Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  He’s bothered, but he reads.

  About halfway through the article, the beers come. He swigs and reads for a few minutes longer. He sits back. “Is this right?”

  “I spoke with neighbors and coworkers. Read the reports and what little press there was. Made a few calls. Brina Flores has worked at the laundry of the International for a decade. After her daughter, Virginia, finished high school, her mom found her a job there too. Sometime in the past six months, Ginny met an older man. She started seeing him. He gave her gifts, including a gold necklace. She got pregnant. He ghosted her completely. She goes home early from work one morning, probably with morning sickness—”

  “And is attacked in the alley behind her home, left strangled next to a dumpster,” Whistler finishes in disbelief.

  “Homicide moved on for lack of evidence. It’s still open. But my source says no one’s chasing it down. The mother’s legal status is iffy, and she didn’t want to draw attention. With no leads, no pressure, and plenty of squeakier wheels—”

  “Holy hell, Moe. The similarities are hard to ignore.” He takes a long pull of his beer; it foams in his mouth, and he chokes, coughs, and wipes his chin. “This is great. I can’t believe it. Well written, Moe.”

  “It’s what I do? I told you I had something.” She plays it tough but relishes the compliment. The respect of her cousin means more than she expected.

  The server shows up with a burger, greasy fries falling off the sides of the plate. “There you go. Anything else?”

  “No,” Moe says.

  “I’ll take another beer,” Whistler says. “You want one, Moe?”

  “Mine’s still full.”

  Whistler knocks the mouth of his brown bottle against the neck of Moe’s. He drinks the bottle dry. He manhandles the burger, shoves a giant bite in his face, and his eyes roll back in his head, practically orgasmic. “Oh mah glod”—his mouth full of food—“thith ith tho good.” He finishes chewing. “Help yourself to fries.”

  Moe nibbles a fry. It’s fresh and too hot, but she eats it anyway. “The details connecting Anna Beth to Ginny are legit, right?”

  “Sure. It’s circumstantial. But convincing.”

  “You think the point about resources being allotted to a dead white girl while none being spent on the dead brown girl is a reach?”

  “I mean … it’s more complicated than you make it out. First, it wasn’t a white girl. She was a woman. So that’s something that doesn’t fit. Right? Age difference.”

  “I thought of that. But it doesn’t have anything to do with the point I’m making. Does it?”

  “No. Not directly. It’s just the implication is intentional racism. That’s not fair. I mean …” he takes another bite of burger, with less enthusiasm.

  Moe tosses another fry in her mouth, rubs her palms together to brush away the salt and oil. “What do you mean? No, wait. I see what you mean. You mean you’re a sellout. A shiny badge so important to you? A pat on the head by Inspector Ruther and you roll right over to have your tummy scratched. Now that you’re on the payroll you can’t criticize the system you’re beholden to.”

  “Come on, Moe,” Whistler says plaintively.

  “You come on. Look at this.” She brings up her previous article. “Maria Reyes, strangled same as Anna Beth. I barely looked into the case and can guess it was someone she knew, probably the custodian who called it in. But there was no follow-through.” She pulls her computer back, taps and scrolls. “This girl, Precious Sharpe, spelling bee champ and sings in the church choir. It’s an open secret that people think her ex, Ronnie, killed her and left town. The case was dropped. Not for lack of leads—for lack of resources. You read these and tell me it’s not a race thing. Read the statistics. It’s right there. Numbers don’t lie. Politicians lie. Police lie. Statistics are statistics.” She points to her screen.

  Whistler pushes the remainder of his food away. “Right now I’m trying to find one killer. Not close every similar case from across the whole city. You make some good points about a broken system. I’m trying to make it work better. What do you want from me? Tell me. What do you want?” He’s getting mad, his stomach churning. He pounds his chest with his fist and works up a belch.

  “I want you to be different. I expect it.”

  Molly is back with his second beer. He says, “Cheers, Moe,” but he doesn’t mean it. He takes a long pull, sets it aside unfinished. “I gotta go.”

  “Whistler, goddamnit. Damn, Whistler. Come on—we had a fucking deal. I gave you something. Give me something in return.”

  “What?”

  “Something about the woman in Printer’s Row. I need to keep the narrative going.”

