by Douglas Jern
He didn’t need to finish. If it was personal, and no particular rumors were floating about, then Joey’s guess was as good as Zachary’s.
“Oh yeah.” Zachary took out Vincent’s wallet from his pocket and dug out the typewritten note. “We found this at the crime scene. Does it mean anything to you?” he asked Joey. “I think it was meant for Vinnie. It’s from someone calling themselves H. M.”
As soon as he laid eyes on the note, Joey went pale. He swallowed with some difficulty, as if his falafel had been covered in glue rather than garlic sauce.
“Oh shit…” he said, and there was no mistaking the fear in his voice.
Zachary raised an eyebrow. Maybe there was still hope. It took a lot to give Joey the shakes, and if just one look at the note scared him this much, it must be serious.
“You know something, don’t you?” said Zachary. “This note told Vinnie to come to the Seven-Eleven near Rivertree Park at ten today. As soon as he arrived, Jeffrey Greenwood smashed his face in. Who is this H. M? Any ideas?”
Joey shook his head. “Zach, I think you should drop this case. Vinnie is dead, and you got the guy who did it. End of story.”
“What is it, Joey? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Well, there is this guy…” Joey looked over his shoulder out the window. “You know what, forget about it.”
“Hey, don’t hold out on me here, Joey. What guy?”
“It’s just a superstition, Zach. You’d laugh at me.”
“I promise I won’t laugh. Come on, spill it.”
Joey squirmed in his seat.
“The families are a superstitious bunch. They’ve got plenty of legends and ghost stories floating around. Now, I don’t believe all the stories myself, all right? But the story of Homer Moley, crazy as it sounds, has some truth to it. I should know.”
He paused, as if waiting for Zachary to say something. Zachary said nothing, letting the silence stretch out until Joey felt compelled to fill it. He knew Joey loved to gossip, and was waiting for the snitch’s usual habit to kick in.
“Homer Moley is something of an urban legend,” Joey went on after another awkward squirm. “No one knows who he is or where he came from, and few know how to contact him. But he always gets the job done. You want anyone dead, he can kill them for you. If he’s after you, you better pray there’s a God in heaven, because no one else can save you. He’s a demon. And when he’s finished a job, he leaves a calling card. Just like that one.” He pointed at the note in Zachary’s hand.
Zachary glanced at Leo, who shook his head and sipped his coffee. Joey shrugged, as if to say “Hey, I don’t make up the stories.”
“Homer Moley,” muttered Zachary, looking at the note. “Tall tales aside, you think he’s the one who killed Vinnie?”
Joey nodded. “I’d bet money on it.”
“How so? You know him? Have you ever met him?”
“No,” said Joey, and his eyes flickered toward the window again. He might have been lying, but Zachary decided not to press him.
“Why do you think he would want to kill Vinnie?”
“I don’t know. He probably doesn’t care about who he kills so long as he gets paid.”
“And you have no idea who might have hired him.”
“Like I said, zilch.”
Zachary sighed. They were back to square one. There was no chance in hell that Jeffrey Greenwood was this Moley guy, if such a guy even existed. The trail had gone as cold as Zachary’s half-eaten falafel roll. He looked at it with a heavy heart, then declared it, and his investigation, a lost cause.
“Well,” he said as he got up from the table and stretched his back, “I guess that’s all I wanted to ask you. Thanks for your time, Joey.”
“Anything for my man,” said Joey, his voice muffled by his lunch. “See ya!”
“Wouldn’t wanna be ya,” replied Zachary without emotion. He’d rather be anyone but himself right now. There was nowhere for him to go but back to the station, where he would get chewed out by Captain Caulfield for having meddled with Mullin’s interrogation. Leo held him in contempt. He could kill for a cold beer right about now. Or five.
He cracked his knuckles. “Come on, Leo. Time to go.”
Back in the car, Zachary turned to Leo.
“Look, kid. I—”
“If you’re trying to justify yourself, don’t bother.”
