by Dirk Greyson
“I never talked about things like that with Nana either. I don’t think I could have, though I talked with her about other things. At first I thought it made me a bad person, and then, of course, I learned in school that it was just part of the person I was, but I never told her. I’ve thought about why and never came up with a reason.”
“Maybe you just weren’t ready,” Jim offered. It was a simple answer and probably the best.
“Sometimes we want grand explanations for things, when the easiest and most logical is the best.”
“I wasn’t ready to tell Grandpa. He probably would have listened and supported me all the way, but I wasn’t ready to open up.” Jim watched him from across the table. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want, but you said your parents couldn’t handle you. What did that mean? Did you act out?”
Barty wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that question. “Well, no. My parents learned I was smart and wanted to give me everything, so they enrolled me in violin lessons, piano lessons, many things. I could read before I was four, so I was given all kinds of books and things like that. My brother and sister had normal toys, and I was given instruments, music, books…. The thing was, I wasn’t allowed to just spend time and play. As soon as they figured out I was special, then I had to be special as far as they were concerned.”
“I don’t understand. Why is that bad?” Jim watched him closely, and Barty felt self-conscious. Whenever he talked about himself like this, he always felt a little like he was on display. “Isn’t wanting a gifted child to be the best they can and have all the advantages so they can make the most of themselves a good thing?”
“It is. But Mom and Dad went overboard. There is too much of a good thing. See, I didn’t play with other children much growing up because I was always doing things they couldn’t.” Barty sat back. “We learn empathy and how to deal with other people through play. First we play alone, then we progress to playing side by side with other kids, and finally we play in groups. That’s the natural progression of things. I never got to do any of it, except some alone play when I wasn’t at lessons, and mostly it was with my books and things. I didn’t understand how to be with other kids, so I never even got the basics. When I went to school for the first time, I remember standing in one of the corners just watching the other kids. They would talk to each other and play together, and I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified and didn’t understand. There was a teacher’s aide, I think, a black woman, who came over to me and asked me if I wanted to play with the blocks. I was four years old and didn’t know what to do with them. I clearly remember sitting down in front of them, staring at the pile, completely lost.”
“My God,” Jim said.
“Exactly. Eventually I learned to make towers and stuff, but there was never any joy in it, just stress and things I was supposed to remember. After a few years, Mom and Dad didn’t know what to do, and Nana came and took me to live with her. I still didn’t understand other kids, but she tried to help me.” Barty had talked enough. He always felt like a freak of sorts. He was smart, and that set him apart from other people, but the whole play thing sort of bothered him. He remembered learning in class about how children developed and realizing how his own childhood was so stilted. Then he learned the consequences of that kind of deprivation, and it chilled him to the bone. He didn’t want to talk about that anymore. Barty turned his attention back to his salad. He ate rather quickly because if his mouth was full, then he couldn’t be expected to speak.
“I grew up just the opposite of you, I guess you could say. We had money, so I had the best of everything—a pony, toys, a pool, lessons, sports. My sister still rides and is very good. Both my brother and sister are smart. I told you what they did. I’m just an average guy. My parents are the kings and queens of denial. They’re very much about society and how things look to other people. Being gay isn’t on their list of things they want their son to be.”
Barty set down his fork. “Don’t they know that sexual orientation is a biological thing that is determined at birth? It’s part of who you are, just like the color of your eyes. We don’t get to choose that, no matter how much some of us may want to.”
Jim grinned. Barty liked how Jim looked when he did that. Jim was a big guy with rangy hair that seemed to go everywhere. But he had a handsome face with a slightly swoopy nose and intense brown eyes. His hair, not that Barty usually noticed such things, was a little long and bedheady. Sort of like Barty’s except Jim’s might have been intentional; Barty’s bedhead was because he forgot to do anything with his hair most of the time. Jim was gorgeous, at least Barty thought so, and he looked strong, with wide shoulders. He bet Jim worked out quite a bit.
“I think I’d pay money to hear you tell my mother that,” Jim said with a chuckle.
“Facts are facts, and disputing them is only another form of denial and self-delusion.” Barty continued eating.
“I’d pay for you to say that too.” Jim returned to his dinner and began laughing to himself. “This Sunday my sister is having a garden party to celebrate her promotion to department head. It would be awesome if you came.”
“Why would you want me there?” Barty asked. “I always do something to stand out in a bad way. The last party I went to was in college, and I ended up telling the president of the university that he needed to rethink his theories on student behavior and the rules he was making because, rather than changing the way the students who smoked behaved, they were simply finding ways around his rules. In the end the students continued doing exactly what they wanted in the first place and pissed off everyone who had to walk through the walls of smoke to get where they were going. I went on to say that if they thought things through more thoroughly, they might avoid such untenable decisions in the future.”
“Good God,” Jim said. “Do you always state what’s on your mind like that?”
“No. I try to do what’s socially acceptable, but it doesn’t work out because I don’t know all the rules. I end up embarrassing people so I just avoid situations like that.”
