April 2022
New York
"Mondays."
Detective Pierce mumbled gruffly under his breath, as he rubbed his blood-shot eyes while pouring himself a cup of coffee.
A straight pot of black, and none of that Keurig bullshit.
No cream. No sugar.
Just bitterness.
Pierce tested the blistering burn of his coffee at his lips.
The slogan on his mug reading, 'I can't fix stupid, but I can cuff it.'
"You alright in here, Sarg?" Malich knocked on the open door of the break room, inviting himself in. "Could've sworn I heard you crying just now."
Pierce let out a deep...long sigh.
Mondays were for clowns too, he guessed.
"So, you're still here, huh?"
"You know, if this case is getting to be too much for you, old timer, you can always go back to bed," Malich ripped on him. "Wouldn't want you breaking a hip around here."
"If you're questioning the qualifications of my pelvis, ask your mother for a reference," Pierce remarked.
"Ah, yes, the good ol' fashioned 'yo mama' joke. Classic."
"You get any leads on Popeye the Sailor man yet?" Pierce asked him.
"No, sir."
"Then what are you standing around here for?"
"Well, who pissed inyourcheerios?"
"I just went through 3 cigarettes and 2 pastrami sandwiches watching a girl in a maid outfit obsessively mop floors," Pierce spilled his story. "Then I got to the body cam footage."
"My condolences."
Rubbing his hand across his face to make sure he could still feel one, Pierce muttered aloud the only conclusion he and Malich could agree on so far, "The shots that hit her came from police fire. No way around it."
"Which means your 'missing person' defense just fell flat on its ass," Malich remarked. "Get it? Fell flat on its...ah, never mind."
"What is this, amateur night?"
"Laughter is medicine for the soul, Sarg."
"Let themtryto build a case for excessive force against me," Pierce dared. "Because the way I see it, that girl should've known better. This idiot in a fucking Victorian sea captain's suit was standing there waving a gun around, threatening the lives ofmyofficers on scene, and she throws herself right in the middle of it?"
"Edwardian," Malich corrected him. "Technically, the Victorian era ended in 1901, but it's all ancient history, right? And by technicality, he wasn't a captain. Traditionally, a captain would have at least 4 stripes on his uniform. This guy only had one."
"Ah, I see you've been hard at work in your office, researching all the important stuff. Did you happen to find out exactly how many damns I give about how many stripes this nutcase had?" Pierce demanded. "Common sense should tell anyone with a fairly competent brain that jumping in front of a loaded gun is a bad idea. But in this country, one stupid girl's bad idea ends up being someone else's lawsuit. I'm not taking the fall for this."
"Well, I don't know, Sarg, lately it sounds like we're working two different cases here," Malich said. "I'm trying to find out how and why this girl ended up dead, so that said party can be brought to justice. You, on the other hand, are more concerned about saving your own ass."
"If you got a problem with my way of framing this case, detective, then I suggest you quit bullshitting around and dig up some solid evidence to change my mind."
"Oh, I intend to," Malich warned him. "What's that thing Nietzsche said? If it's excessive force, it's excessive force."
"Nietzsche said that, huh?"
"Or maybe it was Ghandi. Who knows? "I'm just here to find out the truth, not bury it in police politics. Whether confirmed dead or not, a 22-year-old woman is still missing without a solid explanation for it. Emily's family and the public deserves closure. If it were your daughter, what would you do?"
"I'd never let her date any of these assholes in the first place."
"Well said, Sarg."
"And it's hard to give anybody closure if no one accepts the facts," Pierce argued. "This dumb broad-"
"Emily," Malich reminded him. "Her name is Emily."
"Thisverymisguidedyoung lady evaded arrest, led my guys on a police chase for 15 and a half miles up a cliff, and helped our second suspected shooter escape custody. Excuse my realism, detective, but she's a felon. On multiple counts."
"Felon or not, your job was to detain her, not kill her. And if you do manage to work out a justification for the latter, it doesn't mean it's right, just that...Well, whhat's that other thing Nietzsche said?Everything isinterpretation, and whichever interpretation prevails is a function of power, not of truth."