Zachary sighed. It hurt, but he deserved it.
“No. I wanted to apologize. I thought about what you said back there and you’re right. This whole thing was all about me, and I’m sorry I dragged you along. I guess when you’ve been in the game as long as I have, you do what you can to win.”
He realized that he was only making himself seem even more pathetic, but what the hell. The kid deserved to hear the truth.
“Is that why you did this?” said Leo. “To win?”
Zachary winced. “I know it’s selfish, and there’s no excuse for it. I guess I just wanted to feel like I was achieving something. Like I was someone you could look up to, or… I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
Leo nodded.
“Apology accepted, sir. But if you really want to make things right, you’ve got to call Mullin. Tell him you couldn’t find a connection between Greenwood and the mob. Admit that you made a bad call.”
“Yeah,” said Zachary. “I suppose I should.”
He reached into his pocket for his phone. He unlocked it and brought up the dial pad, then hesitated. He couldn’t remember Mullin’s number. He always made a point of dialing numbers from memory rather than just selecting them from the contact list, to keep his memory trim. But now he was drawing a big, fat blank. So much for that brain hack.
He swiped across the screen, dismissing the dial pad and bringing up the call history. Just as he was about to swipe over to the contact list, something caught his eye. He looked at the call history, and his mouth fell open. For what seemed like a long while, he just sat there and stared stupidly at the screen. From somewhere in the distance, barely audible above the ringing in his ears, he heard a voice.
“Sir? Sir, are you okay?”
He turned his head with some effort, tearing his eyes away from the screen. Leo was looking at him with visible concern, his eyebrows hoisted up as high as they could go. He looked like a cartoon panda. Zachary would have laughed if he hadn’t been so fundamentally shaken. He held out the phone to Leo and only then noticed that his hands were trembling. His hands, which had remained steady as a rock throughout his entire career—through no less than four firefights and two administrations of emergency first-aid—were shaking like leaves as he handed the phone over to Leo, who took it warily, as if it were a fragile vase or a live grenade.
“Look at—” Zachary croaked, coughed twice, and then tried again. “Look at the call history. Tell me I’m not crazy.”
Leo looked at the screen. His eyes swept across the list of calls, up and down, checking and double-checking. He looked up at Zachary.
“The last outgoing call was made at half-past nine last night,” he said.
Zachary took the phone back and looked again.
“That’s what it says. But that doesn’t add up. I called the station today, and Doe answered. I told him to transfer Greenwood to the Bunker. I know I did.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah! Hey, let me check your phone.”
“You didn’t borrow mine, sir. I would have remembered.”
“Could you please just check your call history, kid?”
Leo complied and showed the screen to Zachary. The last outgoing call had been made at eight that morning.
“Okay, so I didn’t use my phone, and I didn’t use your phone. Whose freaking phone did I use, then?”
“Maybe a payphone?” Leo suggested.
“In this day and age? When would I even have had time to go find one? No, I used a cell phone, that’s for sure.”
He cracked his knuckles in frustration, trying to remember the call. He must hav
e made it around the time they were examining the crime scene this morning. Had he called from his own phone and then deleted the record? No, that would have been pointless. All calls to the station were recorded as a security measure. If he wanted to cover his tracks, he’d have to do better than that. He looked at his phone again, willing the missing call to be displayed. He must have made that phone call. If he hadn’t, the logical conclusion was too unpleasant to think about.
Leo’s voice stirred him from his contemplation.
“Sir?” he said gently, the way one would talk to a drunken man standing on the sill of an open window, ready to jump.
Oh no, thought Zachary.
“If you didn’t use your phone, and you didn’t use my phone…”
No. Stop. Not one more word.
“…and if you didn’t use a payphone…”
Shut up, kid. Don’t go there.
“…then maybe you didn’t actually make the phone call after all.”
And there it was, out in the open. He sighed, trying to conceal his worry.
“Are you saying I… misremembered? That I imagined the whole thing?”
