Suddenly there was an outbreak of chaos and Leo Sung Kim looked up from the file he'd been fussing over. Someone shouted his nickname across the room. His partner, Daniel Fergis, was running toward him, waving a white piece of paper in the air.
"Whoa! Hold your horses. What's going on?" Leo asked.
"Kim, I don't know how to say this to you."
"Come on. It's me you're talking to. And besides, you look like someone kicked your cat. Tell me."
Daniel hesitated for a moment, rubbed a hand over his face before meeting Leo's gaze. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes that almost broke Leo's heart. He gripped Daniel's shoulders and shook.
"Judge Williams is dead."
"What'd you mean, he's dead?"
"I'll explain as we go."
Daniel grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and Leo reached for his gun and badge from his desk and did the same with his jacket. They bolted out the door and toward their car. It seemed strange to Leo Jazmon Williams was dead. The man was always so much larger than life—such a strong champion for justice. Still, he remained quiet.
The siren blared and the car surged through the traffic from the center of New York City. He stared out the window, watching the objects outside blaze by the car in a flurry of confused swoosh.
"You've been quiet," Daniel pointed out.
"I just don't know what to say right now."
"I knew this would hit you more than it would the rest of us. You knew the guy. I grabbed the case because of it, but you have to focus on the case and not your relationship."
Leo turned from the view to look at his partner. Daniel's brown hair lay against his head perfectly, his muscular jawline stood rigidly as though he was grinding his teeth. "You saying I'll let my personal feelings taint the case?" Leo questioned.
"I'm saying you're human."
Leo turned his attention back to the view outside the car. They swerved in and out of traffic until they pulled up before the large condos. From the outside it looked like an old relic. But once they walked through the front doors, it had the air of a modern upscale building. They took the elevator up the stairs and he found the room by the two uniforms stationed outside. He pushed his coat out of the way to show them the badge attached to his belt then ducked under the yellow tape across the doorway. He checked to see Daniel had followed him in.
"Detective!"
Leo waved at Isha, their medical examiner, and hurried over.
"Okay, Isha, fill me in."
"Are you sure you should be here?" Isha Reyes questioned, hands on her hips and concern filling her brown eyes.
Leo swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Of course I should be here. We have a homicide, right?"
Isha glanced at Daniel as though looking for permission but shrugged.
"We have a dead judge," she explained. "I could explain it to you but you should see for yourself."
Leo walked ahead of her in the direction she motioned and entered the room slowly. Instantly the stench of death assaulted his senses. The room was clean, almost too clean—except for the streaks of blood on the wall. Just beside the dresser were the words Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
"What the hell does that even mean?" Daniel questioned from beside him.
"I think it's a quote Edgar Allan Poe's, "The Raven"."
"The what now?"
"It's a poem. I didn't understand it the first fifty times I read the damn thing." Leo replied before he hunched down beside Isha. "I could be wrong. Who knows?"
The judge was decapitated with the head sitting directly between the legs. "Tell me how does someone cut someone's head off and there isn't more blood?"
"I don't know. Maybe he did it in the bathtub?"
Daniel exited the room then quickly returned. "No. The bathroom is immaculate. There's a bit of blood in the hall but that still doesn't make up for it all. The guys are making sure they swab everything, especially the drains, to make sure we don't miss anything. Maybe the killer got blood on him or even sustained a cut in the process—he or she may have washed before leaving."
Leo questioned the officers about the rest of the house then returned to his position beside Isha, Leo, and the judge's body. He came to one startling conclusion. "Shit. This is not the primary crime scene then.
"He's been dead for less than five hours," Danish said retrieving her thermometer. I can't tell you anything more until I get him back to my table. But I'll put a rush on it."
"I'd appreciate that," Leo thanked her.
"There's something else I thought you would like to see," Isha said simply. "I sent a sample to the lab to get an official record of it but… well… follow me."
Leo followed obediently to the sunroom where sitting on a plate was a part of a plant. "I don't know what that is." Leo bent to eye the piece of plant.
"I know what it is but I just can't put my finger on it. I know growing up as a child my neighbor had a whole field of it behind her house after her husband walked out on her. Maybe it means something to your case."
"Have the forensic guys take a picture of it? It'd be good to have the image."
She nodded.
He excused himself and walked through the house himself, giving it a once over and scribbling down notes in his little notepad. When he was finished, he made his way back to the officers at the door.
"Who found the body?"
"His son." Isha's voice sounded sad. "The man's outside throwing up his stomach."
Shit. I forgot about Anderson.
Leo nodded before turning to address an officer. "Take me to him."
Silently, he followed the uniform out the building to a low wall where a rather large, African American male sat, back hunched and fingers laced tightly in his lap. He looked as though he was dressed for a night out but other than that, there was nothing else happy about him. Leo took the short walk, using the time to give Anderson the once-over and noted he wasn't covered in blood, which could be a good sign.
"Anderson Williams?"
The man looked up with a faraway gaze. It was as if he knew he heard a sound and his brain told him to react but that was all it was.
"Detective Leo Sung Kim. NYPD."
"Sung Kim… I should know that name."
"I'm sorry about your father but I need to ask you some questions."
