Eulogy
by J.R. Godwin
Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.
Rating: M
"Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on."
-Rabindranath Tagore
2.
Regaining consciousness is like dying, but backwards. One moment, you don't exist. The next, you do. Your eyes flutter open and awareness crashes into you like a truck. There's not enough awareness to ask, Where am I? That's too complex. The complex thoughts come later. In the beginning, there is only light.
When I awoke, heaviness dragged on my fingertips, and then I remembered I had fingers. My eyes throbbed when I opened them.
I lay like that for a long stretch of time, long enough to inhale and exhale many, many times. I couldn't tell you how long. Time had no meaning. But after a while, my fingers didn't feel so heavy and the light didn't hurt so much, but every other part of my body still did. It was the sort of pain that burrowed into your bones like maggots. My body never wanted to move again.
My body and I were separate entities, you see. My body didn't want to move. I thought that was an agreeable opinion to have, so we came to an amicable truce, and together we decided not to put up much of a fuss.
So we just lay there for a long time, my body and me, and we drifted in and out of consciousness. It was hard to focus on anything, except for the light.
Gradually, I realized the light streamed forth through a window, the window was next to me, and my elbow was touching a metal railing. I was in a bed.
Then a person was standing over me, saying something in a hurried murmur to someone else. It was still hard to focus my eyes. My body and I weren't on good speaking terms yet.
"How long?" I slurred. My tongue sat heavy in my mouth, as if I'd swallowed a desert.
"You've been out for two days," the person said thinly.
"Oh," I replied, but their response didn't make any sense. "Am I dead?"
"No, Sergeant, you're very much alive."
There was a lot of activity after that, lots of people bustling around me, saying things I didn't understand. I kept asking everybody if I was dead. By and by, the grogginess faded and I began to feel more firmly rooted in my body, and it dawned on me that I wasn't dead. I was in a hospital.
My gag reflex started going. "Is anybody dead? I need to know."
"I don't know anything about that," the nurse replied. I called him a useless idiot, and there was a great commotion among the medical staff after that. Something about me causing a disturbance. I didn't catch the details.
You can hear brass coming from a mile off. Something about their walk. Shortly after I realized I wasn't dead, and that I had all my limbs (thank Christ, though I wasn't crazy about all the tubes sticking out of me), I heard brisk footsteps in the hall. Voices outside said, "Ma'am", many times.
Suddenly, Captain Lucas was standing there. Her blond hair was pulled tightly away from her face, which was all angles. She reminded me of a Valkyrie. I wasn't even sure what a Valkyrie was - some sort of Viking warrior woman who'd rip your head off and shit down your neck - but I knew enough to realize Captain Lucas could be one.
"At ease, Sergeant," she said, and the angles in her face softened.
I laughed, but my eyes were tearing up. I knew what was coming and couldn't stop it. It felt like falling down a mine shaft.
She pulled up a chair next to my bed and leaned forward, like she was going to confide a secret or admire her shoes. She tapped the fingers of both hands against her lips, as if pondering the meaning of life, but then she said, "The surgeons can explain the details. The brief version is, you fainted after arriving at Camp Eggers. You were in surgery for 12 hours for a gunshot wound and a collapsed lung. They weren't sure you were going to make it. Welcome back to the land of the living."
I said nothing, just waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Private Abimana is waiting to greet you," Captain Lucas continued. "She has a fractured hand and a mild concussion. Nothing too serious."
I couldn't stand it any longer. "Miguel, uh ..." I fisted my hands in the bedsheets, willed myself to continue around the lump in my throat. "Anybody. Did anybody else make it?"
She looked at me for a long time, and I knew. I knew before she finally said, "I'm sorry, Sergeant."
I nodded. My face was wet but I made no sound.
Abimana's hand was all bandaged up when she came in. Her face was blank, and she wore flannel pajama bottoms, the kind you expect people to wear on Christmas morning to open up presents beneath the tree. The whole situation seemed absurd, like I should have been laughing, but I couldn't.
Abimana tried saluting Captain Lucas with her bum hand, though, and then I really did laugh.
Captain waved her to an empty seat. "At ease, Private. You're not making a report."
"Yes, ma'am," Abimana said, and she sat down.
"I was just telling Sergeant Williams what I discussed with you earlier, about your squad." Captain sounded so kind. I couldn't stand it. "They're being sent home today for burial."
"What happened?" I asked softly, not looking at her. I kept my eyes trained on my bedsheets. I needed to know.
"Corporal Rodriguez died upon arrival. The ER staff did everything they could, but there was too much blood loss. Specialists Garcia and Leonard, and the contractor, were caught in the explosion of your vehicle. Some civilians brought their bodies indoors for safekeeping before they could be retrieved by our people."
I had a terrible vision of my squad mates, blackened beyond recognition, dragged inside a stranger's house to be stuffed beneath a staircase like a pair of old shoes.
Captain must have seen the look on my face, because she said softly, "It could have been worse. Much worse. We could've had another Mogadishu." That was the '93 incident in Somalia. Militiamen shot down two Black Hawks. Mobs dragged the naked, mutilated bodies of our soldiers through the streets. It was a huge blow to American morale. "You did everything you could, Sergeant."
"Yeah," I mumbled. "Sure."
Captain Lucas turned to Abimana. "Private, will you excuse us a moment?"
After Abimana scurried out, the Captain turned back to me. I couldn't read anything behind her eyes. "We have a great staff here. Fantastic staff. I think you should talk with the counselor and the chaplain, when you're ready."
"Afraid I'll crack up?"
"You've just lost three people, not counting the other losses we sustained this week, between that battle and the car bomb. I think talking with someone would be good for you. Sergeant, who is Sarah?"
My breath caught. "She was my sister."
"Ah." Sympathy and understanding. She wouldn't pry. "I'm sorry. You were ... yelling her name a lot. They had difficulty subduing you in the ER."
I bet.
