The rookie, he knew, got the brunt of a lot of flack, and, given the same circumstances, he couldn't say he wouldn't be just as dismissive and harsh with a newcomer as well. In fact, if they got a new person on their team just now, he'd probably act how most cops did.
So he wasn't surprised when he'd first joined the team, knew from the start that it would take a while for them to warm up to him and even longer for them to be comfortable enough with him to call him a friend. And that was the thing; you worked with a lot of people as a cop, you didn't always, rarely even, get close.
But he had.
When he'd first joined the team, he'd read them all like a book. They didn't know it, maybe they still didn't, but Martin Fitzgerald was skilled at reading people just by looking at them. Not like most people who tended to stereotype based on looks and clothes and what kind of purse you had, the brand of shoes you wore. Even the way your hair fell around your head and what color it was.
No, Martin could read a person and he was always 99% right. Except with Samantha.
He got Jack right; first person he met, shook his hand. Tough guy. Big, Italian New Yorker with a crooked smile and dark eyes that he knew equally scared suspects and eased victims into whatever comfort he built for them. He wore the traditional suit and his eyes were what he expected: haunted, sad, unsure of what he'd done and been. And tired. Bone tired. A testament to his committment. And God, did the man have things running around in his head he just couldn't live down; demons. Demons in his soul.
He got Danny right; cocky, a little, at first glance. And maybe that's where people dismissed him at first, with that initial meeting. But, the thing about Danny Taylor was, he was miles away from being cocky. Liked to play it up, sure, but he wasn't. He was humble and decent and he could see it in his eyes, this playful fire, this kindness, this readiness to help wherever and whenever he could. And this devotion to anyone he cared about enough to be his friend. Or anyone, he should say, that Danny let in. Because Martin could see that too, see that Danny had lost someone close to him, had fallen into cracks as a kid, had been unsure of where to go. So if he let you in, you were there forever.
He got Vivian right; tough, that was his first word for her. Tough as nails, as the cliche went. A New Yorker too, her accent leaking through. Jack was the boss but Vivian...Vivian held them together. You could see it. The way she could look at Jack and con an answer out of him, not by sweet talk, but by brutal honesty and friendship. She had a dynamic with all of them and she contrasted Samantha perfectly, the other woman on the team. They were polar opposites, like north and south, but like the poles of a magnet, they also clung to each other. They could fight now and then, but they had an understanding together, like they knew something no one else ever would.
He didn't get Samantha right. She was gorgeous, yeah. No doubt about that. And his heart thudded in his chest when he first saw her. Truth be told, though, he'd done it; he'd stereotyped her. He'd classified her, regrettably, as an agent that slept her way through the ranks and maybe it was because she seemed to be the flirty type, and hell, she was pretty, who wouldn't sleep with her? But she would've slapped him a mean one if she knew he'd thought that about her. Samantha Spade was the last person he'd ever accuse of that now. She valued her career too much for that. In some ways. And therein lay the conflict. See, he'd figured her for that kind of woman because of the way she looked at Jack and he looked at her like they were more than just coworkers. They looked like they were in love and that might've been okay, save for those nasty regulations, until he found out Jack was married and then the conflicts started, though Martin wasn't directly involved in this.
He could only watch.
And again, truth be told, he had fallen for her. He wouldn't protest anyone who called it lust or a simple schoolboy crush because maybe that's all it really was. But he did care for her and knew her now, after a year and a half, knew her pretty well and so now, knowing these things that he did about her, he could make his judgments about Samantha Spade.
She was tainted, surely, but not with evil or the usual shortcomings you expect in certain people. She was tainted in the way you look at a person and think, My God, she's so good and real, and just so human. And she was good, good except for Jack. She cared about her cases like they were her own, like she'd directly lost a person. She felt for the victims and thought about them long after they'd left most other people's minds.
She carried them with her, though know one else thought much about it.
And with Jack, he knew, she'd committed a sin, but here he stood, thinking of them after so long. Thinking of the way Jack's voice shook in a warm, abandoned movie theater as he looked across the street to the bookstore that held his agent hostage. Not just his agent, his meaning. Look at his eyes and you knew.
