by David Levien
A sense of clarity returned as Behr managed to control his breathing. Quiet confidence throbbed from a distant, nameless place deep within him. He’d find this son of a bitch Rooster and he would discover his relationship to the rest, and he’d find the next piece of information after that, and so on until Jamie Gabriel’s fate had been laid to rest. Behr would get to the end of it. He knew it once again. It was all he had, but he felt rich for a moment knowing it. Then his telephone rang.
“Yeah?” he said, looking at his watch, noting it was late, too late for a call.
“Hello? Oh, jeez, hi. Is this Frank?” It was a woman. He recognized her voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Sue. Susan Durant.” Silence hung on the line. Behr grabbed her name just as she added, “From the Star.“ It was the woman from the circulation department who’d helped him a while back.
“Yeah, sure, how’re you?”
“I’m fine. I’m feeling silly now, though. Thought I was reaching your office. I was just gonna leave a message.”
“I work out of the house. What’s the message?”
“To call me. We were supposed to get together. You think I’m letting you slide on that dinner?” The shyness was gone now, and the snap he’d appreciated the first time he spoke to her was back.
“What’re you doing up?”
“Watching television.”
“What?”
“ER reruns. They show ‘em back to back. And nerving up to call you. A few hours slid by. Then it got to be, you know, ridiculous. And just ‘cause it was late, I couldn’t just go to bed without doing it.”
Behr found himself smiling. “Uh-huh.”
“You were gonna call me. You could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
“I see that.” There was a moment of quiet on the line as Behr nerved up himself. “So what nights are you free?”
They went ahead and made their plans: Dono-hue’s next week. He could take her somewhere fancier, but it’d be better to see how it went at a regular place.
Before they hung up she asked, “Any luck on that case?”
“Some, Sue,” he found himself answering, “maybe some.”
Rooster sat in a Denny’s on Kentucky eating a Grand Slam that had devolved into him just pounding coffee. He thought the greasy food might calm him, soothe his churning gut, but in the end he couldn’t eat that shit. He put in too much time in the gym to waste it on fried eggs and hash browns. Truth was, his appetite was gone anyway after what he’d done. He wasn’t proud of himself. No, sir. He knew he had to dump his car, that he should’ve done it already instead of leaving it in the parking lot like a lighthouse beacon. But he felt a fatigue in his limbs that was outsized to the physical effort he’d just put forth. He considered whether the cop would live and whether he should send her something by way of apology if she did. There’d been a moment there, damned if he could explain it, after he’d beaten her. He should’ve jumped in the car and hauled ass, but he stopped and stood over her instead. It wasn’t with pride, no way. He had the strongest urge to lean down and kiss her, and to wipe the blood from her broken face. Of course he couldn’t. Of course not. He finally had jumped in the car and hauled ass. Now he hardly recognized himself. He looked at his arms and counted the scars up and down them, poorly healed cuts from this most recent and other incidents. Fuck it, they were the scars of war.
He continued on and drank coffee for what felt like hours, and eventually the glass panels of the windows in front of him lit up in a strobe of red and blue lights. Four patrol cars slid into the parking lot, two circled around back, with lights but no sirens. He sat and finished his coffee. Even as the first two teams of uniforms hit the front door of the restaurant, Rooster just sat, letting the pulsing lights wash over him. It was almost soothing.
TWENTY-THREE
STAY WITH IT, Behr urged himself early Friday morning as he humped up Saddle Hill, a road-salt-and-book-filled pack on his back, for his first rep. The middle of his week had consisted of further attempts to chase down Rooster’s real name, an address, or known associates. He’d come up empty as a bucket from a dead well. He’d put the question out to friends and acquaintances all over town and wondered which of them might come through with something. He’d toted Paul along for several hours over several evenings, and they’d gone through the bars in Hawthorne, where parolees and future cons drank, and the West District, where it was only safe for them because he used to patrol there, but even so, he didn’t linger for long. Nothing had come back to him, and the only conclusion Behr ended up with was that this Rooster kept to himself. He was on the verge of begging out of taking Paul along after the first few nights, feeling uncomfortable about having his employer watch him fail so consistently. Then, when he’d been dropping him off, Paul turned to him and thanked him. He’d said, “I appreciate how hard you’re trying, Frank. I know you’re doing everything you can. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The acknowledgment meant more to him than he would care to admit. He realized that he didn’t mind having Paul along with him. Beyond that, he liked it sometimes. Even when they weren’t talking, just having another body along for the ride tempered the isolation of the job. He also realized that though in the beginning finding the boy was his sole motivation, after these weeks with this staunch father, Behr knew he was doing it as much for Paul, so that he should at least know some peace.