She stood to go. "Again, I'm sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news, Sergeant, but I'd rather you hear it from me than someone else. Also, your heroic actions, and those of Private Abimana, have not gone unnoticed. You're both to receive the Purple Heart." She smiled a tight little smile, without any humor in it. "Good day, Sergeant."
There's not much else to say about this period of my life. Abimana and I recovered. Within weeks, we were on duty again - but it was lighter duty. They could have sent us home, I guess. Everybody would have understood.
But something changes in you, when you join the army. Anybody who ever joins the military or the police will understand. You swore an oath. You can't leave your people behind.
So we served the remaining months of our tour. In hindsight, it was a pretty unremarkable time, if you didn't count the Taliban bombing Bagram Airfield every night. I was bedridden during the funerals, so I missed them. Some guys I know served instead and presented the flags to the surviving families. I understand Rodriguez's mom was very appreciative (which means she was a complete wreck). Abimana and I got our Purple Hearts. I couldn't tell you the details about these events. Everything's hazy.
I have three distinct memories from this time. Only three.
The first memory was in the weeks after everyone died. Abimana was getting physical therapy on her hand. I was pretty mobile by then, though I got a little winded if I pushed myself too hard around base.
We didn't talk much, but we spent a lot of time together - and whenever we were together, we were silent. We could have said anything. Hell, there was so much to say, but silence seemed safer. So we just sat and watched the world. Whenever I saw something funny, I'd think, Damn, I need to tell Rodriguez. Then I'd think, Oh, right. And then the funny thing didn't seem so funny anymore. Things aren't as funny when you don't have a friend to share them with.
One day, Abimana and I were sitting outside the chow hall, saying nothing like we usually did. Then, out of the blue, she said, "So apparently your dead sister led us to safety." Abimana said this as if picking up a conversation we'd just had five minutes before.
"I know," I said softly. What else was there to say?
"I didn't tell anyone," Abimana added. "I mean, when they asked how we got to Camp Eggers, I just said you knew the way. But you didn't, did you?"
"No, Private, I did not." No sense lying to her. We had a strange bond, my subordinate and me. We'd gone through hell together and come out survivors on the other side. That meant something, more than anything I had with anyone else alive. Even Cassie, years later.
Abimana continued. "I didn't either. And I didn't see any sister. You were chasing shadows."
"Captain said I should see the shrink. Maybe I really am cracking up."
"If hallucinations could help soldiers in battle, everybody should start doing LSD," Abimana opined. I looked at her, and she added, "Meaning no offense, sir."
"Smartass."
The second incident occurred in the final week of our tour. Sahar came to see me, flanked by two of his men. I recognized one of them as Azizi, the guy who'd quizzed Jones about college, who'd been teaching himself addition and subtraction out of a book.
Sahar carried a folded, pressed bundle I realized was an Afghan flag. Pinned to it was a dark blue patch decorated in gold thread. I froze in shock as he ceremoniously pressed the bundle into my arms.
"Thank you," he said, "for your service. It has been a privilege."
"What's the patch?" I croaked. I never was good at words.
He smiled. "Every soldier receives one when he joins the army. This one is mine. I would like for you to have it."
The gold thread formed beautiful, flowing script, but I couldn't read Pashto. "What does it say?"
Sahar had to pause and translate in his head. "It means, I swear before God, the Merciful and Compassionate, that I will serve Afghanistan and keep her safe."
"Thank you. That's lovely," I said, and we shook hands.
The most dangerous time in a soldier's life is taking off and landing. That's when a military aircraft is most vulnerable, and that's when the third memorable incident occurred.
When our tour ended, our entire company boarded a C-17. That's one of those big ass cargo transports that can carry entire armored vehicles. In our case, the cargo was two hundred personnel, all eager to get home.
Abimana piled in next to me and strapped herself in. She was wearing sunglasses and flipped me the peace sign. She looked like a tourist posing for a photo. It made a few of us laugh. It was good to laugh, though laughing still felt terrible somehow, as if laughter desecrated the memories of those we'd lost.
The C-17 got into position on the runway, and we were cleared for takeoff. I tensed as we accelerated, then my stomach dropped as we left the tarmac. After a few moments, we began to level off, and I breathed easier.
Then the emergency lights flashed, and Captain Lucas flew down the aisle.
I had never seen her move like that. She screamed at everyone, "MOVE YOUR FUCKING FEET!", in the same tone I'd used with Mitch when I highjacked his van. When she got to us at the back of the plane, she looked out the rear window and swore.
Abimana grabbed my arm and looked at me. Her eyes: pure terror.
Captain slapped the intercom button and barked at the pilots, "RELEASE HEAT FLARES! NOW!"
I had a window seat, so I peered out to see what Captain saw. They were impossible to miss: two missiles, white and hot, screaming right for our tail. The Taliban wanted to send us a going-away present by blowing us out of the sky.
The pilots released the flares. My breath stopped as the missiles continued their grim approach. Two hundred feet from our tail, a hundred feet, fifty ... contact. I watched, mesmerized by the flash. When heat flares explode, they make beautiful, fluffy white arcs. There's a reason they're nicknamed "angel wings." I suddenly remembered to breathe again.
The C-17 trembled from the turbulence. Everybody grabbed each other and waited. The turbulence softened and the emergency lights stopped flashing, and two hundred people exhaled together.
"Was it close?" Abimana asked. Her voice shook.
I smoothly lied. "Nah. These assholes can't even aim right."
We have a picture of the entire cargo hold grinning and doing the wave shortly after that. Somebody yelled, "Everybody say hi to Bin Laden!", so a bunch of us are flipping off the camera. Abimana wouldn't stop laughing, but I knew it was a cover. Her hands were cold and trembling.
That's how I left Afghanistan for good.
If Lucia remembers anything of the strange lady at her bedroom window, she doesn't say so when I wake her for breakfast. She's cranky and won't let go of Kermit the Frog. Eventually I have to pick her up and physically seat her at the breakfast table.
