A Question of Will

by Craig Spector

  "I know," Buscetti nodded. "I didn’t want to say anything until you got back, but Julie was adamant..." he fumbled, reiterated, "I’m so sorry..."

  Paul shook his head, temples throbbing. The world was spinning. He could barely speak, barely breathe. He fumbled for a seat, head still shaking. "But how...?" he croaked.

  Buscetti sighed deeply. Then tried to explain...

  It was not supposed to happen; in a just world it never would have. To Paul, the details were a swirling blur, as useless as they were labrynthine... smart lawyer, stupid judge, overworked D.A., youthful offender with no prior acts of violence, and family ties to the community, charges knocked down from murder two to man one on the basis of evidence just circumstantial enough to foment reasonable doubt, and the need to score an easier deal, overcrowded jails, parents who hocked the ranch to secure his five hundred thousand dollar bond...and on... and on...

  It shouldn’t have happened. It did. And William Wells was on the street...

  Paul stared, dumbstruck. The world stopped spinning long enough for him to stand. He looked at Buscetti. "‘Let the system work’, you said." Paul told him. "You call this working?"

  Buscetti grew defensive. "I’m on your side, Paulie. This is totally fucked. But you know the drill..."

  Paul scoffed bitterly. "Yeah, right..." he hissed. "So, what’s to stop him from just hiking off into the sunset?"

  "He ain’t going anywhere," Buscetti assured him. "He’s gotta wear one of these." He reached into the pocket of his overcoat, and handed Paul an odd little device, a heavy canvas strap with a cigarette pack-sized black box attached. A tiny row of LEDs ran across the face of the box. Paul regarded it skeptically.

  "Tracking device," Buscetti said. "Like LoJack for scumbags. This is a demo unit. We lock it to his ankle, and he’s got to wear it twenty four-seven, and call in at least three times a day. He can’t go more than three hundred feet from his house without us knowing about it."

  "And if he does?" Paul asked bitterly.

  Buscetti took the device back, flipped a little switch. Immediately the LEDs started to flash; a piercing trill filled the air. Paul winced; Buscetti shut it off.

  "Sorry," he said. "It puts out a tracking signal. He triggers the system, and we’re on him in ten minutes, tops. So even if he tried to run, he wouldn’t get far."

  Paul scowled and lit a cigarette, blew an angry plume of smoke; tendrils curling from his nostrils as if he were about to breathe fire. "Thanks, Mister Wizard," he said sarcastically. "I feel better already."

  "Look," Buscetti said, trying hard to assuage. "This is a raw deal, I know. And I don’t blame you for feeling how you do. I just wanted you to know that we’re doing everything we can. This ain’t over yet." He paused. "What I need to know from you is, are you gonna be right with this?"

  Paul turned and looked at him, sensing the double-edged tone of the question. "Is this two friends talking," he asked, "or is this a departmental concern?"

  Buscetti looked hurt. "Friends," he said, then cautioned, "but also some friendly advice. I wouldn’t want to see anything happen, make things worse than they already are."

  "Worse?" Paul said flatly, then paused, looked him right in the eye. "Point taken, detective." He underscored the D-word, then, softer, "Don’t worry about me, Stevie. We’re the good guys, remember?"

  His tone was flat, without warmth or friendship. Paul looked wounded and sad. Buscetti stood and turned toward the hall. Paul walked him out. As they parted, Buscetti paused, like he wanted to say something else. But Paul cut him off.

  "Just go," he said, low and cold. "Get out of my house."

  Buscetti nodded. As he closed the door, Paul heard Julie upstairs, crying inconsolably. He turned and started up -- but as he was ascending, he caught sight of Julie’s coat, hanging on the rack. The piece of paper protruding from the pocket was still there, like a forgotten clue. Paul hesitated a moment, then crept down, gingerly withdrew it.

  A pamphlet -- dog-eared, one color, heavy stock. Across the top was the name Our Lady of Sorrows in Old English script, and an address on Elizabeth Street. Beneath was an acronym, F.L.A.M.E., Glendon Chapter.

  "Families of the Lost And Murdered, Empowered," he read, then, "Grief Counseling, Survivor Outreach, Welcome All." There was a list of meeting times and dates, some underlined. It took a moment for him to recognize that the underlined times coincided with his shifts.