So maybe Martin had a crush on Samantha and once or twice, months ago, they'd come close to taking it further when she'd been drunk and lonely and needing a warm body. And he'd held her and wanted her and thought of how it would feel to lay against her skin and those silky sheets of hers and hear her call out Jack's name without thinking. He didn't want it. And he knew it would happen, so he stayed the one thing he could be to her: a friend.
Martin Fitzgerald, the boy next door; the All-American kid who keeps your tears in his shirts and your sad smiles in his eyes so you won't have to walk away with the pain you can't escape. He couldn't take her pain completely, but he could keep her company for a few hours here and there and make her forget and maybe that would be enough for those few hours, just those few hours where she could know she wasn't alone.
God, he thought, the things you think about when you're sitting in a hard chair in a busy police station on a cold winter afternoon. He looked at his watch. It was almost three o'clock. He'd been waiting for ten minutes. Sheesh, how long did it take?
Finally, the officer came back, tossed Martin a folder and said, "There you go. Not much, but the guy's been brought in on a few drug busts here and there, what have you."
"Thanks, " he said, standing.
Well, he'd broken his own stereotype. He'd come to Queens alone.
*
You expect the hours to pass by slowly when you've had a fight with someone and you're waiting for them to come back, hoping there will be a chance for forgiveness and redemption. But actually, it seemed to move so fast he couldn't keep track.
Samantha must have come in and he hadn't noticed because once he left his office, there she was, poring over casefiles again.
"We're not going to find anything, " he said, hands in his pockets as he leaned against his doorjamb.
"You never know. Some cases are solved with the littlest details."
"We need to hammer Joseph again. I've got a hunch he knows something."
She stopped flipping the papers over.
"Okay, " she said reluctanly.
He nodded, though she couldn't see it. Well, this would be fun.
*
"The blood matches that of the neighbor, Kenneth Mercel. Fingerprints are Vincent's, " the CSI said as he sat with one leg on his stool, hand against his microscope.
"What does that mean?" Danny mused aloud.
"Agent Johnson, you mentioned that Kenneth Mercel had fresh cuts on his body?"
She nodded.
"Any simple or logical conclusion to that; he could've been in a fight, or he could've killed someone."
"Not that we hope it's murder, but if he did Vincent, it'd make this case a hell of a lot easier, " Danny said, arms folded in concentration over his chest.
"Your case, your call."
They were silent for a moment.
"And you didn't find anything else...skin, hair?"
"All Vincent's."
"Any possible connection to the serial murders Detectives Spade and Collins are handling?" Danny asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, have you recovered any blood from those victims, hair, fibers, skin?"
"Nothing, the victim's are clean. ME got an impartial print off the last victim, but we've run it through. No match with Kenneth Mercel, if you think that's your guy."
"He might not be the serial killer, but he could've killed Vincent Marro, " Vivian said and Danny nodded in agreement.
"All right, thanks, " Danny said and they left.
*
Nighttime in winter remained one of the few trite symbolisms. Poets and writers always embellished the deepness of it, the intensity of it, the overwhelming darkness it lay over full towns and cities. And in the winter, it steadfastly remained one of the beautiful things as well, the stars of December shining brighter somehow than those of all the other months before it.
Tonight, Jack didn't feel the enchanting detachment the gifted ones wrote about in their poems and novels. He just felt empty. Joseph Marro was conveniently unavailable tonight, so here they were, deadlocked. He wanted to cash this case in and move onto something they could feel.
But he couldn't, given the circumstances.
He'd called Maria and she'd been bitter at his admission, being unable to come home early. So she'd be going out on her own, found a babysitter for the girls. She needed time to think, as she put it. That was always good. Time to think.
He had to do something. They couldn't carry on like this for much longer, they just couldn't. And yet, here he was, still holding on to something he thought could still be there. And he wasn't a quitter. He didn't want to be the one to finally end it, he just couldn't do it.
