The Anonymous Source

by A. C. Fuller

  AT 9 A.M., THE JUDGE invited the prosecution to call its first witness. Daniel Sharp stood slowly and called to the stand the city’s chief medical examiner, Bruce Irving, who wore thin-rimmed glasses and a neat beard. As Irving was sworn in, Alex ran a hand through his hair and heard the voice again: Downton was not the only one who knows what happened . . . I couldn’t stop it.

  He hadn’t heard back from Baxton, and had spent the last day trying to decide what to do next, his fear battling his desire to get the story. When he’d woken up, he’d decided that court would be as safe a place as any. If the video was the reason Downton had been killed, the killer must know that Alex didn’t have it. But he needed to get it, and he needed to find the caller. He figured that his source must be inside the police department or close to the case. How else could someone know about Downton’s murder and connect it to Santiago so quickly?

  Alex glanced around the courtroom, looking for Camila, as Sharp asked a series of routine questions to establish Irving’s expertise. He didn’t see her.

  When he heard Sharp say, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about a drug called fentanyl,” Alex turned to the front of the courtroom. The series of questions took Irving two hours to answer and traced the history of the drug and its physiological effects. Alex knew it was a synthetic pain reliever created in 1960 and now available as a patch, a lozenge, and a lollipop, and he was bored by the time Sharp asked Irving about Martin.

  “And how much fentanyl does it take to kill a man of Professor Martin’s size?”

  “It varies based on the person’s tolerance for opiates, but 125 micrograms is considered a lethal dose, though regular recreational users can withstand much more.”

  “One hundred and twenty-five micrograms? That doesn’t sound like much,” Sharp said.

  “It’s the equivalent of five or six grains of salt.”

  “Mr. Irving, what are some of the ways you have seen fentanyl abused?”

  “Lots of ways. The patches are designed to provide the body with a steady stream of the drug for forty-eight to seventy-two hours, but recreational users try to speed up the delivery—applying multiple patches, scraping the gel off the patches, even eating patches whole. We’ve seen cases where the gel was dissolved in liquid and used as a nasal or topical spray. In some cases, we have even seen it dried and used to cut heroin.”

  “So, in your expert opinion, just how deadly is fentanyl?”

  “Mr. Sharp, when taken incorrectly, fentanyl creates euphoria, followed by a steep drop in blood pressure and heart rate. Sweating, shaking, and panic then overtake you, but your consciousness is so dulled you do nothing about it. Instead, you fall into a murky, painless sleep, then die.”

  As Sharp took Irving through a series of questions about the tests he’d administered on Martin’s body, Alex wondered why someone close to the case would make the phone calls he was receiving. Who would benefit from Santiago being proven innocent? Why that bible quote? And he kept hearing that voice. I couldn’t stop it.

  Sharp’s voice boomed through the courtroom. “And can you say with certainty that Professor Martin died from an overdose of fentanyl?”

  “Yes.”

  On cross examination, just before lunch, Defense Attorney Baker had only one question. “With all your tests and years of experience, is there any way to tell who administered the lethal dose of fentanyl? That is, is it possible for you to tell us whether the dose was administered by the defendant, by someone else, or perhaps by Martin himself?”

  “No,” Irving said. “Of course not.”

  * * *

  At the lunch break, Alex stood on the steps of the courthouse and called into The Standard. He had himself transferred to James Stacy’s voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s Alex. I need you to put together a list of everyone who would have access to Santiago’s police or case file. Cops, lawyers, judges. Someone is feeding me information and I need to know who it is. I need phone numbers if you can get them. Pay special attention to anyone with a strong Christian background.”

  Just as he closed his phone, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “If your head wasn’t so full of thoughts, you might be good looking.” Startled, he turned to find that Camila Gray had come up behind him.

  “Didn’t see you in there. Did you come in late?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I was in the back. You want to get lunch?”

  “Don’t you ever work?”

  “Evening classes on Mondays.”

  “Office hours?”

  “It’s the second week of school. No one’s going to want to talk to me until something is due.”

  “Okay,” Alex said. “We can go to Suzy’s.”

  He started down the courthouse steps, but Camila just stood, staring at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Your energy is a bit frozen.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re feeling my internal frequency now. You hippie.”

  “Seriously, you seem afraid.”

  I couldn’t stop it. Alex couldn’t shake that voice. “I’ll tell you at lunch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SUZY’S WAS A LAWYER hangout on Broome Street that delivered lunch to offices throughout the court district. They took a booth in the back and ordered, then Alex told Camila everything he knew about Demarcus Downton, including his promise of the video and his murder. He also told her about the two calls from the anonymous source. “Just waiting to hear back from my editor now,” he concluded.

  The food arrived and Camila chewed on the pickle that had come with her Reuben sandwich as Alex picked at a seared salmon salad with extra spinach and no croutons.

  He looked down at her sandwich. “How do you eat like that and look like you look?” he asked.

  Camila shrugged. “Demarcus didn’t say anything about what was on the video?”

  “Just that it showed that Santiago didn’t do it.”

