The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “We agreed I wasn’t going to come in yesterday, and even then I’d had intentions to poke my head in.” She’d had intentions that had never come to pass. She couldn’t have anticipated the fever that knocked her sideways or the warm droplets of crimson red leaking from her nose. The previous evening she’d been unable to do more than lay in bed, alone, drenched in her sweat, enslaved by her running mind. The previous evening, she’d let her fingers run over the report that still sat on her unmade comforter. She had to do something. It wasn’t going to go away on its own. If indeed it was going to go away.

  She hadn’t made the call to the hospital the previous evening, but the following morning, she’d scheduled an appointment online to meet with a specialist. To take the first step in getting better, at least that’s what their website had claimed she’d been doing by calling in.

  “Lawrence’s death is hitting you pretty rough, huh?” He pushed himself upright. Crossing the threshold into her office, he sunk into the chair opposite her desk.

  “Considering Terrence had a part to play in it, yeah, that’s about right.” Carter jerked forward, just slightly in his seat, eyes broad.

  “Your old man killed Lawrence?” She shook her head, no. She hoped not, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t had a part to play. Why else would he have tampered with the security facilities of Gresham Square? Then again, why had he fired Lawrence mere hours before the murder? She didn’t believe her father had killed his colleague, she didn’t believe Terrence was capable, but she sure as hell believed he’d known about the murder that was going to take place. She could believe her father was an accomplice to a murder; she really was the daughter of the year.

  The previous evening, she’d gotten the email from the detective while on the train to 145th Street. But she hadn’t had it in her to run through the content. She was yet to bring herself to look into Terrence Gresham’s murder charges in 2009. And she couldn’t say she understood why she was so... hesitant.

  “I don’t know, but there are apparently two witnesses who’d caught him tampering with the company’s security facilities.” She returned her attention to her computer. Before her, the screen displayed links and links relating to the Sustainable Funds Conference. But there was little information about the outcome of the gathering. A single website had mentioned an array of losses encountered by the investors who’d attended the conference and acted on the information provided during the event. Had that been all Terrence couldn’t bring himself to tell her? Was there more the internet refused to document? She needed to talk to someone, an investor, a witness.

  From the corner of her eye, she’d seen Carter lean backward in his seat. She turned to him, completely this time. He was bothered, she could tell from the slight knit in his brows. “What aren’t you telling me, Carter?” But he’d merely shrugged.

  “Grace has been worried sick about you. I spoke to her yesterday. She mentioned that you once more ignored her calls.” She turned away, rueful. “You know she’s going through a difficult pregnancy don’t make it worse by giving her a reason to worry.” He beckoned. She nodded. Grace didn’t deserve what Christina had been putting her through. And Christina didn’t have it in her to deliberate much on the matter.

  “What’s going on with you, Carter?” She drew the topic back to him. He gave mirthless laugh.

  “I started drinking again.” Her shoulders fell. He shrugged, a bare smile decorating his face, he’d let his eyes evaluate her office; a small room occupying the left-wing of the second floor with full-length windows giving views in the general direction of the traffic that often gathered at W 134th Street. “Don’t give me that look.” Her head tilted.

  “What look?” She asked incredulously.

  “That judgmental look, I won’t take it.” The recovering alcoholic was quickly on his feet.

  “Carter, stop.” She called firmly. He wanted to be away from her, from the disapproving words she had for him. But he would listen because as bitter as those words were, they were well indented. “Sit, because we are going to talk about this.” She jabbed a finger in the general direction of where he was sitting before. Reluctantly, he returned. “What triggered it?” She leaned forward in her desk, giving him her complete attention.

  He huffed, mumbled the words triggered, almost as if he’d been agitated by her use of it. “Nothing, I just picked up a bottle of Jonnie Walkers finest and I couldn’t bring myself to stop.” She wasn’t satisfied. There was something more and she’d remained silent, waiting for him to decide on his own to share that with her. “I swear that’s all that happened!” He rose his hands, palms to her.

  “Carter you know damn well I’m not satisfied with that. But because you’re not ready to tell me, I won’t push it.” She continued clicking the links on her computer screen. She’d been looking for a name or even the contact information of at least one investor who’d been involved with the Sustainable Funds Conference. If the worst came to the worst, she would have to burden Detective Harrington to poke through police files for a report made with regards to the conference. Because if these people had been dissatisfied, they would have reached out to the authorities to take action against the enterprise, at least that was what she thought.

  “Fine, there’s more,” Carter whispered. “I was upset. With the case Cohen had me sit point on. It was Garvin Peter’s v Manhattan. He’d been appealing to overturn his death sentence. He’d murdered his brother upon being provoked. And I knew that wasn’t much of a defense for him, but I’d let him believe that it was. And he was executed on Thursday. I guess I felt like a loser and I... The bottle was just sitting there. So one shot after another and I couldn’t bring myself to stop. On Friday, the hang-over sucked straight balls, so I took more to ebb the feeling, and that’s how it’s been since.”

  “And right now?” He remained silent. “Do you still have your flask on you?”

  He rubbed his temples, saying; “Christina you don’t need to do this.”

