Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, the same cops from last week, show up just as I’m leaving the hospital. They strut my way, walkie-talkies fastened to their Batman utility belts emitting garbled noise.
I’ve been in the emergency room for about two hours. Aside from minor scrapes and cuts from broken bits of windshield, the gauze wrapped around my right wrist represents the only injury. As I just learned from a quick Google search, an airbag uses a chemical explosion to burst out of the steering wheel. And if you’re gripping the wheel when the bag deploys, the vaporizing chemicals will rise and burn the shit out of your arm. A nurse clipped some dead skin off my wrist before wrapping it up. After giving instructions for keeping the skin clean, he told me I could head out.
“Looks like we caught you at the right time,” Officer Affleck says.
He tells me they need to ask me some questions about the crash and finish a report. The sun is now up, and soon, the workday will begin.
“I’m on my way to the junkyard in Seaside. Can we do it there?”
They agree and wait for me to flag one of the parked taxis outside of the ER. I tell the driver where to go. The cops follow behind us.
A barbwire fence encloses the junkyard’s perimeter. I buzz the manager from the main gate, and after a couple of minutes, he hobbles over and undoes the lock. I hear the cops drive up over the loose gravel. I tell the manager they’re with me, and we all walk to the main office, which is actually an office on wheels. A small, one-room mobile unit that could be hitched to the back of a truck and delivered anywhere else. As we walk, the manager—a middle-aged Arab man with curly white chest hair crawling out of his collar—surveys my complexion and hair. My bushy eyebrows. I can feel what’s coming.
“You look Arab, no?”
Every immigrant Middle Easterner feels the need to call out one another. In my experience, the conversation tends to go the same way, with a bit of variation here or there.
“Not Arab. Middle Eastern,” I tell him.
“Same. Same,” he grunts.
“Not same.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dash.”
“Dash is not Arabic.”
“Well, I’m not an Arab. I’m Middle Eastern.”
“Same. Where from?”
“I was born here.”
“Psh. Where family from?”
“Pakistan.”
His eyes get big. “You know Arabic?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They speak Urdu there.”
“You know Urdu?”
“No.”
Fortunately, that’s where it always ends. Not knowing the language is a dead giveaway that your Middle Eastern parents failed and you are, in fact, an infidel.
The manager’s office is cramped. An Alhambra water jug rests on the floor next to the desk. On the opposite side of the room, a statue of a Bengal tiger stares right back at us, fangs drawn. A million trinkets adorn the shelves.
“Big crash, my friend,” the manager says.
“Very big.”
“Cannot say for sure, but that car is probably totaled.”
I let him handle the paperwork and then turned my attention to Good Will Hunting. They stand by the door, notepads already out. Affleck goes first and asks me three questions: How did the crash occur? Had I been drinking? Why was I out so late? I give him three answers—all lies.
Lie number one: “Just lost control. Must have been too tired.”
Lie number two: “I haven’t had a drink in weeks. I could use one, though.”
Lie number three: “Couldn’t sleep.”
That last one was less of a lie.
They write my responses down. Damon prompts me to go back over my night—what I was doing, why I had Cal’s car, and why I chose the freeway instead of the backstreets. I think about what I’m doing and ask myself if I should tell them about the Coast Killer. If I do, that will require me to go down to the station, formalize a statement, and burn five or more hours out of my day. It’s close to 9:00 a.m., and in a short while, Cal and I will be without a job if I don’t carry out my plan.
“As I said, I drove my buddy home after he had too much to drink and felt like going for a drive. I was probably too tired for my own good. I’m just happy to be standing in one piece.”
“Two bad nights in about a week. Have you considered staying home?” Officer Affleck has a sarcastic side.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Before they leave, I ask for their names again.
“Officer Mueller,” the tall one says.
“Officer Reinhold,” the short blond says.
I’m sticking with Affleck and Damon.
* * *
This week, the editorial meeting is in the Connie Chung Room. In the corner, a potted plant—devil’s ivy wrapped around a wooden stake—has grown out of control, probably because the paper laid off several custodians, and the administrative assistants refuse to trim the plant since it is not in their job description. It now tilts toward the board table, hanging over the only seat still not occupied. The writers are here, but we all remain quiet.
Cal, who had to walk to work, sits on the other end of the table. He must have felt frisky this morning because he elected for his purple sports coat. But right now, he’s got a lot on his mind. His fate is in my hands, and he’s already pissed at me because a few minutes ago, I had to explain why he had a voicemail from the police department regarding his car.
“The fuck do you mean it’s in the junkyard?” he hissed. I had never heard him use the f-word.
I informed him that his car was totaled and tried to explain what happened. He grabbed at the sides of his head, coping with how something so wrong could have happened so quickly.
“Take my car for now,” I tell him, handing him my keys. “We’ll figure it all out later.”