"Well then, Nietzsche can kiss my ass, becausemyphilosophy is simpler. You pull a gun out on an officer, you're gonna get shot. It's tragic, but that washerdecision," Pierce asserted. "My guys didexactlywhat they were trained to do, and I will go down with that ship."
"I hear ya. But it's not me who's gotta buy that, it's the media. Once this case hits the news, it'll be George Floyd all over again."
"Completely different cases," Pierce disagreed, shaking his head. "This was not a case of police brutality. It wasnecessity. Both she and this other suspect were asked several times to comply and they didn't. You can hear that clearly in the body cam. These arenatural consequencesfor these kind of actions. Can we agree on that?"
Malich shrugged. "It's a fair argument."
"But whether this girl was even killed by police fire shouldn't even be the debate here," Pierce continued. "What evidence can you give me right now that she had actually died from being shot by an officer? How exactly do you know she didn't die right after Captain-fucking-Nemo threw her into the goddamn ocean? Until I see an autopsy explicitly stating whether she died of a gunshot wound or by drowning, the cause of death is inconclusive. I don't care how you or the media spin it."
"Well,Search and Rescueis on scene as we speak," Malich accepted Pierce's challenge. "If that's the theory you're betting your badge on, then let's hope they find a body soon."
"Why wait?" Pierce counter-challenged him, snatching a stack of paperwork from beside the Mr. Coffee maker and slapping it on the table in front of Malich. "We can start identifying a face to this body now."
Malich scanned the two photos on the top of the stack. A printout of Emily Amberflaw from the CCTV footage in the Titanic shop, and the other of a red-haired woman with a bob haircut, freckles, and fuller cheeks.
"Who's she?" Malich asked of the redhead's photo.
"Emily Amberflaw," Pierce answered him. "Therealone."
He spread out the rest of the files and photographs he'd collected side by side in a line on the table.
"Pulled the employee files on Emily Amberflaw from the Titanic gift shop and matched them with DMV records, social security cards, and birth certificates," Pierce said. "All forged documents. Identity theft, which I think we both can agree, is a felony. The real Emily Amberflaw lives in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. DOB April 12th, 2001. Reported that her credit card numbers and ID were stolen in a payday loan security breach back in March of last year. Her husband's information was also compromised. Name of the husband was Paxton Amberflaw...Ring a bell? She filed several police reports about her identity being used by multiple people since then, so it seems this Emily Amberflaw from the Titanic gift shop is just another one of those people."
"Well, if that's really the case, it makes sense why this turned into a police chase then," Malich concluded. "So, is she guilty of stealing people's identities or falsifying employee documents? Given her clean record up to now living as thefakeEmily Amberflaw, why would she steal an identity to begin with?"
"Hypothetically speaking, let's assume she never actually stole this information intentionally to begin with. Maybe she bought it off someone who does this for a living. Fine," Pierce said. "What's your first guess as to why anyone would need a new ID?"
"She's either a criminal on the run, or she's living illegally in the U.S," Malich laid out some possible theories. "Witness protection...Running away from an abusive ex-partner. There could be a million reasons."
"Kind of makes you question how confident you are in building your 'innocent girl who just got caught in the crossfire' case against me...There's a reason she didn't pull that car over when she had the chance."
"It doesn't mean she deserved to be shot," Malich held his ground. "We don't know for sure what her reasons were. At this point, that reason could be anything."
"But I think it's safe to bet that something about this girl doesn't add up...and I got a feeling what started in that gift shop is just the tip of the fucking iceberg-no pun intended," Pierce said, studying the surveillance photograph again of the nowunidentified22-year-old shopgirl.
They were interrupted by a knock on the open breakroom door.
"Detective, Sarg," a police officer stuck his head into the room. "He's ready."
"Right on time," Malich checked the clock on his phone as he marched out of the break room. "You wanna beat me to solving this case? Here's your chance. If you can get this guy to crack for us on the identity theft thing, we might get out of here in time for lunch."
