by Brian Ewing
“Bell,” the detective answered.
“Bell, it’s me, Sisto,” Sisto stated, winded and jaw in pain. “He reached out to me, forced me to meet up with him alone. He’s dead.”
The silence on the line made Sisto wonder if he’d got disconnected.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“You gonna live?”
“Yeah. Chemistry Cove. The power plant, hundred feet from the check-in swing left to their junkyard. There is a sign with a red arrow. Let Caden know. I called her but she didn’t answer.”
“On the way,” Bell said, the sound of his belt buckle clinking in the background as he got dressed.
The next half hour went by slowly as Sisto sat in the driver’s seat of his car, leaning out the open door, trying to let his nose, which was bleeding like a faucet from the punches he’d taken, run dry. In the distance, Sisto started to hear the sweet sound of sirens of the SCPD closing in on the isolated area. His pounding headache throbbed against his temples as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, pinching the bridge of his nose as the faucet had finally slowed to a dribble. Hearing the chariot of souped-up engines starting to surround him, he leaned out the door, holding up his arms in the air with his handy consultant card visible. Blinded by the headlights of multiple vehicles pointing in his direction, he heard Bell’s voice yell at the patrol officer at the helm of the car right in front of Sisto to turn off their lights. Sisto looked up once his eyes adjusted to see Bell walking towards him.
“You look like shit,” Sisto said, knowing in actuality how awful his own appearance was, causing him to laugh and reopen a split lip, the result of one of Carson’s punches, the back fist he thought.
Bell didn’t look amused. He wasn’t even looking at Sisto, now that he came to realize it.
“We gotta go,” Bell softly spoke.
Confused, as this should be the most important scene they needed to be at currently, Sisto didn’t comprehend Bell’s request.
“What? Carson is over there. He is gone. I’m sorry I didn’t call, he told me if I did he would . . .”
“Tom, stop,” Bell said, causing panic in Sisto as Bell rarely used his first name.
Looking around, Sisto felt a sink from his throat to his gut.
“What’s wrong with you? Get Caden over here and she will tell you are making no sense. Where is she anyways?”
The bile in his stomach rising to his throat, he asked again, “Where is Caden, Bell?”
The detective didn’t answer.
“Bell? Where is Caden?”
“We got to go,” Bell repeated.
In that moment, Sisto realized what Carson meant when he said that he had beat him. Carson knew no matter what happened, he had already fulfilled his endgame of leaving Sisto a broken man. Sisto, covered in blood, most of it his, followed Bell and got into the passenger side of his car. They sat in silence the entire way back to downtown. Sisto stared out the window at the night sky; there were only glimpses of speeding lights as they rushed past at eighty-five miles per hour the entire way through the downtown streets. They ended up at Victor Avenue and Second Street, where they were greeted by a flood of flashing police lights. Sisto had never been there but knew exactly where he had been taken. About five minutes before arriving, a voice had come over the police radio. The voice held a somber tone and he called out to all units.
Attention. End of watch call for Detective Camille Caden. Badge ID 1941. On September 2, at approximately 5 p.m., Saratoga City Police Detective First Grade Camille Caden was murdered in her home by an assailant that forcibly entered the apartment at the intersection of East Victor Avenue and Second Street.
You are clear to go 10-7. May you rest in peace. Detective Caden, you are a hero.
CHAPTER 29
The following week was a whirlwind of emotions. Sisto had been hailed as a local hero for stopping the murderous rampage of a mentality inept man grieving the loss of his father from years ago. Bell even gave a statement for the news article, confirming the stellar work from the resident psychic. Max Halstead, weasel that he was, put out another article about Sisto. The prick left him a voicemail asking for a quote. Sisto never replied. He had not let himself sink into a hole of depression, although that was all he wanted to do. He knew that if Caden were looking down on him, she would beat his ass. He grieved and moped everyday but reminded himself that it was okay to grieve as long as he continued to keep looking ahead. He contemplated leaving the department as a consultant and taking his millions to disappear, but again, he felt Caden tugging on his shoulder, advising him against that. The world was not fair, not in the slightest.
Bell filled Sisto in on Caden’s crime scene as he could not bring himself to enter the apartment that night and see her in such a state. Luckily, Carson had been on a tight schedule and was not able to desecrate Caden by cutting her into pieces. She had been stabbed multiple times with a large knife and had bled out in her kitchen. In SCF’s preliminary report, the images which Sisto refused to look at showed contrast between her kitchen’s fluorescent lighting and white linoleum tile, exemplifying the crimson hue of the pool of blood she was found in to look like a morbid display in an art exhibit. Bell also explained that he had been informed by Caden’s parents that her funeral would be held at Mustain Hills Cemetery. It didn’t sit right with him that she had bled and died for Saratoga City but would be buried elsewhere. Apparently the Caden clan had resided in the tristate area for generations and most of the family plot was located there. As sick as it made him, he knew he would have to attend. That would be the cherry on top, after having to go to Craig’s wake, which would be on Thursday. As per his conversations with his siblings, apparently Craig had once stated that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the Pacific Ocean. When Craig’s brothers came to claim his stuff, Sisto introduced himself and ended up sharing a few hours of memories and tears with the Allman boys.