Jack felt like another person, like he was living a lie with his wife. There were all these...empty things that looked like him and talked like him, but weren't him. He didn't know who he even was anymore.
He just had these empty things.
*
Susan Goodly just wanted to get home. God, did she. Most of the time, work went by fast. She counted her blessings that she had a job safe from the tedium of so many career junkies in this city, the ones who felt lucky to get five hours of sleep at night, who forgot what time off felt like.
She loved coming home to begin with, who wouldn't? But tonight was special. Tonight would be her anniversary. Waitressing at a diner in Queens wasn't what her guidance counselors in school would've promoted as the best thing to do after college, but she was in that transitional period; newly graduated, armed with a degree in History, waiting for a school, any school to hire her.
It would come through, she knew it.
Her friends would tell her she didn't belong here, she should move to a fancier place, away from the seediness this part of New York had to offer. But she could stay here from now, she could stay.
Placing the decaf coffee back on the heater, she looked at the clock, obviously not conspicuously either, as she caught her friend Amber's knowing grin. Time to clock out. She threw her apron off, punched her time card in the slot and gathered her stuff in her tote bag. Throwing her hair into a quick ponytail and pulling a heavy sweatshirt over her head as she looked out the window at the falling snow, she zipped up her jeans quickly and pulled on an extra layer of socks.
Dressed in record time.
Back to the apartment in less than ten, she could be in her modest dress by eight, at the restaurant by eight thirty, and nursing a wam glass of Merlot by nine, wondering how she'd been lucky enough to find a guy like David.
The last article of clothing was the cute Santa hat her friend Lynn had given her last Christmas. She pulled the warm wool over her ears, already felt the chill stinging her face and smiled in anticipation of it. It made you feel alive somehow. Cold. Cold as hell, yeah, but she would be warm and safe...and loved. Loved by David.
Slinging her purse over shoulder, her tote bag across her chest, she waved a goodbye to Terry at the cash register as she left, smiled at the Christmas jingle the mat played when she stepped across it to leave, and walked from life forever.
Two blocks later, she'd be nursing a grin again as she thought about what David might be wearing; the blue silk shirt he'd bought last week or maybe the green sweater with the white stitching across the top that she'd bought for his birthday. One of those tops and his new leather jacket.
When you think about something, you get lost in that moment, in what's going to happen and where you're going to be, lose sight of where you are. That's what happened to Susan. She was wandering the streets of Queens, hands tucked deeply into her pockets, walking inside that warm restaurant in her mind, and suddenly, she was pulled out of that path into an alley, a hand covering her mouth.
He took her hat off first, then her jacket, threw them in the trash. The cold wind was picking up and leaking through the tiny holes in stitching of the sweater she wore. He would rub her skin, but it would be as cold as the wind, colder even.
He would take her in another room, taunt her for a few hours. And she would think of David, still think of him. No, he'd be wearing the red sweater. The blood red sweater.
And then her blood would bleed into his sweater and she would forget what the Merlot tasted like, forget the feel of the wool hat against her skin, telling her she'd be warm now, warm always. She would be cold, very cold, in her last moments. And then...she was gone.
*
Oh, God, someone tell me I don't have to do this, she thought. Tell me. Please, tell me. Three in the morning, freezing her ass off, standing on a stoop in Queens. That's how this day would start. She knocked once more, her knuckles numb from the cold. Matt stood away from her, talking to the cops who had been on the scene.
Open the door. Open it. She needed to do it -- needed to do it now. There had been very few times in her life that she'd been the one to deliver the bad news and now, here she was. Her third time.
The door finally opened, the man rubbed at his eyes, his hair was matted to one side and he was wearing a green sweater with white stitching on the top. He hadn't even gotten changed, probably came home worried as hell, fell asleep on his vigil. Now he was waiting, waiting for her to give him something she couldn't.
"David Felter?" She asked, reading the name off her notepad. At his nod, she closed it, stuffed it quickly inside her coat.