"Sure."
"Where were you today?" Leo asked.
Anderson's face switched from anguish to irritation. "The logical choice. Because my father is dead and I found him, that makes me a suspect. All right. I was at school all day. I teach at NYU. Please hurry and check that out so you can stop wasting your time looking into me and find the real killer."
Leo arched a brow. He said nothing to the small outburst nor did he voice his offence. He merely scribbled in his notebook before asking another query. "When was the last time you spoke to your dad?"
"This morning about seven-ish. I'd just finished at the gym and I had a lecture at eight thirty so I had to basically rush him off the phone so I could get to class on time."
"And your reason for coming by today?"
"Today is Friday. We have a long-standing dinner every Friday to catch up and the like. I mean, we don't get to talk all that much because of his being on the bench and my lectures and markings… I was late today—been running late all day. I shouldn't have been…"
"Don't do that. None of this is your fault."
"Then whose fault is it?"
Leo wanted to tell him it was his fault—that as a cop he should have known something was wrong but he licked his lips. "How did your father seem when you last spoke with him?"
"The same—looking forward to our dinner. He called me to remind me we had a date planned." Anderson chuckled softly, sadly. "I always forget things."
"And where were you, say, four or five hours ago?"
Leo noticed the hard way Anderson stared at him. For a while he thought he wouldn't answer but Anderson shrugged.
"In a lecture. I told you I was there all day."
Leo made a mental note to check that out then closed the small notebook he always carried and shoved it into his pocket. Though he had more questions, Anderson looked so sick he thought if he kept him there any longer, the man was liable to pass out. Though he skipped his regular don't leave town speech, he did add, "I may have more questions later. Do you have someone to take you home? I don't know if you should be driving right now."
"I'll be fine. I can handle that. What about my father?"
"Well. The ME has to do an autopsy on him. After she's done, you can make arrangements to get him buried."
"Yeah…"
"Before I go—is your father a fan of flowers?"
"Flowers? Not really. He's allergic to quite a few of them—they make him sneeze, irritates his eyes, so he just stayed away from all of them the best he could. Why?"
"No reason. It's probably nothing," Leo replied, handing Anderson one of his business cards. "If you think of anything…"
Chapter Two
Maybe he was dreaming. Anderson sat in the front seat of his car in the parking lot in a complete daze. He was afraid to move, for any minute now he would wake up and his father would be staring at him with worried frustration at his inability to pay attention. Anderson hardly breathed. All he had to do was sit still long enough, the nightmare would be over, and he wouldn't have to be sad anymore. But a car flying by pulled him from his trance and the pain returned without mercy. When he finally got enough strength to leave the car, he walked through his front door, closed it behind him, and reached for a picture on his bedside table. He didn't pick it up but ran a finger over his father's forehead.
"What am I supposed to do now?" Anderson whispered then waited to see if the answer would come. When it didn't, Anderson sat on his bed in the darkened bedroom. As he stared straight ahead, he held the detective's card loosely between his fingers. What was he going to do now? He wanted to cry, to scream—anything—but his body had simply gone numb. His lips slipped open and his breath began leaving him in a hoarse sound. His chest pumped up and down as images of his father's dismembered body flashed through his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Anderson closed his eyes and bit back the growl that threatened to leave his body. He was not accustomed to such loss. He wasn't used to the sight of a dead body, let alone one that had been so disrespected as his father's had been. He couldn't deal.
Turning on the television didn't help any because news of his father's death was splashed all over the channels. Even CNN had it, which shocked him.
Reaching over, he grabbed the phone and held down the one key. There was a slight music and the phone began ringing.
"Hello?"
"Bee…" he replied.
"Andy? Ni hô ma?" Byung questioned in Cantonese.
Anderson's mind was too clogged to reply in the foreign language. Though he'd grown up with his best friend and learned the language fluently, sometimes he just couldn't bother with the complicated conjugations. "Dad's dead," he spoke in English. "He's gone, Bee."
"Whoa! Hold up." Byung's voice was riddled with confusion. "What do you mean, he's dead?"
"Byung please—I can't—I can't deal right now… I need you."
"All right. I'll be there. Just gimme a few minutes to put some pants on."
Anderson hung up the phone before Byung could and sat back against the bed staring at a picture of himself, Jazmon, and Byung. A sick feeling of selfishness soared through him for he knew chances were Byung had a shoot of some kind in the morning and needed sleep. But Anderson needed someone—he craved and ached for arms to hold him.
He wanted a drink—something hard—but he knew should he start, he wouldn't stop. He knew he didn't want to think about anything.
"Dude, you are nuts." Byung laughed when he tossed the football across the short space to Anderson. "There's no way your dad would ever agree to that. He wants you to become a cop or something like that."
"Well, it's not really about what he wants." Anderson frowned. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to tell him I want to quit school to become a male stripper named Stretch Marks."
To his utter shock, Byung broke out laughing as the football sailed towards him. The ball missed Byung by mere inches and spiraled through the air to land against a large tree in the backyard. "It's not that funny." Anderson smirked.
"Stretch Marks!" Byng explained. "Come on! That's comedic gold!"
