by Tom Pitts
It took just over an hour.
Oscar was already asleep. He slept with his clothes on—like that would make a difference. The bedroom door opened. Ramon entered the room and stood there letting his eyes adjust, listening himself breathe. Oscar sensed it deep in his dreams and woke up.
Too late.
“Hold still, you piece of shit.”
• • •
Alvarez lay in bed with his hands cupped behind his head. Sue lay silent beside him. He knew she wasn’t asleep because he couldn’t hear her light feminine snore. She was only feigning sleep. That was fine; he was tired of talking about it. Even though Vince was getting paid-leave, he’d already spent more time at the station than any day on the job he could think of. He certainly wasn’t getting laid either. He worked hard to keep her happy and now that delicate balance had been thrown out of whack. Sue was becoming icy, resentful that her routine had been fucked up, fearful that her comfort zone had been disrupted. He tried to remember a positive comment, a show of sympathy, a kind word, anything she’d said about Hugh. He couldn’t think of one.
In the dark he tried to go over the answers he’d given earlier that day. He wanted to form a picture in his mind, letting it develop like an old Polaroid, trying to see the figure that the whole city saw, the demon. The trick was to imagine him, but not too much. If the image became crisp and in-focus, then Vince would most definitely be cornered into a lie. But if he kept the killer’s image misty, blurred, moving through reality on the corner like a dream, then Vince would only be helping by adding to the picture, providing a canvas so others could paint in the details. He tried to see him, the man he never saw.
Oscar Flores had a dream that night, or at least a vision. He saw the man across the street again, the man with the Giants T-shirt, leaning over all that blood. Only this time the man stopped what he was doing, stood straight up, turned and looked up at Oscar’s window, right at him. There was a connection this time, between the man and Oscar. This time Oscar didn’t see the demon that the rest of the city saw, this time Oscar saw an angel. There was an aura around him, a glow, as though an idea had flashed in the killer’s mind and the man’s whole body lit up like a light bulb. The killer peered up at him with one of those soft benevolent looks that reminded Oscar of the Saints frozen in stained glass inside the Mission Dolores. The killer was giving Oscar a gift.
• • •
The SF Examiner’s headline read Hunt for the Killer. The San Francisco Chronicle’s said Eyewitness to Cop Killing. There were some vague details about Bobby Reese’s story repeated in both papers. Each piece ended with a recap of yesterday’s articles and a sketch of the shooter. Neither noted that, although they now had an eyewitness, the sketch remained the same. Anonymous. Unusable. Both articles stressed that police were still looking for anyone with any kind of information. Phone numbers of homicide detectives, including Terry Schmitz’s, were also listed along with the tip hotline.
On AM radio, morning talk show host Ron Owens called the killer a coward. But not as big of a coward, he said, as those eyewitnesses who hadn’t yet come forward. Callers grappled with motives for the crime. Corruption and incompetence were quickly swept aside. Hugh Patterson was a victim, the ultimate victim. “He made us all victims,” one caller said. “It was a hate crime of the worst kind, the hate was for us all, for society.” It was a crime against the City of San Francisco.
The force and viciousness of the crime was unifying. The city emotionally banded together in their lust for vengeance. The frustrating lack of new details in the story only made their lust grow. The citizens filled in the blanks and drew their own conclusions about the killer and what should be done with him. Columnist Mitch Tatum reminded his readers about the lynch mobs of the Barbary Coast. His column was encouraging, not cautionary.
The local media’s only distraction that day was the third and final game in the Giants/Dodgers series. The series was tied, one game a piece. The weather was perfect for baseball.