  “But not who did?”

  “Didn’t say anything about that,” he said, “but I assume he would’ve mentioned if it did.”

  “And the source who called—who do you think it is?” She took a big bite of her Reuben as Thousand Island dressing dripped onto the plate.

  “Don’t know. Obviously someone close to the case—cop, a lawyer maybe—and someone who knew that Demarcus knew something. But if someone in the police department knows Santiago is innocent, and knows that Demarcus knew, why would they call me about it? Why not tell the lawyers, the judge? Someone who can actually do something.”

  “Probably because you’re a few more steps removed,” Camila said. “Look, if there are even a handful of people who know Santiago is innocent, anyone who steps forward and goes against the police department and Sharp is taking a big risk. Talking to a journalist is a safer bet than a lawyer or a judge.”

  “I guess.”

  “So why aren’t you going after the video right now?” she asked.

  “I will. But I’m waiting to hear from my editor. I still can’t be certain Demarcus’s death is connected.”

  “You can’t? Are you kidding me?” She leaned in. “You think it’s a coincidence that this guy would turn up dead the day he was supposed to give you a video that would blow up the Santiago case, humiliate the police department, and piss off the entire city? Not to mention make a lot of you guys in the press look really bad. You can’t be certain?”

  Alex sat back in the booth, feeling berated. “My editor said to just sit tight. And it could just be a weird coincidence. Stranger things have happened,” he said weakly.

  “No, they haven’t. And what did you just tell me the source said? Something like, ‘He’s gone now, I couldn’t stop it.’“

  “Something like that.”

  “Why would he say that if they weren’t connected? It means the source knew Demarcus was gonna get killed before he got killed. You need to get that video.”

  “I know you’re right, but that’s another problem. I can’t just barge into his mother’s house and say, ‘I’m here f
or the video your recently murdered son promised me.’“

  Alex’s phone rang. Baxton. He excused himself and walked out onto Broome Street. Horns blared and Alex could barely hear his boss over occasional shouts of “move it” or “fuck you” from backed-up cars.

  “Colonel, speak up. I’m out on the street.”

  “I checked out your murder.”

  “And?”

  “Looks drug related. No forced entry so they probably knew him. Happened around one a.m. I was told there was a struggle. Most likely angle is that he was meeting with a supplier and the deal went wrong. Took him out and took the drugs.”

  Alex pressed the phone to his ear and cupped a hand over it. “Did they find anything in the house?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Any actual evidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong? This isn’t adding up.”

  “No, but the people I talked to knew he was a dealer. He was low level, but he had a sheet. But you probably know all this. I know how meticulous you are in your research.”

  Ten feet away, a garbage truck blew a long, low horn.

  “Shut up!” Alex yelled. His anger surprised him and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The smell of garbage filled his lungs. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m just a bit on edge right now. Just never had a source turn up dead at the hour I was supposed to meet him.”

  “No worries,” Baxton said. “It’s a weird coincidence.”

  “What about the video?” Alex asked. “He might have had the video on him.”

  “If they found any video, they weren’t telling me. Are you sure it even exists?”

  “I guess not. Suspects?”

  “Nothing, but my guy in the department says a neighbor heard a crash, looked out her front window, and saw a burly black guy running from the scene.”

  * * *

  Camila was picking the crispy salmon skin off Alex’s plate as he sat down. She crunched a bite. “I don’t know what it is about raw spinach,” she said. “I mean, I understand the concept of salad. I just don’t think spinach is one of the things God intended us to eat without cooking. Something in the texture, maybe.”

  “I see you have no trouble with salmon skin, though,” Alex said, pulling the plate back to his side of the table as she tugged at the last bit.

  She smiled. “You used to be fat, right? What did your editor say?”

  “Cops are telling him it was a fight over drugs, totally unrelated to me and the Santiago case.”

  “You’re not buying that, are you?”

  “I know he sidesteps things from time to time, but the Colonel wouldn’t lie to me.”

  He took a small bite of salmon and shoved a few spinach leaves into his mouth, then pushed his plate toward Camila.

  “You sure about that?” she asked.

  “Maybe the cops are lying to him, but he and I have a good relationship.”

  She reached for the little cup of dressing he had neglected and poured it over the spinach salad. She took a few bites, then picked up her Reuben and wiped the corner of it around the inside edge of the dressing cup.

  “What’s going on with your father?” Alex asked.

  “Like I said the other day, he’s dying.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  She took a bite of her sandwich. “Esophageal cancer,” she said through a mouthful of food.

  “When are you gonna go see him?”

  Camila swallowed and took another bite.

  Alex watched her. “Are you gonna go see him?”

  She put down her sandwich. “I gotta head back and prep for a class.”

  “Camila—”

  “Right now I’m a bit distracted by the trial, and I just started a new semester, and . . . ”

  Alex tried to take her hand but she pulled it away. “Camila, it’s your dad. Why aren’t you going to go see him? I mean, it’s your dad. Whatever your deal is with him, now is the time to come down from the ivory tower.”

