Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  It’s a longer ride than it should be as Moe drives to Text Block. She’s rattled by her near-crash. The harrowing trek was worth it. It’s true she learned nothing to definitively prove her suspicions of Calvert Greene. She did happen across more than she’d expected. That is how journalism works. The more you dig, the more the story changes. Dig enough and sometimes you find a story you could have never imagined. She decides to tuck that nugget away to share with her cub reporters when the time is ripe.

  She’s only halfway to Text Block, but Taibbi needs gas, so she downshifts and coasts into an automated gas station. She jams her card in the self-pay pump and removes the nozzle. The pump beeps and flashes a message that the card cannot be read, instructs her to insert her card and remove it slowly. “I did remove the card slowly, bitch,” she argues. But she’s not mad at the pump. She’s in too good a mood. She keeps thinking of Cyn Regan and her scrunchy face. She tries her card a second time. She selects a grade of gas and fills the small tank.

  “You are kind of a pain in the ass,” she says to Taibbi. She adds, “But you’re my pain in the ass,” and gives the tank a loving pat. “I’m going to get you taken care of soon.”

  In another twelve minutes, she parks Taibbi in the Text Block lot. Loni approaches before Moe shuts the engine down. “Vivian said it’s up to you if I write about the little girl that was shot last night?”

  Moe sets her helmet on her motorcycle. “What’s your angle?”

  “A nine-year-old girl, Clarissa, Avalon Park. Walking with a bag of doughnuts in one hand and holding her father’s hand with the other. Gunshots pop off, the dad curls around his daughter. His ear gets blown off and the bullet goes through Clarissa’s chest. Dead in his arms. The angle is Clarissa goes to school in Lakeview, where the mother lives. She visits her father on weekends in Avalon Park. I want to talk about her experience in the two places. The idea is of traveling between two kinds of Chicago. I’m calling it ‘Dangerous Passage.’”

  Moe listens closely. Loni is passionate. “Is it being reported elsewhere?”

  “Channel 13 gave a mention in the overnight tragedies segment of the morning news, sent someone to take video of the little memorial of flowers and candles.”

  “Write it up. Keep it tight. Get it to me by three. I won’t know until I read it. Be careful. You’re a reporter. This is journalism, not an editorial. Keep that in mind.”

  “Will do.” Loni looks like she wants to clap for herself, but she’s too cool. She says, “Will do. I will do that,” and rushes back in the building.

  Moe is at her desk calling Whistler when Dale arrives. “Can you read this?” he asks.

  She doesn’t allow herself to feel aggravated. “It’s what I’m here for,” she says flatly.

  Dale passes his laptop to Moe. He leans over her shoulder as she reads. He’s reporting about a big-time law practice donating all the billable hours of one of its immigration lawyers to help families targeted by the most recent version of US immigration policy. The article is very comprehensive. Too much information about immigration law, the language too detailed.

  “It restores my faith in lawyers. What it lacks is a case study. You need to talk about how this lawyer has changed things for a specific person.”

  “I thought so. I wanted to see if I was on the right track?”

  “I wish I had written parts of it.”

  Dale’s smile beams.

  “You have gone over the top on the legal language.”

  “I just want to get it right?”

  “That’s a good thing. Just remember the first story doesn’t have to be the whole story. It needs to be accurate. But it’s only a way in. You don’t have to say everything. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. Thanks. I get it.” He leaves. Moe waits for him to return. Three seconds later, he’s back for his laptop.

  She smiles.

  “Where was I?” she asks the room. She remembers. Dials Whistler.

  “Detective Diaz.”

  “Very official,” she says. “Let me give you what I’ve dug up on Calvert Greene.”

  “I’m driving. I’m putting you on speaker. My partner is here. Suzuki, my cousin Moe.”

  “Hi, Whistler’s partner,” Moe says.

  Suzuki starts talking, “What’s with this guy’s name? Also, why doesn’t he like soosh? That’s not natural. Everyone likes a good soosh. It comes from the life-giving sea.”

  “He’s an enigma,” Moe explains. She’s careful how much she lets on about her arrangement with her cousin.