Stay with it, Behr urged himself again on his second and third trips up the hill. For some men it was the stock market or the box scores, for others the racing form, some even found it with the weather channel, but most men, Behr thought on his way back down, engaged in the habitual consumption of some form of information. They weighed this data and considered the ramifications of it in quiet, almost Talmudic study. The result was a mastery of certain facts and sometimes a glimpse at an order, or an understanding of the larger world beyond the numbers. Behr’s vice wasn’t rotisserie league sports but rather the weekly arrest reports, the rundown on all police apprehensions that had been made, their locations, and the pertinent details. He used to read the sheets on a daily basis when he was on the force, compiling his own knowledge and sense of the city, like an instinctual human crime-tracking computer. Now the daily approach was impractical and there was little point to it, but he hadn’t been able to give it up altogether. He had a buddy, a young cop named Mike Carriero, who fired him a once-a-week fax through which he sifted like a medium. He still felt connected to the dark web of crime in the city when he did, as he considered the potential relationship between car thefts on the north side, drunk-driving stops on I-74, and domestic disturbances down in the mobile home parks by Stringtown. Over the course of working on the Gabriel case, however, nothing he’d seen on the reports seemed to hold any kind of correlation. Besides Ford’s killing, only the body in the park, which had quickly proved to hold no connection, and the recent beating of a female cop, had even proved newsworthy.
Stay with it, he urged himself on trips four and five up the hill. Now he referred solely to the run. Thoughts of the case momentarily dropped away as his lungs burned and his legs sizzled and he fought for the will to continue. No matter how many years he trained and to what degree of shape he banged himself into, this question never went away: Will I continue? He fought against it anew each time he worked out. As he crested the hill on his sixth trip up, he stopped. Not because the answer to his question was no this time, but because Terry Cottrell stood there waiting for him. Behr gave him a nod and proceeded to double over and suck wind for a minute. He stood up when he was able, a question on his face.
“I got something last night, Big,” Terry said without much crackle in his eyes or voice, which wasn’t a surprise considering that Behr had given him a few hints about the case he was working. “Had to give it to you straight, baby. Face-to-face.”
“You know to find me over at Donohue’s.” “Not a friendly joint for me to wander into by myself.”
“Come on, Terry, it’s fine and you’re not s
hy.” “Whatever, bro. Anyway, I might could’ve got a last name on the dude with the Rooster tag and that’s Mintz,” Terry said. Something about the name felt awfully familiar to Behr. “And I don’t know where he is, but I found out what he does.” Cottrell stopped talking, not the type to pause for effect, seemingly unable to say the rest.
Behr stood there sweating, his heart pounding. “Fucking tell me, Terry. Don’t make me beat it out of you.”
Cottrell’s face grew more serious. “Dude’s a handler. They also known as ‘breakers.’ “ His words caused Behr’s sweat to go cold. “I’m sorry, man.”
Behr was already unclipping his pack belt and shucking the shoulder straps. The thud of the heavy pack hitting the ground covered his “Thanks.” He was already sprinting for home. He knew where he’d seen the name.
“You have to take the day off,” Behr told him when he called at 7:15 A.M. “The morning at least, if I can get things set by then. You’re coming along with me.” Paul could practically hear Behr’s mind churning through the phone.
“Okay,” Paul said, mentally noting the appointments he needed to reschedule or cancel.
“And wear what you usually wear when we’re riding. Don’t suit up on me.”
“All right. Where are we headed?” Behr didn’t answer for a moment. Paul could hear him breathing, low and measured.
“Marion County Jail.” Behr hung up.
Paul hadn’t expected that answer, just as he hadn’t expected to ever visit County. He stood in front of his house dressed in navy chino pants, hiking shoes, sweater, and windbreaker. He didn’t know what was coming, only that it was unusual and important. That much was clear from Behr’s tone. He guessed that whomever they were going to see in lockup knew something about Jamie, and he tried to keep his hope in check. It was surprisingly easy to do now that he’d seen what was behind his worst fears in the middle of the night. The reality there leered at him from the darkness. It stripped the meat off the bones of his expectations and had sucked the marrow from all he’d planned in life.
Behr rolled up and he got in. The inside of the car was brisk, the leather seat stiff and cold beneath him. Behr’s hair was still wet even though his place was a good half-hour drive away. He wore jeans, work boots, and a thermal shirt that was stretched tight over his forearms. Paul stayed quiet during the ride. Behr was far away; there was no one really to talk to. Finally, Behr turned toward him and said, “Rooster’s real name is Garth Mintz.”
“This is about Rooster?” Paul asked, anticipation flooding his chest.
“Yeah, it is,” Behr said. Paul puzzled over the ramifications of this news. They covered a few miles and were in the heart of downtown before he spoke again.
“What’s the deal with him?” he asked.
Behr’s hands clenched the steering wheel and his eyes didn’t leave the road. “In child trafficking docility is at a premium. For obvious reasons. Drugs are often used. But over the long term they cause sickness, you know …” Behr said, his tone strangely academic. “One method is to send in an adult who’ll … commit … acts … until there’s very little will or resistance left. They’re called ‘breakers.’ That’s what Rooster does.”
Paul felt he’d had a railroad spike nailed through his chest and into the car seat.
“But we don’t know if he ever met Jamie?” Paul heard the meek, horrible plea in his own voice.
“No, we don’t.”
Sights and sounds became muted and washy as they drove down Alabama past the blond-stone jailhouse. They circled on one-way streets around the fortresslike building for a little while — Paul lost track of how long — and they eventually found a spot and parked. Paul wondered if he was in some kind of shock, or if he was actually more acutely focused on the reality at hand than usual and this was what extreme clarity felt like.