“What about friends? Don’t you get together with them?”
“I don’t have those kind of friends,” Barty said, and to his shock, Jim reached across the table and took his hand. It tingled where Jim touched him, and his first instinct was to pull away, but then he realized he liked it when Jim touched him. His hand was warm and firm, slightly rough, and strong.
“Well, you do now. I think you’re an interesting guy and I like you.” He squeezed his hand once and then released it. “And my sister always expects that invitees to her parties will bring a guest, so I’d like you to come. And I want you to be yourself and talk to anyone you like.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. It’s most definitely not. You said you didn’t know how to act around others, so the only way to learn is to be around others. So come to the party with me. If I know my sister, there will be enough incredible food to make the day worthwhile on that stand alone.” Jim returned to his dinner. As he finished the burger, his phone dinged. “I have to get back. There’s been another shooting.”
Barty jumped to his feet and was ready to go in seconds. “What about the check?”
Their server rushed over. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes. Detective Crawford. I have to go. Tell Janine that I’ll be in to pay the bill as soon as I can. She’ll understand.” Jim was already heading toward the door, and Barty ran behind him, heart pounding at the chance to see one of the crime scenes up close and personal. Outside, sirens sounded, and Jim raced toward them as fast as his feet would carry him. Barty stretched his long legs and did his best to keep up as the wails got louder and louder.
Chapter 3
ONE GOOD thing about New Cynwood was that nothing was ever too far away. “Where are we going?”
“West Laurel Hill Cemetery, by the sound of it. They weren’t specific in their message so I’m following the sirens at this point.” Jim grabbed his phone wh
en it rang. “Yeah?”
“The shooting is at the edge of the cemetery,” the dispatcher said.
“I’m already on my way on foot. Have someone pick us up.” He gave their location, and within seconds a car turned on the street and sped toward them. Jim flagged them down, and they got inside. “Let’s go.”
“Do you really think it’s another shooting?” Barty asked.
“If it is, then he’s escalating. Last time it was over ten days. So I don’t know, but we can’t take the chance,” Jim said as they sped toward the scene. When they arrived, Jim jumped out of the car and raced to where the ambulance and other cars were congregated. “What do we have?”
“Who is that?” one of the officers asked, looking at Barty, who took a step back.
“He’s with me, now answer my question.” He wasn’t in the mood for deflection.
“Looks like some kids decided that the cemetery was a good place for a gun fight.” The victim lay on the ground, clutching his arm, while ambulance personnel worked to try to get the bleeding under control. “He’s the shooter.”
“It was self-defense,” said a kid in clothes expensive enough to cost a month of Jim’s salary. “He challenged me, and I had to defend my honor.”
“Take him in and book him. Self-defense in a situation you willingly put yourself in? I don’t think so.” Jim took a deep breath and then leaned down to the young man on the ground. He turned away to roll his eyes, then turned back. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t think the gun was loaded.” The kid gritted his teeth in pain, and the EMT didn’t look a bit sorry about it. Not for a second.
Jim turned the case over to the sergeant in charge and stepped away. They were more than capable of handling this mess, and he didn’t need to be involved. “I’ll get a ride back to the station in a few minutes once the activity here dies down.”
“Does stuff like this happen often?” Barty asked.
“This is a new one. Maybe they thought the cemetery was Boston Common.” He meant it as a joke, but Barty was obviously interested in the young man.
“Do you think I can talk to them? I’d really like to know what they were thinking when they came up with a scheme like this.” He was clearly fascinated.
“They’ll lawyer up tight as soon as we get them back to the station. The lawyers aren’t going to let you talk to either of them in case you’re working with us. But you’re welcome to ask. They aren’t going to see a judge tonight, so the one will be in the hospital and his friend will be in jail. New Cynwood isn’t a town per se. We’re part of Lower Merion Township. We have a police station here because the residents demand it, but these two will have to go to the county courthouse to be arraigned, so he’ll be processed there and get to be a guest of the county.”
“Oh.”
“Like I said, we can ask and see if they’ll talk to you.” That made Barty happier, and Jim wondered why that was suddenly important to him. Yeah, he’d said that he wanted to be Barty’s friend, but there was something more. Granted, he had no intention of going further than friendship, but still, his need to please Barty was a little baffling.
“So this doesn’t have anything to do with the other shootings?”
“It doesn’t seem to.” Jim was relieved. They needed some time to try to figure out how they were going to catch this shooter. The possible courses of action they were putting into place might yield results, but then again, they might not. “Here’s our ride,” Jim explained when Tag, one of the officers, caught his attention, lifting the bags they’d left in the other car. They left the scene to the others and took the ride back to the station. “How is the freeway, Tag?” Jim asked as they rode. He hadn’t wanted Barty sitting in the backseat alone. It could be intimidating knowing that was where suspects were transported.
“The Surekill is backed up for miles. There’s an accident just outside of downtown that has traffic snarled in both directions, and then there’s one just a mile up going north. So everything is tied in knots and will be for hours.” The Schuylkill was notorious for accidents and had been nicknamed the Surekill because of the number of fatalities.