  “Hey, cuz. Keep it short. We’re about to scoop up Schmidt.” Moe takes that as both a warning and the news Whistler is willing to share.

  “An arrest?”

  “No. Not yet. A more pointed conversation,” Whistler says.

  “Person of interest,” Suzuki adds.

  “I see.” That counts as confirmation. “I’m not giving up on the professor. You know the accident he was in? It was hinky. His wife crashed her car into Greene while he was with a pregnant student. No father of the unborn child ever materialized. The professor’s head trauma was serious. He’s on antipsychotics. He’s a candidate for fucking electroshock therapy.”

  “They still do that?” Suzuki asks.

  “Apparently it’s used with some success for people with this Cotard syndrome. Which is the professor’s diagnosis. But if I, like, read between the lines”—she adds the “like” for her own entertainment—“there was some disagreement between the treatment team about the diagnosis. The head psychiatrist may have wanted to believe it was Cotard’s Syndrome.”

  “Why?” Whistler asks.

  “It’s rare and the doctor smelled a publication. Self-aggrandizement. Freud would have called it ego. Apparently psychiatry outranks psychoanalysis. Big pharma beats talk therapy.”

  “That’s interesting, but Greene isn’t the guy,” Whistler says. He drives past a line of taxis and parks in front of the five-star hotel. An attendant comes to open his door. Whistler unclips his badge and holds it against the inside of the windshield. The attendant gets the message and goes back to his station.

  “I’m not saying he’s the guy,” Moe admits. “I’m saying he’s no hero. I was right to think something was off. He walked away from a catastrophe that left two people dead. Three if you count an unborn child. He knew Rosa Zhang. He’s psychotic. He was institutionalized during the first murder at least, but New Horizons is low security. He could have walked away. It’s a long shot, but not impossible. The kid at the security desk said he’d hang around like he was planning a break. I couldn’t get a completely straight answer, but I think he snuck out at some point, or tried to. I mean the nickname for his condition is walking corpse syndrome. He’s as close to a real-life zombie as you can get.”

  “Brains!” Suzuki moans.

  “Greene’s boss at Bug Off did make him sound unusual.” Whistler ignores Suzuki out of habit. “But he didn’t stick his neck out to defend Schmidt either.”

  “What if Schmidt and Greene are in on it together? A classic homicidal team-up,” Suzuki asks lightly, perfectly happy to participate in broad conjecture. “A symbiotic thrill kill cult.”

  “Not helpful,” Whistler says.

  “I like the way you think, Suzuki,” Moe says to razz her cousin.

  “Listen, we’re headed up to get our man.”

  “Bye, Moe,” Suzuki says and slides out to stretch his legs.

  “Bye, Suzuki. Let’s do soosh soon.” She waits until she hears the door close. “Are we good?”

  “Make it quick.”

  “I might be wrong about Greene,” Moe says. “It’s a long shot. But I want to check a few more leads. For one thing, I need to talk to this boss of his, get more background. I’ve got time late this afternoon, and I’m going out there one way or another.”

  “He’ll give you a whole tour. He’s very proud of his extermination empire. His wife is pretty easy on the eyes. Kind of controlling. But I wouldn’t kick he
r out of bed for eating nachos. Also very pregnant.”

  Moe doesn’t care. “Is it fair to say officials close to the case confirm they are questioning a person of interest?”

  “Yes. But wait until I have something definitive. We might put this away in the next few hours. Ruther claims to be getting a warrant to search Schmidt’s home.”

  “Based on something new?”

  “Honestly, hope and intuition. Do not quote me.”

  “Keep me posted, but I have to publish this story soon.”

  “Cuz,” Whistler adds, “you sound good. Not as pissed off as usual.”

  “For reasons I’m not ready to divulge, I’m feeling optimistic.” She’s happy to leave it at that, so she hangs up.

  An Invitation to Care

  The orange elevator was not literally orange, but this only caused the briefest instance of alarm in Calvert. Neither was Rosa’s room marked with a pirate map X. Instead, there was a placard on the wall next to the door with the name “Zhang” written in streaky dry-erase marker.

  The nurse at the station sucked her teeth when she spoke. “I know you—smek,” she said with a kind smile. “Consuela—smek—says she prayed for Rosa every night—smek—and that you were the answer to her prayers—smek.”