  “Glad it’s about the victims. You sure you can trust a sellout like me? I don’t even care about justice.” He burps again, looks uncomfortable.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  Whistler puts both fists on the tabletop and leans across. His voice is a whisper with a warning growl. He says, “The Mexican American woman attacked today, Rosa Zhang, is a brown person the department is spending time and resources on. The newest detective in CPD is Mexican American, he’s busting his ass, and he’s your fucking cousin. Publish that.”

  “You think you scare me? You don’t scare me, Mister Big Time. I don’t scare.”

  “What scares me is you think you’re the arbiter of right and wrong. You think you know the answers before you even know the right questions.”

  Moe can’t form a response. She closes her laptop.

  He takes her silence as his cue to leave. After three long steps, he stops to gain his composure. He sits down again. The growl is gone when he says, “We brought in the man who found Zhang. You’re right. He’s a strange one. Used to be a doctor of something academic at U of Chicago. Had some kind of head injury. Now he does bed bug remediation. Guess where?” He answers his own question: “The International.”

  “No way.”

  “Problem is, he hasn’t been with the company long enough to connect to Anna Beth’s attack. Also, I’d say he doesn’t have it in him.”

  “Everyone has it in them.”

  Whistler ignores her, his voice rising above the blues shuffle coming from stage. “His partner, Allen Schmidt, has a record, spent time in the pen. I’d put my money on him. He’s shifty. He’s tied loosely to three attacks.”

  “Something’s not right with this Greene,” Moe says, not buying Whistler’s insistence on Allen’s guilt. “Sophia pronounced him a hero. All the other outlets ran similar stories. But he’s off. I don’t like him.”

  “You’re not listening. I’m giving you information. We have the perp in our sights. We are building a case.”

  “Maybe they’re both in on it? You said they were partners.”

  He frowns. “Listen, Moe. You’re the authority on truth and ethics. Write whatever you want. The future of our democracy depends on it. I’m trying to follow the law so we can convict a killer. That’s all. I’m not single-handedly saving the American way of life. I’m not a crusader.” He stands, throws a twenty on the table. “We should really do this again sometime. Really.” He stalks away.

  On stage, the song ends, and the singer says, “Thank you. I’m Reverend Raven and this is one of the Chain-Smoking Alter Boys. We’re going to take five, but we’ll be back with a whole lot of blues.”

  Moe watches the bright flash of afternoon sun strike Whistler when he steps outside.

  “Shit,” Moe says. “Shit shit shit.”

  Whistler Center Stage

  “You are one CH away from missing your own briefing,” Wendell says from his raised perch behind the counter. He holds up a leathery finger and thumb with a tiny fraction of space between to demonstrate how small a measurement one CH must be. His jowls dangle. He expects Whistler to take the bait, but he’s disappointed.

  “No time for your bullshit,” Whistler says and hoofs it up the stairs.

  The accusations Moe made weigh on him. I’m a good g
uy. I mean well. I do my best. But he can feel the pressure of the institution, of its history, and his peers in opposition to the pressure he puts on himself to prove his loyalty to his neighborhood—two sides crushing him into something harder and meaner than he wants to be. His expectations of detective life don’t match his day-to-day experiences so far. I may not be cut out for detective any more than I was for patrolman.

  Being around Moe always makes him existential. He hates that. She has a real knack for needling his most tender spots.

  He strides through the squad room, ignores the eyes on him. He gets to conference room two in time to get an update from Suzuki before the rest of the crew follow Ruther in for the scheduled briefing.

  Whistler waits while people settle. Ruther takes a seat up front. Suzuki leans half his ass on the corner of a table. There are two detectives that Whistler still hasn’t met. He expects Ruther to say a few words, introduce him, and give him some guidance; he doesn’t.

  Whistler takes a deep breath and steps forward. “Thanks, everyone. For those of you who don’t know, I’m Detective Diaz. I’m new to the squad. Detective Suzuki and I caught what the press is calling the Magnificent Mile Strangler case.”

  One of the men Whistler doesn’t know, a blocky man in a short sleeved shirt a size too small, is leaning his back on the doorframe. At the mention of Suzuki, he cups his hand and booms, “Zucchini!”

