4:00 PM approached, Thursday afternoon. New York was a maze of dips and recesses, buildings and subway entrances. The sky was cloudless, warm rays of sunshine extending across Queens, Brooklyn, Jersey. Taxis fired by, horns blaring. Buses gridlocked the street corners. Innumerable people, notably anonymous within the chaos, shifted in every direction imaginable, mazing their way to destinations unknown, their thoughts unquestionably in as much disorder as the environment surrounding them. People yelling. Children shrieking. Complete chaos, yet somehow systemized in its entirety. Typical day in the city.
Climbing the concrete steps leading to the13th precinct, Frank felt winded and lightheaded, as if he had just run a race. The trek from his apartment was only six blocks today, less than ten minute walk. But still he felt tired.
Sometimes, weather permitting, he would walk to his office at the 12th, which took nearly thirty minutes, and he usually felt fine, sometimes exercised, invigorated. But today he had trouble simply keeping up with the traffic. One bad night will kill you, he thought, figuring it would take at least two days before he felt like 'himself' again. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, one hand gripping the handrail, one hand instinctively feeling for the gun strapped around his waist.
The outer appearance of the 13th looked exactly as he remembered it from his last visit two years ago: chipped brickface hiding the building's infrastructure, the weather- beaten arched doorway basked in dull green paint, a big metal 'thirteen' fringed with rust identifying the station.
He entered and immediately smiled, the work environment triggering instant memories of the past. Some things never changed.
The first thing he noticed were the community policing charts and robbery beat maps, still posted in the same exact place they had been for the last twenty years: to the left, on the dull-as-dull-can-be gray walls. As a matter of fact, everything in the precinct possessed the same sallow flavor. Ceiling to furniture to floors, as if the room itself were ill and all the color had been drained from its veneer. The sickly gray hue gave him the impression of the shade a body retains after rigor mortis sets in. And then there were those scary art prints hanging crookedly amidst the charts, faded and seemingly untouchable like petrified fungi growing on a tree trunk. They'll be there in another twenty years, Frank thought, recalling the somber feelings the environment elicited when desk duty ran overtime, it always feeling like he were being institutionalized.
Beyond the phone system and the recent addition of computers, the 13th precinct remained virtually the same as it did when he last worked here eleven years ago.
Frank quickly thought back to the Summer of 1990, when he and Diane had vacationed to California. He took a few hours to pay visit to his telephone acquaintances at the 71st in Los Angeles—friends he made while researching a murder case he worked on the previous year.
Frank hadn't believed his eyes when he first laid sight on the working environment in L.A. It was like he had just stepped into a country club. Polished floors, clean walls, organization comparable to that of a library. And the technology—unbelievable. Radar maps of the city; computerized composite programs storing over six thousand simulated facial features; infrared tracking devices. And funny: in comparison to the crusty coffee pots at the 13th, those lads in LA sported a nifty cappuccino maker complete with brass pots and gourmet coffee. No comparison. The stations in New York were virtual slums compared to those in Los Angeles. But in Frank's ongoing opinion, all that polish—yellow walls, cushiony furniture, espresso—it kind of softened the ethic of those who worked in it. Certainly there was no intent to think less of them—it wasn't easy being a cop in L.A. But it took a real tough, hard-as-nails guy to work as one in New York.
The case that had earned Frank friends in LA resulted in all his New York associates nicknaming him 'the psychic detective', a moniker that lasted a good two years. A tip from Inspector Morris at the L.A.P.D. revealed that a local businessman named John Douglas, who’d had a very public, ongoing marital dispute, hadn't shown up at work for a week, and was eventually reported missing. Inspector Morris' research discovered that Douglas had flown to New York's JFK two days before his wife left for business in Manhattan. Morris notified Frank at the 13th, who subsequently looked into it. As details developed, Frank found out that Douglas had stalked his wife while here, following her upon her arrival at the airport to the New York Hilton, and later all around the city as she went about her business. He eventually discovered her capping off her second night in town snuggled up in her hotel room with a business associate.
He murdered them both, shooting each of them three times with a semi-automatic.
Although assumed to be hiding somewhere in the city, there had been no immediate sign of Douglas' whereabouts following the murders. Frank, listening to his instinct, put a stakeout on a pawn shop in which the owner claimed a man fitting the suspect's description had purchased a semi-automatic there the day before the murders. Unbelievable as it seemed, Frank figured that Douglas' execution had been planned, that the guy had intended to go into seclusion, henceforth needing every penny he could get his hands on. The very next day, Douglas tried to return the gun to the pawn shop and get his two-hundred back. Just as Frank had guessed.
