1Before There Was Darkness

Part Seven

His head was pounding, one of those headaches that started at the base of the skull and pulsated in waves of pain, eventually coming to roost squarely behind the eyes; it had been a while since he'd had one quite this strong. He cursed his own vanity; his contact lenses were killing him. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands briskly across his eyebrows, then pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate some of that pressure; nothing seemed to help. Too many late nights, too much coffee, a definite lack of sleep and bad take-out were probably all to blame for his present state of misery. The December air, heavy with the promise of a good snow, wasn't doing much to help his cause. He'd already swallowed six aspirin and it wasn't yet noon.

"Dunbar, you okay over there?" Dan Bellamy, his partner for the past four months, looked at Jim with concern. "We got to follow-up on that tip that came in this morning. If you're ready, we should roll."

He waved his hand as if to dismiss the concern. "I'm good…..I'm fine," he said, a tone of impatience in his voice.

"You don't mind me saying so, you don't look so fine. You're about as white that piece of paper in your hand."

"Nah, it's just a headache. I'm good." He pulled the long beige trench coat from the back of his chair, grabbed the bottle of aspirin and what was left of his coffee, chasing down two more tablets on the way out the door. "Let's go."

This case had gotten off to a particularly tough start. The message had come across his pager shortly before 5:00 a.m, waking him out of a restless sleep and pulling him away from what he hoped would be a pleasant start to his day. He'd left her sleeping but, as with all of the other "relationships" he'd had, and he used that term lightly, he knew she would be long gone by the time he got home.

Now into the second day of their investigation and they still had nothing, not one solid lead to get them started. That lack of direction was beginning to eat at Jim; he wasn't used to not having at least some little shred of evidence, something to build from. A canvas of the neighborhood had left them squarely where they began, at point zero; no one had seen anything or heard anything; even if they had, and Jim was sure they had, they weren't talking.

CSI had been over the scene with a fine tooth comb; they hadn't come up with any conclusive evidence either, no fingerprints on the car, no traceable DNA evidence, nothing. If their DOA had been carrying a wallet, it was gone, along with any credit cards he might have had and his ID; a search of the missing person's files and the National Criminal Database hadn't elicited a single match. A real John Doe in a stolen car; that's all they had. Well, a John Doe with a single gunshot fired from close range with a '38 revolver and a single round-nosed bullet plucked from the victim's chest during the autopsy. Not much to go on.

Jim had been particularly quiet since leaving the station. Dan couldn't tell if it was the headache or his usual posturing, and he wasn't about to ask. Under normal circumstances, when he got quiet like this, Dan knew the wheels were turning in Dunbar's head. Whatever it was, once he had meshed it around long enough to determine whether he thought it was something worth mentioning, he'd share.

"Hey, Dan, let me run something by you."

Just as predicted, he'd been thinking. "Shoot."

"There's nothing on this guy, no ID, no finger print match, no dental records, nothing."

"Yeah, we got nothin. An anonymous tip we need to follow-up on, but other than that nothin. So where you going with this, Jim?"

" I've been thinking about that tattoo." The ME had found a small tattoo on the DOA's left shoulder blade. " I'm no expert but that looked like some pretty good work, a real pro, maybe a custom job? If we did a little on-line research, we might be able to find a match somewhere?"

"Not a bad idea. You want to hit that when we get back?"

"Yeah. Let's see what we can come up with. We can start with some of the major parlors in the City and spread out from there if we have to."

"Sounds like a plan."

Pulling up in front of a dilapidated three story brownstone, Dan drifted the squad car over to the curb and shut off the engine. Looking at his notepad, he confirmed the information from the hot-line tip. "This should be it. Rough looking place, Jim."

"Yeah, let's watch each other's back. I'm not so sure about this one."

"It says apartment twelve….," Dan groaned, pulling open the front door. "Don't it just figure…three stories up and no elevator. How's that head Jim?"

"Nothing I can't handle. Let's go."

The inside of the building was in a state of disrepair that far surpassed the condition of its exterior. Missing bannister rails, carpeting, if you could call it that, that had seen better days a long time ago. The walls bore too many years of neglect, but the graffiti sprayed on the faded wallpaper was relatively fresh. What little light there was, emitted by the bare bulbs hanging from the peeling ceiling, cast a dull glow on the dank corridors.

"Dunbar, I'm not getting a good feeling about this. Maybe we should call for some back-up?" Dan was still trying to get himself over the hurdle of rookie nerves.

"Let's not jump the gun here. We don't even know what we got, if anything."

"Hey, poor choice of words Jim."

"Sorry about that."

Three stories, seventy-two stairs and a little short of breath, they stopped in front of the pock-marked door labeled "12". Dan knocked. There was no answer. Knocking again, a little louder, he called out, "NYPD, Detectives Dunbar and Bellamy. We'd like to talk to you."

The sound of two chain locks being pulled back greeted them and the door opened a crack. A woman, as unkempt as the building she lived in, peered out through the small space between the door and the jamb.

"What you want?" There was nothing friendly in the tone of her voice.

"Do we have to talk to the door, ma'am? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I got nothin' to say to no cops."

"Please ma'am," Jim said, "We're investigating a murder and we got a tip that someone in this apartment might know something. If you do, we'd like to talk to you about it."

"I don't know nothin 'bout no murder. Go away." With that she slammed the door shut in Jim's face.

He stood staring at it, in disbelief. "Was it something I said?"

"We good to get out of her now, Jim?" Dan asked, brushing past his partner to the stairs. He couldn't wait to hit the pavement - something about the place wasn't giving him that warm, fuzzy feeling.

"Well," Jim said from the landing above, "we can't make her open the door. Let's just head back to the squad. I don't like the vibe this place is giving off anyway."

Already halfway down the first flight, Dan stopped and looked back at Jim, ready to reiterate what a great idea he thought that was. What he had time to do was yell "Dunbar, look out!"

Jim did a half-turn on the stairs, in time to see a shadowy figure heading full-speed toward him, across the landing. Where the hell had this guy come from? Even with Dan's warning, there was no time to react, nothing he could do. The guy slammed into him with all of that weight and speed and kept right on running, flying down the stairs past Dan. He didn't hesitate but pulled his weapon and took off in hot pursuit of the fleeing suspect.

Jim fought to keep his balance but it was no use; he tumbled down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt on the landing below, striking his already aching head violently against the wall. Lying there dazed and confused, he couldn't seem to speak or move.

The last thing he saw was Dan crouching over him, that same look of concern on his face. "Dunbar, you okay?"

Then the lights went out.