by Brian Ewing
“Eddie had no idea who Frank was, hell, no one did until after the fact,” Sisto explained. “Eddie had worked a few summers when I was in junior high, but when I was fifteen, Eddie was twenty, he had gotten his girlfriend Katrina, or Kat, pregnant. Eddie loved Kat and wanted to make it work and went to Frank and asked if he could work full time for him. Vinnova was a snaky, soul-sucking sonofabitch and knew aside from the part-time help in the spring and summer, there was not much Eddie could continue with at the marina by the time Labor Day hit. So, Vinnova dangled the golden carrot over my brother’s eyes and asked him if he wanted to make real money.”
Caden had heard this story in different iterations over the years, but coming from Sisto, it hit harder and more personally to her.
“My brother was doing shit he shouldn’t have been, got paid decently but wanted out of that life, and had Kat, and by then, Corrine, my niece to consider.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Caden interjected.
“It suited her because she was beautiful. A ray of light shining on all the darkness surrounding Eddie’s situation. We were like two peas in a pod for a long time before Eddie moved up to Wadsworth, leaving Saratoga City for the suburbs. Uncle Tommy and Corey.” The last sentence slowed him down a moment, reflecting on the memory of the glowing, cheeky grin she would give him when attempting to be funny or mischievous. “Being in high school, my brother offered me cash once or twice a week to bike up to Park Avenue and watch my niece a few hours so him and Kat could go on a date, get some food, see a movie.”
The anticipation of not knowing exactly where the story was going and, at the same time, knowing exactly where it was going, was pulling at Caden’s heartstrings.
Realizing he was going down a path he wasn’t ready to emotionally be in, he distanced himself as he recalled the events that led to his current life. “Long story short, my brother started skimming on the side and Vinnova found out about it. He sent a few of his guys up to Wadsworth the weekend of Corey’s seventh birthday and made Eddie an example to the rest of the young people Vinnova was in the process of grooming to work for him.”
“How were you involved?” Caden inquired.
“Eddie invited me and my girlfriend at the time to stay up in Wadsworth for the weekend for some beers and grilling and relaxing at his two-story castle while celebrating Corey’s birthday. She had apparently been bugging Eddie the entire month before to ask if I would come to see her.”
A lump formed slightly in the back of her throat but she managed a mangled attempt to not presume she knew where the story was going. “She sounds like an amazing little girl. You two have an amazing connection.”
“We did,” Sisto replied softly. “Eddie and I were sitting on the back deck having beers when we heard the first shots.”
A chill ran down Caden’s arms, lining them in goosebumps as Sisto continued.
“We knew what the sound was, but it had no reason to be in the house so we ran inside towards the front living room where there were four men with gloves accompanied by shiny pistols.”
“Oh, Tom,” Caden said, not knowing what else to say.
“I don’t remember much. I took three bullets immediately entering the room, as I must have scared the goons,” Sisto relayed as he unzipped the hoodie and lifted his shirt, displaying quarter-sized scars on his right rib area and left kidney, the third hidden somewhere in the clothing that was still masking his body.
“I woke up three days later from a slight coma from too much blood loss. When I came to, I found out the hit squad had lined up the girls and executed them one by one in front of my brother, before shooting him a dozen times, leaving him with more blood outside than in and just as much flesh in the wall behind him as there was left attached to him.” Sisto wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “They must have thought I was dead, so they let me bleed in the corner unconscious until the paramedics arrived.”
“So, you helped put Vinnova away back then?” Caden asked, puzzled. “If he wasn’t there, how did you get it to stick?”
“I looked at six-packs for weeks.”
Six-packs were lineups of potential offenders mixed in with some randoms that detectives would show to witnesses in hopes of getting an impartial eye-witness testimony.
“I finally came across the face of the guy that shot me and it happened to be Vinnova’s son-in-law. Detectives on the case did what you guys do, and Frank Vinnova was at arraignment for conspiracy to commit murder. I was in Witness Protection before I even stepped out of the hospital,” Sisto recalled. “Didn’t even get to go to their funerals.”
Caden, stunned by the horrific tale, leaned back against one of the vehicles Sisto had decided to vomit between and sat in silence a few minutes, wrapping her head around the events that had formed the man that stood before her. “I read that Vinnova died shortly after he was convicted and sentenced.”
Sisto nodded. “With Vinnova dead, and a few years with the events behind them, the men who shot me and my family were rounded up by Vinnova’s competitor—”
“Aaron Boyle?”
Again another acknowledging nod from Sisto. “Boyle wanted to start the territory with a clean slate and most of Vinnova’s associates met with unfortunate accidents, including his son-in-law and the entourage he kept around him.”
“That’s why you were released from Witsec and were able to come back home.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Very good, Detective. So, now you know but that still doesn’t help us with this situation at hand.” Sisto waved his hand in the direction of the slaughterhouse they’d just exited.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Caden replied, a thought brewing in her mind. “You down for a ride to the station?”
CHAPTER 12
The ride back to Saratoga City started soundless, similar to how the ride approaching the farmland had been with Officer Wallace.