"Heh, you're buying." Pierce remarked, marching out after the smooth detective, not to ever be outdone in his own jurisdiction.
Stopping at the small square window that looked into Interrogation Room B, they looked in on the back of a man's head. His shoulders squared in impeccable posture as he sat alone at the interrogation table. His back facing the door, keeping his face hidden and veiled by a round Great Gatsby style flat cap.
"Since when did he get to keep that hat?" Pierce muttered to Malich. "Who does this asshole think he is?"
"Amberflaw," Malich reminded him. "Paxton Amberflaw. At least, that's who he allegedly says he is."
"Allegedly? Well, is he or isn't he?"
"Hecouldbe," Malich shrugged. "Or he couldn't be...He claims to be Emily Amberflaw's brother. But same spiel. No valid Driver's License, no birth certificate, no credit cards. Nothing to prove that he is who he says he is."
"So, you knew this whole time we were definitely dealing with an identity theft case?" Pierce realized. "You were just bullshitting me back there?"
"Sure feels that way, doesn't it? The way this case is going, it's starting to feel alot like peeling onions," Malich mused aloud, as he looked in on "Amberflaw". "The more layers you hack away, the more the bullshit keeps coming."
"Jesus, getting a straight answer out of you is like pulling teeth," Pierce sighed. "So what's the story on this guy?"
"That's what we're here to find out," Malich said. "They just finished up his psych evaluation. Apparently, they think he just might be crazy enough to be unfit to stand trial. Something about having multiple personality delusional bullshit disorder, or something, I have to get back to you on their bullshit diagnosis again. But if he's already got psych in his pocket for an insanity case, the guy gets a slap on the wrist for the firearm charges, takes a lesser sentence, and there goes your only suspect in custody to blame for your excessive force argument."
"Ha. Right. I'll bet my ass this sonuvabitch walks away from this. He better have a damn good lawyer, that's for damn sure."
"He'll need one," Malich agreed. "But we can't scare him into crying for one yet. There's an art to scaring people into telling the truth. If he thinks we're here to help him find out what happened to his sister, then let's hope he's the kind of brother who would give us whatever information we need to get him those answers."
"You get a statement from him yet?"
"Classic mumble jumble."
"Well, did you run his prints?"
"They don't exist," Malich said. "Nothing showed up in our databases. It's like this guy just dropped out of the sky."
"Is he foreign born, by any chance?"
"Sounds like he's got an English accent he's not very good at hiding. Couldn't give me a clear answer as to where in the U.K. he's from exactly. Not much of a talker, this guy."
"Well, I guess we'll see," Pierce beeped himself in with his badge, leading the way into the interrogation room.
Patrick Crawley didn't look up at Pierce, as the police sergeant circled around the table like a hawk stalking its prey.
His only acknowledgement of the policemen being the removal of his flat cap in the officer's presence-it being properly good manners for a gentleman-but his pale shell-shocked face remained fixated on the wall behind Pierce.
With his flatcap now lying in line with his folded hands on the table, his chestnut brown movie-ready slicked hair was combed with a strong centered-part, with a slight lift of volume on one side. His shoulders crisp in a dark brown blazer and black dress shirt.
His aquamarine eyes only more pronounced by his sharper, noble features that seemed almost immediately to mask his melancholy, distantly contemplative demeanor with a straighter, prouder posture when the officers entered the room.
His eyes mirroring the likeness of the girl Pierce had been studying on the CCTV footage in the Titanic gift shop, confirming the suspect's claim to his and Emily's shared family ties.
"You Paxton Amberflaw?" Pierce questioned him.
The police sergeant proceeded to sit down directly across the table from the time-wornLord of Nowhere.
"Thatisyour name, right?"
Patrick stared back at him silently, appearing reservedly offended by the bullheaded sergeant's approach, and elected not to say anything back to him.
And after a tense, unbroken silence, in which Pierce and Patrick Crawley stared each other down in equally rigid stubborness, Malich finally cleared his throat to call a time-out.