  Paul sighed, put the pamphlet back as he found it. He suddenly understood why she was going to church so much, and in a whole new light. She went without him; she went when he could not go. Grief had pulled them apart, swept on different currents: one washed on rivers of tears into the arms of sympathetic strangers; the other, swept just as surely into a more solitary place. She hadn’t told him, maybe couldn’t tell him, but he understood. Perhaps it was for the best.

  There were things he couldn’t tell her, either.

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was exactly one week later, at seven thirty-two p.m., that all hell broke loose.

  At seven twenty-six, Dondi and Tom were upstairs at the station house, gearing up for the seven to seven night shift. Joli and Wallace were down in the ready room, shooting the shit and watching America’s Funniest Car Crashes on TV. It was already dark out, the end of daylight savings having rolled back the days into premature night.

  The bunk room was large and almost militarily ordered, with a row of neatly made single beds on one side, a row of tall steel lockers on the other. A manhole-sized opening dominated the center of the room, from which protruded an old-fashioned brass fireman’s pole, which, though rarely used, was maintained in tribute to the house’s history.

  Andy Vasquez emerged dripping wet from the bathrooms, freshly showered and ready to rotate off, a towel wrapped around his thick waist, another draped over his head. Tom saw him and wolf-whistled. "Yo, Vasquez," he called out sarcastically. "When you gonna lose that gut?"

  "Yo, DeAngelo, " Andy mocked back. "When you gonna grow a brain?" He wiggled his ass provocatively.

  Just then Paul entered, running late, looking pissed and winded. He was carrying a nylon ditty bag and cursing under his breath.

  "Goddam it," he muttered, angrily thumbing the combination to his locker. "Goddam motherfucking son of a bitch."

  Conversation in the room abruptly ceased; everyone watched as Paul opened the locker, stuffed the bag in the bottom, then peeled off his coat and hung it on the hook.

  Andy stopped towling his bristly hair. "What’s hobblin’, goblin?"

  Paul shook his head. There were streaks of oil and dirt on his uniform. He grabbed a clean shirt from inside the locker, stripping off the old one. "Ah, nothing," he groused. "Just that I’m driving along, minding my own business, and all of a sudden my truck starts chugging like it’s about to blow a rod. Fucker died on me." He looked down, saw spots of grime on his pants. "Shit," he hissed, then unbuckled his belt, stripping them off, too.

  Across the bunk room, a palpable sigh of relief -- this time, at least, disaster was of less than mortal scope. "You want me to call my cousin Julio?" Andy offered. "He’s got a shop over in Elizabeth."

  Paul shook his head. "Thanks, anyway," he said. "Triple A already towed it to a shop here. Mechanic said the Goddam oil plug was loose... engine was running almost dry. It’s my fault -- I should have checked it."

  "Ouch," Dondi winced. "Is it gonna be okay?"

  "Yeah," Paul sighed. "But they gotta keep it overnight. I had to rent a car to get here."

  Andy glanced out the back window -- sure enough, a dark Ford sedan was parked in Paul’s slot.

  Paul looked at the clean shirt, his dirty hands. He placed the shirt back in the locker, grabbed a towel. "I gotta shower," he said. "Sorry I’m late."

  "Shit happens, bro," Tom said, and patted Paul on the back. Paul headed off to the showers. The men waited until they heard the water running, then Andy whistled, low. "Had me worried there for a second," he muttered. "Never mind the truck
-- I thought he was gonna blow a hose."

  Dondi and Tom shrugged. "Can you blame him?" Dondi countered. "Little bastard back on the street like that? I’d be fuckin’ nuts."

  "Fuckin’ ay," Tom said. "I’d be on his doorstep with a fuckin’ axe handle."

  Andy nodded. Point taken. In all honesty, he probably would, too -- at least, he’d want to be. In the week since Wells’ release, the house had watched as Paul bore the news with stoic resolve. People had stopped mentioning Kyra’s name, subconsciously editing conversations about their own kids and families in his presence, lest they inadvertantly trigger some buried tripwire. But Paul had been cool, enduring the injustice -- only to blow up over a minor malfunction. "Guess it’s gotta go somewhere," he said.

