The Bullet Theory

by Sonya Jesus

  Ah. There it is.

  “Like, how do you even do that? Did it mean more to me than it did to him? How can he talk about moving on?”

  “He might be asking the same thing about you. Perhaps he thinks, how can she not want to move on with me? Do I not mean enough to her to try? Are we not able to transcend the challenges life throws at us? Did she only love me because of the baby? Would she rather I have died?”

  “No,” she replies quickly. “I love Kace. Despite this hate I feel, sometimes…” She rubs her forehead and reaches for her locket, drawing strength from it.

  I note down the mannerism in my notes.

  “I still love him. If Kace died, I don’t know how I would surpass it. He’s been there for me, even though I push him away. But I would be okay if I had died with my baby, or instead of my baby.”

  Love. As in the present. “You’re afraid of losing Kace, yet you want to pull your fiancé away?” The idea troubles her, so I leave her with that. “It’s just food for thought. People don’t automatically assume someone loves them. It’s hardwired into us, especially men, to need the affirmation.”

  “I don’t want to affirm anything to him.” She closes her eyes and says, “If I find the person who killed Tyler and make them pay, Kace is going to hate me. If he’s associated with me, I’ll drag his name through the mud. I don’t want to do that to him. I love him, I just can’t be with him after I murder the bastard.”

  “So, you don’t blame Kace for what happened to Tyler?”

  “We were both to blame for that, so no. I don’t single Kace out.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re not ready to live without him, and you do still have a ring on your finger. Perhaps you should explore your feelings before committing any rash decisions.” I glance at the time and squeeze in one last question. “I have one more before our time is up. Have you ever considered suicide since the event?”

  “Yes,” she admits sadly.

  “Have you attempted?”

  “No. I want to find the person who hurt my son first.”

  I get the lingering feeling, pushing her fiancé away is to shield him from the moment when that happens. A score of four for emotionally bound to loved ones, and a four for suicidal tendencies.

  “Our time is up, but I’d like to see you again next week. On Monday, if that’s okay?”

  She shrugs and gets up. “You’re in charge.”

  I nod curtly. “Can you ask Kace to come in? I’d like to make an appointment with him as well.” So I can find out more about her.

  “Sure. What we say here is private, right?”

  “Yes, I won’t tell him anything. But I do have some homework for you. First, finish the sticky reminders and keep logging the smiles.”

  She drops her hand to the table to grab her notes. “Anything else?”

  “Write a letter to Kace … a suicide note.”

  5

  Interviewing

  Eleanor Devero

  Kace stops at the drive-thru of the coffee joint and orders both of us black coffee. As we wait to move ahead in the crowded lane, we sit and busy ourselves with our own things. I stare out the window of the passenger side, squinting behind my dark glasses. The sun shines too bright for someone who prefers to sleep most of the day. Kace fiddles on his phone, checking the weather and his messages. Neither of us looks at each other.

  If I want to analyze the space between us and the alignments of our bodies, I’d easily come up with a preliminary conclusion on our status, but the first rule about reading body language is not to ask questions you don’t want answers to.

  I don’t want to address the fact we’re supposed to be over, not getting better. Nolan’s stupid idea to write a suicide note to Kace turned into lots of tears and me rushing into his arms for a hug.

  What the fuck did Nolan not understand about me trying to distance Kace? The sticky notes, the smiling, the imagining Kace reading my death note—they’re tearing through me and making me second-guess this whole finding the Bullet Man thing. I’ve gone from hating Kace to convincing myself the love I feel for him isn’t love, but fear of being completely alone—fear of what I’ll do in the solitude.

  It’s all bullshit.

  Putting things on paper solidifies my thoughts—it makes them real and turns them into evidence. Conspiracy to act is hard to prove, but evidence is rock-solid. Most of the smiles on my stupid log are because of Kace, and most of the sticky notes are of things that remind of Kace. In the letter, I pleaded with him not to blame himself because I loved him.