Oscar got up early that day, the heat from the morning sun waking him up. He sat up in bed and thought about the vision he had last night. The idea. He rejected the logic, physically shaking his body like a wet dog to rid himself of the thought. He hoped maybe the idea actually was a dream, one that would dissipate the further into consciousness he rose. It didn’t work. The idea was still there.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to dress. He thought about the game today and wondered if this afternoon would be a good time to go down the ballpark. During several day-games last summer, Oscar would bus down to the ballpark. He would stroll amidst the throngs of fans and work his way to the back of the park. There, with their backs to McCovey Cove, fans would wait for the standing-room-only gates to swing open every third inning for a chance watch the game for free. Oscar, waiting patiently, would slip in and see if he could peek through the elbows and hips of the standing-room-only crowd to catch a glimpse of the game. He’d been there before and felt the excitement when Pablo Sandoval hit a home run right over their heads and into the bay. He heard the cheer and looked up just in time to see the ball arcing overhead and then land with a splash behind him. People cheered, hi-fived, and slapped him on the back as though he had something to do with it. Oscar felt great and he was glad he was a part of the moment. About a week later, Oscar attended when the Cleveland Indians lost after stretching it to twelve torturous innings. The damp wind whipped across the bay and seemed to funnel right into the cove as the game pushed into the night. Cold didn’t seem to matter, though and the warmth of camaraderie gave off a mellow buzz. The fans stood patiently getting their money’s worth watching those tense innings for free. And to pull off the win, after all that, having invested their time and hearts, all of them together, clenched against the cold. Oscar was glad he was there then, too.
Oscar pulled on his pants and listened. No sound. He stood up. No one was there.
Maybe.
If someone was there, they were asleep.
Maybe.
He eased his door open and walked lightly through the kitchen. The stillness of it made him feel guilty. He only grabbed an apple off the counter because he knew the cupboard door squeaked. The clock on the microwave oven read 10:10 am. He tiptoed down the stairs, careful to step on the outside of each stair. As soon as he pulled open the door he felt the cool air rush in to greet him and he stepped outside into the reassuring midday sounds of the city.
Before he walked toward the 14 Mission bus, he decided he would look at the corner. Just look. He stood there, on his side of the street, and tried to see it all over again. It was easy. All that blood. The light was different now, but Oscar could play back the scene like a movie. He could see it superimposed over the sidewalk before him. The man with the hoodie, leaning over. All that blood flowing down the gutter. The cop sprawled out.
All that blood.
Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push out the image of the blood. He tried to imagine only the man in the hoodie. He saw him, like a ghost right here in midday, leaning over the body. He saw him, just like the other day, but Oscar was closer now, on the sidewalk, seeing it from a new vantage point. It was like an instant replay. Only this time, the man turned his head before he ran. Oscar saw it perfectly. He turned his head and looked across the street, right up at Oscar’s room. Just like it happened in Oscar’s dream.
Oscar snuck onto the bus through the rear door so he didn’t have to pay, slipping in between the exiting bodies and finding an inconspicuous seat toward the back. He plunked himself down and was immediately met by Hugh Patterson’s face. The man across from him was reading the newspaper and the picture stared down at Oscar from the front page of the Chronicle. Oscar looked around. There were several people reading the newspaper, all of them with the front page held high up in front of them. It was the same picture that was up on scoreboard at the ballpark yesterday. Oscar turned away. He was getting tired of seeing the dead man’s face. Then he saw the T-shirt. T
here was a middle-aged white woman with a 49ers hat on; she was tucked back in the corner of the bus. Her purse strap was adorned with dozens of sporting pins, mostly red and gold, some black and orange, and across her chest was the same picture that seemed to be following Oscar everywhere. There were birth and death dates stenciled on the shirt below Hugh’s face along with obligatory Rest in Peace written in calligraphy. It looked like one of those cheap iron-on tees that you can buy at the mall. Oscar wondered if the lady had it made there or if she bought it from some street vendor on Mission Street who was smart enough to be selling them.
GAME THREE
The 14 Mission made its way toward downtown, stopping almost every block to let people on and off. Mostly on. By the time it reached 5th Street, the bus was so full the driver refused to let anymore passengers on. After three more stops, Oscar exited the bus with a wave of others decked out in orange and black, and started the trek up 2nd Street toward AT&T Park. Most of them had loose, relaxed smiles on their faces. They had made this pilgrimage dozens of times. Although it was hours before the first pitch, there were plenty of fans milling about hoping to get there early enough to catch a glimpse of their heroes during batting practice.
