Chapter 4

The days turned into weeks and my routine continued. Mornings at the precinct, afternoons at Thornhill, nodding to the receptionist but never seeing anybody else, followed by evenings alone in my apartment. My parents said they were worried about me so I added Sunday dinners with them to the routine. The Thornhill evaluations continued as well, but now we discussed potential hires. Thornhill was very particular about the kind of people she was looking for: they had to have the necessary skills but she wanted more from them. She wanted leadership skills and the ability to think and act independently. She wanted principle and integrity. She wanted "honor" if that word means much of anything anymore. And those attributes were hard to identify and even harder to verify. Still, we discussed the subjects and I grew to accept our strange relationship: a disembodied voice from the speakerphone who seemed to have access to anything she needed or wanted. If any piece of information existed she could get it. It was scary at first but by the end of a couple of months of our interactions, it seemed normal. In retrospect, maybe that was the scariest part of all.

I saw Fusco around the precinct but he stayed away from me, just as Shaw had promised he would. A few times I thought he wanted to tell me something but then he would shake his head and walk away. He was probably remembering that conversation with Shaw and her dog in the park. Then one day he just wasn't there anymore. His desk was cleared and he was gone. I heard he won the Lottery. Of course he had immediately retired from the Force. There had been no retirement party because, well, Fusco. Rumors said he was a millionaire now and had moved with his son to Long Island. Good for him, I thought. I hoped he enjoyed his retirement.

One day Thornhill told me my job was completed and I was done. It shouldn't have surprised me but it did. I mean, I had realized for a while that she didn't need my input anymore, if she ever had. She had been humoring me, letting me think I was contributing, but it had become clear my contributions weren't worth five hundred dollars an hour. I had been half-expecting the news, but its suddenness managed to surprise me anyway. She fired me.

This is how it happened:

I entered my office and turned on the monitor. Instead of files awaiting review I saw the face of a woman, looking at me. She had dark shoulder-length hair and dark eyes that shone with intelligence. She was beautiful. Then she spoke and Thornhill's voice came out of the speaker.

"I've been trying to think of a good analogy," she said.

"What?" I answered, flustered at the change of our routine.

"About me. About all this. I've been trying to think of a good analogy to explain to you what it is we are doing. I don't want to tell you the truth, because you don't need to know the truth. But you deserve some form of closure. I've been trying to think of how to explain it to you via analogy so you'd understand without necessarily understanding."

"Or you could just tell me the truth."

"No." Her head shook. "That is not going to happen. I don't like where those paths go."

She continued. "My first analogy was a professional sports team, like an NBA team or a Major League Baseball team."

"Go on," I said.

"There are many parts that make up a team. Everybody has a part to play to make the team successful. There are starters and the bench players. There are coaches and a manager. There are scouts and trainers and bat boys. And what's interesting is that the team identity endures even if the individuals change. The fans still cheer for their team and it doesn't really matter who's playing on the team that day. Somebody gets traded and a new player comes on board. A coach is fired or gets a new job. It doesn't matter because the team is still the team. The Yankees are still the Yankees even though the Babe and Lou don't play anymore. They are still the Yankees even though the Babe and Lou are long dead. The team is more important than the individual players."

"And where do you fit into the analogy?"

She nodded and smiled at me. "Good question. That's where the analogy breaks down because I can't find a suitable role for me. I'm not the owner because even owners can change. The fact of the matter is that if I'm not here then there is no team. Or, more accurately, the team becomes irrelevant. I thought I might be the League Commissioner, but the Commissioner reports to the team owners; they pay his salary. And that's not me. I thought maybe I'm the league itself; maybe I'm the NBA. But without the teams there is no league, and that's not me either. So the professional sports team analogy didn't work and that's why I tried another analogy. I thought about making a major film, maybe summer blockbuster."

"Why is that better?"

"Again, there are many individual roles in such an endeavor. More than most people realize. There are the leads, of course: the stars. But there are supporting roles too. And there's a huge support staff: makeup and costuming, props and transport and accounting. And there's a director and at least one producer. And a cinematographer. Most movies have huge special effects teams located all over the world. And there are investors who fund the production. The list goes on. There's the post-production team, the editors and the people who compose and play the score. There are Foley artists. The thing is, for some of those roles it almost doesn't matter who does them. The movie is still the movie no matter who does the production accounting or who the production assistants are."

"And…?"

"And that analogy doesn't work either. Because if you change a person you get ripple effects and the movie turns out slightly differently than it would have otherwise."

"Assuming that analogy was sound, what would your role be?"

Thornhill looked at me and said in a serious tone, "I would be the movie studio that hires the writer and the director and the producer. I would see the script and greenlight it. I would see the rough cut and decide it needed a reshoot. I would approve the finished product for release. And I would be the film distributor. But I would also be the newspapers and the media outlets that published both the movie advertisements and the opinions of the movie critics."

"That doesn't make any sense. One person can't be all those things."

She nodded. "I know," she said. "It's too complicated. That's why I needed to try another analogy, a simpler one. Think of a rock 'n' roll band."

"Okay," I said.

"The band members play the music. The musicians can change but the songs the band plays are still the same."

"I'm with you so far."

"And the band has roadies to help them with their concerts. There are managers and promoters and merchandisers. Sometimes the band records music and then another group of people help make that happen. All those roles revolve around the band. If the band doesn't make music, then everything falls apart."

"Okay, I think I understand. In this analogy I'm guessing you are the record company that has signed the band to a contract and makes sure everything happens that is supposed to happen."

Thornhill smiled and nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm that company. That's the closest I can get to explaining my role in all this. I'm the record company and I watch out for my bands and make sure their music happens the way it should. It's their music, not mine. They write the music and play it and record it. I take care of the rest."

