by Peter Cry
The “Buca Di Beppo” restaurant, in addition to the terrace, consisted of several cozy rooms, where the walls were covered with old black-and-white photographs depicting famous Italians of the last century. The modest wooden tables in its halls were covered with plaid red-and-white tablecloths. The place Mr. Edison had chosen to meet was not too stylish or glamorous but was very comfortable. It was almost empty inside. A pizzaiolo was working his magic with the dough, and a couple of young waiters were eagerly looking at the terrace through the window awaiting new orders.
The guest was greeted by a pleasant cool climate, and he smiled faintly. Choosing a table directly opposite the entrance, he took off his gray jacket and, throwing it on a red leather sofa, sat down.
A young waiter appeared at the table in a white shirt and a red apron. Neatly and very professionally, the young man offered Alfred a menu and a wine list.
“Would you like to order right away, or to take a look at the menu?”
Perplexed by the complicated Italian names, the guest settled for the easy option.
“Bring me some coffee, please. Americano, double.”
“Would you like anything besides coffee?”
“A dessert, please. I’ll leave it up to you to choose,” Alfred suggested.
With a nod of his head, the waiter took the menu off the table, and disappeared. A few minutes later he delivered a very fragrant coffee and a piece of a cherry pie.
Alfred looked at the waiter in surprise.
“I thought it would be a panna cotta, or a profiterole.”
“You allowed me to make a choice for you,” the waiter smiled.
“I appreciate that,” the guest agreed.
Left alone, he glanced at his watch again. David Edison's father was three minutes late. Alfred sipped some coffee burning his tongue. His hand was just reaching for the dessert fork when through the window he noticed a tall, thin, dark-haired man at the front doors. He seemed agitated and tired and was clearly waiting for someone.
Alfred raised his right hand, making it clear to Mr. Edison that he had noticed him as well.
The doors swung open and a middle-aged man in a nice business suit walked in. Approaching the table, he held out his hand and smiled, yet somehow very tiredly and sadly.
“Please, excuse me for being late.”
“It's okay,” rising, Alfred shook his hand. “What terrible traffic...”
With a sigh, Mr. Edison unfastened his jacket and, fixing his hair that had fallen on his sweaty forehead, sat down in front of Agent Hope.
“Yes, traffic jams are terrible here. Far from New York or Washington, off course, but still it’s easier to ride a bike than a car.” Nervously tapping his right foot on the floor, he looked at the screen of his smartphone.
“Are you in a hurry?” Alfred inquired.
“Err… If you’re talking about this,” Mr. Edison looked awkwardly at Alfred, after which he placed the phone on the table in front of him. “I use an app to monitor the whereabouts of my daughter.”
“I wish there’d been such devices a few years ago...” Alfred commented.
“Actually, there were, but Margaret and I had no idea about that,” Mr. Edison smiled nervously. “We found out about their existence in extremely sad circumstances.”
A waiter appeared. Before he could start his ritual, the exhausted second guest said, “Just a glass of cold water, please. And I don’t need anything else.”
Feeling the tension emanating from the guest, the young man left to complete the order.
“Are you okay?”
Mr. Edison looked around the restaurant indifferently, after which he returned his gaze to the federal agent.
“Shaking and anxiety are the side effects of antidepressants. Something’s wrong with noradrenaline. Because of it I act like a nut. I can imagine how I look like.”
“Have you tried another medicine?”
“Err...” Mr. Edison sighed. “Each patient suffering from phobias, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder or clinical depression knows perfectly well what needs to be done to bring him back to normal. For some, this is a loved one who humiliated and abandoned them. Having got their own back or having returned to his previous life, the patient will soon calm down. Some find peace by killing their enemy or achieving bigger success in work and finances. For me, it's my son David. If he returned or for example, I knew he’s dead and didn’t suffer, in a couple of years I might be able to pull myself out of this state. Drugs do not heal. Life does. I’m telling you that as a psychologist who, with great pleasure prescribed the most powerful drugs to his patients and now lies to them, pretending to be completely healthy.”
Alfred observed yet another victim of the horrible crime. The once handsome, successful man looked like most of the characters from “The Walking Dead” series. It was as if the pills had sucked all the joy out of him.
“I'm sorry,” the agent offered in response.
“We have to rush,” Mr. Edison said. “I still have to pick up my daughter from school. When she’s not in front of my or Margaret's eyes, the side effects increase.”
“Your water, sir,” the waiter said, putting the glass on the table.
Alfred wanted to know more. “You and your wife Margaret, did you have a desire or ambition to make your child a celebrity? Perhaps you thought about a career in the world of show business for David? If so, did you take any actions in that direction?”
Mr. Edison was surprised by the question. He looked at the person sitting in front of him and tried to apply the theory of Lombroso.
“There are so many artists and actors among my constant clients, also several are teenagers. Many of them it seems to me, are incurable due to the environment that surrounds them. The only thing I ever wanted for my David was an ordinary childhood, he would spend hours playing his PlayStation, watching YouTube, fooling around with his friends and so on. Anything but adult life and work. It was out of the question for my son to become a celebrity, at least at his age.”