Aside from Bell making the effort to keep Sisto grounded, Laura also reached out a few times after seeing him on the news. She sent her condolences and let him know that the doors at C.O.S. were always open when he was ready to talk about it. Ama took a week off from her day job, as she had a ton of vacation, citing she could not focus on work with a friend getting murdered and another one attacked by the murderer. As soon as she dropped Sisto’s name, her bosses, who had been following the story on the news, accepted her leave with no further inquiry. She checked in on Sisto a few times, which he appreciated, but she took a lot of time to pray and speak with Ojibwe. The spiritual woman, an Oracle in her own right, helped Ama process and work therapeutically through the pain. She stated that in Native American culture, death is just the next step in evolution. The body goes away but the soul moves onto the spirit world. That is why, sometimes, after a death, family and friends claim they are visited by the spirit—to let them know they are okay and can move on without them. Ama told Sisto about Ojibwe’s explanation when she picked him up to go to Craig’s wake and it brought a small warmth to his heart. He was not religious, not really spiritual either, but if what Ojibwe had said was true, he hoped both Craig and Caden would visit him at some point.
Ama, in her black, snug dress, uncomfortable in the fact that she rarely wore heels or such revealing clothing, got out of the car parked in front of the Saratoga City Memorial Park. Sisto, in the only suit he owned, stepped out of the passenger door, sunglasses saving him from any attempts of Craig’s family members to make eye contact. Sisto felt that if he looked Craig’s mother in the face he would break down in a shameful wail, feeling responsible for her and the entire family’s pain. Ama and Sisto met up at the front of the vehicle, where she slung her arm in between his and guided him towards the service. They had made it just in time as the celebrant leading the service was about to start. Until he had gone to his brother and brother’s family’s funeral service, Sisto had always assumed a priest or minister held the funeral service. Apparently, when someone dies, it’s just
a celebration of life and anyone that wants to can lead the ceremony. The funeral celebrant seemed to be an older brother, the one of the three that he had not met back at Corden Palisades.
Sisto and Ama took seats in the back, sniffling and wiping away warm tears as many people stepped to the podium to share stories of a man who was not rich monetarily, but had made up for it ten-fold in friendship. Craig’s family went up one by one telling memorable tales of the young troublemaker’s mishaps, causing everyone to laugh more than a few times. The ceremony lasted about an hour and everyone had been invited to head back to Craig’s parent’s home down in Rossdale, a middle-class suburb on the west outskirt of Saratoga City. Ama offered to take Sisto, but he felt drained from the experience and thought he would feel out of place. Walking back to the car, he heard a woman call out to him.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” the woman called.
Turning around, Sisto recognized her as Craig’s mother.
“My sons just informed me. You are Tom Sisto?” she stated in the form of a question.
“I am,” he replied. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Expecting a slap across the face, she instead wrapped her arms around him, causing his eyes to well up with more warm tears. The Reels threw a montage of flashes at him, images of Craig growing up with his brothers and his mother and father all enjoying each other, feeling the thankfulness for every moment exuding from the woman.
Pulling away, Craig’s mom had tears running down her face. “Craig mentioned you many times.”
The statement shocked him.
“He did?”
“Oh yes, he said he lived next to a true superhero.”
The words caused a lump to form in his throat.
“You carry quite a burden, Mr. Sisto. I would never wish it on anybody. From the way my son described you, we are lucky a power so strong went to someone like yourself. There is evil out there. Pure evil. Evil like the man who took my baby away. Please, Mr. Sisto, don’t ever give up. There are other mothers, other fathers, other siblings that will lose someone. They need closure. They need what you can offer.”
Sisto thanked Ama when they got back to the apartment complex.
“You’re welcome, Sisto. I didn’t know Craig that well, but he was a fellow Corden captive,” Ama tried to say light-heartedly.
“Not just the ride, Ama. I appreciate everything you have done. From helping me with Vinnova, to checking in on me, to driving me here. I literally lost two important people in my world this week. Aside from Bell, who I literally can’t stand most of the time, and my counselor, I don’t have anyone else.”
Holy shit, Sisto thought. What a depressing realization.
“Sisto, you bring excitement to my life. You are a good person and even when you aren’t hunting criminals, you are still fun to be around. I am glad we met. I don’t have many friends either.”
The common bond was comforting and saddening at the same time. The two walked into the lobby and headed to the stairwell. The light in the office was on, drawing both their gazes over to see Super Dave writing a check or something.
Looking back to the stairwell, Ama spoke without skipping a beat, “I hate that fucking druggie. You know he asked me out once?”
Sisto smirked and opened the stairwell door.
CHAPTER 30
The days blended into nights and before he knew it, Saturday had arrived. Sisto had been dreading the day more than he had the two days prior to attending Craig’s wake. A knock broke his concentration, alerting Sisto to grab the door. He was still getting his tie on as he opened it to find Ama.
“Hey, Ama. I thought you were Bell. Come on in.”
“Sisto, I just came by to see if you need anything before you left?”