"Okay, if you are the record company then what am I? Am I talent scout?"

The face on the screen smiled. "Again, Iris, you understand me. You've been helping me scout the other bands and you've been helping me decide which new musicians I want to sign to a contract. There are a lot of indie bands and I want some of them for my company; the others can go their own way. Except for a few; those need to stop making music so that my company can thrive." Then she paused. "That's my story for you. And now it's time for you to leave the company. Your job is done. We've got a full pipeline of talent. I know which bands to sign, which to ignore … and which ones to discourage."

I won't say I wasn't relieved, because I was. But I was also a little sad. I had become accustomed to my lonely little routine, to the disembodied voice with whom I collaborated in psycho-analyzing strangers. I sighed and nodded. Time to go.

"And to thank you for playing with us, I have a little parting gift for you. I won't say you're going to like it, but I do believe you will appreciate it."

The door opened and I looked up to see Shaw, who motioned to me. When it was time to go, it was time to go. I took a final look at my monitor but Thornhill was already gone and the screen was black.

Chapter 5

Shaw was a woman of remarkably few words. She silently took my badge and handed it to the receptionist. She was silent for the entire elevator ride. When we got to the street there was a car waiting for us, one of those new driverless cars. I had never been in one before. We both got in the back. Her dog was already there, waiting for her. There was barely room for all three of us in there.

"How long have you worked for Ms. Thornhill?" I asked, trying to break the ice. Shaw just looked at me with those eyes. Finally she said, "Most of my professional life, as it turns out." And then she turned to look out the window as the car headed to Long Island.

The car stopped in front of a nice house and Fusco got into the front passenger seat. He looked good, tan and rested and thinner than the last time I had seen him. Apparently money was good for one's health. He nodded to us and then reached back to scratch the dog's neck. "How you doin', Bear?" he said affectionately. Shaw's dog, Bear, seemed to know and accept him, which I found very interesting.

Shaw let him interact with the dog for a while, and then asked him about his son. I gathered young Fusco was doing well in his new school and that college prospects were looking good. I really wasn't paying that much attention because I was trying to put the pieces together. Shaw and Fusco, both working for Thornhill. And if Fusco … maybe John? Yes, that seemed to make sense. John's extracurricular work could have been for Thornhill. I could see that.

Eventually the car entered the gates of a Veterans' Cemetery. We proceeded into the cemetery and soon came to a stop.

"Why are we here?" I asked Shaw. She cocked her head a bit, as if she were thinking about the answer or, perhaps, listening to somebody. After a second she said, "This is your parting gift. It's closure. Closure for you and for us. Closure for you and John."

When she said that ice ran down my spine and pooled in my stomach. I knew what my parting gift was going to be and why I wasn't going to like it.

Fusco turned his head and looked back at Shaw for a long moment. "I thought you said no news was no news," he said. His face was somber.

She looked back at him, her eyes as dead as ever, her face without emotion. "This is news."

We got out of the car. My knees were trembling and Fusco had to hold me up. We walked a few feet and Shaw pointed at a tombstone. At first I didn't get it because it didn't say "Riley" but after a second I noticed it did say "John" and it also said "Sergeant, United States Army" and the date of death was fairly recent, and then I got it and I started to cry.

I heard Shaw say something in a foreign language and then Bear the dog was next to me and I put my arms around him while I bawled into his fur like a little girl.

After a time my cell phone rang and Shaw reached into my coat and swiped it on. Thornhill's voice came out of the speaker. I didn't see how the others reacted to her voice because I had my head buried in Bear's fur, but I heard her words and I'm sure the others did too. Those words are burned into my soul forever.

Thornhill said gently, "Iris, before you joined the record company there was a band and I watched over them and helped them out from time to time. I sometimes suggested the tune but the music was all theirs, not mine. Shaw was in the band but before she joined the band was already in place, and she helped them play the same songs they had been playing for years. Fusco joined as a roadie but later on he got up on stage with the band, and he helped them play their songs, the same songs that they had been playing for years. Before Shaw and Fusco, the man you knew as John Riley was in the band. He was one of the stars, the lead guitarist you might say. But the band existed before John joined it. The band was writing music and playing it and recording it before John, but John was a star and he took the music to places the band hadn't been able to get to before. Unfortunately, he gave his life to further the music. I wanted you to know that."

I managed to mumble a question from deep within Bear's fur. "How did he die?"

Thornhill replied softly. "Do you remember one of the early sessions with John, when you suspected he suffered from hero syndrome?"

"Yes," I said. I remembered it well. He had been so good at closing down and it had taken all my tricks to even get him to answer me.

"You told him he didn't have to save everybody. Do you remember his answer?"

"Of course I do. He looked at me sadly and said, 'Yes, I do'."

Thornhill said, "Well, Iris, you should know that he did. That's my parting gift to you: to know that he gave his life to save everybody. He died a hero and without him the band would have broken-up and their music would have died. He didn't just save the band; he saved the record company. Without him the record company would have closed down forever. But because of him, the band will keep playing and their music will still be heard. There will be new players – you helped me pick some of them – and there will be new music. The band that John starred in will continue to play music. The band will continue to live on, even though he won't be a part of it anymore."

Her voice continued. "Iris, thank you for helping us out. Now the bands can continue to play and John's legacy will be secure. This is the last time we'll have a conversation, but please know that I'll be watching you. I expect great things from you. Goodbye."

After a while, Bear, Fusco, and Shaw walked me back to the car and we drove back to The City. I left Thornhill's cell phone behind, next to John's grave.