“So, you did not take him to any talent agencies or castings?”
“No, I did not,” Mr. Edison emphasized
“Maybe you wanted to make a present for yourself or your wife and do some family photoshoots?”
Mr. Edison scratched his head.
“No, never, and now Margaret and I really regret that. We have very few of his photographs. Mostly the ones where he is still very young.”
“Do you know a man named Damien Brannon?”
“No, it’s the first time I’m hearing this name.”
Alfred was at a dead end. All his questions received curt negative answers.
Ted Edison looked at the young agent with curiosity, running his own silent psychoanalysis.
“Why are you doing this?” he suddenly asked.
“Excuse me...” Alfred was confused.
“Why did you take up this case? Even we, the parents of the victims, chose to sit at home and cry our hearts out instead of traveling all over Indiana in search of our children.”
Agent Hope was noticeably embarrassed.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s not true,” Mr. Edison smiled nervously. “That’s not your job. You’re doing something else. I can’t tell you exactly what, but I can see it clearly in your eyes. It’s not simply a job for you. You’re acting as if they were your children.”
“Err...” Alfred leaned back on the red leather sofa. “Something wrong with such an attitude to this case?”
“Yes, sure. You try to hide it, but this case is personal for you. That’s why you are looking for something where there is nothing. As I see it, you don’t even have so many questions for me. You’re simply hoping for a miracle. I, as a medical clinician, must be honest with you – there are no miracles. If you do not become as indifferent as your colleagues, the case will destroy you.”
Annoyed, Alfred grinned for the sake of appearances.
“Even a sick shrink is still a shrink,
” he countered with.
“I hope I have not offended you.”
“No, it’s just a little strange to hear the parent of one of the abducted children, dissuading an FBI agent from doing his work. Really good for motivation!”
Alfred leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Yes, I must invent scenarios out of nowhere, and ask the same stupid questions hoping to find consistency. I do that only because I am absolutely sure the children are still alive.”
“Oh,” Mr. Edison laughed cynically. “Such things should not be said to a father whose son was kidnapped.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Alfred agreed. “But there is nothing I can do about it. This confidence lives in me somewhere at the level of a sixth sense, in which you psychologists, of course, do not believe.”
Ted Edison picked up his glass of cold water and downed it.
“You are a good person, Agent Hope, but in our world people of your kind are going through hard times. If you don’t learn to separate between personal and professional, you won’t be able to move forward in this case. You’ll ruin your psyche, and, as you might know, our nerve cells never renew themselves.”
“I appreciate the advice,” Alfred retorted.
Mr. Edison picked up his smartphone again. Drawing something with his finger, he made it come to life. The small device became noisy, and a video of some kind of holiday began to play on the screen. He put the phone on the table and turned it so that the video was visible to Agent Hope.
“It’s the last video with David I have. This is his only, so to speak, professional filming. It was made at the wedding of my little sister.”
Leaning over the table, Alfred became interested and looked at the screen, where frames were changing rapidly. Little girls, about six to eight years old, dressed in white lace dresses and white patent-leather sandals, were running around with boys of the same age in elegant tuxedos and bowties on a green lawn. From time to time, a tent full of people appeared, as well as adults watching the children, and an annoying photographer trying for his best shot.
“My son’s whole life – all that’s left of it,” Mr. Edison explained sadly. “All the videos, photos, drawings... All that fits into a small piece of plastic stuffed with microcircuits. I often watch this video and try to find myself there. I want to figure out where I was at that moment. Was I showing-off in front of my friends, pretending to be the Mister Very-Important-Doctor? Was I drinking alcohol and staring at my sister’s young girlfriends? Or was I annoyed again, seeing how my fidgety David couldn’t find a place for himself, and was running around, being noisy and getting dirty. I would give everything in the world, including my life, so that my son shouts again, makes noise or does something that irritates me so much... If my son is still alive, please, find him.”
Alfred was distracted from the video and looked at the wretched father in a friendly manner.
“He will come back to you. I will do everything I can to make it happen.”
“Stand together, please,” a pleasant male voice was heard from the smartphone.
The photographer arranged a dozen restless children according to height, putting the smallest ones closer to the camera and the taller ones behind them.”
“This is almost the end,” Mr. Edison explained.
“Hey, you, cameraman, what’s your name?” The photographer continued to issue orders. “Yeah, Billy! Please, step back, you are getting in the shot.”
The wedding cameraman stepped aside a bit without arguing and began to film what was happening from the side. Getting his successful shots, the satisfied photographer smiled, continuing to instruct the children what to do. He lowered the camera to check his shots, and his face finally became clearly visible to the viewers.
“Stop,” Alfred said quietly. “Repeat.”
“What do you mean repeat? From the very beginning?” Mr. Edison grabbed his smartphone.
Jumping up, Agent Hope grabbed the owner’s hand, squeezing it painfully and pulled the phone out of his dry thin fingers.