  “Give it,” She gestured with her fingers for him to bring it out from whatever pocket he’d shoved it into. He did, pulling it out from his inner blazer pocket. The moment he’d placed it on her hands she’d opened it and taken a long drag from the cool liquid. She didn’t condone his decision to delve back into drinking. But she’d known what it was like to lose a client. It stuck with her and she could only imagine what Carter was going through knowing he could have changed the game with a better line of argument.

  “Don’t beat yourself up...” She’d whispered. “You’re a smart man, Carter. You’re not going to get dependent on this.” She held out the flask. “You’re in pain, you’re hurt. And this isn’t going to provide a permanent solution to your problems. I want you to know that.” Her eyes squeezed shut. Her mind was in a hurricane. And with the fast winds, she saw that translucent bag, the one Uniform had clutched in his hand. She saw Terrence in that petite interrogation room and she saw the report that she’d tossed from her bed onto the floor that very morning. Her throat clustered, her stomach churned, and she wasn’t sure, but she’d felt a warm liquid roll down her cheek.

  “Christina?” Carter called.

  “I have cancer, Carter.” She croaked. “I’m dying.”

  Barron had been at 28th Precinct at his office. However, he hadn’t been alone. No, he’d been in a conversation with criminalist Robert Slater as well as medical examiner Jane Cornwell. Both had been seated across from the detective, and although Jane Cornwell had seemed eager to kick off the meeting, Slater seemed almost... uninterested; distracted by the phone between his fingers. “You’re not going to like what I found, Harrington,” Jane said. She had this sing-song voice, loud and melodious. The detective tore his gaze from his computer screen where he’d been idly skimming through the Manhattan v Terrence Gresham case. And for a splinter of a second, he’d entertained the fleeting wonder whether Christina had taken her time to run through the case. He assumed she ought to. He’d sent it over as soon as he could the previou
s evening, and not too long after, he’d delved into it, lingering behind at his desk long into the night, tossed by the facts of the dismissed case.

  With furrowed brows and a clenched jaw, Harrington focused on the beach-blonde medical examiner. He’d worked with her, Jane, on many cases. So he knew whatever she’d found in regards to his father, she would give it to him straight.

  “I already don’t like the situation, Cornwell.” Barron lamented. Though as he sat there amid his co-workers he was almost concerned about what they’d thought of him. Had they perceived him as the son who couldn’t seem to shed a tear on behalf of his father? He hoped not. His steely exterior was nothing but a mere front. He’d spoken little and reacted less with regards to his father, but he’d had a reason. In a way, he felt obligated to avenge his father’s murder almost as an apology for not being there all those years ago. His countenance was way not to get booted from Lawrence Harrington’s case.

  “No one likes it.” Jane established, reaching a hand to push the file she’d brought along further onto Harrington’s table. He reached for it. Mapping his fingers over the callous surface, pausing over the words Lawrence Harrington. “Those are reports from the autopsy I was able to conduct.” She gestured for him to flip the page. He’d been caught off guard. How else would he explain the wave of nausea and hysteria that clogged his throat upon glancing at the picture that occupied the first page?

  Harrington blinked, once, twice. The image of his father had been burned to his brain. Jane Cornwell probably saw nothing but a bullet wound between the forehead and eyes of the victim in the close up high-definition image. But Barron saw the man around it. He saw his father with cold milky pools for eyes, skin as pale as snow with bloated blue veins snaking to the surface. “His cause of death had indeed been a gun-shot-wound to the head; point-blank, but there’d been signs of a struggle ante-mortem.” He was tempted to shut the file, push it back to her, and request an email summary of the content. But he knew it was better this way. So, he’d gulped a breath, blinked back the tears that dawdled in his eyes, and flipped the page once more.

  He didn’t know if he’d expected to see words, lots of them, or if he’d been prepared for an even worse image of Lawrence on that frigid examination table. The second image had been of the neck of the deceased. It had been faint but under the concentrated lights of the morgue, he hadn’t been able to miss the handprint burned into victims’ neck. This had been a premeditated attack on Lawrence.

  He wasn’t sad, or maybe he still was. But as he’d sat there, he acknowledged the slow-burning simmer of anger. He swallowed with much difficulty. “And we can’t trace these?” He’d been looking to Slater.

  “I already have my apprentices down at the forensics lab working on it.” Robert Slater pitched in sitting up in his armchair. “But if I may divert the topic, detective, concerning the, umm..., cameras acquired from the scene...” Slater trailed off. Detective Harrington had never been more thankful for a distraction. He would go through Cornwell’s report another time. He wasn’t physically up for it yet.

  “What exactly did you find?” Barron urged. “And why don’t you have a written report of your findings?”

  “I was in the process of collecting…”

  “I want a documented report of your findings before the end of the day, Slater. You’ve got to follow protocol!” Harrington snapped. “What did you find?”

  Robert Slater cleared his throat. “Those cameras were indeed in need of replacement.” The middle aged Slater rolled his shoulders and said; “They were fixed lens wide-angled cameras. Meaning, whenever these cameras were to pan out, their detail capture would deteriorate quite quickly.” Slater explained. “Upon umm..., realizing this, I reached out to officers Mark Edward Marsh and Ruth O’Flynn to look into the company’s call logs. They were granted a warrant this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from them whether Mr. Gresham had indeed placed an order to replace the defective CCTV.”