Instinct he bragged. Not psychic. They needled him anyway.
A visit to any precinct in the 'Big Apple' would unquestionably find a flurry of caged decadence within its walls: restless teenagers sporting handcuffs, fidgeting in their seats as desk officers questioned their immoral activities; prostitutes with prune-sized bruises on their faces claiming they were just 'hanging around'; scofflaws screaming at the tops of their lungs, emphatically insisting their innocence. Today was no different at the 13th. They were all there, a movie rerun for the thousandth time, a front row seat for Frank. If he had gone to work today at the 12th, he'd find much of the same.
All of a sudden, the doors to the precinct slammed open behind him. A shirtless vagrant appeared, scraggly beard crawling halfway down the front of his chest. Two cops had him by the arms, wrists cuffed behind him—Frank's sharp memory recognized one of the officers from the crime scene early this morning. The vagrant was screaming in a raspy voice about aliens from outer space who were trying to steal his empty deposit cans. Frank shifted aside, watching curiously as the cops shoved the bum forward, forcefully leading him through the office to the 'backroom'. Every precinct had a backroom, a row of cells where criminals were detained for a short period until they were either sent off to prison or released on their own recognizance. Lovely place. Always lots to see.
A half-dozen metal folding chairs ran along the perimeter of a small waiting area. A frail looking elderly man with an unkempt beard and one clouded eye occupied one. He utilized his good eye to gaze up at Frank. Ahead, behind a sign-in desk, a middle-aged desk sergeant sat thumbing through a stack of paper.
"Help you?" he asked, eyes glued to his paperwork.
Frank stuck his detective's badge under the cop's nose. "Frank Ballaro for Captain Rodriguez."
The cop looked up. A show of regard livened the features on his face. "Ah, Detective. Captain Rodriguez told me to expect you. I'll tell him you're here."
"Thanks." Frank glanced around. A few cops were laughing out loud, making cracks about the crazy man; his pleading cries about aliens were still audible even from behind the closed doors of the back room.
"He's right, you know..."
Frank twisted his neck towards the voice. The man with the clouded eye still gazed at him, straggles of hair escaping the worn Yankees cap he wore. "Pardon?"
"The aliens. They are here." His voice sounded like a distorted stereo speaker, and as he spoke drool dribbled from his toothless grin. "And they're covering it up," he whispered, pointing to the offices where the police were working.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to keep an eye out, then."
"You do that." The man smiled, wet lips flattened against each other like two slimy worms.
"Shut up!" The cop behind the desk. "Sorry 'bout that."
Frank placed a hand on the desk. "He's harmless."
"He's nuts. Like the rest of them. Been here three times this month." He leaned forward, smiling. "Said the aliens are here."
"Must be catching."
"Huh?"
"The guy they just brought in."
The desk sergeant laughed. "Yeah, they're a dime a dozen. By the way, nice job."
"Sorry?"
"On the Lindsay case."
Frank smiled halfheartedly, nodded. "Thanks." Damn, he thought. Bobby Lindsay, out on bail. It had escaped him for a moment. Being reminded of it now suddenly triggered the vexatious, irrational side of his personality, the same one that had creeped up on him early this morning, tempting him to splatter the rat in the gutter. Suddenly he felt the need to get a grip, control himself from wanting to leap over the desk and choke the desk sergeant. Last night he blamed this illogical anger on fatigue. But today?
He was starting to scare himself.
"Frank..." He heard Hector Rodriguez yell his name from across the room. Frank saw him standing in his open office door at the rear of the precinct. "Come back," he motioned, waving.
The desk sergeant nodded as Frank passed him. He wormed his way through the maze of desks. Twenty or so cops milled about, some busy at work on computers, others questioning disgruntled folk whose expressions clearly indicated that this was the last place they wanted to be.
Frank reached Hector. They shook hands. "How are you?"
"Tired," Hector said. "Been going non-stop since I last saw you."
They entered the office. Hector shut the door behind them and added, "You don't look so hot."
"I feel like I was the one who was hit by a taxi. Too old to pull them all nighters."
"I bet. It must be tough sleeping 'till noon." Hector smiled.
"Two. How quickly you forget. Must be old age."
Hector grimaced, then, as always with Hector, it was right down to business. Motioning with his hand, he said, "Have a seat."
Frank stayed standing, and with no hesitation, threw his first question at him. "Anything new come up?"
Down to business—two could play that game.