  "Guess so," Dondi and Tom said, almost in unison. They turned and went down the stairs, leaving Andy standing, still wet. He opened the locker immediately adjacent to Paul’s, started changing into his street clothes; the door swung back, obscuring the view to Paul’s. As well as the fact that it was locked.

  Suddenly, a commotion sounded downstairs. Three seconds later, Dondi bounded into the room, pale and distressed. Andy looked at him, confused. "What the --"

  "Paul --" Dondi stammered. "Is he still...?" Then Dondi heard the water running, beelined for the bathroom. A beat later, the two men came out, Paul pausing just long enough to pull on his pants. Then he and Dondi took off down the stairs.

  "Hey!" Andy called after them. "Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?" It was seven thirty one.

  Sixty seconds later, the world would know.

  ~ * ~

  Click.

  "... Shocking new developments in the Wells murder case."

  Link Lenkershem stands in a deserted warehouse district, a graphic superimposed that promises ACTION 9 BREAKING NEWS. As the camera racks in he announces urgently...

  "Action 9 has just learned that a manhunt is currently under way for accused teen killer, William Wells..."

  Pause for dramatic effect, as the camera pulls back to reveal police lights strobing red and blue in the background, uniforms and K-9 sweeping the darkness on foot.

  "...Wells apparently cut through the court-ordered electronic monitoring device he has worn since his controversial release from jail last week. The alarm triggered approximately one hour ago, when Wells violated the one hundred yard security perimeter of the device."

  The camera centers on Lenkershem.

  "...Police tracked the signal to this empty lot on a barren stretch of Glendon’s waterfront. State police have been notified, and checkpoints are going up on all main roads. But for now, the question everyone is asking is: where is William Wells?"

  ~ * ~

  The room exploded with cries of shock and stunned disbelief, a swirling sea of anger and outrage.

  "What??" Andy gasped.

  "I don’t fucking BELIEVE this!" Dondi cried out, fist pounding the table. Everyone looked to Paul.

  But Paul just stood in the middle of the room: barefoot and shirtless, still dripping from the aborted shower. He stared at the TV screen. "Jesus..." he gasped. His hands started to tremble, not entirely from the cold.

  On the duty desk, the telephone rang. Wallace the probie picked up. "Rescue One..." he said. He listened for a moment, then looked at Paul. "It’s for you..." he said. "Your wife...?

  Paul grabbed the handset, sighing deeply. "Julie?" He listened, answering low. "I just heard... it’s gonna be okay, baby... calm down, I’ll be... okay... okay..." He nodded a couple more times, then hung up.

  His friends hovered worriedly. "Paul, buddy, you okay?" Dondi asked gently. The others nodded, echoing concern. Paul shook his head, murmured, "I gotta go." He looked at the men. They all agreed; it went without saying.

  Paul turned and walked toward the doorway leading to the stairs.

  Pausing just once, to punch the wall.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Over the next twenty-four hours, press and TV crews again converged on the Kelly house like sharks scenting blood in water, barraging the already fragile couple with more lights and cameras and questions. Genuine anguish made good copy, a glimpse of real tears even more so: the if it bleeds, it leads credo of news teams seconded only by if it cries, get the eyes. Wire services and networks picked it up, vaulting the scandal into fleeting but fervid national consciousness. But by seven o’clock the next evening, Paul and Julie were again left by the media wayside, their pain, like Kyra’s death, having served its purpose.

  The publicity re-ignited a firestorm of pressure, as authorities mounted a manhunt which spread across the tri-state area. William Wells’ haunting features were plastered on wanted posters and beamed into living rooms from coast to coast. When the Fireman’s Benevolent Association announced a five figure reward for information leading to Wells’ recapture and arrest, it was like dousing hi-test on a trash fire. False sightings and random rumors choked the Glendon PD switchboards, adding to the burden of an already beleagured force. They were not alone; in nine separate incidents as far north as Greenwich, Connecticut and as far south as Atlantic City, police cuffed and questioned suspected youths, only to discover that alas, they were not Wells, but merely some other leather jacketed and luckless teen loner.

  It did not quell the fires. It seemed everyone was on the lookout for William Wells. But Wells as nowhere to be found. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth.

  And in a very real sense, he had.

