Hollow's Eve

by Hannibal Adofo

  Most of them hung their heads.

  One with his hat on backward shook his head. “Ethan wasn’t here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He left after the game,” the boy said. “He looked pissed about something.”

  “His mother said he was coming here?”

  The boy with the ball cap shook his head. “Nah, he just said that. He said he had to go talk to someone.”

  “Talk to who?”

  Backward cap shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  Brandt looked to Vincent. “He didn’t come here?” Vincent asked. “Ethan didn’t come here after the game. That’s correct?”

  More nods.

  “He just left us his backpack and then he left,” shaggy hair said. “Said he’d be by later to get it.”

  “Yeah,” the blond one said. “I just thought he was getting laid.”

  Vincent shot the kid a look.

  The kid shut his mouth.

  “Where’s his backpack?” Brandt asked.

  Josh pointed a finger over his shoulder to the upstairs bedroom. Brandt followed it up the stairs to investigate.

  10

  “Who’s touched this?” Brandt asked, as her and Vincent slipped on latex gloves.

  Josh raised his hand. “Just me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  As soon as the gloves were on, Brandt and Vincent unzipped Ethan’s backpack carefully, as if there was bomb in it that would detonate at any moment. They searched through the contents and found two textbooks, a wrapper for a protein bar, pencils, a calculator, and a notebook.

  “No one took anything out of this?” Brandt asked the boys.

  All of them shook their heads.

  And that was the moment when Vincent saw it—a piece of paper, the same as the one they found in Ethan’s pocket, folded up and peeking out of the top of his notebook.

  Brandt saw the note, slowly removed it, unfolded it, and read the scribbling on the front:

  I HAVE THE BLACKEST EYES. THE DEVIL’S EYES…

  “What does that mean?” one of the boys asked.

  Vincent said, “It means all of you boys need to call your parents and tell them to come pick you up.”

  The boys stood there, frozen stiff, looking scared out of their wits.

  “Now,” Vincent said, saying it loud enough to get the boys moving.

  As the boys went about pulling their cell phones and calling their parents, Vincent and Brandt lowered their voices to whispers.

  “What do you think this means?” Brandt asked, nodding to the note.

  Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know. This doesn’t make any damn sense. There’s nothing unique about these notes. Nothing that makes sense. It’s almost childlike, really.”

  “Right? It’s like there’s no rhyme. No reason.”

  Vincent took a moment. “There is,” he said. “It’s just going to take some time to figure it out.”

  After the parents of all four boys arrived, spoke with Vincent, and publicly reprimanded their sons, Brandt bagged Ethan’s backpack for evidence.

  “We need to get that to the station,” Vincent said, before telling the parents of the boys that he wanted to see all of them at the station the following morning.

  After all was settled and coordinated, Vincent and Brandt were en route to the morgue.

  “We’ll need to call up the chief,” Vincent said. “Give him the heads-up about what we’ve found.”

  But the phone call came to Vincent before he even reached out to grab his phone, his cell buzzing to life from the center console.

  He picked up. “It’s me,” Chief Riley said. “Need you to meet me at the mayor’s. Right now.”

  Riley hung up.

  Emerging in Vincent was the sickest of feelings. This meeting was surely going to go badly.

  11

  “Why did they call Riley about the prints and not you?” Brandt asked.

  Vincent shrugged. He had been thinking the same thing. “Not sure,” he said. “But we’re about to find out.”

  They arrived at the mayor’s office twelve minutes later and were upstairs outside her office a minute after that, a collection of people waiting inside and all eyes glued to Edgar Vincent.

  Chief Riley was inside the office with Mayor Lipton, who’d been elected six months ago.

  Standing in the corner was one of the uniformed officers from the Hollow Green beat, a solemn look stretched across his face and his gaze focused on the carpet.

  “Come on in, detective,” Chief Riley said, a bit of a glare in his eye.

  Vincent and Brandt entered the room and could immediately feel the tension building to a palpable level.

  “What’s going on?” Vincent asked.

  The air seemed to grow still… And hot.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, detective?” the mayor said as she motioned to the burgundy leather couch.

  Vincent moved slowly, taking a scan of the room and unable to escape the uneasy feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

  Something’s up. Everyone is looking at me like a stole something.

  “Can I ask why everyone is being so standoffish?” Vincent asked.

  The chief looked to the mayor. “Go ahead,” the mayor said.

  “Detective Vincent,” the chief began, “can I ask where you were tonight before you received the call from Officer Brackett about the body in Millennium Park tonight?”

  “That body had a name,” Vincent said. “And that name was Ethan Travis.”

  The chief held up a hand. “Just answer the question, detective. Please.”

  “This sounds like an interrogation.”

  The chief looked to the mayor and back to Vincent. “That’s because it is, detective.”

  Vincent paused and took a look around the room. He could feel all eyes on him, and an overwhelming sense that everyone was going to pounce on him if he tried to do something stupid.