Barty groaned softly.
“Don’t worry,” Jim said.
“I hate that road,” Barty said. “It always makes me nervous and jittery.” His hand was shaking just talking about it.
“How do you get to work?” Tag asked from the front seat in a smooth, rich voice.
“Mostly I bicycle when I can. I hate driving but do it when I must.” Barty’s right leg bounced up and down with more energy as the seconds ticked by. “I came in so early this morning to try to avoid the traffic, but I knew I’d have to drive home in it.” He held his bag in front of him with his arms clasped around it like a shield.
“Really?” Tag asked like he’d never heard of such a thing before. Thankfully they reached the station a few minutes later, and Jim got out, motioning Barty inside. He didn’t lower his bag.
“It’s okay about the driving thing. I’ve taken courses in high-speed chases and ultimate driver control, and I hate the Surekill with a passion.” He checked at the desk and found the backup wasn’t going anywhere. Both accidents involved fatalities, so the freeway was going to be jammed well into the night.
“I’ll find an alternate way home,” Barty said.
“I have an hour or so of work, and then you can stay with me and go home tomorrow if you need to.”
The surprise on Barty’s face was priceless. “But I don’t have anything with me, and Penelope is at home alone.” He sounded really stressed.
“Who’s Penelope?”
“My cat. I always leave her extra food and water, but….” The way he worried about the cat was most definitely endearing. “I don’t like her to be alone.”
“All right. Let me get my work done and you can come to the house for a few hours. By then the accidents should be cleared and traffic can move once again.”
This was the strangest day in his entire career. Jim walked to the conference room and let Barty use it while he went to his desk to see if any additional information had come in.
After reviewing his e-mail, Jim made his way back to the conference room. “Barty, there was water inside two of the shell casings.” He’d printed the report and showed it to Barty. “That means that those casings had to have been up there long enough for it to have rained or for water to condense into them. So your theory holds water, so to speak.” He handed him the report and grinned. At least they were making progress on something.
“So….”
“That means the casings are being placed in advance, so if we can locate them, then maybe we can catch this guy in the act before he kills again.”
Jim phoned the captain to tell him what they’d confirmed, and Captain Westin said that he’d contacted some buddies who were going to make a pass over the area in a helicopter to take aerial photographs. He wasn’t sure how much that would help or if they could get enough detail, but it was worth a try, and he was willing to try just about anything at this point.
“My next step is the military. I have contacts, and I’ll see if we can get satellite images, but looking for a single shell on the roof of a building is going to be like finding a needle in a mile-high haystack.”
“I agree,” Jim said, but he wasn’t sure what other options there were. It wasn’t like they could invisibly watch every rooftop in the area. There had to be something they could do, but no ideas were coming. He hung up. “I think I’m ready to go. I got an update, and the officers are running down chess clubs and MENSA. They expect to have something tomorrow, so we can leave for the night.”
Barty closed his laptop and packed up. Jim made sure all of the case files were organized and gathered them to be filed. Then he locked the conference room behind them and led Barty out. Jim went to his car and waited for Barty, then drove slowly home and pulled into the drive with Barty right behind him.
“Is this where you live?�
�
“It was my grandfather’s,” Jim said, heading up the walk and inside, deactivating the alarm at the front door. He didn’t normally come in this way, but he figured he could give Barty the full effect of the house, with the grand hall, staircase, and huge chandelier that crowned the space. “He left it to me when he died. Grandma passed a decade earlier, and he lived here alone. Come on in. We’ll go to the family room—it’s much more comfortable and less stuffy.”
Jim motioned him through and turned on lights as they went. In the family room, he handed Barty the television remote and got some water from the refrigerator, along with some fruit and crackers to make up for their interrupted dinner.
“Make yourself comfortable. The furniture is fine to put your feet up on.” Jim sighed as he sat. “I bought this stuff to be lived on, unlike the rest of the house, which is more museum than home.”
“Your family has a lot of money,” Barty said, looking around with an open mouth. Even this room was impressive, with high ceilings, detailed moldings, tons of woodwork, and floors that shone.
“Yes. My grandpa inherited money and had the golden touch. He made it by the ton and passed it on to my dad and us three kids. But when he died, he specifically left me the house because he hoped I’d take care of it and pass it on. It was designed by a famous architect in the twenties, and Grandpa loved the place, especially since he and Grandma collected most of the things that are inside.” He closed his eyes and tried to relax. This case had him constantly wound up. “Watch whatever you’d like.”
Barty shrugged. “I don’t watch much television. So I really don’t know what’s on.”
Jim flipped through the channels until he found a Big Bang Theory rerun. “Have you seen this?”
Barty shrugged.
“You kind of remind me of Sheldon, except he’s way more annoying.” He sat back, and Barty watched the show, laughing at the antics.
“I’m not like him at all,” he said once the show was over. “He’s really annoying, and I try not to be. Though I can be a little inflexible, I suppose, but that guy is a pain in the ass.”