Breaking the stalemate between them, he dropped Pierce a clue, "Mr. Paxton Amberflaw. He prefersmister."
"Mr. Amberflaw, huh?" Pierce corrected himself sardonically.
"Indeed, sir," Patrick answered stiffly, the velvety British accent the detectives had suspected now coming out strong and resolutely dignified. "I am the man who answers to that name."
"Well, that's not what I heard, but we'll get to that part in just a second," Pierce assured him. "Can you just confirm for me yourrealname, your address, yourrealdate of birth, and anything else I might be able to use to confirm you are who you say you are?"
Patrick didn't reply, stone-faced and rigid as ever, and yet having an impressively old-fashioned way of looking down on a man.
Sending a sudden shock of cold down the back of the sergeant's head, as if he were staring straight into an antique painting of a portrait come to life from...What was that show called again that his wife flipped over a few years back? The one about the nunnery downtown?
Damn. He couldn't remember the name.
All he knew was that looking at this guy was one of the few times he'd gotten goosebumps on the job.
Was he sitting there across a ghost of time or an actual human being?
"Mr. Amberflaw, do you understand the question?" Pierce asked him again.
"Quite, sir," Patrick answered. "Though I fail to understand how it pertains to me knowing the whereabouts of my sister. I did not come here to speak about myself. I came to you gentlemen out of my concern for Millie's welfare."
"You came to usbecause you were arrested for possession of a concealed weapon and brandishing charges," Pierce reminded him firmly.
"Have you anything to report of my sister?" Patrick persisted. "Is she safe? I have heard...terrible rumors during my stay here, and they are all mistaken. Millie isnota criminal. It isIalone who bear the responsibility of what's happened to her. If it should do anything to clear her name, I will gladly hand over anything you ask for her bond."
"Considering where you're sitting right now, pal, I don't think you're exactly in a position to bailanyoneout."
"Regardless of my rightful arrest, I assure you, sir, money will not be an issue."
"Right, and I'm Donald Trump...Listen, pal, until I get an idea of who I'm really talking to, nobody gets out of that jail block, you understand?" Pierce laid it out for him. "You're gonna answer my questions first, and cut the bullshit this time, or this might end very badly for both you and your sister. Now, once again, what country are you actually from, Mr. Amberflaw?"
"Yorkshire, England," Patrick finally answered him. "Before I began courting Lady Mary, I acted as consultant to the foreign office opening markets and increasing our great country's wealth through exports and other such worldly investments. I also partook as an investment consigliere for American businessman looking to expand their wealth in Europe."
"Is that how you overstayed your visa in New York?" Malich asked him, as he took note.
"I am not sure what you mean, sir...My father and I..."
Patrick paused there, the wordfatherseeming to throw him off suddenly, making it difficult for him to continue without hints of long suppressed despair in his voice. "My father and I traveled by sea to America often for business. He died tragically during our final crossing. He said...he said that he was in fullhearted agreement with the other gentlemen aboard, in that it was his duty to do his best, and ensure no woman missed their chance for a boat because he took a seat a lady could've had."
Pierce's brow tensed in confusion, rolling his eyes over to Malich for clues about how exactly this conversation had turned to nonsense in the last thirty seconds, but Malich looked as flabbergasted as he did staring back at Patrick.
"He would not let me to stay with him," Patrick continued quietly. "He urged me to find a way, no matter the cost. He said he would be proud of me nonetheless, and that it was my duty now to look after Millie. I left him in his deck chair with a cigar in the company of Benjamin Guggenheim and his man. Giglo was his name, I believe. Not long after, I came upon an officer-Murdoch, it was-who was letting men on, so long as there were no woman or children waiting...I never saw my father again."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Malich offered the minimal condolence, because he was too confused by Patrick's tale to know that he should offer anything else.
"You got a green card on you to back up that story of yours, Mr. Amberflaw?" Pierce proceeded with business.