“We’ll figure it out later?” he says, desperation punctuating each syllable. “No car. No job. My life is over.” He walked back to his desk before I could tell him how we’d survive the meeting. Now he’s sitting in a spot where I can’t even feed him a look that tells him, Hey, I got this. Don’t worry.
Terry walks through the door with his jaw chomping on gum. Of course, he’s the type of person that exaggerates each bite. He’s a bad boy, that Terry. Wearing a motorcycle jacket that Brando could have used in The Wild One—black, chunky, bright zipper. Cynthia stands up as if a four-star general graced us with his presence. Terry even gives her a nod and she sits back down. He stops at the lone empty chair, the ivy butting up against his chest, and before he can open his mouth, Bret, the intern that probably daydreams about being “the next Terry,” gets out of his seat.
“Please,” Bret says, motioning to his chair.
Terry doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. No “thank you” or “that’s very kind of you.” He just struts past Bret as they exchange places and drops his notebook on the table before getting seated. The room is so quiet that the loudest noise is my tongue clicking saliva. But I keep my eyes locked on Terry. I am not starting this meeting by handing over my fear to him. That much I can control.
“Well, everyone,” Terry starts, “we are gathered here today for a pair of public executions, are we not?”
Cynthia lets out a fake guffaw, making sure she has a prime seat aboard the brownnosing express.
“No point in wasting any time,” Terry says. “Dash, I granted a temporary stay for your and Cal’s termination. But today is the day. So, do you have anything you’d like to share?” He leans forward and places both hands on the table, wriggling his fingers together.
I clear my throat. Steady my nerves for the dishonesty and half-truths that are about to follow. “I’m sitting on something pretty damn big,” I say.
Terry bobs his head up and down, feigning as though he’s impressed. “And what might that be?”
Take a deep breath in. Let it out.
The lies we live become our truths in the end.
“How about the Coast Killer?” I tease.
The room coagulates with confusion and shock. I’m soon delivered reactions with eyes of fright. Others with skeptical squints. All because I just uttered the boogeyman’s name.
Cal leans into my periphery for the first time. He knows and doesn’t know all at once. But this keeps us both employed, so he keeps his questions to himself.
“What about the Coast Killer?” Terry asks.
“This is something that has the potential to be a series of stories,” I say. “I think this started because I was going back over the case. Making a few phone calls. Nothing major. More curiosity than anything. I wanted to know if the Coast Killer was gone for good. But the last week has been proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That the killer is back.” The fear gripping the room tightens. Maybe what I’m saying is true. But maybe it’s an unverified lie. I sell it further. “The reason I was so late last week—the reason Cal had to pick me up at the hospital—is because the killer went after me. Gun and everything. And last night, he came for me again. Cal’s poor car is totaled because the maniac ran me off the road. Happened on the highway near the Oceanside exit.” I hold up my arm and pull down the sleeve. “I’m incredibly lucky to be still alive. Only have this airbag burn.”
Terry starts playing with his pirate mustache and chin scruff. His middle-aged goatee is made of freshly dyed whiskers. He’s either evaluating my veracity or making sure the Just For Men gel has fully set in.
“What will be the focus of the story?” he asks.
“Firsthand account from a reporter investigating a serial killer before the killer turns the tables and hunts the reporter.”
“And that’s what really happened?”
This is where the lie must harden.
“Yes,” I say.
“How can you be so sure it’s him?” Terry asks.
“You tell me—I start working the case again, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I get attacked twice? In the areas he was known to hunt, no less. It’s not hard and fast evidence, but it’s hardly a hunch.”
Terry asks me why the Coast Killer didn’t kill me. I try to explain that I’m not sure. That there must be something in his serial pathology that is keeping me around. He asks a few more questions. Do the police know? Can we confirm the assertion that the killer is back from other sources? How soon before a draft is ready? I give him the answers:
“No.”
“Hopefully.”
“Soon.”
He sits back. Crooks his head to the side, his ear almost touching his shoulder. I know he doesn’t have faith in me—he doesn’t have faith in anyone—but this meat is too juicy for him to pass up. “You know what you’re doing with this one?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He turns to Cynthia. Her neck stiff and long like a giraffe. Her hair pulled tighter than Cal’s sphincter. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s much to be seen,” she says through clenched teeth. “But few things attract larger pickup from broadcast than solving the unsolvable. This could be worth a lot to the paper.”
“Solving the unsolvable,” Terry parrots. He turns back to me, eyes steely and cold. “Is this a case you think you’re going to solve?”
Shit.
The snowball has officially become an avalanche.
“Maybe not in one story. But like I said, this might be a series. I must be close to something if he’s coming after me.”