The concern in Leo’s eyes was both heartbreaking and infuriating.
“I think that you’ve been under a lot of stress,” he said, weighing each word. “And maybe, in your desire to show up Detective Mullin, you had a really vivid mental image of making that call, and then you convinced yourself that it actually happened.”
“So you are saying I imagined the whole thing? Like I’m going senile or something?” He chuckled, without humor. “Chrissakes, kid, I’m not even fifty yet. And this kind of thing has never happened before.” It wasn’t a lie, not really. Sure, he’d blacked out drinking countless times, but he’d never remembered something that never happened in the first place. That was something crazy people did.
“This isn’t about your age, sir. Sometimes our minds just play tricks on us, right?” Leo flashed a quick smile. “But on the bright side, this means you haven’t really done anything wrong.” He paused for a second. “Okay, besides concealing evidence, but no one knows about that but me.”
“Book says you should report me.”
Leo’s smile returned, wider this time. From sad panda to smug alligator in minutes.
“Maybe this is one of those times when the book isn’t enough,” he said.
Zachary just sat there dumbstruck. Then he burst out laughing.
“Did I just hear that right?” he asked. “Did you just offer to cover my ass?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I thought you were disappointed in me.”
“Yeah, I was. I guess I kind of wanted you to be my hero, you know? Someone I could look up to, who always knew the right thing to do. The perfect mentor.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be that guy,” mumbled Zachary.
“Nobody’s perfect, sir.” Leo smiled. “To tell you the truth, I’m actually glad I got the chance to see this side of you. It reminds me that you’re just as human as the rest of us.”
“Didn’t realize you ever doubted that,” said Zachary.
“Maybe I phrased that poorly. What I’m trying to say is…”
But Zachary never got to hear what Leo was trying to say, because at that point the radio on the dashboard crackled to life, making Zachary jump in his seat.
“Calling all available units. We’ve got a code three. 10-33 near 314 Lester Street. Repeat: 10-33 near 314 Lester Street. Any available units in the area, go there ASAP.”
The radio message wiped Zachary’s mind of all doubts and reflections, leaving only an inviolable prime directive. Code three: Emergency. 10-33: Officer down. He grabbed the microphone and thumbed the push-to-talk button.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Zimmerman. I’ll be there in five. Out.”
Operating on autopilot, Zachary started the engine, rolled down the window, and slapped the red beacon onto the roof. Leo knew the drill and had already fastened his seatbelt as Zachary revved the engine and peeled out of the parking spot, sirens blaring.
12:15 – Jeffrey
Once again, he was locked up in a room with no windows, though this one was moving. Doe had dragged him through the corridor, up a flight of stairs into the parking garage, and stuffed him inside a van. The van was black both inside and out; the floor was made of black rubber, the walls were lined with black fabric; the low benches jutting out from the walls were made of black plastic; and even the small window in the rear door was tinted, letting in only a smidgen of light. Jeffrey sat on the narrow bench with his hands cuffed in front of him. There were no seat belts.
The van pulled out of the garage in silence. Jeffrey could feel the vibration of the engine through the floor but could hear nothing. The van was soundproof and probably armored too. He’d thought the interior felt a lot smaller than it should have been. Bringing out this kind of heavy-duty equipment just to transport one man seemed a bit excessive. They must really believe he was in league with some dangerous people. The mob? Jeffrey didn’t have the slightest idea how they had come to that conclusion. Nor could he imagine what kind of place they were taking him to. The Bunker, Doe had said. The word gave Jeffrey chills.
He thought about Laura. She had said she was coming to see him as soon as she could. But how would she find him now? He hoped Doe would let him make another phone call once he arrived, or at least pass along a message to Laura. He had to let her know where he was.
He was contemplating how to ask Doe for this favor in the most effective way when the world turned upside down. A flash of white pain shot through his head when it struck the floor. The van had come to a sudden stop.