"I commend your stout attention to your duties, sir, but this endless loop of questioning is becoming rather tedious," Patrick derailed the interrogation again. "You inquire about too many trivial things that mean nothing in the grand scheme of this matter. The only important one to me being my sister. I was told that I would be informed about her, once I agreed to speak with you gentlemen. You have my word that I will not contest my arrest, if you would please allow me to give a few brief words to Millie. She is still unaware that our father has passed on."
Pierce looked at Malich for help again, and Malich stared back blankly at Pierce.
They hadn't worked out yet who would be the one to tell "Amberflaw" that his sister was actually dead. And not only dead, but put down by the very men Patrick so desperately hoped were keeping her locked away somewhere safe now.
"Mr. Amberflaw, there's no easy way to say this," Malich took a shot at it. "But your sister was killed while attempting to take her and another suspect into custody. Apparently, there was some...confusionon scene that led to shots being fired, and despite our best efforts to talk them down, she and this other suspect did not survive."
"She's gone?" Patrick's tone fell, his stubbornly sharp features opening up to bewilderment as his eyes shifted to nothing in particular on the table, tensely calculating to himself what that damning statement actually meant.
"I'm very sorry you had to hear it from us," Malich sincerely apologized.
Patrick closed his eyes, letting out a deep, burdened sigh.
"My God, Millie," he murmured to himself. "Of course, you would get yourself carried away by him once again in the end."
"So, you know this other guy?" Pierce asked him. "And what do you mean byagain?"
"Can you inform me where this happened, sir?" Patrick asked Malich eagerly, ignoring Pierce again. "Of the exact conditions by which they both perished? Was it a mutual death by sea? Were either of them carrying a diamond necklace with them?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Pierce demanded.
"It means everything for my sister, sir," Patrick insisted. "It is the very difference between a renewed life and an absolute death. She must have had the heirloom with her?...Or else she...she wouldn't be missing, would she?"
"Unfortunately, we are not able to determine that yet, Mr. Amberflaw. We are doing everything we can to locate a body, but even if she hadn't been killed in the crossfire, the likelihood of someone surviving a fall from that high up is very slim."
"Is that why I was called upon?" Patrick asked them. "Are you going to tell me that if she has truly died, even in this era, you too require payment for the return of her body?"
Malich looked at Pierce for help, and Pierce stared back dumfounded at Malich.
"Mr. Amberflaw, I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I can see you're in a lot of shock right now. This is a very tragic and confusing time for you. I'm not sure who told you what, but you won't be charged to have her body returned to your family," Malich assured him. "But the sooner you answer our questions, the sooner we can make those arrangements and bring Emily home."
"That won't be necessary, sir," Patrick said quietly. "Millie isalreadyhome."
"Well, I'm not one for spirituality, but whatever. We'll cross our fingers that she's gone to a better place in the sky," Pierce remarked.
"You don't seem very grief-stricken by this news, Mr. Amberflaw," Malich studied him closely. "May I ask why?"
"When you've lived as long as I have," Patrick told him, even as a 57-year-old Pierce was absolutely sure he didn't look a day over 25. "You will learn there is never enough time to grieve for what you inevitably lose to the passing of time, but there is always a chance to recognize the dearness of every present hour, and act fully to live in every precious moment of it. Though I have surrendered my freedom to my fate, my final act on this earth is atonement, and I will never feel so freed by such grace again. Not in another 100 years."
"Um...ok," Pierce continued on. "I take it the last time you spoke to your sister then, it didn't end well for you? Sorry to hear that. By any chance, was showing up at her job with a gun your idea ofatonement?"
"What the good Sarg here means is, it's still unclear to us why a gun got involved, and who this other guy was. Can you give us more information about how you all knew each other?" Malich asked. "Did you know the other guy personally? Was he in a relationship with your sister?"
"That is none of your concern," Patrick answered.
"What exactly happened between you and your sister before you ended up pointing a gun at her in that gift shop? Was there a fight between you two? How did this other guy get into it?" Pierce demanded.
"If you must know the truth, it's been some time now since Millie and I honestly spoke to each other," Patrick confessed. "April 14th was the last I spoke to her...On the night she died."