  Detective Harrington nodded, placing the autopsy report that still sat in his hands onto the table. “Get them to look for an order made for a desk.”

  “Know the make?” Slater rested his hand against the table.

  “Can’t recall, but Edward Marsh should have an idea. He’d been eyeing it at the scene. Just get him to look into it.” Barron rose to his feet. “And Slater, I’m still waiting on the transcript I asked you for the morning after our visit to Gresham Square. I shouldn’t have to wait this long to look through Lawrence’s messages.” Robert Slater nodded.

  “In that case, thanks for taking the time out to meet with me, Cornwell, Slater. Keep me informed over what we’ve discussed here.” He stepped around his table, reaching for his badge and gun.

  “Before we conclude this, Detective, I feel I must mention that the shell casing found at the scene didn’t belong to just any 9mm,” Detective Harrington’s head jerked in the direction of Slater. “After speaking with a weapon specialist, it turns out that the casing didn’t belong to a Glock 26 as we’d assumed. It belonged to 19, often carried by law enforcement.”

  Barron’s shoulders tensed. They weren’t dealing with a civilian like Terrence Gresham. Whoever had gone after Lawrence had a history on the police force. “Get everything you’ve just told me in a report.” Barron slid his gun into his weapon belt. “We might need to start looking for a new suspect.”

  “It’s no big deal, Carter.” Her fingers twitched. She’d been looking to Carter to say something. No, she didn’t need his pity. But she also couldn’t bear the rigid silence he’d sentenced her to. She’d gulped once more from the flask and passed it back to him, saying; “It’s hereditary. I’d learned after my brother passed away that our grandmother had it, leukemia. Terrence and Steve Gresham had managed to evade it; Michel Gresham hadn’t been that lucky and apparently, neither am I.” She’d whispered the last part, her voice, fractured.

  “Are you sure?” Three simple words, but she could feel the weight of the concern laced into them. She wished she weren’t sure, that maybe even after re-reading that damned medical report she’d misread the part that confirmed the presence of the cancer cells in her blood. She looked to Carter with hickory eyes swimming and nodded, this time unable to fight the stream that stained her cheeks. “Does... I mean have you told Grace?” Christina’s lips wobbled. She couldn’t. Not yet. It would get around to Terrence through Steve Gresham. She shook her head. They’d sat there across from one another in silence. All the while Christina had been waiting for that weight to be lifted off her shoulders from confessing something she’d kept inside. It was never lifted, if anything, it seemed heavier. Now carrying a weight that was all too real. “Is she at risk?” Christina’s stomach slumped. It had missed, Terrence and Steve Gresham. It had to have missed Grace as well.

  “I don’t know.” There was a knock at her office door. She gazed over Carter’s head. It was Cohen Wellington, part-owner of Wellington & Turner. She reached for a paper towel and wiped at her swollen reddened eyes. “What brings you to my office, Cohen?" She addressed the elderly man whose features had been scrunched up. He wasn’t pleased that much was clear.

  Light from the windows poured into the room, the lines of the blinds forming a pattern of shadows on her wall. She acknowledged this. She was waiting on the elderly man whose receding hairline had turned salt and brown pepper. Carter had taken the opportunity to slip out under his father’s nose, in a bid to give them both some privacy. At the door, both men had engaged in a whisper, one Cohen had concluded with a pat on his son’s back.

  "I should have a reason to check on one of my senior associates?" Cohen Wellington asked striding further into the room, hands shoved in his pockets. Christina shrugged. He wasn’t that tall a man neither was he all that intimidating, at least to Christina he wasn’t. But he’d had this air about him, as though he walked with pride heavy in his puffed chest.

  "It's funny, you only refer to me as a senior associate or partner when you need me to play that
role." Christina played along to Cohen's game. Cohen chuckled, a deep chesty laugh that reminded Christina of a cough.

  "Well, what can I say, you're a smart woman." He’d stopped by her table but did not attempt to take the seat across from her. He heaved a sigh. She’d not for a second torn her eyes from him as he bounced rather reluctantly on the balls of his feet. “There’s a meeting at my office. I wanted to get you personally.” She’d been confused, more so when he’d merely spun on his heels and begun out her office door. And despite not knowing what to primarily expect, she’d risen from her seat and paced behind the elderly Cohen Wellington.

  He’d lead her into the elevator that ran to the fourth floor of the building. “I’m not saying we don’t value your presence here at Wellington & Turner.”

  “What is it this time, Wellington?”

  “You’ve often grumbled about how little we value you at this firm.” He pointed out. Indeed she’d grumbled, but it hadn’t been for equal pay. No, what they paid her was fine. Her complaints had been against their decision of putting her point on a case that they knew would crumble. Her colleagues had shunned the case, and after a meeting, she’d been made to sit point on it. As anticipated it had gotten out of hand. Kim Brimmings hadn’t been satisfied with her sentence, and she’d taken her own life days later.