I haven't slept a wink, but I'm not tired. I mean, my body aches a little, but my mind is on full alert. It's a struggle to keep up with my thoughts. So I pour Lucia Cheerios and make her scrambled eggs, keep my hands busy and moving. Lucia cheers up considerably with food, and she laughs when I prance across the kitchen linoleum belting a terrible rendition of "The Grand Old Duke of York."
When you're a parent, you don't mind looking like a jackass to get a giggle out of your child. Pride goes out the window.
Window. I frown again. Just a kid's nightmare, gotta be, but ...
The buzzer sounds, and Lucia leaps out of her chair yelling, "Aunt Elsie! Aunt Elsie!" She's got ketchup on her face and hands. I have to chase her into the den with a paper towel.
We open the door to find my sister-in-law wearing a very plastic smile. She beams down at Lucia. "Hey there, Cupcake. How's my favorite niece?" Lucia giggles and latches onto Elsie's leg, and I have to extricate them while Elsie stumbles in the door carrying a heavy grocery bag. Elsie and I switch our loads: I take the bag, she takes Lucia.
As Lucia buries her head in her aunt's shoulder for a hug, Elsie's and my eyes meet, and our smiles drop like a curtain. We just regard each other, silent and haggard.
"Have you had breakfast?" I ask, forcing lightness into my voice.
"Me? I'm good, I had a bagel on the way." Elsie isn't as tall as her sister. She's small and compact and moves like a carnival barker: jerky and frantic. If Elsie ever had a desk job, I think she'd die of boredom or someone else would throttle her, which is why she runs a salon. She gets to move around all day and talk to (yell at) people. It suits her high energy well.
Cassie was shyer around strangers and felt more at home around books. There's a stack of James Baldwin novels next to Cassie's side of the bed that I still haven't moved. I'm loathe to touch anything of hers. Not yet.
"I, uh, I did Lucia's hair last night and packed you a bag," I said. "Diapers and extra clothes, just in case. Lucia's been a big girl going on the potty, right?" Lucia and I beam at each other. "... but, uh, she's been wetting the bed this week."
Elsie nods. "You sure you want to do this? We'd all understand if you wanted more time at home."
"Yeah. I think it'll do us good. Get us back into routines."
Our families were constantly stopping by in the wake of the funeral to help run the household. Cassie's mom and my mom cooked meals and babysat Lucia. Two days after I put my wife in the ground, I finally left our bed and took our daughter to the park. I pushed Lucia on the swings and sipped black coffee I'd bought on a whim from a deli. (I don't drink coffee.) The coffee tasted like battery acid, but I didn't care. I felt like a stranger watching myself. I was numb.
Lucia's been playing with Elsie's braids, but she chooses that moment to chirp, "When's Mommy coming home?"
Elsie and I freeze. She looks at me as if to say, How do you wanna handle this, cowboy?
I swallow hard. "Little bird, we've talked about this. Mommy ... Mommy's dead."
"When's she coming back?"
"She's not coming back." Goddammit, my eyes are tearing up. "Mommy died, which means her body stopped working. This happens when people get very old or sick and doctors can't make their bodies work anymore. Mommy couldn't continue to do things like eat or play outside. Her body stopped working and she died. She's not coming back."
I'm afraid Lucia will throw a tantrum. She did the first time we had this discussion. This time, however, she starts to cry. Elsie springs into action, cradling Lucia to her breast and shushing her as she hurries past me. I stand rooted in place and cover my eyes. I'm shaking.
I spend the next fifteen minutes hunched on the couch, hands clasped between my legs and looking pathetic in flannel pajama pants Cassie got me last Christmas. When Elsie returns from the bedrooms, Lucia in her arms and the diaper bag over one shoulder, my daughter's wearing a cute little pinafore dress that Cassie loved. (I only know it's called a pinafore because Cassie told me.) Lucia's no longer crying, but she's hiccuping and her face is puffy. I feel like the world's biggest asshole.
"So!" Elsie says brightly to the room. "Today Lucia is going to help Gran and me make poule en sauce, and we're going to play with her cousins Ricky and Madeline. Then we're going to come home for dinner with Daddy. Doesn't that sound nice?" In response, Lucia sticks her thumb in her mouth and rests her head on Elsie's shoulder.
I jump up to escort them out. Elsie turns at the door. "Listen," she says, "if you change your mind, it's okay. We're always happy to watch her. Don't push yourself today."
"I know. Thank you." I kiss my sister-in-law on the cheek. Her face is wet like mine. "I may be late tonight."
I lied to Elsie. Routines, my ass. If I could, I'd go back to bed and never leave it again, but I got a text message at 6 o'clock this morning from Harry: We found Ana Maria
Alive? I texted back.
No
I'll be there in 30
Sure u wanna do this?
Yeah
ok. Miguelito tacos, 3rd ave bw 105th and 106th, bw starbucks and foot locker. go thru kitchen & out back. we're in the alley.
Anyone inform the parents yet?
No
The NYPD's 23rd precinct serves East Harlem north of East 96th Street, an area known to some residents as El Barrio or 東哈萊姆, depending on who you ask. We're famous for a few reasons - some good, some not so good. El Barrio has made excellent contributions to salsa music. It's the home of the National Museum of Catholic Art and History, the New York Academy of Medicine, and Mount Sinai Hospital. Tupac Shakur, Alicia Keys, and Sean Combs were born here. One of my colleagues got called to Maya Angelou's residence once for a B&E, which was kind of exciting.
Oh, and in summertime, people throw awesome pig roasts.
We also suffer from the highest violent crime rate in Manhattan and the highest jobless rate in all of New York City. 25% of residents live in public housing. East Harlem is the founding location of the Genovese crime family, one of the Five Families of the city's Mafia and considered the Ivy League of organized crime, unmatched in size except, perhaps, by the Gambino family. In terms of power, no other crime family comes close, even a hundred years after the Genovese set up shop. Remember The Godfather? The Corleones were said to be modeled after the Genovese.
