by R. G. Oram
‘Can you move that arm?’ Amit asked as he put his glasses on. David couldn’t move it at all a few hours ago and barely lifted it a couple of inches before generating a sharp pain.
‘No.’
‘Okay. Well anyway the good news is after seeing your x-rays there are no broken bones and the ligaments are not torn or overstretched which means you do not need surgery. And I have even better news – I’m now going to put it back into place.’
‘Best thing I’ve heard all day,’ Lewelyn honestly admitted.
Amit came closer to Lewelyn, putting one hand over the squared shoulder and his other lower down the arm.
‘Now I need you to relax. It will make things easier for you. So tell me, where you arefrom.’
‘Philadelphia.’
‘Ah, boxing town. You box?’
‘Only when the situation calls for it,’ Lewelyn said, feeling the dried blood, crisp above his lips.
‘Anybody in your family box?’
‘No, truth be told, we’re more miners than boxers.’
‘Really?’ Amit’s tone suggested Lewelyn should continue.
‘Just after the war of Independence my ancestors emigrated from Wales to Philadelphia. There was a high demand for coal miners back then. Now I hear the demand’s moved to one of the Dakotas.’
‘So you’re family are originally Welsh.’
‘Don’t tell anybody,’ Lewelyn gave a leered one sided smirk – the pills were working, lowering his stubborn inhibitions.
Amit chuckled, ‘Ever been to Wales?’
‘Yeah. Spent most of my childhood at a boarding school there.’
‘Speak any Welsh?’
‘Just a little… Dw I ddim yn siarad cymraeg.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I do not speak welsh,’ Lewelyn said with chuckles.
Amit nodded his head, ‘I need you to relax. You’re not relaxed yet. Believe me it makes things a lot easier.’ Amit kept his hand on Lewelyn’s arm. ‘Been a long time?’ Amit pointing his eyes on the ring hanging below the necklace.
Lewelyn mused about the question. He became aware of his cheek muscles contracting. When Lewelyn smiled, he normally extended his lips outward and upward, the reference to the ring caused the cheeks to rise well above their normal height zone.
‘Not yet,’ the last thing Lewelyn said before, all in one swift movement, a push, shove, squeeze and relief followed, wrapped up in an outcry, ‘Jeez!’
Chapter 46
‘What time is it – Damn!’
He typed as fast as he could, leaving a trail of misspelled words along the way. Forsythe’s hammering made the keyboard’s buttons tremor. Finishing his report for the Hannah Miller murder case; when he was done, he would put it into the murder book open alongside him on the desk, which was waiting to be closed; the seams of its corners were starting to crack.
His Lieutenant’s boss, Captain Strom was back from his leadership or management training course, not very pleased about having to come back to a media frenzy shit storm. The murder of fellow officer James Clayton made all the headlines. The phones in RHD didn’t stop, there were more barks than talk from the rest of the detectives today.
There! He concluded the report with a basic summary:
Under great stress from his political ambitions and his son’s perverse demands, Malcolm Harris, instead of taking the necessary actions to give his son the proper care, decided to give into what Jerome (his son) demanded. Malcolm Harris employed a man known as Frank Childs (possibly an alias), a non bona fide private investigator, to assist Jerome Harris in his unlawful acts. Whereabouts of F.C. are unknown at this time. Crime Scene Technicians at the property owned by the unknown in Inglewood found a body deeply immersed in a pool of water. Identification has been made of the man chained underwater, as his wallet was found in his pocket, the victim’s name being Detective Mark Baker.
Harris senior also employed a man named Shaun Price, who shared many features with his son, Jerome Harris. Shaun was employed to impersonate Jerome Harris when I, Detective Thomas Forsythe, interviewed him and conducted the DNA testing. The current whereabouts of this man are also unknown. However, there have been speculative reports coming in, where Jerome Harris had apparently escaped police custody and was seen getting onto a Greyhound bus. These were in fact false, during the time the reports were received, I (Detective Thomas Forsythe), was interviewing Jerome Harris in an interview room inside LAPD Headquarters. Since Jerome was already in police custody we assumed the central character in these reports was Shaun, the double. Officers at this time are investigating the claims and seeking to find which out-of-state route Shaun Price has taken.
When attempting to confront Malcolm Harris with the acquired information, with a Mr David Lewelyn in attendance, he responded with dangerous force, resulting in myself and Mr Lewelyn entering the premises with loaded firearms. While searching the home I heard a gunshot and advanced to where I thought it originated. When I arrived at the general location of the shot, Mr Lewelyn was already there to witness Malcolm Harris on the floor with a gunshot wound under his jaw. Mr Lewelyn having witnessed what happened stated that both Jerome and Malcolm Harris fought for control of the firearm and it went off on during the struggle. CST confirm this based on gunshot residue on both the father (now deceased) and son. Upon interviewing Jerome, after waiving his right for legal counsel, he confessed to all of the above and when asking him whether there were any more he had killed he stated that Hannah Miller was his first victim but openly admitted: ‘There would have been more.’ Mr Jerome Harris is now being processed and awaiting his court date.