“You don’t have to be afraid to talk to me,” Sisto spoke, his words breaking the awkward silence in the car. “That story was from years ago. It’s hard to talk about sometimes but I am still the same smartass that hit on you at IHOP yesterday.”
“This morning,” she corrected, keeping her eyes on the road but cracking a grin. “I just don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Brushing off that life-altering experience which gave you a third wheel in your head. Going through something that would break most people, but you shake it off and go right back to acting like a normal person.”
“Ha, third wheel,” Sisto repeated. “I like that. I have heard third eye, mind’s eye, but never third wheel. It is like a third wheel, a wedge between me and my consciousness. I just call it The Reels.”
That caused Caden to divert her eyes a brief second and look Sisto’s way.
“The visions play like a projector reel . . . hence, The Reels.”
Accepting the play on words, she focused back on the road and her body language indicated to Sisto that things were starting to soften in the realm of tension.
“Can I ask you something?” Caden had perked up after another stint of silence.
“Sure,” Sisto invited.
“Why don’t you ever drive?”
The question threw Sisto off balance. He was expecting her question to be about the scene they just left, The Reels, or even something about the event that he had just opened up to her about back in the fields. “Drive?”
“Yeah, you take the bus and get police pick-ups all the time but when I was doing a background check on you, I noticed you have had a 1993 Honda Accord registered to you for years, and the registration is active and paid up.”
Smirking, slightly impressed at how thorough Caden could be at times, Sisto answered, “Caden, would you really want me behind the wheel of heavy machinery, given that at any time The Reels could take over and throw me into someone’s vision or a premonition of the future? Basically, either option that would take me out of the current moment i
s just not safe. They feel like hours sometimes, but from what I gather are only a few micro-seconds, usually complete within a blink or two, but a lot can happen within that time, and I don’t need the headache of an accident or worse on my shoulders.”
Nodding in respectful approval, Caden was somewhat mad at herself for not putting two and two together, as that made logical sense. “Why keep the car’s registration active then?”
“You never know when a pinch may arise. I would rather have it and not need it than need it and be waiting on the city bus.”
Another question arose and Sisto was surprised it hadn’t been brought up earlier, as it was clear that Caden was getting back in detective mode. “I didn’t have a chance to ask back there, but did you see anything when we were back there?”
Sisto, sitting with the air conditioner from the car hitting his face, raised his left hand to rest on his sore stomach muscles from all the vomiting an hour before, and told Caden about the dark mind-suit of Mr. Tattoo.
Another half hour or so passed before they turned onto Tannen Road. Pulling into the gated lot for the SCPD, Caden and Sisto walked through the double-door entryway and Caden flashed her badge as they passed an older officer in uniform behind a check-in window as they got closer towards the Detective Hub, the floor designated to all the detectives at SCPD. He saw a bright smile gradually fade from the man’s slightly greying beard as his eyes moved from Caden onto Sisto. Another fan, Sisto thought to himself. They proceeded halfway down the hallway, hooked a right to the desk sergeant’s quarters and were greeted by a grouchy face of a man that had seen his days of battle.
“Hi Jerry,” Caden said, trying to lighten the frown of the man who was clearly placed into some administrative hell outside of his preference.
“Cami,” the strained vocal cords which matched the tone of the face attached to it replied. “Heard you and Bell got a wild one.”
“Yeah, we did. Hey, Jerry, this is Tom Sisto.” She turned, leaving Sisto feeling more like a spectacle than he would have liked.
Sisto took a half step back and threw on the politest, shit-grinning, smile he could stir up and waved at Jerry, before Jerry could attempt to be humane and try to extend his arm for a handshake. If faces told stories, Jerry probably had enough to start a franchise of books, and Sisto didn’t want The Reels to extract any of those tales. It could happen regardless, but unless the energy surrounding a place was so intense, The Reels usually gave Sisto a break, filtering their interruptions 90 percent of the time to human contact. The flawless combination of the greeting Sisto delivered was a half second too late, as Jerry half-raised his arm to extend it before setting it back down and returning to his stoic default position. Damn, Sisto thought to himself. If he had stayed on Jerry’s good side, he could have used a face like that at poker night down at Flashy Jacks on Thursday nights. Caden explained that they were going to use one of the interrogation rooms to rifle through files and if they had tried to set up shop at her desk, Bell would get his boxers in a twist. That colorful remark broke the old man’s resting face, giving only the slightest crack of warmth to the otherwise gargoyle-like stone-cold glare. He nodded them on their way and turned back to the article he had started glancing at before he was interrupted.
Twenty minutes later, the two were sitting across from each other, a welded, aluminum-topped table between them within Interrogation Room Two. There were four cardboard boxes on the ground, stacked to the brim with files. Caden shoved two towards Sisto and pulled the other two near her, starting to dig in and removing a few of the manila folders.
“What is it we are looking for, Detective Caden?” Sisto implored.
“If this sick fuck is someone from the Vinnova days, we need to start looking at the people in his life.”
