“Over here.”
Marco walked over to Gene where the charger was connected. It was on the back wall, past the bed and under the table that sat beneath the window, which was covered by drawn black shades.
Marco plugged it in, held down the power button, and waited for it to boot up, but he was greeted by the predictable lock screen that demanded he type in a password. Marco wished he could tell the computer to spill the beans, he’s a cop. Too bad computers aren’t that smart yet, he thought to himself, and started typing in predictable phrases, not really expecting anything to work.
He tried ‘password’, ‘edmund&hart’, then he tried Alexander’s birth date, and a few other pop culture references, but gave up quickly, realizing that the chances of him guessing it correctly were basically zero. Kaput.
Jacobs came in from the other room with nothing to show for his minimal effort.
“Everything was empty,” he said, but didn’t sound a bit surprised. Neither was Gene.
Again, his comment went unanswered as Gene concluded his own search. Nothing of any major significance. As far as he could tell, Alexander was a very strange man with an archaic taste in porn and a ridiculously sweet tooth. The man loved fruity candy.
“I guess all we have is that computer. We’ll take it to the Computer Guy and have him crack it. Then we’ll have him comb through all of his files and emails for us, and find something that actually matters.” Gene sat on the bed and took his light blue latex gloves off, and bent over with his hands resting on his knees. “It’s all we got right now, I guess.”
His voice was heavy with defeat. More of the same shit, he thought. Nothing changes.
Nothing changes.
The house took almost no time to look through thoroughly, with the three of them at work. It was mostly empty anyway, and wasn’t a big place to begin with. They left, empty-handed except for the computer they retrieved. At this point, they’d take what they could get. Surely they were bound to break the case open, right? They were due for a good bit of police work, right?
Right?
---
“So, what now, Gene? While we wait on Gus, I mean?”
They were sitting together in Gene’s office, as they had done every single day since Marco’s promotion.
“Well. Gus is sorting through the computer files and trying to access the emails, so while he does that, we should cold call the local construction companies. There can’t be that many, right? I mean eventually we’ll find the one that built his place and they can give us an address.”
Gene said it with his trademark unwavering confidence, but he knew it was another needle in a haystack situation. Just like the bar-to-bar adventure they had gone through to no avail the week prior, the chances of finding the needle weren’t great.
But it’s all they could do.
---
“This isn’t very glamorous work, Gene.”
Marco popped into Gene’s office, unannounced and without knocking first, as had become the custom between the two men.
Gene laughed heartily. It was a deep laugh - the kind that starts in the stomach, clenches up, and forces its way out through the chest.
“You’re just realizing that?” Gene did not look up from the list of phone numbers he had written on a notepad.
“Nope. I think I realized it when we hopped from bar to bar with no real leads and came up with nothing.”
Gene laughed again, deeper still.
“Yeah. That’s the job. And we’re detectives so we never get a chance to use our guns, either.” Gene looked up finally only to wink, then looked back down. Although, Gene didn’t mean that. Most cops didn’t like using their weapons; it’s meant to be a last resort. Though there are the outliers - the types like Jacobs that pray for the day they get to pull their weapon and lay into someone. The real twisted kind.
Gene had only had to pull his gun a handful of times as a detective, and it was mostly in reaction to a cracked-out drug addict trying something fast on him, when faced with questioning. Marco had yet to use his.
But that would change before the end of the week.
“How many have you called so far?” Marco and Gene asked the same question in unison, as if they were synced up to one another.
“You first,” Gene said.
Marco finally took a seat and rubbed his temples for a second before answering. “I think seven or eight. It’s exhausting.”
“Yeah, no kidding. I’ve only called four.” Gene laughed from his belly again; he was in a fine mood despite the continually poor circumstances.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. I mean each time you call one, you ask. Then the receptionist transfers you to someone who might know. Then they tell you they can’t give out the information. Then you say you’re the police and you give them your badge number. Then they tell you they have to transfer you to Big Boss. Then you wait, and wait, and wait. And then they tell they didn’t do the job. Same every single time. Each phone call takes like twenty to thirty minutes for me. What about you?”
“Pretty much the same for me. I’m gonna just start telling them that I’m police and I need to speak with the highest-ranking manager in the office.” Gene paused. “Everyone’s afraid of being in trouble. Just sound scary and they might go a little quicker.”
“Good idea.” Marco stood up and began for the door, then said, “Well, I’m going to go take a walk around the station and breathe for a minute. I can’t deal with the phone for a little bit.” Marco knocked the door three solid times on his way out, the way Gene always does.
Instead of heading outside like he had originally planned, Marco instead went in the other direction and down the hall towards the computer room, where Gus always was. Marco had never seen Gus leave his little room; not for the bathroom or a cup of coffee, or even to take a break. Did he ever eat?
Three distinct knocks, then he entered without waiting. Marco didn’t even realize he was taking on some of Gene’s traits, which isn’t unusual considering the amount of time they did spend together.
“Hey Gus, any updates with the computer?”
