus as strange before, though perhaps it should have. Stetson was a homicide detective at the time. What the hell was he doing responding to that call before anyone else? Had he simply been close by? And if so, why?
And it was Stetson to whom Marcus had spoken that same night for the story on the death of the Kingfisher. “It’s him,” Stetson said over the phone, his voice predictably neutral and calm. “A positive identification. We’ve matched him based on witness reports.” It had seemed inevitable at the moment, entirely procedural, as though confirming something Marcus had already known, or at least thought he had known.
Now, here, these many years and lifetimes later, some unspoken word bypassed Marcus’s faculty of reason and entered directly into his bloodstream. The way others might say they felt the voice of God at midnight, a vibration in their soul. But the only word that escaped his lips was, “Shit.” He savored the flavor of the word. He had forgotten how easily a simple, four-letter word could capture otherwise unspeakable emotions.
Something was going on, he begrudgingly admitted to himself. And if even a fraction of what he had just seen were true, Stetson was at the center of it.
The television pundit spoke to a group of panelists. A man with a blue pocket square and shock-white teeth said, “The problem seems to me twofold: you have a transparency failure on the part of Chicago police leadership, which is heightened by a very competent, albeit sinister, attack conducted by a shadow group of anarchists. The police are easy targets—they are held to precise standards: to serve and protect the citizens of Chicago. If those duties are questioned or challenged, then the whole house of cards falls apart. That is why the criminal anarchists have the advantage—the expectation is that they answer to no one, and in this way they are beyond reproach.”
Marcus went to his front door. No news vans in sight, probably called to some other location to cover the latest development.
There was just the sun already set and the fingernail curve of the climbing moon. And Jeremiah seemed to study it, sitting on the trunk of the cruiser, elbows on his knees. It reminded Marcus of a child waiting for his mother or his father to pick him up from school, the same languid patience for something that might or might not come.
He whistled for Jeremiah’s attention and waved him inside again.
“What’s up?” Jeremiah entered through the door. Judging by his expression, Marcus figured he must have looked as haggard as he felt. “Are you OK?”
Marcus dug his hands into his pockets. He gestured over his shoulder.
Jeremiah’s eyes landed on the television, where another pundit said, “This ME report adds a frightening amount of credence to the man’s claims in those horrific videos.” Jeremiah’s expression didn’t change as he watched for a few moments, but his shoulders slackened as he shifted his weight, leaning against the entryway.
“Holy shit. Stetson actually released it?”
“No. It was the Liber-teens,” Marcus said. “Not sure if it’s real. But it sure looks like it might be. They hacked it.”
Jeremiah scratched his neck, swearing beneath his breath. “Those kids have no idea what they’re doing. This isn’t going to fix anything. This is going to fuck everything up.�
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“Do you have a minute to come in and talk?” Marcus asked.
Jeremiah nodded at the bottle in Marcus’s hand. “You got another one of those?”
“Afraid not. How about coffee?”
“I won’t get much sleep anyway. Sure.”
Marcus led Jeremiah into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for him to sit at the table. Jeremiah collapsed with a wordless sigh. A five o’clock shadow covered his clenched jaw. “Long day keeps getting longer.”
Marcus poured water into his kettle and laid it on the stove.
“So did you get a good look at the ME report?” Jeremiah asked.
“More or less.”
“What did you think?”
He removed the French press from the cupboard and poured coffee grounds into the cylindrical base. “The coroner wrote that he couldn’t positively identify the body. There were some other inconsistencies with what Stetson has said, too.”
“And you think it was a real report? Not some fake?”
“Looked real to me. But I’m no expert.”
“Jesus,” Jeremiah said. “Stetson’s going to have a hell of a time explaining that away tomorrow.”
“That’s what I was hoping to talk with you about.”
“What?”
“Stetson.”
“Stetson,” Jeremiah repeated, as though it were not a name but a slur. “What about him?”
“What do you know about him? His career, I mean.”
“I’m betting you know more about that than I do. You’ve known him longer.”
Marcus turned on his stovetop, centered the kettle, and sat across from Jeremiah at the table. “Just tell me whatever you know.”
“Well.” Jeremiah rubbed his face, as though summoning insight from his skin. “Assuming I’m off-record and we’re being honest here, he’s a gaping asshole.”
The Reign of the Kingfisher Page 15