"What Stretch Marks?" Jazmon's voice called from behind the friends. While Anderson turned to speak with his father, Byung kept on laughing.
"Hi Mr Williams." Byung stopped long enough to call while walking by the older man into the house. "Stretch Marks," he muttered just before disappearing into the house, his mirth continued to echo from inside. Anderson glared at the house. He shook his head with a chuckle then turned again to his father. "Dad, there's something I need to talk to you about."
"Sounds serious." Jazmon eyed his son. A hint of nervousness danced through the older Williams' eyes. "What did you do?"
Anderson grinned. "Nothing—yet. But seriously. I don't know how to tell you this."
"Just spit it out."
"Dad, I don't want to be a cop," Anderson blurted out. "I don't want to carry a gun. I don't want to chase bad guys or vice versa—none of that."
"All right." Jazmon's lips were pressed into a thin line. Together, father and son walked away from the house and towards the swimming pool a little further down. "What do you want to do?"
"Teach," Anderson explained.
Jazmon laughed. "There is nothing wrong with that," the judge said as he nodded his head. "I didn't want you to be a cop per se. I just wanted you to do something that will make you happy and make a difference. There's no better way than becoming a teacher. Hopefully with you in the classroom, I won't have to get any more young ones in my courtroom."
"I highly doubt that." Anderson smiled. "I was afraid I'd let you down."
Jazmon smirked—his big, brown eyes grew misty with love and mirth, "The only way you could let me down, Andy, is if you became a stripper named Stretch Marks."
Anderson's eyes widened in shock after his father's final words. He opened his mouth to speak but was left speechless. How could a person reply to something like that? His feet stopped moving but his father continued walking away, laughing.
That laughter was one of the things Anderson would always remember about his father. Even at sixty-five, Jazmon had a laugh so warm and contagious when he was having a good time, everyone wanted to be with him. It was a sound that made your heart happy when you heard it. It was steady, strong, and something that had lulled Anderson to sleep so many nights as a child. Before Patricia, his mother, died when he was a boy, Anderson would stay up long after his parents thought he was asleep. On Wednesday nights, he would listen to Patricia and Jazmon in their room, clinking wine glasses together and laughing softly as they whispered. After his mother's death, Anderson thought his world was over. He had his father then, but now his father was dead.
Banging on the front door pulled Anderson from his memory and he stood up. Wavering slightly on his feet, he hauled his body down the stairs and yanked the door open. Byung stepped forward and Anderson walked into his friend's body, pressed his face to Byung's neck and wrapped his arms tightly around him.
"I'm so sorry," Byung whispered. "I heard it all on the news on my way over. They didn't explain what happened."
Byung rubbed Anderson's back and in some strange way, it took just a bit of the ache away. Still he clung to the only rock he had left. When he stepped back, Byung cradled his face to peer into his eyes. "I know this is a stupid question but how are you feeling?"
"Like any minute now someone is going to jump out of a corner and tell me it's some kind of sick, practical joke."
"Oh, Andy."
The two discussed what happened in hushed voices until Anderson was all talked out. His throat was dry as if he'd swallowed sandpaper. He wasn't sure what to say next,
so Anderson walked away, leaving Byung to enter the kitchen. He flopped against one of the stools. He rubbed his tired eyes and yawned.
"Have you eaten?" Byung followed.
"Byung…"
"That's your way of saying you don't want to talk about it anymore," Byung spoke up.
Byung brushed by him and pulled the fridge open. "Since I know I can't get you to eat anything much, how about fruit? Yes, that's what you'll eat. I want you to eat some fruit."
"Bee, I'm not hungry." Anderson frowned.
"I don't care if you're hungry or not." Byung put his foot down. "Now, you're going to eat. Then you're going to get some sleep. When you're up to it, you and I are going to sit down and you tell me what Pops wanted."
"Funeral arrangements and stuff?"
Byung nodded.
"They haven't done the autopsy yet."
"Yeah, but the decisions still need to be made—okay, we'll wait until then."
Moaning, Anderson nodded stiffly. He knew he would not win once Byung got that stubborn look into his eyes. "Fine," Anderson surrendered. He sat there like a perfect moron while his best friend silently prepared a fruit platter and placed it before him. He hesitated but when he looked up to see Byung eyeing him intently, Anderson picked up a grape and popped it between his lips.
"What did the cops say to you? Do you need a lawyer?"
"I doubt it." Anderson shook his head. It made him sick they were questioning him like he was a suspect. How could they even begin thinking that? It wasn't enough his father was murdered? How much more did they think Anderson could possibly take? Anderson chewed, swallowed then spoke. "They asked me the regular generic questions. I wanted to scream my bloody head off. I wanted to just—I feel so useless. I should have felt something was wrong, you know? I should have…"
"Shoulda, woulda, coulda," Byung interrupted while taking a stool beside him. "You can sit here for the next fifty years beating yourself over the head with all the things you can't change or you can go out there, light a fire under the cops' asses, and make sure they don't cluster-fuck this. You can't be a sobbing mess right now. I know you may feel like you want to curl up and die but you can't. I won't let you. Now eat. I'll find some orange juice."
Love Lies Bleeding Page 2