For a moment, a quick moment, he looked hopeful, ready to see Susan come up the steps behind Alexis and throw her arms around him and give him all kinds of reasons for her absence tonight; pulling a sudden double, work got busy, caught in traffic (though she didn't drive), fell on a sidewalk, slipped on ice, hell, slept with another man on the side. He would deal with any of those silly irrationalities or stinging truths later, but for an instant, David Felter didn't care about any of those things. He was just waiting for Susan to be alive.
And then his face hid behind the one of earth, the one of earth's ancient, weary plea.
"Oh, God. Oh..."
His quick breaths puffed white air, fell into the deep shadows and now he was just another person who had lost the love of his life. God, she hated this. She hated even more that she had seen Susan's body before coming here, seen the wretched nothing it had become, thrown away in some alley. And she wanted to vomit.
"...God. God, " he repeated over and over as though He would give answers too that just weren't there.
"Mr. Felter, you'll have to identify the body."
He clutched at his chest in a raw, pleading motion, rubbed at the white stitching and watched a few threads come loose. Then a look came over him, a disembodied look like he suddenly didn't know where he was anymore.
"Maybe I should change."
"What?"
"Maybe...maybe I should change -- she uh, she got this sweater for me."
He looked at the loose threads on his sweater, didn't meet Alexis's eyes.
"It was our anniversary, " he whispered.
Then a broken laugh escaped his lips.
"I offered to pick her up, but she wanted to walk."
"Mr. Felter --"
"I should change. If I -- if I wear this...there I -- I won't...I can't wear it again."
A shaky hand went through his curly brown hair, the other one continued to play with the threads until one finally pulled out.
As if forgetting completely that a Homicide detective was standing there, had just told him his girlfriend was dead, in fact, he said, "Oh no, she's gonna be mad. She's gonna have to sew it back in, it doesn't look right now. She's gotta sew it, she hates to sew."
And then, as if realizing suddenly once more what had transpired only minutes ago, he finally looked up at Alexis, tears swimming in his eyes.
"Susan, " he hushed on the air, his voice cracking.
"Can you, can you do something for me?" He asked, his voice still shaky.
Alexis could only nod.
"Could you just tell me she's okay? I'm not -- I'm not in denial and I'm -- I'm not crazy, I just...I just want to hear it once before the rest of my life leaves her behind."
There was a clear lucidity in his voice and she didn't doubt for a moment that he fully understood what had happened to Susan. She couldn't have imagined something more heartbreaking, standing here in front of a man whose life had flickered out when he answered the door, and being asked to lie to him just once, just so he could feel it, just for a brief instance; that feeling that everything was okay.
"Mr. Felter, " she said, her own voice wavering, "we found Susan and she's -- she's just fine. Kept apologizing that she was late for dinner, something about an anniversary?"
He smiled sadly, started crying openly now.
"Y-yeah, " he cracked, "together three years. She's something special."
Alexis leaned forward, touched his shoulder.
"She is, David, she is."
He wiped at his tears, smiled again and turned away, distractedly saying, "I gotta change this sweater."
She nodded.
"I'll wait out here for you, we'll give you a lift."
He shut the door and she stood there, tucked her hands back in her pockets. Matt's footsteps clicked in the distance as he took the steps of the stoops in one leap, stood just behind her and waited for her to talk. He watched her shoulders move up in a sigh, but she didn't turn around, didn't want to allow him a look at her tear.
She had started this day staring down a mutilated stranger in an alley in Queens and would remember it like that, would remember the feel of the wood as she knocked on David Felter's door, remember the all too quick look of hope on his face and then the emergence of total sorrow as he learned the painful truth. She would remember this day by the tears that fell, the white stars at night, and the innocent plea that they pretend this had never happened.
She would remember this day by the empty things we became, the empty things life grew into. The empty things that took the crazy grins of hope away from us.
"Bring out the coffins, let the mourners come, " she whispered so quietly only she could hear it.
"What?" Matt asked behind her.
"Nothing, " she replied, moving her shoulders up again in a sigh. It was from a poem she had once heard, a poem that seemed so fitting now.
"Nothing at all."
Not much good could ever come from this now. Even once they caught the killer...there would be no good left to pretend any of them had even existed.