  ~ * ~

  Cigarette smoke: blue and acrid, uncoiling toward the ceiling to join a haze which hung over the group of men and women who sat clustered together on folding metal chairs. They were young and old, working class and well-to-do, white, black, asian and Hispanic. Their commonality was manifest by shoulders hunched as though each alone were bearing the weight of the world, and the need of each to somehow talk about it.

  "My name is Helen," a small blonde woman began, in a voice so quiet it barely registered. "And today is my daughter’s birthday."

  "Hi, Helen..." a gentle chorus replied.

  She was in her mid-thirties, once pretty, but with features rendered hard by regret and eyes that looked easily a decade older. She clutched a photograph of an adolescent girl who looked like a younger, more innocent version of herself.

  "Three years ago," the woman continued softly, "she was raped and murdered by my ex-boyfriend." She paused, as though dredging up the words from some distant inner space. "He was addicted to methamphetamines, and she had told me he had started touching her, but I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t..."

  Helen’s voice cracked, eyes moist and glistening; as hands reached out to touch her shoulder she sighed deeply, as though willing herself to go on. "One night, I came home late from work. He had..." she paused again, shuddering. "I found her head in the freezer. He wrote the word ‘bitch’ on the wall in her blood. Her name was Amy. She was my baby girl..."

  The woman lost it then, her grief overflowing into the smoky air. Some shuffled, moving to comfort her; others hung back, reluctant voyeurs. But they all knew the feeling.

  Paul watched from a chair at the outermost periphery of the circle. The meetings held in the basement rectory of Our Lady of Sorrows were part liturgy, part recovery, a way for survivors to attempt to fathom the unfathomable. A hand-stitched banner hung on the cinder block wall, colorful cloth bearing the F.L.A.M.E. acronym, and the legend, Better to Light One Candle... . A long table sprawled before it, every square inch covered with photos, mementos, toys and keepsakes. Interspersed among them were little votive candles, shimmering in little glass holders, one for each victim. There were dozens.

  An attractive woman sat at the center of the loose circle. She was a trim and indeterminate forty, clad in jeans and a loose black sweater, no makeup, dark hair swept back into a ponytail. "Thank you, Helen," she said, then addressed the room. "For those of you who are new, welcome -- for those who’ve been here before, welcome back." The others murmured hellos.

&
nbsp; "My name is Nina," she went on, "and my son Trent was killed five years ago in a convenience store holdup. Families of the Lost and Murdered, Empowered, was founded in the hope that we, the survivors, might help each other to cope, to help, and to heal. Our motto is 'better to light one candle, than to curse the darkness,' and it is in that spirit that we invite Helen to light a candle in memory of her daughter."

  Paul watched as Helen stood and made her way to the impromptu altar; he watched as she placed the picture of her dear dead daughter named Amy amongst the others, then lit a candle to join the pyre. As she returned to her seat and supportive hugs, others came forward, each sharing their nightmare, each more horrifying than the last...

  There was Cindy, the lovely blonde NYU graduate, shot dead in a Jersey City carjacking, her brilliant brains splattered across the windshield of her candy apple red graduation present... there was Donald, the successful young lawyer from downtown, brutally murdered by a secretary who had stolen office equipment from the firm... there was Jason, who had picked up a hitchhiker on his way home from work, found days later with his throat slit, the transient having helped himself to Jason’s car, his wallet, and his life... and on, and on...

  ...and with each tragedy came the tales of injustice compounded: of killers jailed or free, or never found at all; of victims whose final, fatal price had been but downpayment on further degradation as their memories were sullied and slighted by bungled prosecutions and crafty defenses... of the reasons offered, be they drugs or bad tempers or bad mommies or inflamed passions...

  ...and Paul listened as through it all, one question burned bright in his mind. The question he had in mind as he cleared his throat, and began to speak.

  "My name is Paul," he said, noting how eyes widened as they recognized it. "Four weeks ago, my daughter was murdered. Last night, the... person... accused of killing her escaped. The police are searching for him now."

  Across the room, nervous whispers and shuffling of feet. Paul continued. "My wife can’t stop crying," he said, "and I lay awake nights thinking that there must have been something I could have done... to protect her, to prevent it, something. I keep looking for the answer," he paused. "But I haven’t found it yet."