Chapter Four

Questions and Answers

VINCENT PULLED ON his arm restraints. They weren’t going to magically unravel, but he could hope. His doctor had explained that it was to ensure his safety. Apparently, on top of two broken ribs, he had a traumatic brain injury that was causing too much pressure on his brain, which required a slew of medications, monitoring, and rest. If he proved he could remain calm today, then he’d get the restraints off tomorrow.

The doctor had visited him early in the morning. Since then, he’d stared into the hall, wondering where Sam and Henry had gone and if they were coming back after his outburst the night before. He felt truly insane for accusing Sam of lying, but what she’d told him didn’t make any sense. How could someone with the strength to carry Vincent all the way up to the trail just pass away when emergency services were already waiting for them?

He didn’t know what to think. Every time he tried to go over what had happened that night, flashes of the attack riddled his mind—James’s defeated face, the men’s chilling laughter, the crowbar coming down on him—and all he wanted to do was lock himself in the bathroom. He probably would have if the restraints weren’t pinning him to the bed, leaving him at the mercy of anyone who walked into his room.

He attempted to empty his mind and enjoy the momentary relief his medication cocktail offered. The drugs didn’t erase the pain, but they made it far more bearable. If he didn’t move or take deep breaths, he almost forgot about it from time to time. Then, he coughed or tried to adjust himself, and it flooded back to him.

Sometime after lunch—time seemed to ebb and flow in a strange way with all of his medications—Sam walked in carrying a tote bag over one shoulder and a large Dunkin’ Donuts cup in each hand. “Good afternoon.”

“You’re back?” He didn’t even know where to begin to apologize.

“Just went to pick up some of your things,” she said, motioning to her bag. “You can’t scare me away that easy.”

“And Henry?”

“Made him go home and shower. He’ll be back soon. I see you’re still in restraints.”

He twisted his arms like he was a QVC host displaying a pair of dazzling bracelets. “Deservingly so. Look, about last night…”

“Forget about it.”

“I just—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I’ve known for a week, and I still can hardly believe he’s gone.” She cleared her throat. “So, the one with cream and sugar or the one with just cream?”

“What?”

She held out the cups in front of him.

He hadn’t had a drop of coffee since before the attack. “Just cream, you amazing saint.”

“Good choice. I already started drinking the one with cream and sugar.” She set his coffee on the overbed table before she seemed to remember that he was restrained. “I’ll get you a straw.”

Vincent was sipping his coffee when there was a knock at the open door. A Black woman, dressed in brown slacks and a yellow blazer, stood in the doorway. She was bald and held a manila folder at her side. “Vincent Vicar?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, my name is Adelaide. I’m with social services. Is now a good time to talk?”

He looked to Sam, who shrugged. He didn’t see why not. “Sure.”

Adelaide walked over to Sam. “And who might this be?”

“A friend, but I might step out to make a call while you two talk.” She got up and headed for the door.

“You are more than welcome to stay,” Adelaide said.

“That’s okay. Nice to meet you.” Sam turned to Vincent. “I’ll be back soon.”

Vincent couldn’t tell if he was grateful that she’d left. “What’s this about?”

“I’m here to see how you’re doing and let you know about our services. Can I take a seat?”

“Of course.” He went to wave to the chairs, but his restraints stopped him.

She sat down with a huff. “Thank you. I took the stairs. Don’t recommend them. Anyway, how are you feeling today? Are you comfortable?”

“Sure.”

She opened the folder in her lap and flipped through a few papers. “I heard you had a rough night.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He could feel his cheeks growing red. She probably thought he was insane, and he wasn’t too sure he could argue against that.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” He stared down at his restraints. Even though they were padded, he had messed with them enough that his skin was red around the edges of the straps.

“It can be a lot to go through what you went through. Sometimes, people need time to process everything, and that is totally normal and fine. I just want to let you know that if you change your mind, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” He wasn’t sure if it was her warm eyes or her calming voice, but something about her made him feel like she meant every word that left her lips. The only problem was there wasn’t anything to process. He had too many unanswered questions to even begin to consider what had happened to James, and he didn’t even know who he could talk to about them without getting upgraded from restraints to a padded cell.