  So I ripped the numbered page out and shoved it between the couch cushions until I had a moment to burn it. I didn’t want him to see it, nor did I want to reread it and feel the need to cling to Kace, like my own damn life depends on him.

  “The app this person used was called ‘BlackBoard,’ used by college students and high school students mostly.” Kace draws me out of my mild panic attack and waits for the woman to take his order. The attack plan starts with interviewing the couriers to see what we can drum up from them.

  I swivel my head toward him and glance down at the application. “How many applications for this type of thing are there?”

  “For jobs? Thousands.”

  Instead of the grouchy woman, a young, peppy girl welcomes him and takes our order.

  I scroll through the phone. “For shady jobs mostly.” I click on one of the jobs, and obviously, it’s for prostitution. “Looking for a garage to store my car. Clean, no cobwebs, no security-protection preferred.” I crinkle my nose at Kace. “Security-protection?”

  “No pimps.”

  “This is gross.” I click on another one. No pictures are on these postings, just contact information. “Looking for a babysitter.”

  “Guy who prefers jailbait. A lot of high school girls get money from things like this.”

  “A lot of young girls probably get killed for things like this.” I hold my phone up in the air and wiggle it between us. “Why are these applications legal?”

  “Elle, this stuff is all over the newspaper, on job boards, social media—apps just make it easier to find.” He pulls forward to the window and hands his debit card over. “If it makes you feel better, they get shut down quick.”

  “It does.”

  The woman greets him and exchanges his card for our breakfast. He hands me a bag; the smell of melted butter hits my nostrils the second I open it. Once the woman gives him the receipt and the card back, he shuts the window and pulls out onto the street, heading in the direction of the precinct.

  “The precursor to this one was called ‘WhiteBoard’ and before that ‘DryErase.’ It’s a group of creators who do it, and they always register under different names. They comply when we ask, and within a week, it’s shut down. Then a new one pops up.”

  I hand him his plain donut. He has the same thing for breakfast every morning: a plain donut and a bagel with egg, ham, and cheese.

  “Wait!” I shout before he takes a bite.

  “Hell no! Don’t you mess my donut up by putting glue on it.” He switches it over to his left hand, out of my reach.

  “Glue is edible,” I counter, holding the yellow piece with the number sixty on it. “It’ll be the first time you eat glue-glazed donuts.”

  “Not even for that first, Elle.”

  “Fine.” I reach into the back and unwrap his bagel, plopping the sticky note between the top and the ham. “Sixty.” After my session with Nolan, I managed to get rid of a few more sticky reminders.

  He stops at a red light and presses a kiss to my temple.

  My heart stops again. With all these skipped beats, I should be dead by now.

  “Anyway, we haven’t figured out why the apps even comply with us, but I guess it’s to prove they aren’t involved or responsible for their users’ intents.”

  “They should be.”

  “No. I mean, how many people use social media to stalk and murder their victims?”

  I curl my
lip in his direction. “Only if you want to kill someone. Normal people don’t run around stalking people.”

  “Normal people don’t run around setting people on fire and pretending like they’re strapped with enough explosives to take down a city.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “What?”

  Shit. “The guy burned his son alive and shot him twenty-six times while he watched, all because he was jealous. Sorry, but I don’t feel bad for the dead, charred murderer. I do feel bad for the dad, though.”

  “For the murderer?”

  “For the man who has been suffering. Have you never thought about hurting the person who killed Tyler?”

  “Have you?” The condescending tone in his voice warns off the truth, sitting right at the tip of my tongue. He would never understand.

  “I’d like to land a few punches, yeah.”

  He cracks a smile. “You had me worried there, babe.”

  Yep. This will never end well. “So you were saying about the Internet?”

  “Right. The Internet isn’t to blame because it offers motive and opportunity. You can’t charge it with accessory to murder either.”

  We both harrumph at the thought, and I dig into my toast.