  Suzuki flips off the detective to general chuckling.

  Whistler keeps talking. He lays out the attack that morning at Coffee Girl. He talks about how it relates to Anna Beth Harpole’s murder. Ruther seems to pay no attention. He gets to the new developments. “I’ve discovered a third case. Ginny Flores, an employee at the International, found strangled next to a dumpster over a month ago.”

  Ruther is suddenly alert. The guy at the back quits leaning against the wall. Suzuki lifts his whole ass off the table.

  “This establishes a pattern of increasing frequency. There was nearly a month between Ginny Flores and Anna Beth. Ten days between Anna Beth and the Rosa Zhang attack. One thing they have in common, besides the nature of the attack, is a possible association with Allen Schmidt. Allen is an employee of Bug Off pest control under contract with both the Echelon and the International. He’s training Calvert Greene, the press’s hero of the day. Schmidt has a record: he broke his aunt’s neck by shoving her down a staircase. Convicted of manslaughter. We have a potential missing trophy from the Harpole case. We may find a personal item was taken from Ginny.” There is grumbling and shifting from the squad. “If so, we have a textbook serial strangler.”

  “Hold the fucking phone,” Ruther says. He stands. “Listen up, hotshot. We don’t need to turn this into more of a mess. Please, for the love of God in heaven above, no one utter the words ‘serial strangler’ to anyone outside this room. Or inside this room. Don’t mumble it in your sleep. Don’t have cereal for breakfast until this case is closed. I’m going to take the lead, Diaz. You and Suzuki can step back. I’m running this now. Sit the fuck down.”

  Whistler’s whole head goes hot, his forehead starts to perspire, and he clenches his jaw and balls his hands into fists. He sees his mistake. He sprang the Ginny situation on Ruther. He wanted to impress the squad, maybe get some respect, at least get Ruther to pay attention. He wanted to prove something to Moe. He looks into Ruther’s red face. His mustache is out of control. Any lingering intention to defend himself, to speak at all, evaporates absolutely. He exhales heavily and sinks into an empty seat.

  Ruther steps up front. “I’ll give assignments. We’ll build the case. I’ll consult the district attorney. We’ll make an arrest when we have enough to convict. Until then, no press. None. Diaz, I heard from a bald blackbird that you had a tête-à-tête with a certain dyke reporter.”

  “She’s my cousin,” he tries to explain. His voice is quiet and hoarse. His throat has started to close up. “She wanted to congratulate me.”

  “Well, congratu-fucking-lations. Don’t talk to any of your thousand cousins or second cousins or grandparents or your priest until this case is in the win column. Okay?”

  Whistler loosens his tie and can only manage a stiff nod in response.

  Private Exhibition

  Calvert uses a tiny key to unlock the door of his mailbox. His fingers fumble the fine motor movement. He drops the key. His fast-twitch muscles grudgingly engage, and he snatches the key before it can hit the floor. The mailbox opens. It is empty. He hinges it closed and methodically walks the long flight of steps to the second floor. His legs are dead. The toe end of his loafers brush the worn bullnose of each tread as he steps up. The day had been a trial for a man with truncated emotional capacity. His meager reserves of energy have boiled off, leaving him dried out and empty. He uses a larger key to unlock the door to his apartment, finds he didn’t lock it again. Once inside, he slumps onto his oversoft mattress, certain that merciful, absolute death is about to take him.

  After finding Rosa’s body, and his subsequent painful attempt to work up a single tear, he spent hours being shuttled around and asked questions. Finally he, a confused Daisy in her crate, and an edgy Allen were dropped back at the van and allowed to go to work. He exhales to push the bitter air from his lungs. There is knocking at his door. He draws the old air back in, stands on his dying feet, and shuffles to the door. His neighbor the man-bear is there, holding a smoldering joint and taking up most of the doorway.

  “Saw you on the news. You’re a regular savior.” His easy beatific grin seeps smoke into the claustrophobic hallway.

  “I was on the news?”

  “You were the main story the whole livelong day. You remember talking to that loud reporter? The one with the cleavage.”

  Calvert recalls the bright light in his eyes, the microphone pushed under his chin. He remembers letting words spill out. He gives a nod.