  Standing in front of Rosa’s room, Calvert questions the likelihood he is the unwitting agent of a higher power. A different nurse steers a jostling cart of medications down the hall. As he passes behind Calvert, he says, “You can go in.”

  Calvert goes in.

  He sees Rosa. Still, fragile, and small, like a body arranged for viewing. The sides of the bed are up, the mattress raised, pillows propped behind her head pitching her neck forward and bunching her flesh into a second fold of chin. Her dark hair is brushed and arranged carefully. A blanket and sheet are pulled over her chest, her bare arms out, open palms up. Her eyes are closed and her lids are glossy, as if smeared with Vaseline. The sight stops him. He takes a breath and can’t let it out.

  After his car accident, he was much as Rosa is now, though he doesn’t remember. His brain was swollen. He was unconscious. He regrets again that he slept through Mere’s memorial. He knows, per her wishes, she was likely cremated. He didn’t attend Kati’s funeral either, though he guesses her remains were flown to Budapest and placed near family.

  He has begun to mourn their passing to the limited extent his emotions will allow. He secretly mourns Bump too.

  A quiet beeping reminds him where he is and who he’s looking at. He steps farther into the room. A head lifts from the far side of the bed, a woman startled from sleep, snorting, rubbing her face. She stares at him.

  Calvert is embarrassed, as if he’s walked into the women’s restroom. He starts to leave.

  “Señor Greene! It’s you.” The woman gets to her feet and advances on Calvert. She’s a short, round version of Rosa with a silver swirl of cotton-candy hair. Her hands are hot as she clasps his. “I prayed you would come.” She hugs him, places her cheek to his chest. She holds him tightly. He assumes she’s listening for a heartbeat, imagines she can’t hear a thing, similar to pressing her ear to a bass drum, only air pressure. She lets loose and smiles. It’s like Rosa’s smile, only sadder. He allows her to tug him down, kiss each cheek and pat his face. “You are an angel.” She releases him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he ventures, “You are Rosa’s mother.”

  “Yes. Consuela. Come, sit.” As he moves past the foot of the bed, he examines Rosa more closely, casting his gaze up her frail body to her face. Her skin looks healthy, her expression one of peaceful slumber. He can see blue bruising turning to green over the bunched skin of her throat, spreading onto her exposed collarbones. “Sit.” Consuela clears a chair and pats the cushion. Calvert sits.

  Consuela uses her fingers to brushes hair from Rosa’s forehead. She cups Rosa’s chin and makes a kissing sound. She moves her chair closer to the one she cleared for Calvert and takes a seat.

  “The day she was born,” she says, “my mother came from Mexico City. The nurse placed Rosa in my arms and said, ‘You did a good job. That was hard work. She is perfect.’ My mother leaned toward me. I thought she would tell me how beautiful Rosa was, how much hair she had, how strong she looked. Instead, she said, ‘I know how difficult that was. Things get easier. The first thirty years are the hardest.’ Then she left.” Consuela turns to Calvert. “I thought she was being cruel. But she was right. You never stop worrying for your babies, no matter their age.” She exhales as if the air is being crushed from her.

  “How is she?” Calvert asks.

  Before responding, Consuela works her tiny watch around her slender wrist to read it. “She is resting.” Consuela sniffles and rubs the tip of her nose with a ball of Kleenex.

  Calvert remembers how hot his body had become downstairs, how his sense of smell has deteriorated. He fears he stinks.

  Rosa’s mother continues, “The scans came back clean. She may have a mild concussion. She is breathing on her own. Her pulse is good. She is healthy. The nurses love her. They take good care of us.” She holds her hands as if in prayer, the Kleenex sandwiched between her palms and her eyes turned to heaven. Calvert looks overhead and finds only lights and a silver asterisk that marks an overhead sprinkler.

  Consuela says, “Her windpipe was not broken.” She sniffles and jangles her watch. “Superficial bruises, the doctors tell me. At first, they worried lack of oxygen may have caused permanent damage. But no. Praise God.” Again the prayer gesture. “Her brain is fine. God brought you to save her at just the right instant. It’s a miracle.” She unrolls the balled Kleenex and honks her nose. Dust motes float in the shaft of light coming in the window and cutting across Rosa’s shoulder. Calvert looks for more Kleenex to offer Consuela. He sees none.