  “Alex, please. You don’t know anything about him. Or about me.”

  “Camila, I’m sorry. But I know what it is to lose a parent.”

  She stood and stared down at him. Her eyes seemed to burn through him, then soften. “You do? Do you also know what it is to be trained to be quiet, obedient, subservient? Do you know what it feels like when your father treats you like your existence is an imposition? Or when he explodes in a rage and hits you because you fail to live up to his standard of female docility?”

  Alex looked down at the table. “No. I don’t.”

  “Then you don’t have any idea what I’m going through.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said, looking up, but she was already walking across the restaurant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BACK IN HIS APARTMENT that evening, Alex wrote his story on the Santiago trial, e-mailed it to Baxton, then searched public records for an address for Demarcus’s mother, Malina Downton. After a few minutes, he gave up and scanned the homepage of The New York Post. When he saw the picture of Demarcus, he rocked back in his chair and held his breath. He read the article the first time through without taking a breath, then read it again more slowly.

  Post Exclusive

  Pint-Sized Perpetrator Slays Supersized Star

  Brooklyn Heights

  Early this morning, a shooting in an apartment in Brooklyn Heights took the life of former high school basketball star Demarcus Downton. According to an eyewitness, the killer was less than 5 feet tall.

  At around 1 a.m., Downton’s upstairs neighbor, Crystal Neese, heard a knock on Downton’s door, followed by a loud sound, “like someone hitting the ground.” A few minutes later, she watched out her back window as a “very short man” exited the victim’s back door dressed in dark jeans and a white T-shirt. She did not hear a gunshot.

  Neese said she called in the disturbance immediately, but police did not arrive until 9 a.m. She described the man she saw as a white male, aged forty-to-fifty, with a thin mustache. But his defining trait was his size.

  “He was real small,” she said. “I’m only 5 foot 3 and he looked smaller than me.”

  Police would not comment on whether the man is a suspect and the department has made no official statement about the shooting.

  Alex stared at the picture of the suspect that accompanied the article, a digital sketch like the police make from witness descriptions. He knew the software The Post had used to create it. The man was thin, as well as short. His mustache was a small, perfect rectangle and his eyes held a digital, lifeless gaze.

  Alex chewed at his cuticles, thinking about what Baxton had said earlier, that the police had seen a “burly black guy” running from the scene. Had the Colonel lied to him? Or had the police lied to the Colonel? Alex hoped it was the latter.

  He dialed Lance Brickman. Lance did not have Internet access in his Brooklyn apartment, so Alex read him the story over the phone. Then he told him Baxton’s version.

  “No way,” Lance said. “The Colonel isn’t bullshitting you this time. Maybe he would nudge you off a story but he’s not gonna lie about who’s out there killing people.”

  “Then he was lied to—or maybe The Post’s source is lying, but I doubt it.”

  “They paid the woman to talk,” Lance said. “Those bastards at The Post. How does The Standard expect us to compete when The Post can pay for stories and we can’t?”

  “I know. I had that woman, too. I was talking to her forty-eight hours ago. And just because they paid their source doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Lance said. “It probably is true.”

  “How do I find out?”

  “If I was you, I wouldn’t want to. Who knows what you’re into here?”

  “It gets worse,” Alex said. “I know why he was killed. There’s a video.”

  “What?”

  Alex contemplated for a moment, then told Lance Downton’s story. When he finished, Lance was silent.
/>
  “So?” Alex asked.

  Lance sighed. “You want my advice? Drop the whole thing. Pretend it never happened.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” Alex said.

  “Who the hell knows what’s on that video? And if finding out could get you killed, it’s just not worth it. Don’t get all riled up.”

  “I can’t just drop it. I need to see what’s on that video.”

  They were both quiet until Alex said, “Can you get me Downton’s mother’s address in Queens? I think her name is Malina but she’s not listed anywhere.”

  “Don’t you have anyone in the courts or the DMV who can look her up for you?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to involve anyone else in this right now.”

  Lance snorted. “So you’re involving me?”

  “C’mon, I figured you might know her address off the top of your head. You know everyone out there. You’re the man in Queens, right?”

  “I’m not the Colonel, Alex. Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

  “But you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Alex hung up and stared at the eerie face on his screen. He wasn’t sure why, but he needed to see Camila. He put his laptop in his bag along with the recording of Downton he had made at the café.

  The face hung in his mind as he walked out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DIMITRI RAK WALKED into Vasyl’s Pierogi Shop on Second Street in Williamsburg and looked around. The restaurant was empty except for an old man with thin gray hair, who came out from behind the counter.

  “We are closing now,” Rak said. The man nodded.

  Rak turned and locked the door, then walked over to the counter and sat down on a stool. He picked up an old beige phone that sat next to a dirty cash register. The air was hot and smelled of rancid grease.

  “Six pork and potato,” he said to the man, who then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Taking a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his denim jacket, Rak dialed Denver Bice. He spoke with a smooth Ukrainian accent. “Mr. Bice, have you seen it?”