Surprisingly, Hector didn't give him the run-around. "The first kid's dead too." He sat down behind his desk. "Stayed alive another ten minutes or so, but was DOA at Mercy Hospital. Looks like we got a double murder here."
"Did he say anything?"
"The kid?"
"Yeah."
"EMT's reported nothing. You know...I was going to ask you the same question."
"Actually I was hoping you would." Frank stepped to the water cooler against the wall, pulled a plastic cup from the attached dispenser and filled it. "Before anyone else showed up, he did say something." He took a mouthful of water, tossed the cup in a pail next to the cooler. "This is going to sound strange Hect, and please, don't think I'm crazy or that I was tired because I'm quite sure I heard it correctly."
Hector waited, hands folded beneath his chin. "Yes?"
"Atmosphere."
"Pardon?"
"That's it. Atmosphere. He said just that one word, one time." Frank gripped the back of the chair facing Hector's desk, leaned forward slightly. "I was kneeling over him trying to get him to talk about what had happened. At first he said absolutely nothing, just groaned a lot, and I thought I'd never get anything out of him. But then, right out of the blue, it just slipped from his lips, almost as if he had no control over it. I tried real hard to get him to say something else, but he was hurting real bad, and I got nothing. He said just the one word, one time. That was it."
Hector rubbed the stubble on his chin. To Frank he seemed to be pondering the word and its potential significance. "That's all he said, huh?"
Frank nodded.
"What do you make of it?"
"No clue," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. His muscles felt tense.
Hector grabbed a pen from the cup on his desk, jotted the word down on a piece of stationary. "Frank, as you already know, I need a statement from you. But I'd also like you to make yourself available in case I need you. We're definitely treating this as a double murder, and the bald guy is our only suspect right now. We have witnesses, but your testimony will be needed first since you saw everything from the very beginning."
"Sure, no problem. Listen, Hect, I really want a piece of this..."
"Frank...please," Hector said, holding his hands up. "Don't make this difficult. You know very well that I can't put you on the case. We'd have to arrange for a temporary transfer, get signed authorizations from Captain Klein and myself. All at my request. And then the paperwork. C'mon, Frank, by the time it all goes through, baldie will have a few more notches on his bedpost to brag about."
Frank grinned defensively. This was Hector, tried and true, everything by the book. But his shell was thin, and crackable.
"C'mon Hect, I not talking about dealing our cards face-up, you know that as well as I do. I can help, and you very well know it, so don't give me any of your by-the-book bull-crap." Frank felt a vein in his head start to throb. He was getting excited. "Let's cut to the chase. Let me in on this."
"Frank, I understand this happened in your neighborhood..."
"That has nothing to do with this."
"Look. You're a dear friend, and I have the greatest respect for you, but the fact of the matter is that even though I know you could help, and that I would love to work with you again, we have fine detectives here, all of whose egos don't take to kindly to outside interference. Think about how you feel every time someone from the FBI shows up invading your territory."
Twinges of frustration started to well up in Frank's throat in the form of a hot burning ball. He wanted to tear at Rodriguez's collar, shake some sense into him, convince him that he was the best man for the job.
"And," Hector added, "I'm sure you have plenty to do at the twelfth."
"I've got a few days off. Hect, c'mon. You'd want the same thing if you were in my place." He knew he was starting to sway Hector, playing him just the right way, nice and easy does it.
Hector smiled, half a grin of agreement, half cut partially in frustration.
"Couldn't you come up with anything better than 'by-the-book bull-crap'?"
Frank smiled. "Hect..."
"I'll tell you what," he said, his breathy tone clearly expressing a settling against his better judgment. "Before you go inside to give your report, I'll let you in on what we already know. If on your spare time you hear something you think we ought to know, I'm all ears. Just keep it quiet, all right?"
Frank smiled. Indeed if the situation had been reversed, Hector would have behaved in the same manner, would have picked at Frank's skin until he got his way. Frank felt ingratiated, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Good 'ol Hect, showing his professional respect for Frank, letting him do a little 'under the table' work.
Now they could get down to business. Frank finally sat down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, heart suddenly pounding with excitement. "Thank you. Now what about baldman? Anything?"
Hector grabbed a yellow clasp envelope from the right side of his desk. "What do you think?" He pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope, showed it to Frank.
Frank looked at the page. An artist's composite sketch of the sunglassed bald man stared back at him. A fine representation, chin sharp, quaint slit for a mouth, nose a mere drop of cartilage and skin. "That's him."