“I don’t think anything can really prepare me for another terrible event of people crying because of something caused by me.”
She walked up to him and took the skinny tie he had been fiddling with away from him. She repositioned it, stepped back to take it in, readjusted it once more, then in three motions, had its noose snug around his neck. Impressed, he nodded as he jumped over to the bathroom mirror to confirm it looked right. It sure didn’t feel right, as he never liked wearing dress attire.
“Listen, I also came by because I have all those files on Michael Dyer and didn’t know if you wanted them to add to the case file for Carson Vinnova? I know he was pronounced dead at the scene, but to be thorough?”
“I totally forgot about that. Um, yeah, I guess we should. I can bring it to the station on Monday. I am supposed to head in to speak to Captain Jenkins about my status as police consultant moving forward. I think he is upset about the attention the story has drawn to the department all week.”
“That’s fine. I have to print out everything and I will have it ready for you tomorrow. You can swing by or I can drop it off.”
Another knock on the door, this time heavier and more primitive.
Sisto opened the door to see Calvin Bell in his crisp police uniform. His hat under his arm, thinning grey hair precisely combed, he almost looked respectable.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” Sisto replied. “Detective Bell, this is my friend and neighbor, Ama Navarro. I think you met briefly the other night.”
“I’m very sorry for both your losses,” Ama relayed as she approached the door.
Bell nodded and stood to the side, allowing Ama an exit. She looked back at Sisto and he nodded his appreciation as she disappeared behind the rotund man in his “police blues.”
The drive to Mustain was an hour away. The drive, while somber, wasn’t as uncomfortable as the first time they had driven together. Somehow, over the course of bloodshed and mayhem, the two men had formed a bond of understanding and admiration for each other’s skillsets. Bell turned on the power button to his radio, tuned to the auxiliary Bluetooth that was connected to his phone. A sad but powerful arrangement of violins and piano keys started before the artist started to serenade the car. Not sure if it was supposed to be a small reminder that Bell and Sisto came from different generations and different backgrounds, but whatever it was, Sisto rarely fell into traps of stereotyping.
“Georgia, Georgia . . . the whole day through . . .” Sisto belted into song.
Keeping his eyes on the road, Bell slipped a grin from the side of his mouth, joining in on the next verse, creating a duet with Sisto.
“An’ just an old sweet song . . . keeps Georgia on my mind.”
The funeral was dreadful. It was an open casket and Sisto had to watch from the back row, biting back the urge to confess his love to a woman he had only just begun to form a relationship of that nature with. Bell sat in front with other police brotherhood in uniform on one side, Caden’s immediate family forming the opposite side’s front row. Caden’s family seemed to practice some sort of Christianity, as a priest had been there to direct the ceremony. There had been many tears throughout the man of the cloth’s introduction, but Sisto got lost in the two enlarged prints posted on each side of the casket. One image of her just out of the academy, vigor and spunk filling her eyes. The other was Camille, hair down, cute dress, smiling and loving life. It looked like it was a cropped image from her social media page. There were random arms around her neck that belonged to nobody. Probably some or all of them in the crowd he sat in currently, Sisto figured.
Caden’s father, a short man with a kind face, went up to the podium after the priest had called him up to speak about his slain daughter. The news of his daughter had aged the man a decade, the nosey lady in the row ahead of him had relayed to her friend. Sisto felt tears creeping down his face as the man’s voice cracked while telling stories of his little girl growing up with a determination not found in many. Sisto could attest to that, but what put Sisto over was when Mr. Caden, in his early fifties, spoke about how happy he was to be his daughter’s hero while she grew up, and how lucky he had been to be able to say how she was his hero all the years since. The words hit the crowd h
ard, and the room filled the sound of snot blowing into tissue, moans of painful woe, people catching their breath from trying to hold their cries inside. There was no point in having anyone else speak. Mr. Caden elegantly recapped the very essence of what Camille Caden presented to everyone she had met. However, part of tradition was letting her fellow co-workers speak.
Captain Jenkins stood up and spoke the generic kudos rant—“Caden was great, Caden had so much potential, we will continue to go out there every day for Caden, blah, blah, blah.” Following Captain Jenkins, Bell, being her partner, stood at the podium. The man who Sisto had grown to accept still had a lacking when it came to saying anything with eloquence.
“I had been on the job over twenty years; this was probably seven years ago. I had my partner of twelve years retire and was very reluctant to take on anyone trying to make a name for themselves. My captain, Captain Jenkins, gave me two options. He said I can pair up with one of two new detectives, a perfectionist or a hotshot.”
Everyone chuckled.
“True story,” Bell laughed. “I asked him who the two options were. He told me that the perfectionist was going places. First in his class, aced every exam. The best of the best as far as the captain was concerned. I asked him about the hotshot. He told me the hotshot was this officer who had been in the department three years, working graveyard shifts mainly, and came in ready to kick in balls on every shift.”
Realizing he’d referenced Caden to go around kicking people in the balls, he got frazzled. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about ball kicking.”
Face losing color from the realization that in his apology, he’d not only brought up ball kicking a second time, but also cursed, he wiped his brow, looked down a moment to compose himself, and then went on.