Terry lets out something between a grunt and a chuckle. Takes a look around the table. Everyone’s eyes still ballooned. “I figured one of you would have the kind of story I wanted.” He points at me. “Didn’t think it would be you. But it could be huge. Don’t fuck it up.” He turns to Cal. “You live for now. You both do.”
The coiling stress in my chest starts to unwind for the first time in a week. My lower back muscles loosen. The countdown clock is dead.
“One last thing on this,” Terry says. “I want a draft of the story in the next couple of days.”
The new countdown clock replaces the old one.
“Can do.”
Cynthia’s eyes narrow, like she’s measuring how much of a threat I just became to her. Her analysis ceases the second Terry opens his mouth and continues with the meeting, walking through story plans and pushing back on every idea pitched. He leaves me alone, though.
Cal waits twenty minutes after the meeting before stopping by my desk. His bloodshot eyes tremble.
“Please explain,” Cal whispers.
“What do you want from me? We each still have jobs, don’t we?”
“You need to tell me right now if what you just pitched is what you really believe.”
“You’re the one who told me about the connection.”
“But I also know you haven’t been working a story of any kind.”
I bite the inside of my bottom lip. It’s my go-to trick to maintain a poker face when being pressured. Focus on the pain and stop listening.
“I have no idea if what you said about last night and my car is real,” Cal says. “But please, be careful about this. At this point, I’m out of danger. But you just put yourself in it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You have to deliver a story. We don’t know if the person you ran into was the real killer or not. But if you truly go investigating this killer, that killer might just start investigating you.”
Bret, the intern, walks by holding a protein shaker. He starts jerking it off until his liquid meal is ready. He flips open the plastic top, and the shake squirts into his mouth. He wipes his lips clean and tries to make small talk with us, but we just give a grunt or two in response. Soon, a few others are getting too close for comfort, and Cal and I form a silent understanding that we’d pick the conversation back up later. I open a new Word document and start searching online for everything I can find on the Coast Killer. So much of it is hearsay. A victim’s mother swearing it was an ex-boyfriend who wasn’t even in the country at the time of the disappearance. Clips on YouTube from Dateline sensationalizing every tiny detail. Message board detectives pretending like they have a person of interest just for internet glory. I collect the most relevant bits. Start organizing them in my notes. No matter how many different web searches I make, two consistent details come up over and over. The first is that police refuse to close the case but are no longer devoting any resources to it. The second is the name Laura Poole. Cal previously told me about her. She is the only victim to survive the Coast Killer. She lives an extremely private life now but seems to be utterly wrecked by the experience.
I stay at my desk so long that the sun has set, and most people have gone home. It’s been a while since I managed to stay at the office this long. Not probably since my first couple of years at the paper, when I had a vision for myself as the next Walter Lippmann. I wanted to become the kind of journalist that uncovered the hard truths the world needed to hear. The intrepid reporter venturing into war zones or interviewing dangerous world leaders. Now the closest I can get to Walter Lippmann is on the second floor of the building. The Lippmann Relaxation Room—designed for anyone to take a short nap or wait out a migraine. I may not remember the Big Spotty story Cal alluded to last night, but I still remember journalism school. I still remember Professor Abramowitz and his ethics class. We had to read the case study on Stephen Glass, a reporter for The New Republic in the 1990s. How Glass fabricated a story about a hacker convention and his deceit was uncovered by Forbes. Glass was ruined. Became the poster child for everything you’re not supposed to become in this business. I remember reading that case study and shaking my head. How could anyone be that desperate? But desperation is a common thread for me these days. And here I am now, a couple thousand words or so from a feature story that commits the cardinal sin of journalism. This will be the death of any decent thing I could have done with my profession.
“God is a bomb,” I mumble.
I start writing the story.
Here comes the lie.
* * *
It’s after ten at night when I send the draft to Terry and finally leave the building. The air tells me rain is in the cards. Gentle breeze with a hint of warmth. The first light patter of rain tickles my closed fists. I slide my hands into my pockets and keep moving, cutting through side streets and back alleys. All that stands between me and my front door are a few blocks that tilt uphill. My lungs burn a little. I’m out of shape. That’s what the drugs do. They rob you of stamina. Moderate walks at night feel like the Alps on a bicycle.
I pass a house on the corner of a cul-de-sac when an animal’s cry pierces through the silent night. I stop and wait for another cry to verify what I just heard.
A painful yelp yet again.
I locate the house from where I hear the animal. A wooden fence separates the sidewalk from the backyard. I place my head up against the dry wood, hoping nothing splinters into my eardrum. The same woeful cries repeat from the other side of the fence. Short whimpers spliced with prolonged high-pitched whining.
It’s a dog in audible, lasting pain.
I pull myself over the fence and locate the dog. It’s skin. It’s bones. It lays on its side, chained. The moon gives me a view into its painful torture and gnarled existence. The dog’s legs are bound. Its hind legs stretch out long enough for me to see it’s a male. Lacerated streaks mark his sides like sharp objects have raked at him over and over. He realizes another creature has found him, and he lifts his head in my direction. Zip ties seal his snout shut.