“Hey, easy! What’s wrong with you?” Mr. Edison exclaimed in annoyance and confusion.
Alfred sat down. His trembling fingers ran over the screen. A moment later, stopping the frame, he saw what he was looking for.
For about ten seconds, Agent Hope sat and, as if mesmerized, not making a sound or even breathing, looked at the phone screen. Raising his head and looking at the shocked Mr. Edison, he asked, “Do you know this man?” He then handed the smartphone back to the owner.
He looked at the screen, where the smiling face of a young man froze.
“It’s a wedding photographer,” the man muttered confusedly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Captain Obvious,” Agent Hope said irritably. “Do you know this man? Is he a friend of your family?”
“I don't think so,” Mr. Edison said, alarmed. “My father organized the wedding. He did everything with an agency that he found on the Internet.”
“How long has it been?”
“Well, let me think... Four and a half years ago.”
“How long?” Alfred was shocked at the answer.
“Four and a half years ago, even a bit more.”
David was not even studying at North West Central at that time.
Alfred got up and left the table. Pulling on his jacket, he looked very anxious, tense, and even angry. The veins in his temples were swollen, and his body was jerking.
“That’s all,” Agent Hope said, holding back his emotions. “Thanks for helping the agency with the investigation. Now, please send me this video via Messenger, and in the evening, when I call you, tell me what your sister knows about that photographer. I need to know his name, his phone number, his address, everything you can get.”
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Edison looked at the agitated agent.
A faint, almost dead hope sparkled in his anxious gaze.
“You don't have to understand anything. Just do as I said, and don’t drag it out.”
Taking some money from his pocket, Alfred carelessly threw it down on the table where his cherry pie was still cooling.
Ignoring the waiters and Mr. Edison and bumping into the heavy wooden chairs he hurried to the exit.
***
Mrs. Stevens was busy in the kitchen, preparing fragrant lasagna, the favorite dish of her husband for when he returned from work. Mixing the ingredients for the filling in a metal bowl, she looked through the window at the green flower bushes growing in her backyard.
Hearing a sudden strong knock on the door, the woman was alarmed and dropped the bowl and a huge wooden spoon from her hands. The meat filling spilled out onto the floor. The knocks continued insistently.
Mrs. Stevens looked at the dirty floor, stained with ketchup and minced meat. But the pounding on her door transformed her fear into anger.
“I'm coming! Stop hammering on my damn door like that!” she cried, and, gritting her teeth, headed for the hallway.
She opened the door hoping to pour a bucket of rudeness and swear words on the intruder and froze. Agent Hope stood in front of her, foaming and furious. Without even saying hello, he silently raised his hand in which he held his smartphone.
On the screen she saw a photo of an unfamiliar young attractive man with nice curly long dark hair to his shoulders.
“Is that the man who photographed your daughter when you took her to the casting?”
Mrs. Stevens felt almost her adrenalin flow reviving vivid memories, pictures, details.
“Yes...” she said excitedly. “But he used to have shorter hair.”
“I'll call you later” Alfred said, hurrying back to his car.
***
Alfred quietly opened the door and entered Damien Brannon's reception. The frightened secretary who had been sorting things into boxes, hearing a faint click of the lock, turned her head sharply.
“He’s not ready for you right now,” she told him.
Judging by the numerous
boxes, empty walls and shelves, the agency was moving out. This did not just anger the federal agent but infuriated him.
“You piece of shit!” burst out of his chest.
Alfred kicked the flimsy door with all his strength and knocked it out off its hinges. It crashed down. Not understanding what was happening, Damien Brannon hid in a corner by the window, covering his head with his hands. Alfred barged into his office, stopping three feet from the trembling man.
“What are you doing?!” the terrified secretary screamed.
“Shut up, bitch, or you’ll join that scum!”
Hearing this, not even knowing what her boss might have done, tripping over the boxes filled with office stuff, she grabbed her bag and ran.
“Are you going somewhere?” Alfred looked down on Brannon with disgust.
Slowly taking his hands away from his head, he finally saw the powerful monster who burst in like a hurricane.
“Agent Hope,” Brannon implored, “I swear. I did nothing wrong and have nothing to do with the abduction.”
Alfred was not impressed. Glancing indifferently through the window, where the beautiful noisy city continued to live its usual life, he took his gun from under his jacket. Seeing this, Damien Brannon shrank back even more. Agent Hope grabbed a framed photograph from the wall, and he threw it before Brannon. He squatted down next to him.
“Do you know that man?”
“No,” he uttered in a trembling voice looking out from behind his hands,
Alfred put the gun in his other hand and, clenching his free hand into a fist, punched the man in his jaw. Brannon’s head was knocked back and his lip began to bleed. Moaning, he tried to come to his senses.
“You have that motherfucker on every second photo in your office, and you bullshit me you don’t know him?”
“Please,” Brannon wheezed, whimpering. “Don’t kill me. It's not my fault.”
Alfred stood up.