"Can you be a little more specific?" Pierce asked him. "Because now you're confusing me, and that's not helping your case here. You say your sister died on April 14th, which was last week, but we have it officially noted here that she died last night, April 17th. It's gotta be one or the other, you see what I'm saying?"
Malich tried again to keep the peace.
"This must all feel like a blur to you, Mr. Amberflaw," he told their suspect. "Maybe you're getting your dates mixed up? Try to think back again to that last time you saw your sister. Are you sure it was April 14th?"
"Naturally so, sir. Something to the effect of," Patrick recalled. "110 years ago?"
"I'm sorry, what?" Pierce sat dumbstruck.
"I'm sure itdoesfeel like 110 years since she's gone missing," Malich empathized with Patrick. "But how long ago was it that you talked to her,beforeshe died last night?"
"Did I not already make it clear to you, gentlemen? It was over 100 years ago," Patrick repeated firmly, looking them both dead in the eyes. "The year 1912...And I shall never forget it, even if one thousand years should pass...That's what you asked of me, isn't it? The truth of when it was exactly I spoke with Millie, and when she passed on?...I tell you, it was April 14th, 1912. The same night my father died...And I will never forget it."
"Uh-huh," Pierce mumbled. "Well then, that would make you a goddamn li-"
"That's quite a while back, Mr. Amberflaw," Malich thankfully cut Pierce off. "So, I guess you can imagine why it'd be pretty surprising to us-it being 2022 now-that you would tell us she died in 1912, specifically. Some people might even call it a littlecrazy."
"I am not here to convince you both of what I already know to be true, knowing that it will forever be beyond your understanding...It was beyond hers too...I could never tell her the truth, because I saw what it would do to her. I found her in quite a delicate state in hospital, and I couldn't bear to burden her with remembering," Patrick said. "Losinghimproved to be a devastating blow to her heart. If you only knew what she has endured since then...Could you ever make her live it all over again? I suppose a part of me fretted that if I found a way back, it would make the past permanent, and I'd lose her to the same fate again. At least in this world, she was safe from him. Though, as we've learned now, gentleman, that proved to be woefully untrue."
"Sure...but who ishim?" Pierce tried to come back around to his original question.
"James Moody, naturally," Patrick answered him. "It seems theirs is a fatally starcrossed love. Again and again...every time she finds and falls in love with James Moody...she dies."
"So, it's like Snow White, but in reverse. It's the true love's kiss part that kills her," Pierce mocked the irony.
"I wanted to protect her from making the same mistakes of her past. And to do so, I had to accept that she would not ever truly be herself again," Patrick went on solemnly. "I had to find it in my heart to love her as an entirely different person, as Emily Amberflaw, and let go of the person she once was...Whom she will never be again...Even still, to learn that it was preventable all along? How she might've been saved with the rest, had there been enough boats to go around...Nowthatmight drive a man 'crazy' beyond all hope of recovery...wouldn't you agree?"
"You tell us."
"I'm afraid that's all I can convince you gentlemen of now. For all I know, my story should have ended with my father and sister on that ship, but it didn't...I can't very well explain why," Patrick told them. "What do you know of theunexplained, gentleman? Do you believe in curses? Perdition, so to speak?"
"No, sir, we believe in science here," Pierce said certainly.
"As do I, sir," Patrick agreed with a reserved nod. "Even so, I have lost the only family I havetwicenow, and not even science seems to have an answer for it."
"Well, let's talk about something a little more straight forward then. Your fake ID, specifically," Pierce moved on. "How did you get it? Who sold it to you? Who were you before you assumed this alias?"
"You haven't heard a word I've said. You wanted an honest answer from me, and I'm trying to tell you it's all a loop. Every bit of this has happened before, and I fear, now that he has gone back with her, it may repeat itself again. I can only hope that any knowledge she's gained here for what's to come will save her from going anywhere near that ship again."
"A loop," Pierce nodded, taking note. "That's certainly a way to describe this crazy run-around story of yours."
