He was walking with his hands in his coat pockets, to keep them warm from the bitter, cold night. Vapor puffed from his mouth every time he exhaled.
All four men in the room kept their eyes on his back, watching him walk up closer to the bar. They were all looking at the left monitor, leaning in as close as they could without getting in each other’s personal space.
Then the camera showed exactly as Mr. Morris described. He was walking straight, getting closer to the entrance of the bar, when he suddenly stopped. There was no sound, so for a moment, it was unclear why he stopped. But then Mr. Morris turned his attention to a man leaning against the wall. As expected, he was wearing a hood, but his face was obstructed from view from both angles. They remained there, talking briefly. Mr. Morris stood still in attention, nodding his head, while the mystery man gestured his arms, as if explaining something in depth.
The interaction was a short one, but Mr. Morris nodded to the stranger and shook his hand, then walked further down and into the bar. Both angles showed equal amounts of nothing, from different perspectives. Neither shot showed his face. The place that he chose to stand, and the way he chose to lean, and how he chose to wear his hood, all obstructed any view of his face at all.
They watched, and watched, and watched. But the entire time that Mr. Morris was in the bar, the man didn’t move. He didn’t change posture, or shift weight in his legs. He didn’t move his arms, take any especially deep breaths, didn’t talk to anyone else. He stood there, as if made of stone, and didn’t come alive again until Mr. Morris was out of the bar, with Zoey in his arm.
Zoey was clearly drunk. Even with the crutch of Boston’s arm for support, she still stumbled around, unable to even slightly keep balance. And, exactly as described, with no part of his story inaccurate, he walked her out of the bar, stopped in front of the man, and handed her off. They shook hands again, and Zoey took the new man’s arm - completely willingly. He lowered his head as far as he could, burying his chin in his chest, and opened the rear passenger side door. Then Zoey dropped her head and fell in - completely willingly. There was no kind of resistance or fight from Zoey, and no aggression or force from the mystery man.
Both monitors showed two angles of the same event, but both angles obstructed the view of any major identifiers. This man entered through the same door, just after Zoey, and he then closed it behind him. After the door closed, the man who had been waiting patiently at the rear of the car, with his head down, then turned and made his way to the driver seat. Strategically, he kept his face out of view from any camera by raising his arm to scratch his head until he was safely inside.
The brake lights came on, then flickered off. There was no car in front or behind it, so it just pulled away.
The room was silent, but not hopeless. The license plates were exposed and the picture quality was decent enough to be able to make it out.
“Run the plates,” Captain Cole instructed.
Gus pulled up the database. Into the search bar, he typed the number as seen on the screen.
The database crawled along slowly, but the page eventually changed.
“Reported stolen two weeks ago. December 31. It has yet to be found.”
The heavy gloom was tangible. Marco could feel dread on his shoulders, and could see the same feeling on the faces of everyone else in the room, because they all realized the same thing at the same time: They had no identification, no sort of personal identifiers, and no license plate.
They all thought it together, in unison, even though it was never said aloud. This is where the case would die. All they had was a couple of unidentifiable figures on screen, strategically dodging cameras.
The hopes of this case drove off with that car, and vanished when it did. They had nothing.
TWELVE
FRIDAY, JANUARY 15TH
Tremendous pain. It is somehow sharp and dull at the same time. My elbow, for instance, feels like it has been repeatedly thrashed against a wall, and now the pain in throbbing.
The pain attacks my nerves all at once, crushing me, burning me; then it will recede temporarily, and return with a vengeance. The throbbing sensation comes in waves, cresting and breaking, then cresting again in a never-ending loop of agony. I cry, and I cry, and I cry, and the tears come and go until the there are no tears left.
But I’m not crying because of the pain in my arm. I’ve felt pain like this before, and it isn’t the first time I’ve physically been injured
But I let him down.
I disrupted his peace. Scared him. He may never trust me again, may never allow me back in his space again. Maybe he regrets letting me up there; maybe he regrets letting his guard down. What if he comes back worse than before? What if he’s abusive? Worse yet, what if he’s done with me? What if this is the end?
Okay, maybe the pain is partially responsible.
I’m bleeding. There are several open cuts all along my arm, and I’m dripping blood onto the dirt. I also feel blooding pooling on my shin and dampening my pant leg. My leg doesn’t hurt, though. Just my arm, but come to think of it, my hand isn’t feeling great either. The burn cream has soothed it some, but perhaps the image of bubbling skin hasn’t quite left my mind, and it has reminded me of the feeling again.
I don’t feel hungry, though. I’m well fed, and I’ve had plenty of water. But the sobering mixture of physical and emotional pain has reminded me of my mortality - and how my own mortality could be realized sooner rather than later.
He’s pacing above me - distraught. I know he is upset with me, and maybe part of me wants to think he’s even a little upset at himself for how he treated me, but the other part - the much bigger part - realizes that he was in the right. I shouldn’t have assumed anything more would happen with the night. I shouldn’t have made myself feel so at home. I shouldn’t have tried to intrude into his world, or dictate the rules. I should not have taken him out of control.