“Now, the police would like to talk to you about what happened, but we can, of course, put a hold on that until you are ready to talk to them. Also…”

Whatever she said next was lost on him.

The police.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought about it sooner. Emergency services had been in the woods with them that night. Maybe they knew something about what had happened that everyone else had missed. Even if they couldn’t answer his questions, he’d rest a lot easier knowing the police were looking for the fuckers who did this to them.

“I want to talk to the police as soon as possible,” he said, perhaps a bit too forcefully from the way Adelaide sat back in her chair at his words.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

“I’m sure.”

 

VINCENT WAS ALONE when Detectives Ralbovsky and Tillman came to question him that afternoon. Sam and Henry had offered to stay, but he assured them he would be fine. He didn’t think he could ask about James with them in the room. The detectives weren’t at his bedside long before he started to regret that decision.

“We know you’ve been through a lot, but we want to ask you a few questions, so we can bring those responsible to justice.” Ralbovsky spoke in such a hollow and rehearsed manner that Vincent wondered how many times he’d said those words. Looking at the white hair around his temples and the strained buttons on his shirt, he’d bet Ralbovsky had repeated that sentence more times than he could count.

“The more you can tell us, the more we can help.” Tillman couldn’t be more different than her partner. Fitted suit. Tight ponytail. Muscular build. She looked like she belonged in an hour-long police procedural. Her hands were tightly folded together on the black binder in her lap.

Ralbovsky pulled a notepad from his back pocket and flipped to a fresh page. “So, why don’t we start with when you got to the park?”

Vincent went to scoot up in bed before his ribs made him think better of it. “Around a quarter after five.”

“And do you usually jog in Schenley Park?”

“Yeah.”

They continued like this. Question and answer. Vincent didn’t know when or how to go about asking his own questions, and as their conversation drew closer to the attack, he thought less and less about them. He was too busy trying to describe what had happened that night.

He’d worked so hard to cast away those memories they were out of reach when he returned to them. The events played back in his mind in distorted flashes. A man, cloaked in shadows, jumping onto the trail. The sound of a crowbar hitting flesh. The dark mixture of blood and dirt. He worked to process them into a coherent series of events, but there were holes in his memory. Film stock with missing frames.

Ralbovsky flipped back through his notebook. “Let me get this straight. These men started harassing you, and then your boyfriend went after one of them, and the guy pulls a gun?”

He’d clearly misunderstood Vincent. He was making it sound like James had been the aggressor. “They threatened us. Harassed us. Called us faggots. The guy had a crowbar.”

“The stocky guy?”

“Yeah.” Vincent spotted a stray thread on the blanket that was folded down to his waist. He twirled it around his finger. There was still dirt under his fingernails.

“Do you remember anything else about what he looked like?” Tillman asked.

He waded through the disjointed memories again, reliving each moment he came across like it had just happened. He knew he was as safe as he could be in a hospital room with two detectives beside him, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking and heart from racing. He continued to wrap the thread around his finger. “Nothing more than what I already told you. It was dark out, and everything happened so fast.”

The sound of pages being turned filled the room before Ralbovsky said, “And you’re sure about the tattoo on the taller guy?”

“Yeah, numbers on the side of his head. Couldn’t make out what they were.”

Silence.

Ralbovsky looked unconvinced. “You’re positive about this?”

He wasn’t sure why it was so hard to believe. “I am.”

“The reason I ask is because the young couple who came across you two. The ones who called the police. They gave us similar descriptions, but they didn’t remember seeing the tattoo.”

“Maybe they didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Like you said. It was dark out.”

The skin bulging through the thread on his finger had turned red.

“We just want to make sure we have everything straight.” Tillman shot a dirty look at her partner. “What were you and James wearing?”

Vincent resisted the urge to ask what that had to do with anything. “Just some sweats.”

“Any Pitt merchandise?”

“What?”

“Any hats or shirts with the school’s logo?”