Tom attached it to an email and sent it to his Lieutenant. He didn’t bother proof reading it, if his Lt wanted to criticise his first draft then he’d have to wait two weeks. Forsythe shut the computer down and deposited all loose paper into the trash can.
Glancing at the evidence bag in front of the keyboard, it contained Post-it stickers found on a wall in Jerome Harris’s bedroom. Mostly scribbles of another intended victim. But, instead of a premature plan it was now, thankfully, an unobtainable result.
She works in a restaurant.
Has the same hair colour.
Had that fake smile on.
What should I use to hit her?
A cane or something harder?
Not sure what time she finishes work.
Get him to bring her here.
I’ll put her to sleep.
A grim sleep.
Dad loves me. He won’t say no.
Forsythe left this out of the report. Notes, that’s all they were. Worthless information now.
He checked his watch just for the sake of it, knowing full well he’d have to skip eating dinner tonight and start packing. Tom and his wife, Annette, are going on a cruise; two full weeks not having to worry about making their own meals, setting an alarm in the morning, or hearing sirens, blaring horns, quarrelsome civilians – away from the everyday life of a city.
He saw Rob Berman coming past.
‘Hey BB. You got a second?’
‘Yeah sure. Need something, Tom?’
They called him BB because one time when firing a warning shot in the air to try and stop a fleeing suspect, ended up hitting a low flying bird. The next day someone made the unwelcomed effort to buy a BB gun and leave it on Rob’s desk.
‘As a matter of fact I do. If the Lt asks where I am could you tell him I’m with Internal Affairs.’
‘You mean BSB? Sure. Not in the mood for him today?’ Berman asked.
‘I just want to get out of here and not have to worry about a phone call asking me to come back.’
‘Fair enough. By the way Tom, why don’t you ever call PSB the Bull Shit Bureau like the rest of us?’
Forsythe put his jacket on, ‘Because I’ll say it to their faces – whe
n they deserve it.’
BB chuckled conservatively, wholly attentive when Forsythe spoke his mind. He did it to everyone.
Watching the veteran detective leave, never a man for politics or celebrated glory, never would admit he’s a living, breathing hero, only ever says it’s his job and he’s paid for it – a modesty most can’t display.
Pre-promotion to Detective Third Grade, Tom Forsythe investigated murders down South Central Los Angeles, where the dead seemed to outnumber the living.
One of the few people who would literally say the words: ‘I refuse,’ to their supervisor/commanding officer, when a politically high priority case would get in the way of other current working cases. Always giving each case the time it deserved, never letting one be pushed aside and forgotten.
Every case he had was equal.
Special treatment to no one.
His promise.
He only cared about the victim and the family they’d never see again. One time, in front of City Hall, some self-proclaimed expert on police corruption had been speaking to a sea of reporters. Criticising the LAPD for their lack of commitment to closing enough unsolved murder and not doing enough to tackle gang related crimes, spending more time taking bribes than stopping crime, citing nothing had changed from the Rampart scandal of the 1990s.
Forsythe, seeing the man on television, stormed to City Hall, walking all the way through the crowd of recorders and listeners. Pushing through, neglecting to apologise for inadvertent shoves. He went behind the podium, facing the man. Countless flashes and clicking camera shots had come from the recently enthralled spectators.
The detective had said to the public speaker:
‘Instead of talking trash about us in front of these cameras here and writing it on the internet, why don’t you say it to our faces?’
If the detective has a problem with you, he’ll say it to your face.
Chapter 47
About the time Thomas Forsythe had made it home and began packing, someone with an uncombed beard and spaces in their mouth where teeth used to be rooted moved their head both ways as they crossed the lobby of LAPD Headquarters.
Gary kept an eye out, he knew how he looked. He had washed his body in the park’s fountain this morning, but the clear water hadn’t sewn the rips and holes in his clothes. His deeply-stained great overcoat dragged on the white floor. A uniform was on his way to him. He stopped, knowing the badge was coming for him.
He had it in his pocket, pulling it out it slowly, in case they got the wrong idea and reacted too quickly. The guy dressed in black and with a dozen other things pinned to his chest took the picture from Gary’s hand.
‘What’s this?’ the officer asked.
‘A guy gave me $100 to give that picture there to you.’
‘Why?’ the man in uniform recovered his authority when he spoke, now less surprised.
‘Said to me to tell you that that there’s a photo of Frank Childs.’
Once he finished the lengthy process of staring at the photo of Frank Childs the LAPD man asked, ‘Who gave you this?’
Gary gave the officer a stupid implied look, ‘How am I supposed to know? Just some guy who had sunglasses.’
Rob ‘BB’ Berman glanced again at the photo of Frank Child’s in his hand. He considered calling Tom Forsythe about this recent new acquisition of what – was it evidence?
He didn’t care, it didn’t matter, it seemed they now had an actual photo of the man who had murdered Hannah Miller and slain two of their own: Mark Baker and James Clayton. They could release this photo to the press instead of the sketch given to them by that sick freak Jerome Harris.