As I sit down here, I’m sure all he can think of is how he’s given me too much. I have nobody to blame but myself.
“God damn it!” The shouting is muffled. It’s coming from above me. He’s in the kitchen, still pacing. His footsteps beat above me in rhythm, like they’re playing to the tune of their own song. “Damn it. Damn it! DAMN IT!” With each shout, he grows louder and louder - angrier and angrier still.
He stomps. Repeatedly. Repeatedly with the same foot, he stomps above me, intentionally beating on the floor to relieve his own pent up stress. Then, all at once, the beating stops, and they are replaced with much quieter, more regular footsteps, leading out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
The floor creaks, and the door opens. It opens slowly, just a crack at first. Then he opens it all the way, and walks down the steps. He doesn’t peep a word; he doesn’t stomp on the steps on his way down; he doesn’t so much as breathe.
Then, as he reaches the bottom, he sits. He dangles his feet over the edge, and just sits, cupping his hands over his ears. Then he rubs his eyes. Then he cups his hands over his ears again. He’s swinging his legs back and forth, like a distressed child.
“Look what you made me do, Zoey. Damn it, Zoey! Look what you made me do!” He’s crying now. Not sobbing, but he is crying. Gently and humanely. “Just look. You’re bleeding and hurt, and burned, and - damn it! Look, damn it! There’s even blood on my steps. Look what you made me do! This is your fault, Zoey. This is not my fault, Zoey.” He goes on like this, blaming me more and more, and I can’t help but agree with him. I nod silently, unable to focus on anything other than the overwhelming sensation in my arm. He starts muttering. Intermittently, I hear more “damn it,” and, “Zoey.” But I just sit through it.
He needs to vent, and if all I can do for him is be the one he vents to, then that is my place.
He’s still cupping his ears, and I can’t help but wonder why. Is that some sort of self-defense mechanism? Is he reverting back to his childhood? Maybe that’s how he comforts himself.
He stands up a
nd leaves, without saying a word. No muttering, no yelling, no stomping, and no tangible hatred. He just leaves, and closes the door in the most civil manner, as if nothing ever happened.
Look what I made him do. Damn it.
THIRTEEN
Gene took another shot. A quitter he was not, and never was, and never would be.
He stepped out of the computer room to call his new acquaintance, Mr. Morris, who had been so refreshingly open and honest.
“Hello?” The other line was burdened by an echo, as if he was on speaker in a bathroom or hallway.
“Hey, uh, this is Mr. Morris, right? This is Gene Maxwell. Hasn’t been long, I know, but I need a new favor.” He was definitely on speaker. He could hear his own voice reverberate and speak back to him through the other end.
“Yeah, what’s up, pal? Sorry if I’m tough to hear. I’m just getting ready right now and didn’t have a free hand to hold the phone.”
“Yeah, well, I need one more thing from you. Our last lead kind of - well, it died. We didn’t get what we were hoping to, so we’re hitting a last resort type thing.” Gene paused, and waited for some sort of acknowledgment from the other end.
“Uh huh.”
“Well. I know it was dark, and he had his hood, and it was probably hard to see him very well, but we need you to have a professional sketch made of the suspect’s profile. It’s a little old school, but it’s where we are at. Could you come down to the station in a little bit and meet with our guy to have a photo made?”
Gene puckered, sucked, and bit his lip nervously. He knew it would be a longshot, especially considering the scene and the circumstances. Plus, it was two weeks ago. Even if he did get a good look at him, it would be hard to remember a stranger’s face very well and in detail from that long ago.
“Well, sir, I can’t today. I mean, I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up in the next couple of hours till after five. Then I’ve got a date planned for tonight. It is Saturday night, after all. Plus, I don’t know how much help I’ll really be. I mean, I’m more than happy to try if it gives you any chance at all, but fair warning.”
“That’s fine, that’s fine. Thank you so much, Mr. Morris. I’ll text you the time and where to go, and who to meet with tomorrow. Thank you again, so much. We really need the help, buddy.”
The echo on the other end ceased, and his voice came through more clearly. “It’s no problem. I’m happy to do it, but I gotta go now. Runnin’ late. See you, Detective.”
Before Gene could thank him once more and say a goodbye of his own, the phone chimed, signaling that the other line had already been disconnected.
Then that was the end of that. He would have his day off, and so would Marco. And they would have a nice day together. Boston would come in, do his rendering with the sketch artist, and then leave. The photo would be aired on every local news channel from here to Austin to the south and Oklahoma City to the north. The news would catch the viewer up to date on the vague details of the case, issue a warning, and then, hopefully, someone would recognize him and shed some light on who this mystery man is.
But that’s it. There was no one left to interview, or any leads to follow. The Captain would obtain footage from every security camera in the city and track that car as far as it could, but as careful as they were, it was doubtful that the cameras would turn up any valuable footage.
Now, he plays the waiting game. It’ll turn out well; justice will be served. But in due time.
---
Sunday, January 17th
Marco pulled up to the old detective’s house. Out front, rather than parked in the garage, his black Mercedes sat, with the grille facing the street, showing itself off. He pulled up and parked in the spot next to it. Those cars always complemented each other so nicely.