Gus - or, as everyone else called him, the Computer Guy - wheeled his chair around to face the door, and really took Marco’s presence in before speaking.
“Yeah, actually. I’m in the files. I’m downloading everything and sifting through applicable stuff so we can comb through all of it.” He wheeled the chair back around and fiddled with the computer some more.
“Okay, what about the email? Have you gotten into that yet?”
Without turning around, with a muffled voice he said, “No. We’re not there yet. We’re taking everything from the hard drive, then moving onto everything else. We’re going to collect all the social media stuff, if there is anything to collect. Then we’ll go into his private messages, his emails, and we’ll be able to obtain his phone call and text message records.”
“Great.” Marco began getting impatient, because this started to sound more and more like a lengthy process. “So, what’s the ETA on all that stuff? Can it be done today?”
“Oh, no way. This’ll take up the rest of my time today, and that’s if I ignore all the other work I have. I’m telling you if they hired a night guy, or even just one more person to help - or if anyone helped me with anything at all - then this could be done faster. But I can have it ready tomorrow, I think.”
Marco could easily tell that Gus was becoming flustered, as his focused wavered from the computer and towards him. He didn’t turn all the way around, though, but instead just looked from the corners of his eyes.
Taking the hint, Marco said, “Okay. Thanks.” Then he turned around and went straight outside, per the original plan. He was in much more need of fresh air than before. He could feel the walls of this case closing in. And on the outside of the walls of the case, stood the walls of the station. Inhaled, exhaled, and recycled air gave most of the station a stagnant feeling, and the stench of sweaty uniformed officers only compounded it.
That picture had been circulating for days, and for all he knew, Alexander Hart could be on the run. Sure, Captain Cole had ordered surveillance on his credit cards and red-flagged his passport and ID, but that wouldn’t stop him from hitting the road and driving to another part of the country. At that point, it would become a federal case and the manhunt would be on.
No, time was indeed of the essence. The sooner the better, especially if there was a chance Miss Edmund was still alive.
---
“I’m going home now, Marco. You should, too. None of twenty-something construction companies I called turned up anything at all. The Computer Guy has already left for the day so there’s nothing more we can do ‘til tomorrow. Goodnight, pal. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gene gave three knocks on Marco’s office door and then walked out. He continued on out of the station, into his car, out of the parking lot, down the road, across the city, and into his home. He pulled into his driveway at 6:26 p.m. on Tuesday, January nineteenth.
Marco stayed for only a few moments more, and then retired to his own home - a rathole compared to Gene’s marvelous house.
On that drive home, Marco played no music. He didn’t tap his fingers on the stinger wheel to the beat of the song; he didn’t hardly even blink. He drove evenly and straight, following each and every law as they were written in the books. But as he did, his mind raced as fast as it ever had.
Mostly, his thoughts were consumed with Gene. He continued to think about Gene, and his late wife. He thought about her as a doctor, who still somehow managed to make room in her own busy schedule to be home with Delilah, and have dinner ready for Gene after his own long day. He thought about that glorious home they shared together, which was mostly the product of her income, rather than his own. He thought about how she smoked, even though she knew better, and still did not quit. He even thought some about the life insurance policy that paid out following her death, and wondered how much it must have been.
But mostly he thought about what Dallas and working in that station would be like without Gene. He thought about how in a few short weeks, that glorious home he’d shared with his wife all those years - and the years following her death - would be sold, and he would be boarding a plane to another world: California. The place where the temperature seldom reaches over eighty degrees or dips below fifty. The place where nobodies become stars, and stars become superstars. The place where dreams both die and come true every day, for someone somewhere.
He thought about the feeling in his stomach after Gene told him he was leaving, mostly for good, and he thought about the (probably) empty promises of coming to visit, and flying Marco out for visits of his own. It’s easy to talk, after all, and harder to live up.
But as sullen as he was, and however poorly he felt for himself, he still pictured Gene’s face as he told him. It was a look of joy and sorrow. Excited, yet regretful. Hopeful, yet wistful.
But mostly he was hopeful.
SEVENTEEN
At just around 8:30 p.m., the full moon hung dramatically in place over the Dallas skyline. In one particularly luxurious penthouse, a man sat at the edge of his bed, lacing up and tying his black combat boots. Tucked into the ankle of the boots were tight black jeans, and tucked into those jeans was a long-sleeve black sweatshirt. It was a strategically-chosen turtle neck, so as to cover the tattoo of an eyeball centered on his Adam’s apple.
From the dresser across from his bed, he picked up the black leather gloves that laid at the base of his TV and stuffed them into his pocket.
At 8:34, the elevator doors opened in the lobby of his apartment building. He continued out of the lobby, waving politely at the security that sat next to the entrance, and into the brilliantly moonlit Dallas night.
At 8:35, he entered his black sedan and drove six blocks east. In his car, he took the gloves from his pocket and slipped both on. Clenching his fists and wiggling his fingers, he stretched the material a bit for comfort. From his glove box, he took a homemade black ski mask and covered his entire head with it. It masked not only his notable facial features, but it also tamed his shaggy brown hair.