“Caden, I looked through six packs until my eyes were on fire back then.”
“Were you specifically looking for Mr. Tattoo?” she asked, knowing the answer before asking.
“No, no I was not,” a defeated Sisto accepted, grabbing the first stacks of folders in his designated boxes.
Fourteen pages of reports and images of hardened criminals later, Sisto was starting to recognize the toll it was taking on him. He needed a break after the stench of sour sweat that accompanied depression started to seep into the confined room. He got up, stretched his legs, and left Caden to continue while he used the restroom and went to the breakroom to see if there was any coffee already made. He didn’t see any coffee that looked ingestible, so he grabbed a filter and put on a new pot. He sat at one of the small, white tables in the room and leaned back in the chair as he opened up his phone. He’d missed a few messages while he was dealing with Mr. Tattoo’s messy adventures. The first was from Craig.
“Holy fuck, I saw you on the news tonight.”
Great, Sisto told himself. It was only presumable that a rave outside the city limits with nothing but spinning blue and red lights would attract reporters down to Barstow Farms before the night ended. Sisto just didn’t remember seeing any of them before leaving and sure didn’t notice being filmed. Craig knew about Sisto’s abilities but never pried and Sisto found comfort in the simple acceptance Craig displayed. He would have to give the info to Caden once the coffee was done brewing. Moving onto the next text, it was Ama. Sisto smiled on seeing her name pop up but felt like that interaction between the two was weeks ago, not hours. Just showed you what a knife-wielding barbarian could do to mess with your personal life.
“I told Ojibwe you stopped by for your computer. She says to let you know the more you embrace The Reels, the more you can use them to your advantage. Don’t know what that means, but I assume you do.”
Goddamn serial killers, news reporters in my business, and now this Native American gypsy mind-fucking me, Sisto assessed after reading the next message. He did not know what that meant but figured it would be in his best interest to archive the thought for a later time. The last text was from Laura. That immediately made Sisto look at his watch to see the date and he had to cross reference it with if he’d missed a meeting or something.
“I saw you on the news. I am here if you need to talk. Don’t forget about Monday’s meeting. Marie can’t be there because of her husband’s recovery from surgery. I get that was last week so if something comes up I understand but let me know with as much notice as you can. XO.”
XO. Sisto could almost taste Laura’s lips from reading that message. He knew she still had feelings for him and even though they’d decided it was best to keep it professional, Sisto would be lying if he said he didn’t miss being embraced by her warm thighs countering the cool sheets of her bed where they’d first got intimate.
The hiss from the coffee pot, indicating the brew was finished, broke Sisto from his inner dialogue, bringing his focus back to the present. He stood up and grabbed two cups. He filled one with nothing but the warm, bitter liquid, motor oil for the Terminator. He chuckled at his connection. For the second cup, he looked around and once again only saw the insulting powdered creamer and subjected himself to masking the brew with a few shakes and a few Sweet & Low packets. Inexplicably annoyed about the creamer yet again, he put lids on both cups and headed back to the room. He was about to tell Caden that he’d got her a cup but she was nowhere to be found. He walked in and set her cup off to the side of her pile of folders and got back to his daunting assignment. About ten minutes went by when the door handle turned and Caden re-entered. She threw a laminated identification card with the stamp “SCPD Consultant” stamped across it. Below that was an image of Sisto, the one he was forced to take after the first case he’d assisted on. To the right were some stats like his name and the SCPD badge image above it.
“I have been meaning to get this to you but kept forgetting. I have a feeling we are going to be splitting up to run down leads and would rather you have this than nothing.”
“Thanks,” Sisto said, eyes still on the card.
“Is this for me?” Caden asked, pointing to the cup of co
ffee.
“Yeah, I just brewed a pot and figured you could use one. You find anything while I was gone?”
“No,” she admitted, “I basically left a minute or two after you did once it hit me to get the ID card for you. You find anything since you been back?”
“Not yet,” Sisto confessed.
Continuing another hour or so, Sisto reached into the second box and grabbed the last set of files when he felt the flicker of electricity kick out of his fingertips. The Reels shot on behind his eyelids and thrust him back into Mr. Tattoo’s memories. The inked hands were on the steering wheel of a low set vehicle. The interior was clean, practically new from what Sisto could tell. Looking up to the rearview mirror, Sisto tried to get a clue off the memory but all he could see were the eyes and bridge of the nose of a white male, which Sisto already knew from seeing the pale canvas the tattoo artist placed his work on at some point. There was a spackle of blood droplets under the right eye socket of the man, which he must have noticed at the same time Sisto had. Sisto’s tattooed vessel took his right hand off the wheel and grabbed below in the middle console of the sedan, pulling out a black microfiber towel, and started to apply it to his face. Sisto heard and felt the phlegm jostle in the Adam’s apple he wore in the memory as it converted into a hearty laugh that bellied out of the man as he wiped the human debris off himself.
Back in the present moment, Sisto shot a hard glance at Caden, who was drowning in her own pool of defeat with no results to show from it.