Oscar looked with envy at the ticket holders lining up at the 2nd and King entrance. Small families with coolers full of drinks and snacks. Everything they could want to stuff their faces with while they watched the game. During the Indians game, a fan caught up in the moment handed Oscar a can of smuggled beer. The man smiled at Oscar as though the beer had been an invitation to a secret fraternity. The 16-oz. Miller was warm and seemed to curdle on Oscar’s tongue. He would have much rather had a soda, but he drank it anyway.
As Oscar made his way around the back of the park to McCovey Cove, he noticed two more of the Hugh Patterson shirts. To Oscar, the cop and the Giants were linked. Hugh’s distorted image on the T-shirts looked even more like an old baseball card, Oscar thought. Even the ginger glow of Patterson’s hair and sparse freckles seemed connected to the Giants team colors.
The back of the park was not yet crowded. A few lazy kayakers paddled into the cove hoping to get souvenir homers hit out of the park. People filed off the ferries arriving for the game. A few of the ballpark regulars blended with tourists and newcomers, all jockeying to be let into the free standing-room-only section. The orange and black buckets were out again, too, taking donations. There was a slow and steady build to the crowd that turned from congestion into excitement. They gathered at the park for what they loved. Baseball.
But as Oscar stood interloping among his people, he heard the talk turn from baseball to the killing. What should be done with the sick son-of-a-bitch, asshole, puta that did it, and what a good dude, guy, fellow, bro, Officer Hugh was. Did you hear he was a big Giants fan? He coached junior Giants, played Little League, beat the whole department in online fantasy baseball. He was too hard on the gangs, others said. He poked his nose in and got it shot off. He hated the drugs that consumed his neighborhood. It was an execution, he was targeted, the execution was a case of mistaken identity. A gang war that was the culprit, or a transient, a roving cop killer, a terrorist agitator dressed up to look like a gangbanger. The crowd was distracted, obsessed. They were ignoring the real reason they’d assembled. Oscar cocked his head left and right, letting the comments ricochet around him. He wished that they’d go back to talking about baseball.
It wasn’t until the fifth inning, when they displayed the picture of Hugh Patterson again, that Oscar thought about it. There was no avoiding it. It had been at him all day, staring him in the face. He had to think about it, his dream. That asshole, that creep, that puta, that motherfucker looking right up at him. Practically smiling.
The people around him hushed as the loudspeaker crackled something about Hugh. Oscar couldn’t make out what it was; he just watched the intent faces around him. Then a cheer went up and the people around him clapped and nodded approvingly.
“Fifty thousand,” someone said.
“Don’t matter if it’s a hundred,” said someone else.
And Oscar looked up, craning his neck to see the scoreboard from the free section, and saw Hugh’s face, impossibly huge, stretched, distorted, and glowing. It was a sixty-foot aura. He could feel the reverent buzz in the crowd as they all gazed up silently at the image. Hugh’s face hung there above them: electric, begging for justice, begging for some sense to be made out of his life. Practically smiling.
• • •
Detective Terry Schmitz was sitting at his desk, not sure if the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was hunger or indigestion. He eyed his coffee cup with suspicion. He really ought to give that shit up. He felt a gurgle. Caffeine was one of his only vices left and he didn’t like how the stuff dictated his days.
The phone on his desk rang. He answered the call and instinctively picked up his coffee mug and took a sip. It was the first call today. Yesterday it had been crank callers, well wishers, and even a deluded confession. Not one usable tip.
“Detective Schmitz.”
“I saw the guy,” was all the voice said. He couldn’t tell for sure, but Schmitz thought the voice belonged to a boy.
“What guy?”
“The guy you’re looking for.”
“And where did you see him?” Terry had already taken tips from concerned citizens that saw the killer on a bus, drinking wine out of a bag at 6th and Market Street, driving a taxi cab, and one caller claimed that the murderer was bussing tables at Zuni’s. Not since the Zodiac Killings had there been so many sightings of a suspect. The vague everyman quality of the sketch wasn’t helping. All these tips were supposed to be followed up on, but Terry had already decided to only go for the ones that set off an alarm, his intuition. The kind of feeling that rose up inside of him when he heard the boy’s voice.