“I think I had on a Pitt hoodie. Why?”

“There have been gang initiations in the past that involve jumping local college students. From what you described of the young attacker, I wonder if that might be one of the reasons why they singled you out as targets.”

What little of his finger wasn’t wrapped in thread had turned purple. The three men seemed to have one very specific reason for attacking them, and as fragmented as his memories were, that much was obvious. “They never mentioned anything about Pitt.”

His expression must have given some indication of his thoughts on her theory because Tillman quickly added, “I don’t mean to imply that we know why they did this. We are just trying to consider the whole picture.”

From the mocking kissing sounds to the endless string of slurs, why these assholes had attacked them didn’t seem like that big of a mystery. He tried to breathe through his anger and remind himself the detectives were on his side, but this felt more like an interrogation than an interview.

“I understand how hard this is for you. We just have a few more questions.” Ralbovsky spoke in the same practiced manner as he had before. An automated detective.

“Now, you said that James carried you up the hill after he was shot,” Tillman said like he hadn’t just explained it to them a few minutes ago.

“I put mud on the wound to try to stop the bleeding, and the next thing I knew, he was carrying me up the hill.” Vincent didn’t know what else they wanted.

Tillman exchanged a look with Ralbovsky. “And you’re sure about this.”

His finger had turned an eggplant purple around the thread. He twisted it once more, and it broke, unraveling on the bed. “Why would I tell you if I wasn’t?”

Ralbovsky shut his notepad. “Well, for starters, your boyfriend wasn’t found on the trail.”

There it was. The answer to a question he’d forgotten to ask. The gaps in his memory. “I mean, I was kind of out of it by that point. I don’t know where they found us.”

“Which is why I thought everything might not be lining up.” Tillman seemed to be talking more to her partner than Vincent.

They were keeping something from him. “What are you talking about?”

Tillman started to say something, but Ralbovsky spoke over her. “He wasn’t covered in mud, and from what we could tell, he hadn’t been moved after he fell. You, on the other hand, were found on the trail.”

That didn’t make any sense. He remembered doing it. Felt the cold earth. Heard his heartbeat. Who else could have carried him up the hill? “That can’t be right.”

Ralbovsky ignored whatever Tillman was trying to communicate in her darted glances. “Well, as you said, you were out of it by that point.”

Vincent tossed the thread to the ground. “Maybe he fell after he got me to the trail, and the rain washed away the dirt. I mean, does that really matter?”

Unlike the rest of this conversation, there was a clear answer to his question. Of course, it mattered. They were treating him like a criminal; like he was hiding something when he was just trying to figure out what the fuck had happened that night.

He waited for them to say something that would show him he was being irrational and they were on his side, but Ralbovsky’s only response was “Maybe.”

Vincent wanted to be mad, but the crushing realization that even they were against him took all the fight out of him. He answered their remaining questions and flipped through the binder of headshots they had compiled based on the descriptions the couple had given them. A sea of white faces that made him even less certain about the few characteristics he thought he’d remembered about their attackers.

Tillman took back the binder when he finished. “There are plenty more where that came from. We can pull some more based on the descriptions you gave us.”

“Do you remember anything else about their faces?” Ralbovsky said. “Like did one of them have a big nose or small ears or a unibrow or anything that might help us narrow down the search?”

Vincent searched the linoleum for the stray thread. It had disappeared somewhere in the comparatively vast white floor. “No.”

“Look, you don’t have to worry about anyone coming after you. We can—”

“I don’t remember.”

“Sometimes, when people experience trauma, things can get a little fuzzy for a while. But if anything comes back to you, don’t hesitate to contact us.” Tillman set a card on the overbed table. “One of us will answer your call at this number, day or night.”

As soon as they were gone, Vincent expected tears to come, but he didn’t feel anything. He’d left that discussion with more questions than answers, and while he kept waiting for his memories with James in the woods to unravel and reveal themselves to be part of a nightmare, they felt real. He remembered them with far more clarity than virtually anything else that had happened that night, which was only more troubling.