The Spanish Lords are big here. Four years ago, they went to war with the Bloods. A lot of people died.
In some ways, it's like I never left Afghanistan.
As I exit the subway, I spot a familiar huddled shape outside a closed liquor store. It's a white girl with an upturned nose and a black eye, shivering beneath a blanket. The sun is just beginning to rise, and the night chill still clings to my bones.
"Got change, mister?" she asks.
I palm a twenty and slip it into her hand as I pass.
"Thank you," she says to my retreating back.
I arrive at Miguelito's to discover a small restaurant with a pink awning. The painting in the window is a caricature of an Aztec god sipping a margarita. I don't recognize the patrolwoman guarding the door, but I flash my badge at her and say, "Williams, 23rd. Rosenfeld's waiting for me." She nods and lets me pass.
The chairs are still up on the tables in the dark dining room. I hurry through to the kitchen, which glows with an eerie yellow light. There, I'm waved through the back door by another patrolman, who's standing around with a cook and a busboy looking about as enthusiastic as a party of undertakers.
The alley is wet and reeks of week-old garbage. In the summertime, the heat will make the stink so bad you'll have to cover your mouth. For now though, in early fall, it's not overwhelming. Other uniforms are in the process of cordoning the crime scene - the alley opens out onto the street at both ends. Harry stands in the middle of the alleyway in deep conversation with the medical examiner, a crime lab tech, and three other members of our squad.
"Hey," I say. "What's the story?"
Harry purses his lips. "We're waiting on the warrant."
I stare at him. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Private property."
"Didn't those guys inside give their consent?"
"They're just employees. They can't."
"Where's the owner?"
"Visiting family in Puerto Vallarta."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Anyway, we're waiting on the warrant."
Which is annoying as hell, but you can't be too careful. Every precinct has horror stories about people busting their asses on a case only to have it thrown out in court for unlawful search and seizure. Unless the public's in immediate danger or you're chasing down a fleeing suspect, take the time to get a search warrant before you touch anything. It'll save you headaches later.
"What do you think so far?" I ask, looking at the crime lab tech. I've worked with her before. Name's Molly. Small hands.
"So far?" she asks. "I'm wondering how someone gets a body in a dumpster without being noticed."
On cue, our party turns and stares at the dumpster in question. A thin, waxy arm extends out the top - too small to be an adult's, and a pink bracelet with hearts on it dangles from the wrist.
I look at Harry, resigned. "The bracelet."
Harry nods. "Same as the one Ana Maria's sister was wearing, right? I called it. Busboy found her while taking out the trash."
Ana Maria Ramirez is ... was ... an 8-year old who'd disappeared from her bedroom days before Cassie died. The parents were out of their minds with grief when we interviewed them. You don't make Detective if you don't have a sharp eye, so of course I noticed the bracelet worn by the Ramirez's other daughter, Cristina. The 10-year old had made matching bracelets for her sister and herself.
The one on the corpse's wrist is a dead ringer for Cristina's. No pun intended.
Shit, shit, shit. When a kidnapping case goes well, you find the person and everyone goes home happy. Many cases linger for years, leaving families in agonizing limbo. A few turn into homicide cases. This was going to be one of them.
Thankfully, the search warrant arrives soon after that. Molly and the medical examiner begin a preliminary walk-through of the crime scene. Three members of our squad take to the block, searching for possible witnesses. Harry and I make for the kitchen to talk to the busboy. He's a young guy, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, and he looks rattled. I don't blame him.
"Hi, I'm Detective Williams, this is Detective Rosenfeld," I say in Spanish, shaking the kid's hand. "I'm told you found the body? Are you okay to answer some questions for us?"
"Sure," the busboy says. "Same as what I told the officers who first showed up. I was taking out the trash and ... I saw that."
"What did you see?"
"The arm sticking up out of the dumpster."
"Did you touch anything?"
"No."
"Were you alone?"
"No. Omar-" he indicates the cook. "-was here with me."
"He went outside into the alley with you?"
"No," answers the cook. "He went outside, and I went in the freezer. I only came out again when he ran back into the kitchen carrying on about a body."
"So it was just you two here?"
"Yes."
"What time did you arrive at work this morning?"
"Omar got here first around 4 to prep the ovens. I showed up soon after that."
"Did you see anyone strange around the neighborhood?"
The kid shrugs. "Apart from the delivery trucks, and the people wandering home from the bars? It's New York. It's always a little strange. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Were you guys here last night?"
"No, we work the morning shift," says the cook. "You'd have to talk to Leticia, Ricardo, and June. They closed last night."
"When would they have closed?"
"We stop taking new customers after 11. They probably wouldn't have finished cleaning up and getting out of here until at least midnight."
"The lights on the back stoop - do you always keep them on?"
Omar shakes his head. "Not when we're not back there. There's a time sensor. It only goes off when you open the door to go outside. Conserves electricity that way."
Harry and I exchange glances. I know what he's thinking: So we have a possible 4-hour window for the killer to dump the body in an unlit alley, as long as the people closing last night checked the alley and didn't see a body. "Thank you, gentlemen, for answering our questions. Do you mind if we take down your names and contact information? Also, we'd like to speak with your coworkers."
We step outside on the back stoop again to find Molly sketching the crime scene. "So," Harry says, "thoughts?"
"He comes out this door," I respond, walking slowly down the steps. "The busboy. He's carrying that-" I point at the heavy trash bag, abandoned at the foot of the stairs. "-but drops it when he sees the arm, and he runs back inside. Why does he panic so soon? The dumpster's an easy twenty feet from the back door."
"Well, you can see the arm from here."
"Right. Why is that? Why didn't the killer try harder to hide the body? He's smart enough to get a body into a dumpster without cutting it up or stuffing it in a garbage bag, and then he blows his cover by sticking the arm up so clearly?"