  “I was at the diner,” Vincent said. “And then I got the call.”

  The chief nodded. “Okay. What about before that?”

  “What?”

  “Where were you before you were at the diner?”

  Vincent thought about it. “I was at the station,” he said.

  Brandt nodded. “That’s true. I was with him.”

  “I’m not asking you any questions at this time, Detective Brandt,” the chief responded.

  The chief looked back at Vincent. “You can account for your whereabouts this entire evening?” he asked.

  Vincent nodded. “I can.”

  The chief then looked at the mayor—the both of them clearly knowing something that Vincent did not.

  “Can you explain, then,” the chief said, moving closer to Vincent, hands out in front of him, “how your prints were on the note that was found in Ethan Travis’ pocket?”

  “What…” Vincent’s heart began to race. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your prints were found on the note inside the victim’s pocket,” the chief said. “And I’m curious to know how that’s possible.”

  Vincent pondered the answer. How is that possible?

  “It must have been an accident,” he said, “when we were looking at the body.”

  But I didn’t touch that note with my bare hands.

  I would never do that.

  With as calm of a demeanor as he could muster, Vincent said, “I don’t know how that’s possible. It must be an accident. Has to be.”

  The chief shook his head, unconvinced.

  Vincent noticed. “I assume you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

  “Doesn’t matter if I believe you or not,” the chief said. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

  “Well, the evidence is wrong. Terribly wrong.”

  Ignoring what Vincent said, the mayor stepped forward. “Detective Vincent,” she said, “based on what’s happened here tonight, and the severity of the situation, I�
�m glad that Chief Riley came to me for my counsel. While you do have the right to a fair and just judgment in this situation, a right to trial, I see no other option at this current juncture than to allow Chief Riley to relieve you of your shield and badge until this matter can be sorted out. You will be suspended without pay for three weeks, pending further investigation.”

  Vincent was on the verge of tipping the couch over.

  “Detective Brandt,” the mayor said, “I’d like you to relieve Detective Vincent of his gun and shield, please.”

  Brandt hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth between Riley and Vincent.

  “Do it, detective,” Chief Riley commanded her.

  Brandt, still reluctant, moved toward Vincent. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding out her hands.

  Vincent took his time removing his gun and shield, and handed them over, now feeling what he thought was a shred of what Mrs. Travis was feeling when he told her that her son Ethan was dead.

  A total loss.

  12

  It was the longest drive Edgar Vincent had taken in his life. After being relieved of his duties and escorted from the room, Brandt was put in charge of taking Vincent back to the station so he could retrieve his belongings—but “under close supervision,” as requested by the chief.

  Vincent stared out the window of the passenger side as Brandt drove them back to the station. Brandt occasionally threw concerned looks his way as they sat in silence for the first leg of the drive.

  Finally, she broke the silence.

  “Listen,” she said. “I don’t know what I can say—”

  Vincent held up his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t believe them,” she said. “Not one word of it.”

  Vincent smirked. “I appreciate that, detective. But you barely know me.”

  “I know enough. I know enough to know that you wouldn’t do something like this. You’re a good man, Vincent. A good detective. Whatever happened is a setup. I’m positive.”

  Vincent looked back out his window. “Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

  Vincent had witnessed several officers do the “walk of shame” during his career—corrupt cops, cops turned criminals, cops who couldn’t take the heat anymore. It was a humbling thing to witness, an experience that made you glad you were on the right side of the law. But now Edgar Vincent was taking that walk, and he felt all eyes on him while it happened, and a feeling of shame welled up inside of him.

  He had cleared his desk, grabbed a few photos, his coffee cup, and his paycheck, and moved slowly toward the door.

  He saw sadness in officers’ faces, smugness in others, and in some he couldn’t tell if it was stoicism or hate, and he didn’t have the time to figure it out.

  The chief watched from his office, standing with a cross-armed stance and a smug look stretched across his face as Vincent walked through the station, not able to help himself from catching the looks as he moved toward the exit.

  “Vincent,” the chief called out, stopping the former detective in his tracks.

  Vincent did an about-face and stared at Riley.

  “Come into my office for a moment,” Riley said.

  Vincent gritted his teeth as he marched toward the office, set his belongings down, and stood in the center of the room as Riley closed the door.

  Sometime in silence felt like forever to Vincent.

  “I just wanted to say,” Riley began, “that I’ve never, in all my years, encountered such a brilliant mind fallen to waste.”

  Vincent said nothing.

  For now, it was probably best.

  “You betrayed us,” Riley continued. “You betrayed everything that law enforcements stands for, and as God as my witness—I will make sure that you pay the price for the suffering you have caused. Rest assured, detective”—Riley got in close, his breath hot on Vincent’s ear—“you will pay for what you’ve done.”

  Again, Vincent said nothing, but he was boiling inside. This man was practically murdering his character.

  “Now get out of my office,” Riley ordered him.

  Vincent, not giving Riley an inch or a word to hang on, gathered his stuff and left the office, moving in a beeline toward the door and not looking back.