“Where?” said the voice, sounding confused.
“Where did you think you saw the perpetrator?”
“On the corner. I saw him do it.”
Terry froze. Eyewitness. He carefully set down his coffee cup, as though a spill might frighten the caller away. He looked at his phone and scribbled down the number on the caller ID.
“I’m gonna need some more information, Mr. …?”
“Flores. Oscar Flores. I live at 799 Capp. Right at 23rd.”
“Well, Oscar, when might be a good time when we could talk further?” Terry was talking slow, drawing out his words while he frantically searched through his yellow legal pad for the kid’s name. “If you like, we can come over and talk right now.”
“No. Maybe I should come see you.”
“It’s no problem. We can come to you, give you a ride down here. Whatever you think.”
“No, I’ll come see you. I’ll come today, this afternoon. I promise.” And the boy hung up. Terry sat with the receiver still pressed against his ear. Then, with his freshly sharpened pencil, he circled a tiny note he’d made two days ago at the bottom of his yellow pad. It said, Ria Flores, 45, son Ramon 20, 799 Capp, upstairs. Below it was written, inside, nothing.
Oscar felt sick when he hung up the phone. He didn’t know if he could go through with his plan. After the game he’d bussed home and walked two blocks to the 24th Street BART station where there were payphones tucked on the mezzanine level, above the trains but below the street. He stood there, staring straight ahead, feeling clammy and cold; commuters walking right by, stepping around him. He was invisible. Like a ghost—no, like a thief.
A derelict sat nearby, piled like trash on top of a near crushed cardboard box. It looked like he had been in the same spot for months. There was a dirty top hat at his feet turned upside down for charity of any kind. He was bloated, diseased looking. Greasy dirt marks creased his face. Underneath the filth, Oscar saw something familiar. The bum wore that same smile, that same damn smile that was on the killer’s face, and on Hugh’s. The bum kept looking right at him, like he knew something. Smiling with his eyes now, not breaking his stare. What did he know?
Oscar frowned, tried to give him his hard look, and started for the escalator.
• • •
“Yes, they want me back in today. It’s fucking relentless. That a-hole Schmitz has done a 180 on me, completely turned. Fucking asshole thinks I shot my own partner, I swear.”
Sue watched her husband pace back and forth across the room clutching his phone. The pacing wasn’t enough to feed his agitation; he knocked on counters, straightened pictures, opened and closed the refrigerator door.
“Look, fuck this. You guys need to dip into the fund and get me a real lawyer. What do you mean, what do I have to worry about? A fucking miscarriage of justice, that’s what.”
Sue could tell that the sound had stopped on the other end of the phone. Vince had stopped talking, too. She squinted at him, tried to read his thoughts, gauge the look in his eyes, but he wouldn’t stand still long enough. The conversation started again.
“No, my story has not changed, not one bit. I think he’s just got a hard-on ‘cause he has no leads, not real ones. I don’t know what the fuck he wants with me. I don’t know what it is he wants to hear me say. It a fucking agenda. I don’t know what to tell you.”
She watched him cross over to the kitchen counter and light a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in years, not since he went into the academy, and there he was, smoking, inside the apartment, with no ashtray and no window open. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why this was happening. Vince didn’t commit the crime, and he wasn’t the one who got shot. He lost his partner; it could have been him dead in the street. Why were they focused on Vince? Why did his testimony matter so much? He wasn’t there, he couldn’t have helped. Sue sat with her hand over her mouth, desperately wanting to ask questions.
• • •
Piss hitting the urinal porcelain always sounded metallic to Schmitz. It reminded him of the god awful metal shitters they have in the holding cells. He hated that the john was the cop equivalent of the water cooler, the only place where they felt vulnerable enough to let their guard down, a level playing field where things were off the record. Terry didn’t like being talked to when he was doing his business. Didn’t matter if it was about a case or last night’s game, it could wait till he got to the fucking sink.