  “I’m getting off track. That’s not why I’m here. The co-op kids put together an exhibition, and we could have a crowd later tonight. Maybe you’ve seen the fliers?”

  “I have not.”

  Man-bear puts a flier in Calvert’s hand. It reads “Fluxus Flotsam Studio Happening. Things Believed.” The flier is photocopied in black on goldenrod paper. The text is formed from random letters cut from magazines, like a ransom note in a B movie. The words are strewn higgledy-piggledy over a snapshot of a woman dressed in black rubber, holding a Bible across her chest and a flashlight above her head, a pose reminiscent of the Statue of Liberty. Under the image, the address, date, and time are listed.

  “I see,” Calvert says, not certain what the flier means or how to respond.

  “It’s a fundraiser for our trip to the Far Afield Fest—the Great Lake’s Burning Man. The thing is, I hope you’ll be cool. I’ll try to keep it down. The kids are into nineties hip-hop, and they can only play it loud. Sorry.”

  “I’m not bothered by things, really. Death lends perspective.”

  “I bet it does. Forgot you were dead. I’m Barney, if I didn’t say so last time.” He waits for Calvert to share his name. Calvert does not share. “I forgot your name.”

  “Calvert,” he says it like his tongue isn’t used to the feel of it.

  “Right. I heard on the news. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t sewn on. Maybe. I should lay off the weed. Screwing up my memory.” He gazes at the joint, waves it in the air, leaving a pale wisp that quickly curls into nothing. “Nah. Who am I kidding?” He chuckles and smokes a little more weed. “Okay, then. Thanks again. I’ll see you.” He turns halfway. “Hey, Calvert. You wouldn’t want to see the stuff we made, would you?”

  There’s something about Barney that reminds Calvert of his grandfather Harry. Calvert misses Harry. “Yes,” he says. “I want that.”

  “Right this way,” Barney says.

  The hall into the co-op is narrow with low light. Barney leads him around a corner and into an eight-foot-square room. A series of clip lights are aimed at a raised platform that resembles a scre
ened porch attached to a gray clapboard house. A dark-skinned man stands next to them as they enter; his head is a mass of bouncing dreadlocks threaded with thick strands of multicolored yarn.

  “This is Andrew,” Barney says. “Andrew, my new neighbor, Calvert. I’m giving him a preview.”

  “Cool,” Andrew says, his voice soft and high. “I’ve got to make a run to Loco Taco and put a burrito in my body. Cool meeting you, Calvert. See you around.” He sniffs and catches sight of the joint in Barney’s hand. “Oh man, can I get a hit off that spliff?”

  Barney passes it over. Andrew draws three short sips and holds it tight, his chin tucked against his chest. Andrew tries to pass the joint to Calvert; Calvert shakes his head no. Andrew mouths, “Cool.” Smoke leaks around the edges of the word. Barney takes the joint and smokes a bit more. “Before you go, you should tell Calvert about your installation.”

  Andrew exhales a personal fogbank. He begins to speak but is interrupted by a hacking cough followed by sputtering aftershocks. Eventually he says, “It’s called Night Time Revival. Let me know what you think. Sorry, I gotta jet.” Andrew lopes away.

  Calvert and Barney listen to the apartment door open and close, the quick steps of Andrew’s unlaced boots beating down the stairs. These sounds dissipate and subtler noises rise. Night sounds: crickets on a breeze, a shallow creek babbling over water-worn rocks, and the periodic punctuation of a dog’s distant baying.

  Barney watches Calvert and smiles a jolly smile. “So, take a look around,” he says with a wink.

  The installation is not like any art Calvert remembers. But his brain has lost knowledge like water through a colander. He notes a cognitive dislocation caused by the scene, by the sounds that transport him out of the city. Making sense of art is an exercise in futility. He opts to take it as it comes.

  Barney pulls the porch door open, a long spring screeches as it’s stretched. Calvert’s feet are loud on the aged-looking porch steps. Barney lets the door smack closed. Small objects, hundreds of them, are strewn haphazardly over low church-pews that circle the perimeter of the porch. Calvert takes a closer look. The objects are religious figurines, crosses, household items, small booklets, and Bibles.