They entered the building through the service entrance on Delaware, held open by a man in a custodial uniform, and a strong smell, foreign and unpleasant, hit Paul with force. He followed Behr, their shoes squeaking softly on polished linoleum. They passed through a door into an employee area, Behr entering without pause. Behr shook hands and then shared a back-patting hug with an older gentleman who had brilliantine-slicked steel-gray hair and emanated an odor of tobacco. He wore a brown sheriff’s uniform with a name tag that read SILVA. Behr and Silva stepped away from him a few feet and had a short, quiet conversation.
“Couldn’t believe it when you called, Frank,” Silva said, his voice rough with past nicotine. “The guy’s in here suspected of beating on that female officer. There’s videotape. You know how many requests I’ve been getting for alone time with him?”
“Every single County employee?” Behr asked back.
“You know it. I could be in Florida golfing and fishing on odd days with the gratuities I’ve been offered.” Silva allowed himself a moment’s departure at the image.
“Why am I so lucky?”
“I let a cop in the room with him, that cop can call it a career. State of civil liberties these days.” Silva let out a snort of disgust. “But with you …” He trailed off.
“With me, what?” Behr asked, suddenly on edge. “What do I have to lose?”
“It’s not that way, Frank. I’d be costing someone his badge if I let ‘em in there. I couldn’t live good with that. Besides, I don’t want to get well off of the situation. And then you called. I can give you five minutes.”
Behr nodded. “Been a long time coming.”
Silva nodded, too. “Been a real long time. Coming to even.”
“Yep. That’s where we’re at.”
Behr rejoined Paul, Silva didn’t speak another word, and they were led through a pair of mantrap doors and into a cinder-block interview room.
“We only have five minutes,” Behr muttered low as the door was unlocked. The hurry in Behr’s voice made Paul feel unready. He wondered exactly what kind of monster would come walking through the door. It didn’t take long to get his answer. The door was swung open by a guard and a red-haired man dressed in a faded County jumpsuit, rubber shower thongs on his feet, and listening to a CD Walkman, sauntered in. The guard removed handcuffs and the door closed behind him, leaving only the three of them in the room.
He’s small was Paul’s first impression. Muscled up, his second. That was all there was time for, as Behr was up out of his chair. He cuffed the man in the head, hard, slapping his headphones off.
“Hey,” the man protested. “Who the fuck’re you—”
“Shut up,” Behr grunted, and grabbed at him.
The CD player, knocked loose, clattered to the floor and got kicked into a corner. Behr wrapped the headphone cord around the smaller man’s neck and choked him, snapping the wires and leaving red and white stripes across his throat. Behr threw the broken headphones aside and pushed Garth “Rooster” Mintz into a chair. The man rubbed his throat and wiped away the water that had come to his bulging eyes.
“You know why we’re here?” Behr began, anthracite hardness in his voice that Paul hadn’t heard before, not just from Behr but also from anyone else.
Mintz kept rubbing his throat and shook his head. “That cop thing?”
“Not the cop.” Behr slid a picture of Jamie across the desk toward Mintz, who didn’t even acknowledge it.
“Look at it,” Behr ordered. Mintz only held his gaze for a moment before tilting his glance down over the photo. Then he looked back up at them, his face betraying no signs of recognition.
“Okay, I scoped it.”
“Have you seen this kid?” Behr demanded.
“I don’t know.” The answer wasn’t taunting; if anything, it was respectful. For Paul’s money the guy actually didn’t know.
“You’re gonna come across, you son of a bitch,” Behr breathed close into the man’s face, causing him to blink twice.
“What do you want me to say? Cute kid.”
Behr stuffed Mintz into the chair back, moved around behind him, and pinned his arms
. He looked to Paul.
“Give him one.”
Paul’s scrotum tightened and his bladder threatened to release. He knew what Behr was asking but couldn’t believe it.
“Hold up. Are we sure he even knew Jamie?” The situation felt all wrong to Paul, like he was on some insane quest and Behr had roped him into meting out punishment on a guy who’d hurt a cop and had nothing to do with him.
Then Paul flashed on his one fight, the only time he had hit a man in anger. It was back in college. Senior year. He and his friends were juiced up on pitchers of Milwaukee’s Best. They were at the Spaghetti Bender off Washtenaw, a place Carol liked to go just after they’d started dating. A guy from the football fraternity had touched Carol’s hair as he walked toward the men’s room. The guy ran his hand down her blond ponytail before continuing on his way. It was a proprietary gesture that caused Paul to go white-hot with anger. Despite his size, the guy never made it to the john. Paul clocked him in the side of the jaw and followed him, swinging, as he went down. He landed two or three more clean punches, then he was pulled off by the guy’s friends and his own. They all scraped and tussled before being thrown out by bouncers and braced by the local authorities. His friends started calling him “Clubber,” after Mr. T’s character in one of the Rocky movies, and Paul had felt guilty for what he’d done for a long time.
Behr’s words cut through his thoughts.