  “I guess you’ve got a point. It’s hard to keep up with things if they keep giving people opportunities like this.” I wash my mouthful down with coffee. “I feel like we’re outdated, and we were teens not that long ago.”

  He shrugs and smirks in my direction. “Working the corner is considered old-school.”

  “Are you calling me old?” I quip back, with a dangerous, steaming, hot cup of coffee in my hand, menacing him with a scalding crotch.

  He smiles wide. “Only you can turn anything into a weapon.” He bows his head toward the cup and continues to drive. “Dangerous woman.”

  The stretching of my facial muscles hurts again. Not literally, but it hurts my heart, so I swallow and shut off, nodding every once in a while when Kace says something funny. I can’t have Kace, and happiness, and vengeance.

  His phone, which is still on my lap, vibrates with a message from Frank, so I hold it up for him to see.

  “What does it say?” he asks.

  I unlock the phone and click on the notification. “Grover is driving me insane. Let’s switch partners. I take you, and Elle can have Grover.”

  I raise my brows at his smirk. “What’s so funny?”

  “Frank tracked down the courier who delivered the last bullet. He works at this motel after school.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “What age range are the couriers?”

  “Depends on the app used, but anywhere from sixteen to fifty. One of them was a father of five who needed to make extra cash for his son’s birthday.”

  Both of us fall silent again. Neither of us will ever have a birthday with our son.

  About twenty minutes later, we arrive at the motel. According to Frank, the kid’s shift starts at ten on Saturdays and ends at two. I’m not exactly sure what a young kid like this is doing working at a shit, run-down place like the Histon Bell, but I plan on asking.

  We shut the door and cross the broken-up asphalt of the parking lot toward the entrance.

  Kace stops right outside the door. “You ready?”

  “I’m out of practice,” I warn him. My mind is distracted.

  “Focus, and don’t worry. I’m here with you.”

  Until you figure out why I want to find the Bullet Man, I think as we enter the disgusting lobby.

  Behind Plexiglas, a scrawny teenager sits with a math book open on the desk and a notebook on the side. His overstuffed backpack is on the counter behind him, along with a packed lunch with the kid’s name on it. His clothes are perfectly ironed, which has me looking down at my dryer-ironed T-shirt and slim jeans.

  Someone obviously cares for this kid, so what is he doing sitting behind Plexiglas, in a place whose entrance carpet probably has more bodily fluids than the bathroom? I take a long whiff of the area; the stench of must, mildew, and bleach crawls up my nostrils and summons my breakfast from the pits of my stomach. One look at the cracked bathroom door, with what looks like bullet holes, tells me I’d be better off puking where I stand.

  Kace’s nose wrinkles in disgust before he knocks on the glass, startling the poor boy half to death. His mouth hangs agape as he clutches his pencil.

  “Are you Anthony?”

  The boy nods and bites on his bottom lip. “Yes.”

  Kace reaches into this pocket and pulls out his badge. Muscle by muscle, the kid loosens up and drops his pencil in the middle of the book before standing up. “Can I help you, Detective?”

  “How do you know he’s a detective?” I ask, to gauge a baseline reaction.

  The boy turns to me and says, “Officers who come in here are usually uniformed.” Anthony’s eyes flicker over to Kace with slanted brows, followed by a quick flinch of his lips. “Not many officers come in here unless we call them.”

  Anger and contempt. Something happened here.

  “Was a call made?” I take the lead.

  “No, ma’am.” He dips his head toward me, focusing on me instead of Kace as he speaks. “Not today, at least.”

  “Then why were you scared when we came in?” Kace flips the leather cap back over the metal emblem and drops it into his front pocket.

  Still focused on me, Anthony explains, “Because you never know what’s going to be waiting for you when you lift your head up.”

  My heart pangs inside my chest. The inflection of Anthony’s tone, a direct line to my heart. “What kind of things?”

  “Guns usually.”