"Yeah, pretty good, huh? It's going out tomorrow morning, local press first. If nothing comes up, we'll go national, first the precincts then public if we have to. It'd be nice if his face came up in a database somewhere. Meanwhile, I've got someone searching ours right now. Keep your fingers crossed.
Frank handed the sketch back to Hector. "Can I have a copy?"
"Sure." Hector slipped it back into the clasp envelope. "Actually—take this one." He handed the envelope with the sketch back to Frank.
"Any I.D. on the two kids?"
"The first kid had nothing on him. All we've really got is what you already know. Male, Caucasian, eighteen to twenty-two years. True cause of death right now unknown—until the coroner's report comes back. Should have something in twenty-four hours. We're guessing 'trauma due to blunt force'. Toxicology results will be back before that, tell us if he was under any influence. In the meantime, we've got someone checking out calls on missing persons."
The image of the dying boy suddenly haunted Frank. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"Something wrong?"
He looked at Hector, watched him come into focus through the fading blotches in his vision. "The whole thing is bugging me. It was so damn...unusual. You know? The kid, being naked and all, seeing him getting hit by the car. And then afterwards, when I looked into his eyes, they were so glassy. Spaced out. It could've been shock, could've been drugs, but I got a strange impression there was something else. I can't put a finger on it, but I know it's something we should be looking into."
"Like what?"
"Well..." He hesitated, not exactly sure what it was he wanted to say.
Hector leaned back, put his arms on his head. His leather shoulder holster stretched across his chest like a giant shoelace. "Don't get too worked up over it. It's probably all drug-related. I'll let you see the toxicology report when it comes in. Don't waste your energy on something that's unlikely."
Frank stared at Hector. The Captain's eyes were unmoving, seemingly in wait for Frank to either shock or amuse him. "Look," he said, frowning defensively, "I can't say for sure what happened out there, but I do know that that kid was terrified of something. He ran like hell from the alley. Naked. I'm telling you, I don't think he cared what happened to him as long as he got away from whatever it was that had him spooked. And then when I saw his face, the fear. Believe me when I tell you that I've never seen anything like it, and it's something I'll never forget. Honest. It was weird."
Hector lowered his arms, took a mouthful of coffee, grimaced. Must have been cold. "You want my honest opinion, Frank? I think the two kids were all doped up having some sort of a sexual entanglement in the alley when baldie jumped out of nowhere, surprised them with a knife and sliced away their dicks. One kid almost got away. The other didn't. That's why your boy was afraid, Frank. You'd be too if someone did a Bobbit on your pecker."
Frank felt droplets of sweat trickling down his back. "Did you find a knife?"
"No. Baldie must've taken it with him."
"How about the thing the second kid was holding onto? Find that?"
"No."
"Well, one thing I am positive about. That thing. Whatever it is, it's what the bald guy was after. Bad enough to risk his own ass in order to get it."
"I thought about that," Hector confessed, "after you mentioned it this morning. But there's no evidence at this time to confirm that right now. We searched the entire area, the tunnel, found nothing. We don't even know how the damn tunnel was dug out. That's another mystery in itself."
"What about the other kid? ID?"
Hector shuffled some documents on his desk, picked one up. "Had a school ID on him. Patrick Racine, nineteen, student at the Fashion Institute. No prior arrests, good grades, nice family. They've been notified. I'm gonna have them interviewed either later tonight or tomorrow."
"Gee, Jaimie goes there, F.I.T."
"This is all a little too close to home, huh?"
"Real close."
"Why don't you ask her if she knows Racine, about his lifestyle, anything that would warrant his being out late, or in the neighborhood."
Frank nodded. "Sure," then he said, "Let me go in on the interview."
"Frank, please..."
"I have to be there." Anxiousness ripped at his heart.
"I'll give you a transcript."
"Hect, please. I just want to listen. I won't say anything. I just know I can pick up a lot if I'm there."
"I'll give you a tape and a transcript. End of story." Hector stood. "I think we're done for now." Clearly Hector was starting to lose patience, not necessarily with Frank, but with the whole occurrence. "Why don't we get your interview set up with Sergeant Simmons."
Frank stayed seated, frustration tickling his nerve endings. "You hear about Bobby Lindsay?"
Hector placed his fists on the desk. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"It'll be front page again."
"You did what you could. All you can do now is let the system do its job and everything will work out. Kid'll get his."
Hector's phone beeped. He hit the speaker button. "Rodriguez."
"Captain," a tinny voice blared. "I think we found something on the bald guy."
"I'll be right there."
Frank stood, gave Hector a grin. Action.
Hector walked around his desk. "Let's go check it out, Smoky."