"Well, Mr. Amberflaw, seems like we have a problem then," Malich told him. "Because if you believe all that's true, then what you say doesn't exactly match up with the fact that we got your sister on camera, alive and well, working in a gift shop as of yesterday. Therefore, she couldn't have died in 1912."
Patrick kept his silence, but his eyes remained unyielding and firm.
Pierce sighed, fed up with the whole drama, and closed his notebook as he rose to his feet.
"I, for one, am done going round and round thisloop. He's all yours, detective," Pierce muttered to Malich, patting his partner on the shoulder. "Guess you won your case. Sign him back over to psych again. He'll fit right in."
Malich remained in his seat, awkwardly listening to Pierce's footsteps as he marched toward the door and slammed it shut behind him.
Then he sighed, turning his eyes back to Patrick.
"You mentioned a ship several times," Malich pursued his own hunch in the investigation. "If you say it was 1912 that your father and sister were killed, was that aboard the Titanic, by any chance?"
"I prefer not to mention her by name in front of those, like your comrade, who will only look down on me for it," Patrick answered. "But you are correct, Mr. Malich. Itwasthe Titanic."
"Right," Malich replied.
He didn't buy it, but at least it seemed that Patrick was willing to talk more about it, if he played along.
"I was doing some research, trying to figure out where I'd seen this uniform before."
Reaching for his case files, he removed the facial composite sketch of the prime suspect at Bitter Tears Cross, and slid it over the table to Patrick.
"Anything else you can tell me about this James Moody?" he asked Patrick. "How did you all get here?"
Patrick took a moment to study the sketch of his long-held rival, noting the ship officer's White Star cap and the neat necktie.
His knuckles tensing into a tight fist against the tabletop.
This is all wrong, thought he.
The way that history played out, James Moody was supposed to have died on Titanic.
How then had he found Millicent here in a place Patrick had sworn she'd be safe?
How could Moody be so unthinkingly selfish by pursuing her once more, knowing what he had done to ruin her life before?
How could he let her endure death all over again?
If they wished to be happy together, why couldn't Moody just do so with her here, without dragging her back to the past with him?
Angry with himself that he foolishly trusted James to take care of Millicent, Patrick passed the sketch back to the detective.
"You are wasting your time, Mr. Malich. There won't be a body to find," Amberflaw told him. "There wasn't one then, there won't be one now."
Malich's brow bent questionably at him.
"You seem to know a lot of answers about thethen and nowthat we don't have."
"I only wish I did," Patrick said. "Because in the end, all we ever wanted was absolute certainty, waiting on an absolution that even still, has never come. You must learn to be comfortable with absolutelessness, sir."
Malich ran his hands through his hair.
Sighing hopelessly.
"Ok, Mr. Amberflaw, we can't keep playing this Dr. Seuss riddle game with each other. I really need you to work with me here," he tried again. "How did you end up in this country? Let's start over with that? I won't interrupt you. I won't correct you. I'll just write it down word for word, just the way you say it. You help me, I help you. Sound fair?"
"My given name, sir, is Patrick Crawley," he informed Malich. "I was born the 21st of July, 1887, and died sometime in May of 1912, taken under by a storm at sea. I had come here to America from Belfast on my last crossing over, after sitting in on a spiritualséancein hopes of finding my sister. I can not give you the precise date, as I had lost track of my days after Titanic sank, and did not keep an exact record. Not a day passes that I don't wish I had taken Millicent's place.
"My sister didn't deserve to go like that. It was I who should have died on Titanic that night.
"Some time now, after the ship went down, I tried the White Star Line head office again, demanding answers they refused to give me again. It was a bloody mess getting anyone to speak with me. No one returned my cards or letters. Nor could they tell me of the fate of any of Titanic's Stewardesses.
"Not because it was beyond a simple investigation on their part, but because they had no interest in the crew or the steerage passengers trapped below decks when Titanic went under. They all wanted to know about the likes of Kent, Straus, and Astor."
"John Jacob Astor?" Malich asked, raising a brow, his pen pausing.