  Brandt was hot on his heels with some paperwork shoved inside her jacket.

  13

  “Hey!” Brandt called out to Vincent as he moved toward his car.

  “It’s fine, Brandt,” Vincent said, not turning back. “You don’t need to apologize any more for that ingrate inside.”

  She rushed in front of him. “No, hold up a second,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I wanted to give you this.” Brandt held out a case file for Vincent—copies, to be more accurate. “I just made duplicates of everything we found tonight so you could stay in the loop.”

  Vincent, after checking over Brandt’s shoulder to see that the coast was clear, reached toward the papers. “Did you put into the log that you made these copies?”

  Brandt shook her head.

  “You could get into a lot of trouble for that,” Vincent said.

  Brandt shrugged. “I’ll take my chances. We both know this isn’t right, and if there’s anyone who can look at this and figure out what makes it wrong, it’s you.”

  “Thank you,” Vincent said. “This might just come in handy.”

  “I’ll keep an ear out. See if anything comes up, any new leads. I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can.”

  “You’ve done enough. Believe me. If Riley or anyone else sniffs out that you helped me, you’re going to land yourself in a world of trouble.”

  Brandt nodded. “I wanted to be a cop to bring justice to the world. This, what’s happening to you, is not justice, and that boy that was murdered tonight doesn’t need a fabricated scandal to get in the way of finding the person who killed him.”

  Vincent couldn’t help but smile. She’s a good kid. Not a lot of people can have a heart like that.

  “Be careful, detective,” Vincent told her, looking into her eyes with a stern and unwavering look. “If there truly is some kind of scandal happening, then rest assured they will throw you under the bus if you get in the way of whatever is happening.”

  Brandt swallowed. “I’ll take my chances…”

  “Okay.” Vincent unlocked his car, tossed his stuff inside, and sat in the driver’s seat.

  “What are you going to do now?” Brandt asked.

  Vincent thought about it. “There’s only one person I want to talk to right now,” he said. “And she likes chocolate milk and a boy named Chris.”

  Vincent could sense the police cruiser tailing him back home before he even had a chance to take a look in the rearview mirror.

  Riley.

  That son of bitch is going to have a tail on me all night long.

  Vincent sighed.

  Let him.

  It was a short drive back to Vincent’s place, and most of it was spent with Vincent contemplating what could have happened and how.

  What will happen if they try and convict me? What will happen if they manage to send me to jail?

  Vincent could see it now—all the media coverage, the journalists looking to make a name by plastering another “psycho cop” across their headlines. His daughter’s name disgraced, his ex-in-laws nodding, grinning, and saying, “I told you so. We knew he wasn’t good enough for you.”

  Vincent sighed again. Tonight was a bad night. A really bad night. So much so that his thoughts were completely illogical. All he wanted to do, what he needed to do, was go back home and make a phone call to his daughter.

  14

  After Vincent dropped his belongings and took a minute to settle, he took out his cell phone and lingered near the front window of his one-story home nestled near the highway that led out of town.

  He called his daughter Claire’s number. It rang twice before she picked up.

>   “Daddy!” she greeted him cheerfully. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Vincent smiled. Even with a belly full of fear, his daughter’s voice was like salvation in the middle of the Sahara. “Hey, Claire baby,” he said. “It’s always good to be thought about by my daughter.”

  “How are you?”

  Keep what’s happening to yourself.

  “I’m okay, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Chris and I are going to Ashley’s for a little Halloween party. We’re just getting his dad to give us a ride.”

  “Be careful, honey. Ashley lives in a rough neighborhood.”

  “Not anymore! She just moved a while ago. Her mom just got a job with ReMax. They’re actually doing really well.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad for Ashley.”

  Silence…

  “Are you okay, Dad?” Claire asked. “You sound a little… I don’t know, solemn.”

  “Huh? Yeah, I’m okay.” He paused. “Solemn? Big words for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Who’s currently got a driver’s license and an A in honors English.”

  Vincent closed his eyes—he’d had no idea about that. Sometimes (especially moments like this), he questioned if his competency as a detective was due in part to his lackluster nature as a father.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said. “I didn’t know you got your driver’s license.”

  “It’s okay. I was too excited. I drove Mom’s car around in celebration and kind of forgot to tell you.”

  “I’m just happy for you, hon. You deserve it. Hard work pays off.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I miss you. A lot.”

  “I miss you too, sweetie.”

  Vincent knew Claire could hear the strain in his voice. The uncertainty. “Are you sure you’re okay, Dad?” she asked, her voice a little strained. “You sound…sad.”

  Vincent rubbed his neck, debating how much he wanted to tell his daughter. He didn’t have a shoulder to cry on, though he did have Claire for certain moments when he needed the comfort. But there were some things he knew he couldn’t tell his daughter. She was only sixteen. She had her whole life ahead of her, and enough of her early years had been plagued with too much drama to add any more into the mix.