"This guy is meticulous. He wouldn't be that smart and then screw it up. He stuck the arm up on purpose."
"What kind of murderer wants a body to be found?"
"One who likes showing off his handiwork."
"Exactly." A shiver starts at the base of my neck. "This one doesn't care about hiding his tracks. He likes shocking people. It thrills him." And he's not gonna stop.
We interview the other employees of Miguelito's Taqueria. They didn't take out the trash last night, they insist. That's why the busboy did it this morning.
When was the last time anyone was in the alley?
I'm not sure. Maybe lunchtime yesterday?
It takes everything in me not to gnash my teeth. The time window for dumping the body just widened by another twelve hours. I wonder what the medical examiner will find once Molly's done collecting evidence from the crime scene and they can get the body to the morgue.
It's after breakfast by the time we get to the morgue, but we still haven't eaten. On the front steps of the building, Harry stops to shake out a cigarette. I bum one, which surprises him. "I thought you quit."
"I did." I take a drag. The nicotine jolt is almost as good as sex. "I'm starting again. How much of that exchange did you understand? Between me and the busboy and the cook?"
"Five percent?"
I make a sound of disgust. "I don't understand how you worked a beat in East Harlem for eight years without picking up Spanish. You could at least try to take a class or something."
Harry snorts. "Yeah, with all my copious free time."
"It'd help me a lot if my partner could keep up when I'm interviewing witnesses."
"Are you trying to guilt me? Because it won't work. I'm Jewish. I've been guilted by professionals." Harry eyes me. "Like I said, you sure you want this to be your first day back?"
"Sure I'm sure. The work never stops, right?"
"Just as long as you're sure." Pause. "I'm so sorry, Toby."
"I know. Thanks."
You never get used to the morgue smell. It smells like sterilized metal and formaldehyde. The latter never quite manages to do its job of covering up the stench of decay. The medical examiner is a small man with a sleek head and coke-bottle glasses, and he likes to think with his hands folded in front of his nose. Whenever I look at Thomas, I'm put to mind of an otter.
"This case is strange," he says as he leads us into the room where they keep the bodies. "Just based on rigor mortis, I estimate time of death to about four hours before the body was found."
"Well, great, that only narrows our search for a suspect between here and Albany," Harry deadpans.
"Can we see the body?" I ask.
"Of course," Thomas replies. He hesitates. "I heard about your wife, Detective. I'm sorry for your loss."
"Yeah, thanks. Me, too." I rub my nose and look at the ground, just to avert his beady gaze. Somebody like him stripped Cassie. Studied the bruises and broken ribs. Poked and prodded her like a lab specimen. Maybe even called somebody else into the room to marvel at how bad she was. Will ya check that out, Frank? That's where her head went through the windshield. Fuck!
Thomas seems like a good guy, but you hear stories in my line of work about assholes who shouldn't be trusted around dead bodies. Either way, somebody cold and clinical abandoned my wife on a metal tray with knives and forceps, locked her alone in a fridge like she was nothing more than hamburger meat. The urge to protect my wife is still alive, even if she's currently resting beneath the lawn of Green-Wood Cemetery. I have a strange urge to choke Thomas until he bleeds. Avoiding eye contact is probably healthiest for the both of us.
"So, the kid?" I ask my shoes.
"Yes." Thomas opens a heavy steel door and rolls out a metal tray. On the tray is a sheet covering a body that's far too small. When he pulls the sheet back, my throat catches. I'm a father, I can't help it, I think of Lucia.
I'll spare you the details. Even for a hardened professional like yours truly, it's hard to see dead children. Parents should never have to bury their kids. It'd be harder for me if I'd known Ana Maria when she was alive, but I didn't, so it's easier for me to regard her body as an object right now. I think shrinks call it cognitive dissonance. I call it keeping your sanity.
Ana Maria is blue, but she doesn't look like she's been dead for long. She could almost be asleep - almost. Her lips are slightly parted. She wears pajama pants with cartoon kittens on them and a Dora the Explorer t-shirt. The t-shirt is on inside out, but I can see the picture through the cheap fabric. The nails on her fingers and toes are painted in glittery pink polish.
I get why Thomas thinks this is a strange case: blood pools dark and thick where her eyes should be and runs in rivulets down her face like tears. I realize all three of us are staring.
"What the fuck's with her eyes?" Harry demands.
"They're missing," Thomas explains quietly.
We stand, silent and awkward, for a long time.
"Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez have been informed?" I croak, partly just to say something.
"Yes, and they've identified her," Thomas confirms.
"So you'll begin."
"Yes. Come back at three o'clock. I should have her ready for you by then."
"Her shirt was on inside out," I mutter to Harry as we leave.
"That could mean anything. Maybe she was a sloppy dresser."
"Did you see the bruises around her wrists? He had her in restraints."
"Yeah."
"Who the fuck is this guy? He pulled the eyes out of her head?"
"I don't know, Toby."
"Listen, I, uh ... I got a thing I gotta do. Can I meet you in an hour?"
"Gonna go talk to the doc?"
"Yeah. Just, if the captain asks-"
"Don't worry about it. I'll tell him you're questioning somebody."
"Thanks."
In New York, people think you're crazy if you don't have a shrink. Mine is a psychiatrist with an office on Park Avenue. I've been seeing Louise on and off for years ever since I came home from Afghanistan. I needed a medical clearance before the NYPD would hire me.
But I don't go to see Louise. I head instead for Saint Paddy's on Madison Avenue. It's a 20-minute trek downtown. When I arrive, I bypass the great arched front doors to the cathedral and instead go around the back, to a small office entrance on 51st Street. When I go in, Ellen at the desk smiles and says, "Go on back, Detective."
Father Bill's office is the first door on the left. I knock, and a robust voice booms, "Come in."