At 8:47, he opened the lobby door to the quiet and mostly-deserted office tower. The lights from upstairs throughout the many stories usually were all turned out by eight, signaling an empty building. All except for one, that is. There was always one light that stayed on much longer than the rest - an office high on the thirtieth floor.
At 8:49, the inside of the elevator chimed, and the doors slid open ever so dramatically on the thirtieth floor.
The man discretely stepped out from the elevator and into the large office. He stopped just for a moment to look around the room. Over the empty reception desk, large bronze letters read, Edmund & Hart.
This is the place, he thought.
The large room was completely dark. Every desk was empty and the room was completely void of light except for the small red dots rhythmically flickering from the telephones. But there was one office all the way to the back that was still lit with fluorescent overhead bulbs. Like a moth, he was drawn to it.
Slowly, he stepped through the office, passing desk after desk. He imagined the office was normally bustling and full of life, and then he imagined how this office might look in the morning after he’d left his mark.
The door to the office was open. On it, the nameplate read, Sr. Partner & Co-Founder, Terry Edmund.
This is the guy, he thought.
In the office chair facing the door, sat Terry. Although on this particular day, he hadn’t had enough energy to finish. The overwhelming amount of unfinished work sucked all the life out of Mr. Terry Edmund, and he had fallen asleep at his desk. Face down there he lay, with his keyboard pushed to the side and his head resting in the crook of his arm where his forearm and bicep meet. Snoring like an overweight dog.
How convenient, he thought.
From his holster, he drew an M1911A1 pistol. He had the serial number scratched off before he purchased it, which was extremely illegal. But that was the point. Then, from his left pocket, he drew the magazine that fits into the bottom of the pistol. After quietly clicking it into place, he withdrew the final ingredient - a long, round spec-ops suppressor. Also highly illegal, but again that was the point. He screwed it into place, and stepped toward Terry, rounding his desk and standing by his side.
He lowered the pistol to Terry’s temple with his right hand and, with his left, he shook Terry’s shoulder, waking him. Before Terry had the briefest moment to become aware of his surroundings, the man said, “Courtesy of Mr. Hart.”
He pulled the trigger once, and a mist of blood sprayed outward and upward, covering the opposite wall and part of the window peering into the skyline. A chunk of flesh and brain matter flew with it and landed on the desk, also sticking to the wall. Blood immediately began waterfalling down from the holes in Terry’s head, covering his neck and quickly drenching his shirt. He slumped sideways in his chair, but was secured by the large leather arm.
The man pulled the chair further from the desk, and dumped Terry onto the floor. His lifeless body hit the base of the desk with a thud, rattling it and knocking over his computer monitor.
Terry lied face down on the ground, his snore no longer chain sawing the air. From further back this time, the man put two more bullets in the back of Terry’s head, misting much more blood in all directions. Some of that blood spurted upwards; some made a home at the bottom of the desk; some joined the rapidly-growing red pool.
It took only seconds for the thick, syrupy blood to pool around his corpse and thicken the air with the heavy stench of iron.
At 8:51 p.m. on January nineteenth, Terry Edmund drew his final breath, and forever departed from this world.
---
At the exact moment that Terry Edmund was being murdered in his sleepy haze downtown, Gene was turning out all of the downstairs lights. He made his rounds around the home that he would so dearly miss - the one that produced hundreds of memorie
s that he would forever cherish.
Gene had finished his ritual a couple of hours earlier than normal and made his way upstairs toward the bed. Despite the mental wear and tear he had suffered at the hand of the utterly disappointing day of work, he still was not tired. So instead of going directly for the bed at 8:52 p.m. - which is an hour earlier than what is normal - he ran himself a shower.
He peeled himself out of his clothing, which had become looser and looser with the recent weight loss.
Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.
His showers were always short. They seldom ran longer than five or six minutes, and this occasion was no different. He stepped out onto the cold tile floor and into a room that hardly had enough time to properly steam the mirrors.
He dried off, threw on his post-shower robe, and brushed his teeth, thus completing his nightly routine.
As he opened the bathroom door that led into the master bedroom, a cool breeze rushed in and collided with the hot steam forcing its way out. The two worlds waged war with each other and fought for a moment, until it ultimately ended in a draw; the hot steam took the high grounds while the cold compromised and stayed at the bottom.
He reached his bed just in time for his phone to buzz and ring. A photograph of his beautiful daughter gave life to his typically dreary screen, and he quickly swiped the green icon to answer the call.
Before he had time to say his greetings, an overly-exuberant Delilah screamed into the receiver.
“Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad!” Gene couldn’t tell if there was a reason for this, or if she was drunk at the moment. Considering it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet in California, he doubted it. “Dad, you won’t believe it!”
A smile shoved itself onto Gene’s face, bringing both corners of his mouth as high as they would stretch. This could be the call he had been waiting for over the last few months.
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