"Of course, sir. The richest of us on the ship," Patrick affirmed. "All anyone wanted to hear about was who among the celebrities in First Class didn't make it in the end, and what reward was set for returning their bodies. Mr. Astor's son, a Mr. Vincent Astor, put up a reward for $10,000 for anyone who found his father. The manhunt commenced. They sent Mr. John Jacob back in record time, in a nice fancy coffin aboard the Mackay Bennet.
"And you know what they did with the others? The ones who couldn't pay to bring their loved ones back home?
"They chucked them back into the ocean, because there was no room or money to tend to them properly.Buried at sea, they called it.
"And my sister?...Who in God's name was jumping on a boat to go look forher?
"She was not an heiress when she boarded Titanic. And no one cared if she wasn't. She was just a common nobody to them all.
"And I wouldn't sit for it.
"White Star be damned to leave my sister behind, lost to the sea.
"To see Millie disposed of like rubbish by White Star Line, because she was assumed to only be a lowly drudge working on the ship...it changed everything about my reasoning, sir. I could no longer see my privileged position in that world just as I'd always seen it before. Titanic showed me clearly what we lucky rich can turn into when money can't save us. We all went down as nobodies.
"Or at least, I was determined to make it so for myself.
"The first time I lost my life, I had a diamond I carried everywhere with me. It was one a spiritual medium spoke highly of, and told me I could use it to find my sister. I sold it to a man for hire, who captained a modest sized boat with a small crew. Once the arrangements were made, I packed what I could for the voyage, and sold the rest, knowing I may never come back to land again. My crew set out from Cape Race, in search of whatever we could find left over by Titanic...Looking for Millie...Looking for anything belonging to any mother, father, sister, brother, or child who had been left behind in the abyss by White Star. I was determined to see them all returned home to their families, where White Star had failed them.
"I couldn't tell you how long we'd been out to sea. I lost track of time, as well as our food rations. Many of my crew abandoned our cause by the end of it, frightened of all the ice and the storms approaching us at sea, but I wasn't returning to land until I'd found Millie. Even as I knew for certain, I never would find her.
"It was the eve of May in the North Atlantic, somewhere just off from where Titanic had gone under. While asleep in the lower deck of our boat one night, the storm came for us at last, and she capsized. It happened so fast that I couldn't break myself out from my cabin. The weight of the water upon my door made it impossible, imprisoning me inside a watery grave. She sank quickly then, I imagine, taking me down with her. I lost consciousness shortly after.
"And when I came to, I was in hospital here in New York. And the life I knew before was far gone behind me."
Malich stared back in stunned silence at Patrick for what felt like an eternity, before clearing his throat and dropping his pen on his notebook at last.
"Um, yeah...I think that's enough for today," he told Patrick. "Thank you, Mr. Crawley...Is there anything else you want to mention before we put you back in your cell?"
"There is a favor I'd like to ask you, if you will oblige me," Patrick said.
"Well, I can't make any promises."
"It's just my cat, sir," Patrick informed him. "Now that Millicent and I are away, Captain Wentworth is home alone in our apartment, and the old cat is set in his ways. He'll be quite cross about his supper being late. I wonder if you might call on our neighbor, Mrs. Mendez, to look after him while we're out. She knows well enough how to manage him."
Malich nodded genuinely.
"I'll see what I can do for Captain Wentworth."
But just as Malich had opened the door to let himself out, Patrick stopped him again.
"Forgive me, sir, but there is still one more thing I was hoping you could tell me before going," he told Malich. "After the events of last night, when Millie...What I mean to ask is, can you tell me for certain that it isstilla historical fact that Titanic foundered on the night of April 14th, 1912?...Nothing about that has changed today?"
It was the strangest question Malich had ever heard, but seeing how much Patrick seemed to need the answer, Malich humored the poor guy and checked Google on his Iphone.
"Says it right here," he affirmed the fact for Patrick. "Titanic still hits an iceberg and sinks on April 14th, 1912, killing over 1500 people, according to the internet today."
"And James Moody?" Patrick asked him next. "What becomes of Titanic's Sixth Officer in the end?"