It's a small office with a nice desk made of heavy polished wood, the kind you'd never find at IKEA. Plants line the windowsill and the bookcase, which teems with heavy leather-bound volumes about obscure church law that'd put me to sleep. Father Bill himself is a big, burly guy who looks like he'd be just at home on a soundstage or at the head of a board meeting. He has the commanding presence of a 1940's film star; apparently his nickname at theological school was The Duke. I like him.
He's writing something on a notepad when I walk in, but his eyebrows knit when he sees me. "Toby. Please, have a seat. How are you doing this week?"
I sit and, unsure what else to do with my hands, clasp them between my knees. "Horrible. I'm back at work today. We found a kidnapping victim. Eight-year old girl."
"Alive?"
"No."
Father Bill removes his glasses and polishes them with a scrap of cloth. "That's a rough return to work after the week you've just had."
"That's what Harry said, but I gotta job to do. I can't forsake the people I swore to protect. It wouldn't be fair."
"You and your fairness." He smiles. It's not a condescending smile, exactly. It's the fond, exasperated kind you'd see on a parent chuckling at their offspring. "The world isn't fair, is it?"
"No, Father, it's not."
"Did you come to discuss this case?"
"No. I wanna talk about Afghanistan."
"Has something new come up?"
"Not exactly. It's almost Sarah's birthday and the anniversary of her disappearance. I never told you the full story of what happened in Kabul." Father Bill is looking at me curiously, so I wave my hand for emphasis. "I mean, yeah, I told you a lot, but ... there's more to what I told you. Weird things happened that day I could never explain."
He looks genuinely intrigued. "Such as?"
I lick my lips. "You're gonna think I'm crazy."
"Try me."
I laugh humorlessly. "Okay ... remember when I told you about carrying Miguel through Kabul? Half my squad was already dead at that point, but I didn't know it yet. I had a green private with me, and I'd been shot. I thought I was just in shock after the blast. I didn't even know the way to Camp Eggers."
"But you found the way eventually."
"That's just it, Father, I didn't. We're running down the street, and people around us are screaming, bombs are going off behind us, and ... I pass this side street and stop, because there's this girl-" I'm staring over his shoulder, and suddenly I'm back in a war zone again covered in my best friend's blood. "-just standing there. Blue jeans, white blouse, loafers, long black hair, white face. It's my sister who disappeared. It's Sarah."
Father Bill is watching me politely. I don't have a clue what he's thinking.
I forge ahead. "And I think, no, that's impossible. Sarah's dead. She calls my name. And I just continue to stare at her like an idiot, because I don't believe what I'm seeing. And she says my name again, but she's getting angry. Like I'm being stubborn. And then she turns and runs up the street away from me. I scream and start after her but Abimana grabs me and asks what I'm doing. She hasn't seen anything, she thinks I'm nuts. But I'm senior, so she has to follow me, so I tell her we're going down this street. And that's what we did. I followed this vision of my dead sister through Kabul on foot. Every time I thought she'd vanished, I'd turn a corner and see her again, running away. I chased her until she led us to Camp Eggers."
"Have you told anyone else this story?" Father Bill asks.
"Abimana knows. She knew something was wrong. She thought I was cracking up. I told Louise, when I started my sessions with her."
"What did Louise say?"
"She said I'd been shot and had a collapsed lung. The lack of oxygen to my brain caused me to hallucinate."
"But you don't believe that."
I open my hands helplessly. "What am I to believe? That a ghost guided me to safety in my darkest hour? An angel of the Lord? A hallucination's easier, but hallucinations aren't so accurate with directions. Or so realistic. I mean, she was real."
"So why does this trouble you still? It's been ten years."
"Because ... I just ... I can't explain it. To this day, I can't explain it. It makes no sense."
"Do you feel survivor's guilt?"
"We've been over this a million times, Father. Of course I'm upset that I lived and my squad died-"
"I'm not speaking of your squad. I'm speaking of your sister."
I stare at him.
"Something terrible happened in your family's home, Toby, all those years ago," Father Bill says carefully. "Something evil. It left you in your crib and took your sister instead, and your family has suffered from that loss ever since. No matter what you did, growing up, you were constantly reminded of that hole in your lives, and how you could never live up to the legacy of the sibling you'd lost. You had to protect your parents, who became so fragile in their grief. And now, today, you've dedicated yourself to protecting the innocent and the helpless from the monsters that lurk around us. I think your entire life, Toby, has been shaped by survivor's guilt."
I swallow. "Yeah, well ... somebody has to do it. Why not me?"
"Indeed. Why not you?" He smiles. "You never told Cassie?"
"Cassie knows a lot about Afghanistan, and Sarah. I never told her that story."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want to upset her."
"Would it have upset her?"
"It upsets me. It feels ... dirty. It's the most bizarre thing I've ever experienced. I have no words for it. If I can't explain something, it bothers me." I chuckle. "It's the detective in me. Truth be told, I didn't want Cassie worried about my mental health. I wanted to protect her, and my parents. I never told them this story, either. It would just upset them."
"So what about the last week brought this story up for you again?"
"I don't know. We just lost Cassie, and it's Sarah's birthday soon, and almost the anniversary of her disappearance. So I've been thinking about it, I guess."
"You can't save everyone, Toby."
"I can damn well try, can't I?" I'm surprised by how angry I sound.
"You can, but I think you also have to forgive yourself for the people you can't save. The world won't be served by you punishing yourself. You asked me what I think," he continues in an abrupt change of topic, "about your story."
"Yes, Father, I did."
"I believe you saw your sister that day. The reasons aren't so important to me. Perhaps you were hallucinating. Perhaps you were guided by your sister's spirit. The explanation is irrelevant. Your sister guided you to safety. That's all there is to it."
I snort and lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers against my thighs. "That's it? The Lord works in mysterious ways?"
"I wish I had all the answers ... but if I did, I wouldn't have dedicated myself to religion." Father Bill looks terribly solemn. "How did this encounter with your sister make you feel? Besides confused and frightened?"
"I ... amazed, I guess. Awe. That would be the word for it: awe. It felt like I was looking through a window to another world. It was terrible and wonderful at the same time."