  “Isn’t this bulletproof glass?” Kace wraps his knuckles on it.

  “No, sir. Just plastic made to look like it.”

  Kace smashes his lips together and surveys the area. “We’re here to ask you about an application you use. BlackBoard?”

  Only after the name hits the air does the kid look over at Kace with confusion contorting the center of his face. “What about it?”

  Anthony motions to the door for us to come inside.

  With a quick shake of his head, Kace wiggles his fingers, calling him out into the lobby. Never lock yourself in an unknown space, at least this I remember. On the teen’s way toward us, Anthony peeks over his shoulder at the desk before shutting the door.

  “How often do you use the app?” Kace widens the gap between us, aiming toward the interior. My eyes flicker between the interviewee and my partner, studying both, but nothing seems askew with Kace. Always relaxed when inside he’s on high alert. The kid, on the other hand, I’m not quite sure.

  “As often as I can.” Anthony hangs his hand on his neck and glances at me.

  Me again.

  “Someone’s got to help my mom out. My father skipped town on us; she can’t do everything by herself.”

  I tilt my head to glance at this boy. “How many jobs do you work part time?”

  “Here on Saturday mornings and Friday nights, at the diner off Hash and Maine on Saturday nights and Sundays.”

  “During the week?” I continue.

  “A couple hours at the arts and crafts store, pharmacy, and the movie theaters. Whenever they need some help. But a lot of my cash comes from the apps. They pay right away, and I can even go during my break.”

  Kace’s perusal had yielded nothing, and he casually ambles along the carpet’s edge to the glass door, aligning his body with mine. Protecting me. Not the appropriate time to flash some teeth, so my heart smiles instead. Warms my insides in places heat doesn’t belong.

  Kace catches me staring, the corners of his eyes angle at the slightest degree before he devotes his whole attention to Anthony. “How do the contractor’s pay the hired-service?”

  The kid winces at Kace’s tone, so I inconspicuously nudge Kace in his side, telling him to stop being so aggressive.

  Kace cuts his gaze at me, and it lingers on my
lips for a second too long, before he relents and swipes his fingers at me to continue for him.

  Rephrasing the question, I ask, “Why did you need the money so quickly?”

  “Mom only makes so much on tips. Her full-time job pays her twice a week, but there are six of us, and my mom’s job only provides for little things, like getting the girls some clothes or helping me pay for prom.” He chokes on his words and looks back over his shoulder again. “My sister watches the little kids after school. I help with money and mortgage payments.”

  “So the gigs pay you cash?”

  “Usually, through wire transfers at pay shops, or from an account balance you can load by buying gift cards. The money is only liberated once the delivery is checked.”

  “How is the delivery checked?”

  “It depends. Some people okay it, others require a snapped photo. Some, the recipient has to sign a paper.”

  Kace interferes again, “You delivered a small packet to an older man the other day.”

  “I’ve delivered about twenty packages in the last week. What did he look like?”

  “He had a tattoo on his neck. The name of a woman right here,” Kace demonstrates the location by swiping his hand horizontally at his Adam’s apple.

  “Yeah,” the kid says hesitantly. “How did you know it was me?”

  “CCTV cameras caught you exiting his house and heading down the road to a pharmacy.”

  “It was before my shift there. Why?”

  “The man killed someone.”

  “Holy shit!” The kid steps back and covers his mouth.

  “We need to know everything you can remember about that delivery. Where did you pick it up? When was it posted? Did you talk to anyone? How much did it pay?”

  Anthony shakes his head. “It paid well. Forty bucks, and I picked the package up at a dry cleaner on Lehigh Ave. As the instructions said, I went in, asked if they had found a package in a black suit, and the cleaning lady shook her head and got it for me.”

  “Just like that?” I ask.

  “She said she had been waiting for someone to come by.” He shrugs and breathes deeply. “It was already addressed to the person it was supposed to go to, so I dropped it off.”