After gently touching his head to make sure he wasn’t bleeding, Jeffrey got to his feet. There was not enough room to stand upright inside the van, so he had to hunch. The van remained motionless, but the engine was still running.
“What happened?” he called out. “Is everything all right?”
No answer, of course. No one could hear him. He sat down on the bench again. There was nothing he could do for now. Maybe Doe hadn’t been watching the road and had been surprised by a red light or something. Yeah, that must be it. Nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be fine.
The walls seemed a little closer than before. Jeffrey took a deep breath, trying to slow down his climbing pulse. He wished he could move his arms freely. His head hurt like hell, and he was beginning to feel nauseous. He hoped he hadn’t gotten a concussion.
“It’s okay,” he whispered to himself. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll be okay.”
He heard a rattle from the door. Someone was trying to open it. He could see the silhouette of a head in the small window. He couldn’t make out any details, but it looked smaller than Doe’s head. It must be the other officer who had been in the van with him. Maybe he was coming to let Jeffrey out. He took an unsteady step toward the door, cringing at the wave of pain that washed through his head when he put his foot down.
The door opened, letting in the sunlight. The person at the door held out a hand towards him. It was Laura.
You!
“Lo? Is that you? But how…” He squinted against the harsh sunlight. His head was throbbing, and his vision was distorted. The world rippled before his eyes. It seemed like he really had gotten a concussion. He could hear his own voice, coming from somewhere far away, like an echo in a well.
Who are you, and what do you want with me?
“I’ve come to get you, Jeffrey,” said Laura and grabbed him by the wrist. She pulled, and Jeffrey stumbled towards the door. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Lo, I don’t feel so good. What’s going on?”
No answer. Through the ripples he saw her smile. He didn’t notice the knife in her hand until it punched through his stomach.
12:18 – Laura
Laura rounded the corner of Lester Street, tires skidding on the pavement. Traffic had been a nightmare on the way here, the streets packed with cars and delivery tr
ucks, forcing her to ride on the sidewalk. She nearly crashed into a streetlamp as she skirted a group of teenagers walking three people abreast and occupying more than two-thirds of the sidewalk. Cursing them under her breath, she picked up the pace, eyes peeled for any police vehicles. She was just starting to think that she may have missed her shot, that the transport had already reached the Bunker, when a commotion ahead set her senses on edge. Someone was screaming.
Laura pedaled faster, weaving between the pedestrians, drawing closer to the source of the screams. The street was lightly trafficked at the moment, and she soon had a clear path ahead. She saw a woman running down the sidewalk, shouting for help. A few people were gawking at something. Some of them had their cell phones out. As she drew closer, she saw what they were looking at, and her heart froze to ice in her chest.
A black van was stopped in the middle of the street. One of the headlights was smashed, and millions of glittering fragments lay scattered on the asphalt. Next to the van lay the bodies of two uniformed police officers. They hadn’t been there long; blood still flowed in bright red rivulets from the bodies even as Laura approached.
But it was the sight of the van’s rear doors that had seized Laura’s heart and squeezed it tight. The doors were open wide, and Jeffrey was being dragged out of them by a bald man wearing a gray hoodie and jeans. The man had a long knife in his hand. It flashed in the sunlight, like a fish leaping through the air, basking in the sun before gravity pulls it back down into the water, its temporary flight coming to an inevitable end. The trajectory of the shining knife seemed equally unalterable as the bald man drew it back.
And then, before Laura’s eyes, he plunged the knife into Jeffrey’s stomach.
Jeffrey’s scream of pain was drowned out by Laura’s own. She could feel the red-hot sensation of the blade digging into Jeffrey’s intestines, cutting through muscle and severing nerves as it went. Disoriented by the overwhelming agony and terror, she didn’t notice the front wheel of her bike slip from the sidewalk down onto the street, and the sudden shock threw her off balance. She fell off the bike, scraping her hands and elbows on the asphalt without feeling it. The pain of the knife twisting Jeffrey’s guts filled her entire being, eclipsing all other sensations.