Our eyes meet.
"I think it was really her," I say at last.
"Which is what you've been meaning to say to me since you entered my office," Father Bill says, smiling. "I think it was really her, too."
I look at my feet for a moment and nod, then get up to leave. There's nothing left to be said.
Father Bill stops me at the door. "What was her name? The dead child you just found?"
My shoulders sag. "Ana Maria Ramirez. Her parents are Felipe and Elisa, her sister's Cristina. They belong to All Saints on 129th Street."
"I'll pray for them."
"Thank you, Father."
"He'll pray for them?" Harry huffs around a fresh cigarette. "Praying ain't gonna bring the kid back. I thought you were going to your psychologist."
"She's a psychiatrist. And I went to my priest instead. And don't be a dick."
Harry exhales and rolls his eyes - not at me, but as if he's trying to save me from myself. "Toby, don't take this the wrong way, okay? My grandma likes to pray, too. I respect God, even if I don't believe in Him. But whenever people are like, oh, hey, I'll pray for you, you know what? Prayer ain't gonna do shit. You know what's gonna make a difference? Us nailing this asshole so he can't hurt anybody else and the Ramirez family can get some closure."
"How can't you believe in God? You're Jewish."
"Jewish is an ethnicity and a religion. We're special that way. I can be Jewish and still be an atheist."
"You got a praying grandma and you don't believe in God?"
"I don't believe in God because I got a praying grandma. Listen, she survived Auschwitz. She's ninety-six years old and still dreams about the Nazis. Like, she'll dream she's watering the plants on her porch in Long Island, and she sees the Gestapo coming up the front walk. We get hysterical phone calls every week 'cause she's had another nightmare where the Germans took my brother and me away. Ninety-six. Still terrified the Nazis are gonna come back and take her grandsons."
"What's this got to do with God?"
"Sorry if I got a hard time believing in a God who twiddles His thumbs while little old ladies dream about babies going to the gas chamber."
"That's not God. That's mankind choosing evil. We did that."
Harry waves me away, annoyed. "Look, I'm not looking to argue. I'm just saying, I don't bet the rent money on prayer. The only thing I put stock in is having one of these on you-" He taps his holster. "-and in taking action. That's how we're gonna stop the evil mankind does. That's all."
"You done with your cigarette?"
Harry flicks the butt. "Yeah. Ready to start again?"
"Yeah. Round three hundred and whatever." We've spent the last hour canvassing the neighborhood around the crime scene, interviewing potential witnesses. Right now we're standing in the vestibule of a public housing complex overlooking Miguelito's Taqueria. "How many apartments you think are in here?"
"This many floors? Dunno. Two hundred?"
"We better get knocking."
People think being a detective is shoot-outs and chasing bad guys down dark alleys. Or someone finds one magical clue that solves the case within forty-five minutes (with commercials). People watch too much TV. They don't know about the long hours spent writing up reports and interviewing witness after witness who hates our guts. Detective work is a lot of footwork, headaches, and dead ends.
Harry and I methodically go down each floor, knocking on doors. Many people work long hours and aren't home. Others refuse to answer the door for the police. The ones who do, don't know anything or won't tell us.
When we knock on 3B, a shadow appears behind the keyhole as someone peers out at us. "Police," I call, showing my badge. "We're investigating a homicide that happened last night."
The door opens on a chain. A young guy stands behind it wearing a Giants jersey, a do-rag, and gold in his ears. In one hand, he holds a bowl of Cheerios. "You got a warrant?"
"No."
"Then I don't gotta talk to you."
He tries to close the door in our faces, but I slap my hand against the wood. "The victim's name was Ana Maria Ramirez. She was eight-years old." I pull her photo from my breast pocket and hold it up to the crack in the door. "Last night, someone killed her and threw her body in the dumpster outside your building. C'mon, man, look at the photo. Please."
His face deflates at the photo. I've already memorized it: it's Ana Maria's last school picture, her hair cut short with a pink headband in it. She has a scratch on her chin from falling off the monkey bars, but her eyes are bright and her smile is huge and crooked. She was going to need heavy-duty braces, when she was old enough.
The guy looks back at us. "Last night?"
"Yeah." I nod eagerly. "Anything you heard or saw outside."
He looks thoughtful. "Yeah, you know what? I had my window open, and some stupid kids woke me up. They were skateboarding in the alley."
"Skateboarding?"
"Yeah, three or four of 'em. I yelled at them - some people gotta work, you know? - and they left. Then they came back."
"What time was this?"
"The first time? I dunno, it was long after midnight. The second time was about fifteen minutes later, but they weren't as loud. The noise still echoed though. The alley always echoes."
"Describe the noise for us?"
He frowns. "It sounded like just one skateboard, and they weren't racing, they were ... you know, strolling."
"Strolling?" Harry asks.
"Yeah. You know, slow. Then they made a lot of noise and started messing around with the dumpster."
"Did you see them?"
"Not the second time. I just closed my window and went back to bed. It was late. Dunno what time. That's all I know."
Harry and I exchange a glance. "Okay, thank you, sir. That's very helpful."
"One skateboard?" Harry asks as we leave. "The second time wasn't those kids. It was someone else, alone."
"Someone else who happened to have a skateboard?"
"Not a skateboard, but something that sounded like one."
"You know what that sounds like, don't you?"
"Suitcase on wheels?"
"Yep. Just big enough to hold a body. How long's it take for rigor mortis to set in?"
"Ten minutes to a couple hours. Depends. Why?"
"Because if he was fitting a body into a suitcase, it'd have to be pliable. Which means wherever she died could be within walking distance of the dumpster."
"Unless he drove."
"That guy thought the kids on skateboards had come back. He didn't mention a car pulling up. He would've said so. The killer was on foot. He either walked or took the subway."
"We should check MTA surveillance, see if any captured someone walking around last night dragging a suitcase."