  “Why is she still asleep?” he asks.

  Rosa’s mother draws a shuddering breath and sobs. A nurse enters. Not the nurse who sucks her teeth or the one who delivers medicine. “Oh, Sweetie,” the new nurse says. She moves fast, produces a box of facial tissues from somewhere along her route and delivers them to the crying woman. The nurse pats Consuela reassuringly. “I know,” she says. “I know.”

  Calvert doesn’t understand the secret the women share. What is the thing known?

  “And who is this?” the nurse asks.

  “The man I told you about.” Rosa’s mother regains control. “Señor Greene, this is Nurse Alicia. She takes care of Rosa.” Consuela takes Alicia’s hand and holds it.

  Nurse Alicia wears dark scrubs and clogs that look like she dipped her feet in marshmallow fluff. She hugs Calvert. Her stethoscope strikes Calvert in the face. It doesn’t hurt. “You did a good thing,” she says to him. To Consuela she says, “I’ll be back. You be strong. It’s only a matter of time.” She goes as quickly as she arrived, her mallow-feet squelching out the door.

  They sit in silence, passing time. Rosa’s mother looks at her watch. “They say my girl is in shock. There is no medical reason she isn’t awake.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you have children, Señor Greene?”

  “Call me Calvert.” He’s proud he thought of the social nicety. You can teach a dead dog new tricks.

  “Gracias, Calvert. Children? Do you have any? Are you married?”

  “No. I have no wife and no child. I am solitary.”

  Consuela is pensive. She turns her watch up again, rubs her fingers over the crystal. “I have to get Thomas from school. Will you sit with Rosa? The doctors and the nurses say it’s good to talk to her. She will not react, but she can hear you. It’s good for her brain. Stimulates the nervous system. Maybe you’d like to read to her. I will leave my Bible. Will you stay?”

  There’s a pleading look on her face. He thinks of how people speak of faith in God when facing death. There’s some saying about religion and foxholes. Calvert can’t recall, doesn’t know what a foxhole is, but he doubts it has to do with foxes. Myelin.

  He follows the sp
otlight of sun from the window to where it now shines on half of Rosa’s face. It’s logical for people seek the comfort of belief in troubled times, he reasons. But what if it works differently? What if faith is a magnet for hardship? Could thinking fatalistically and romanticizing the afterlife encourage tragedy?

  Consuela repeats her question, “Do you have time to stay with Rosa?”

  “I would like that,” he says.

  Consuela’s mouth impersonates Rosa’s smile again. She gathers her things in her purse and leaves Calvert alone with the unconscious and completely vulnerable Rosa.

  Situational Ethics

  After Moe hangs up with the woman at Bug Off, she strolls out back of Text Block to look for Jerome. She’s noticed something: since her new title was foisted on her, she feels less competitive with Jerome, more like they are colleagues. As she knew he would be, he’s hunched on the little bench and staring at the toes of his beat shoes, smoking as always. “Hey, Jerry.”

  “Never call me Jerry. My father is Jerry. I’m Jerome,” his voice, even when irritated, rings pleasantly.

  He’s bothered and Moe enjoys it. She likes to think of herself as mischievous rather than malicious, but she also knows people who’d disagree. “Oh. Sorry. You said that before.” She stands back from the swirling cloud of smoke Jerome steeps in like carcinogenic tea.

  “Have I?” he asks with a wry twist at the corner of his mouth. He’s a shrewd observer, doesn’t miss much.

  “Sorry.” She means it this time. “I owe you. That connection in the professor’s English program was helpful. Very. The perfect source.” Moe smiles a bright smile.

  Jerome can’t decipher her subtext, but his expression reveals his suspicions. He sucks down the last of his cigarette and flicks the butt. It arcs into a patch of gravel and scrub.

  “I’m going to meet another source for this strangler angle I’m working. I’m supposed to meet him this afternoon. Can you read Loni’s story and post it if it’s ready? I won’t be back in time.”