The night before, Gene drove to the DFW Airport to pick her up and bring her back to her childhood home. She slept in the same bed she slept in growing up, surrounded by the same four walls, with the same decorations on those walls.
As Marco knocked on the front door, he tried not to imagine Gene’s daughter in bed. He wasn’t sure what her room would look like, or what size her bed was; but that did not stop him from forming the mental image of her walking from the shower to her closet. His overly-imaginative male brain cut no corners in making out a detailed picture of her naked body.
Cut it out, he thought, and waited for the door to open.
Marco could hear Gene before he could see him, as the door flung completely open.
“Hey, Marco! Come in, come in!”
Gene embraced Marco, as if they were long-lost buddies who hadn’t seen each other in a decade. Marco thought it was strange, but nice at the same time. He liked having a friend that would treat him this way, and not so disposable. In another scenario, Marco might even see Gene as a father, but his own father was much too prevalent in his own life to be replaceable.
“Hey, Gene. Beautiful home you have here,” Marco marveled.
And it was. He wasn’t lying at all. It truly was a beautiful home - more than a tad out of a detective’s price range. But then again, his wife was a doctor, and he did mention they had life insurance. Then, Marco finds himself doubting that Gene had ever been hurting for money.
“Thanks for that, Marco.” When Delilah appeared behind Gene, he became more than eager to introduce the two. “Hey, Marco! This is my daughter you’ve heard so much about. Marco, this is Delilah; Delilah, this is Marco Moretti. Not only is he the brightest young mind in all of law enforcement, he’s a great friend of mine.”
Marco felt a pit rise in his stomach. This happened often. Any time he tried to talk to a pretty girl, actually, the same thing happened. A nervous pit rose in his stomach, then clumped up in the base of his throat, making it hard to swallow or speak without choking.
She was even more beautiful in person than she was on the edited commercials, if that were possible. She passed almost no resemblance of her father, which was a relief to Marco. Not that Gene was an ugly man by any means, but it would just feel weird to be attracted to someone that looks like his retirement-age friend.
Her blonde hair was styled as if she were ready to go on set: pinned back on top and sprayed, then curled ever-so-slightly all the way to the tips, which fell almost to her waist. Not a single hair was out of place, which was almost more impressive than how professionally she seemed to have done her makeup.
Her features were distinct, but not overwhelming. She had a small nose, much like her father, but stunningly blue eyes, which must have belonged to her mother. Blue eyes are the recessive gene, so it was more impressive that she managed to be blessed with them. She wasn’t extremely tall, either, which was a refreshing surprise for Marco. He completely expected her to be over six feet tall, as he figured was the norm for models and actresses, but was happy to know that she was not. Rather, for him she was the perfect height. He always felt awkward if a girl was as tall or taller than him; it made him feel emasculated if a girl had to look down to meet his eyes.
Along with literally every other perfect feature of hers, she clearly was the member of a gym in California. She was remarkably fit and thin, without being too skinny, either.
Marco cleared his throat and stepped through the threshold of the home and into the entryway.
“Hi, I-I’m, mhm. I’m Marco.”
It took a little bit of stuttering and more throat clearing to finish the introduction, but he made it out alive and was a better man for it. He reached out and shook her hand, which was pleasantly warm and inviting, and he feared that his own hand was clammy from the nerves.
Delilah smiled, noticing the nervous stutter.
“Hi, Marco. I’m Delilah.”
She didn’t seem nervous at all. Not one bit. She was confident enough to know that she was beautiful and keen enough to know when someone was attracted to her. Although, she was flattered by it too, especially because she was equally attracted to Marco.
Her smile was brilliant and
white: picturesque. Delilah is a fitting name, he thought.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, coolly.
This time Marco did not stutter, but instead returned a smile of his own. He’d never felt so self-conscious before this moment, but talking to an angel has that humbling effect.
“Well,” Gene interjected happily, “make yourself at home, Marco. We’ll be leaving in a minute once I find those tickets and grab my coat.” Then, he scurried upstairs and walked through his bedroom. This left Marco and Delilah alone together.
“Mind if I show you to the living room?” Delilah asked, choking out a somewhat nervous giggle.
“Sure.” Marco followed as she led the way, and the two sat down in front of the fireplace, where there was a fire already started.
Marco’s back hadn’t yet hit the seat when Gene shouted for him to come upstairs, so he got back up (although reluctantly) and followed the voice to Gene’s bedroom.
When Marco walked through the doorway, Gene’s back was to him and he was rifling through his nightstand. Marco presumed he was still looking for the tickets.
Gene heard Marco behind him and, without turning to face him, he said, “I think she likes you, pal.”
Marco could feel Gene smile about it, which he still thought was weird, but it made him happy to hear it anyway. “You think so?” Marco wasn’t sure, but he hoped.
“Yeah, for sure. After you get to know her, you’ll know why I say that.” Gene laughed, still pawing through the overflowing drawer. “Ah, here they are.” Then Gene pulled them out from underneath some papers, paper clips, thumbtacks, and some of his late wife’s old hair ties.
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