"Unless he traveled by taxi part way and walked the rest."
"Then we're fucked. You know how many taxis are in Manhattan?"
Thomas finishes the autopsy by three. His diagnosis: death by heart failure. "The eye mutilation came afterward," he says, and then nods his head at Harry and me as if to say, Thank God for small favors.
"Heart failure?" Harry echoes. "How much red meat was this kid eating? You know many eight-year olds dying of heart failure?"
"Not many, no. In fact, I rarely see heart attacks in anyone this young. Ana Maria had no history of a faulty valve or anything like that. But the stresses on the heart are unmistakeable. Heart failure."
"What can induce heart failure in someone without a history of heart problems?"
Thomas sighs. "Extreme shock could do it, but rarely in someone who's healthy. Psychological stress is ... complicated. It could do the job."
"You're saying this kid died of fright?"
"That's what I'm saying, Detective."
By the time I get home, it's very late. Lucia's asleep in her bed. Elsie's asleep on the couch. I hate waking her, so I drape a blanket over her and call my brother-in-law, David. Tell him Elsie's spending the night.
David's appreciative I called. You can hear the concern and love in his voice. A man's tenderness for his wife.
Don't be jealous, Toby.
I'm not jealous. I'm not.
I'm standing in the front hall of Ezekiel Taylor's house again, but I'm not a kid anymore. I'm a man. Wearing jeans and a sweater, the sleeves rolled up to show my tattoos.
Rainwater drips through the holes in the ceiling and traces red down the moldy wallpaper. It's not rainwater but blood. Crickets chirp. It's like I'm standing in a graveyard. If I walk outside right now, will a pint sized Eddie Pannachio be there, shuffling his feet on the porch, waiting to goad me on? So many ghosts. I can't keep track of them anymore.
I trudge up the staircase. The steps shriek under my heels. I want to run, want to scream, but I keep going. It's like my dream self has never seen a horror movie. The characters in horror movies are so dumb. They go into the haunted house. They taunt the monsters and end up dead. Stupid, stupid.
I make it to the top of the stairs. The blood is coming down hard through the ceiling now, a flash flood. It's getting hard to focus with all this blood in my face. It pools around the soles of my boots and begins flowing down the stairs.
At the end of the hall, three figures I recognize: Ana Maria, Sarah, Cassie. Ana Maria's wearing her Dora the Explorer shirt backwards. Sarah, her peasant blouse and jeans. Cassie, the little black dress she wore the night I proposed. They're all missing their eyes. Blood oozes down their faces like angel tears, soaks through their clothes. It looks like they've been bathing in a slaughterhouse.
I hear a high, keening wail and realize it's coming from me.
"Toby," Sarah says softly, like she's not missing the eyes in her head, "I'd never let anything hurt you."
And just like that, she's standing right in front of me, almost touching my face. I scream and recoil from her. The holes in her head are deep. Maggots writhe in the sockets.
She grabs my sweater with both hands. "You know that, right? I'd always protect you. Always have."
I've progressed beyond fear to total hysteria. I'm trying to rip loose her grip on me, but her wrists are like steel. I broke my hand wrestling a meth addict, once. You never wanna fight a tweaker, Toby, Harry warned me back when I was a rookie. They'll rip your fucking throat out. You need three guys to subdue a meth head. Sarah's strength surpasses a meth head's. It defies description. It's like Jacob wrestling the Angel of the Lord, only Jacob actually held on until daybreak. If Sarah decides to crush my skull, I don't stand a chance.
"No." To my horror, I'm crying. I'm stripped bare. I have nothing left. "No! Sarah, I'm sorry. I'm sorry-"
"Toby, listen to me." She shakes me like a rat, splattering blood everywhere. It's in my nose, my mouth, my eyes. I'm in Afghanistan again. Carrying Rodriguez. Blood, a river of it. Copper and salt in my mouth. C-4, bitter on my tongue, like almonds. I'm going to die. "Are you listening? I'll never let him take you again. I'll never let you go. You're mine, not his. You're mine."
I'm halfway across the bedroom before I realize I'm awake. I've shot myself out of bed in a blind panic and am not fully aware until I've collided with the closed bedroom door. The concussion knocks me fully back into my body and I hit the ground like a lead weight. It's 4am. I go to the kitchen and want to turn on all the lights, but I fear waking Elsie on the couch. So I sit in the dark and nurse a beer as I watch the dawn creep through the window over the sink. It's a trial to swallow. My body won't stop shaking.
Elsie wanders into the kitchen shortly after seven o'clock. "Oh God, I fell asleep. Did you ... Jesus, Toby, what's wrong?"
"What?"
"Did you sleep at all?"
Did I sleep? Was I awake? Was it a dream? I saw your dead sister, that's what. That won't go over well. I saw my dead wife, and my dead sister, and a dead kid I couldn't save. I realize I'm staring at her with my jaw hanging open, so I shut it like a trap and shake my head, but that gives me a headache. Fuck, I drank a few beers. So I move my mouth instead and say, "A little."
Elsie looks worried. That's the face she's making. Worry. This ain't good. She'll tell the family. There'll be questions.
"I'm fine, Elsie. Just, uh ..." I can't even think of an excuse.
"You're not fine, buster. You're not fine at all. What the hell did you-"
"Aunt Elsie?"
We flinch as Lucia appears in the doorway, rubbing her eyes with one hand. The other clutches Kermit. Elsie whirls on her, plastic smile at the ready. "Morning, baby. Did you sleep well?"
"No," Lucia grumbles. "The lady was back at my window again."
"We've discussed this, sweetie. It's just a bad dream."
"No, it's not," Lucia whines. "She's scary. Her eyes are all funny."
"What?" I blurt. "What's wrong with her eyes?"
"Somebody hurt her, Daddy. She doesn't have eyes."
"What a terrible dream," Elsie says, scooping Lucia into her arms. "But it's just a dream. C'mon, I'll make you eggs."
I'm losing my mind.