As he looked for Tom’s name in his contacts Berman saw the Homicide time-sheet board on the wall, next to Tom’s name were, in bold, the words: VACATION TWO WEEKS. Rob was on ‘M’ in his contacts list. He touched the side of the phone and the screen went black.
Have some fun you stubborn asshole, Rob wished to the Third Grade Homicide Detective.
Chapter 48
Where to go?
The death of Malcolm Harris and the arrest of Jerome Harris provided him with the necessary answer.
Elevated to four feet on his hospital theatre table, an IV tube penetrated a hand, constant beeping from a tall portable computer recording his body’s functions. Over him an arrangement of lights in a circular dome. Keenly, blindly, they surveyed him, each illuminating eye relentlessly focused on their settled prey.
Edging into his limited field of vision, cloaked all over, the exception being the eyes, in surgical apparel the surgeon briefed Frank on the procedure. The man asked Frank something in his own foreign tongue. Frank replied in the same foreign language.
His identity was compromised, this procedure the only means of sustaining his anonymity. Watching the syringe enter the IV tube, he recounted what he requested of the surgeon to make sure there were no botches, no misunderstandings.
‘Not a trace of the original. Completely alter every feature. And no I do not want a picture of it,’ were the terse requests.
The anaesthetic never told you when you were departing consciousness. You only knew when you awoke.
Frank saw the surgeon pick up the surgical blade from an assortment on the table. It balanced neurotically on the fingers, tipping unceremoniously overboard on the rocking palm. The man knelt on one knee to retrieve it from the cracked floor, with a shaking, guilty hand. He grabbed it, still struggled to keep it disciplined between the fingers.
As Frank watched the surgical instrument being lifted off the floor he noticed, conveniently placed on a tray behind the physician, a gold-labelled bottle containing brown liquid. The amount within fell well below the bottle’s neck.
He turned his head back to the glistening bulbs. When you wanted discretion you couldn’t trust the certified professionals, you needed to employ those who operated without formally trained skills, who could not sell you to the authorities because they themselves would be punished and imprisoned.
Frank watched the man’s careful steps, minding the miniscule pits in the grimy floor. He waited for his new face. Somehow the police had acquired an actual photograph of him. The reports had said a man who lived on the street had walked into LAPD Headquarters and handed them the picture.
Change was essential to evade recognition. They currently had both his DNA and picture; if he had his face altered then they would only have the former in their database. As long as he avoided any law enforcement issues he would have no worry. Without assistance from surveillance technology, recognition depended on someone being identified by their physical image. When searching for him they would be depending on an old face, not the new one.
He would hide, but not disappear, not yet. Whoever had that picture of him had been close to Frank; he needed to find the source of its provider.
A distant memory engrossed him. The lust. The hunger. The strength. The power. How he was reminded every day that nothing had changed – whoever was the strongest, the smartest, the most pragmatic, would always be the superior. Standing above the rest, being the hunters.
His decision to leave – tired of taking orders. Being told what to do. Never given a choice. Always having to listen and follow, never leading. Ordered like a slave. Not wasting his energies anymore to defend those who did not appreciate the freedoms given to them – remembering the words of Marx, ‘those who fail to learn the lessons of history, will always fail’.
Could it be them? Are they still searching for him?
A shadow projected in the corner of his eye. Frank turned his head more, assuming it to be the amateur surgeon. Coloured in a navy suit with pin stripes cascading down the material, grey lace-less canvas shoes that scraped the cracked floor. Above the pink shirt’s open necked collar was a pale complexion. Bushy sideburns bearded down, stopping at the chin where the facial hair trail ended. The large, roun
d dark eyes he had could have been mistaken for spectacles.
Frank became cold. He could feel it, and see it from the disappearing tan complexion of his arms – matching the newcomer standing before him.
Newport.
The word his mouth tried to produce, remaining an un-vocalised thought.
He saw Newport’s hands together and shaped as a pyramid, the fingertips tapping each other lightly.
‘How you doing, buddy?’ Newport speaking first.
Frank kept his tongue behind his closed teeth.
‘Been a while. Where’ve you been pal? We’ve all been worried. You didn’t leave your phone number,’ Newport pulled a purple handkerchief from his pocket, placing the kerchief on Frank’s blanketed chest.
‘You’re drooling.’
Frank realised now, the motorcyclist behind him when he was on his way to Shaun’s, the picture of him on every news provider – they had found him.
‘We’ve missed you, buddy. Can’t say we’re all quite over what you did. But, I’m sure once you come home you’ll be our friend again. If, of course, every one decides they still like you. They might take some convincing,’ he smiled with a closed mouth – he never showed you his teeth.
‘It probably sounds like a cliché when I say this. But, buddy, you shouldn’t have left. I gotta be honest I’m upset. I’m so upset that I can’t think straight. And you know what I’m like when I’m this emotional,’ Frank’s former leader sat on the edge of the operating bed. Newport placed a hand on Frank’s cheek and tapped it lightly. For a moment Frank thought his heart had stopped. Newport stroked his hair, then pulled out of a pair of rose clippers, holding it up in the surgeon’s light so Frank could see the two flower-beheading blades. ‘Tell me pal, what should I cut off first?’