The disorienting sensations of rage enter my cranium, impeding my ability to consider anything other than finding who did this. The upstairs bedroom window glows blue and green from the TV. I case the back of the house, searching for a way inside. The dog continues to whine as I leave him behind. I find an unlocked door to the attached garage. I make my way into the house. I can now hear the TV. The Tonight Show or one of its competitors. Cheesy jokes and formulaically timed audience laughter. My shoes drag rain and streaks of the yard across the kitchen floor. Chinese take-out boxes clutter the dinner table. The number of boxes tells me that only one person lives here. Two at most. On the kitchen counter, near the sink, is a butcher knife. The streetlight out front reaches through the window. The blade shimmers in a golden glow. It calls out to me.
I grab it.
The TV’s noise becomes louder and clearer as I find the staircase leading up to the bedroom. I hold the blade down at my side as I start climbing the stairs.
One step at a time.
Higher, I go up the staircase.
Knife in hand.
The audience laughing again.
A billowing crunch of electricity formulates at the front of my head.
A glitch.
Shit.
I retreat down the staircase back into the kitchen. I wait for it to take full effect. Wait for the blackout. My retreat continues. I set the knife back down on the counter. Head toward a sliding glass door that takes me back out to the yard.
The glitch never arrives.
The electrical current within my cranium dissipates, and the pressure dissolves. At the first moment of clarity, I ask myself—what was I about to do?
God has demanded the skies to unleash their full power. Raindrops grow to the size of bullets, forcing me to pull my hoodie over my head as I make my way toward the dog. Before I have time to debate it, I’m undoing the dog’s restraints, starting with the zip ties. Blood oozes from his snout as I slide each one across the ridge of his nose. He snarls at first. He’s a golden retriever, and I know snarling is where the aggression ends for this breed. I hold the back of my hand out to his nose. Let him sniff it. He doesn’t have enough energy to resist, so I proceed. Set his legs free. He moves them slowly, like the muscles might snap from inactivity. Based on his condition and the light in his eyes, this might be his last night. I decide this might be the first night of his new life.
This might be a new friend.
I rest my hand on his side. His rib cage rises and holds there for a second before slowly contracting inward. He has an abiding distrust of man. But I keep my hand on his side, letting it rest gently on top of his soaking fur. I once read that you can transmit energy into a dog by how you touch it. I try to communicate that I’m sorry this has happened to him. That I can help.
His ears relax and fall limp. He lets out a sigh the size of a dinosaur. With it, he exhales years of isolation and grief. Years of living on the edge of death and wishing death would finally come. He sighs, and I know this dog has only survived by holding his mind in a grief-bound room while his body existed outside of it. I know this because that’s what everyone does when faced with extreme sadness and loss. Our minds remain trapped in moments of trauma. Our bodies proceed through life stuck on autopilot. At some point, whether healing has occurred within the mind or not, the two spheres of ourselves merge together again.
I hold a nearby water bowl to his mouth, and he takes two methodical slurps. He looks up at me. Blinks slowly. I blink back even slower than he does. This is how the first wolf–man friendship must have begun. A conversation with the eyes. A negotiation of trust. I slide my arms underneath him and hoist him up. I kick open the gate and walk out. He buries his forehead under my jaw and nudges upward.
“We’re almost home, buddy. Nobody is going to do this to you again. I promise.”
We arrive at my apartment and I set him down onto the living room rug. His eyes have softened, distrust having left his pupils. He only has enough chips left for one more bet in this life.
And I’m it.
I take a moist towel and start cleaning his wounds. No signs of infection, thankfully. The zip ties have left his snout and lips with embossed lines. Judging by his caved-in stomach and the way his bones protrude sharply, he needs food. I hold deli turkey in front of his nose. He takes a few quick sniffs before opening his mouth and receiving it. I dangle more slices in front of him until it’s all gone. His orange tail moves left to right in two quick wags before stopping. This is all he has in him for now. He falls back down on his side, and I lay down next to him, spooning his weak body.
“Everything is going to be okay,” I whisper into his ear. “You’re getting a second life.”
He closes his eyes. I do too. His breathing starts to deepen. Soon he’s snoring and allowing for the healing capabilities of deep sleep to take effect. As I rest my arm across his body, lightly scratching his chest, I fixate on one thing.
The story.
All the words I wrote back at the office. Dozens of theories. Tons of details surrounding two confrontations with a person who may or may not be the killer.
And little of what I wrote is real.
I have trouble with the truth.
The dog continues to sleep deeply.
I wait for a shower of regret and guilt to wash over me.
But on this night, it never comes.
I start to fall asleep.
The Next Chapter Begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .