Come Out Tonight

by Bonnie Rozanski

  I hadn’t really figured how I would do this, maybe just play it by ear. “I understand you work at Vandenberg,” I said.

  “Is that the question?” he asked.

  “I’m getting to it. You were one of the discoverers of Somnolux? That’s a blockbuster of a drug. You must have made a lot of money from it.”

  Ryan’s mouth sort of twisted, but all he said was, “Not me. I don’t have any rights to it. Vandenberg does.”

  “So they make the money.”

  “In a matter of speaking. It goes back into the research process. Vandenberg is non-profit.”

  “So it’s a cash cow at this point? It helps to support Vandenberg?”

  “Well, again in a matter of speaking. The research process takes a lot of money. Look, Detective, where are you going with this?”

  I decided to ignore the question. “So if Somnolux were found to have serious side effects, and it had to be withdrawn, that would create a serious hole in Vandenberg’s budget?”

  “Why are you….Oh, I get it. You’ve heard about a couple of parasomnias that showed up out of a hundred million prescriptions. Listen, Detective, with a drug like Somnolux and the many millions of patients taking it, a few side effects have got to show up, if only by chance. That’s the business. Somnolux didn’t cause them.”

  I tried again. “But if it were publicized, wouldn’t it hurt?”

  “It was in the papers, Detective. It’s just that there were so few incidents that nothing ever came of it. Vandenberg has nothing to worry about with Somnolux. It’s a great product. Next question?”

  I decided to drop that for the moment. I doubted that I could do justice here to either Somnolux or its maker, anyway. Vandenberg was like the elephant in the room: of such magnitude that the two of us who were pretending it was not there clearly had chosen to discuss mites and flyspecks rather than to deal with the giant beast that loomed above us. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it,” I said instead. “Were you the sole discoverer of Somnolux, Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “No,” he said. “There was another scientist.”

  “And her name was Sherry Pollack, wasn’t it?”

  You could see his jaw muscle begin to tense up, his left leg begin to jiggle. “Yes,” he said. “What about her?”

  “She doesn’t work with you any more?”

  “From the sound of it, I think you know as well as I do, Detective, that Sherry has been in a vegetative state for months.”

  “True,” I said, deciding that subtlety wasn’t working either. “Mr. O’Donnell, where were you on April 30, the night that Sherry Pollack was attacked?”

  “Ah,” Ryan said, almost smiling. “Is that the question?”

  “That’s the one,” I said, smiling back. “And what’s the answer?”

  “I was home alone, just like tonight. I got home a little before seven and I didn’t leave till I went to work the next morning. I don’t have an alibi, if that’s what you’re getting at, Detective, but what kind of motive would I have? Sherry and I were good friends.

  “And besides,” Ryan said, warming to the topic, “why are you looking at anyone else except Henry Jackman? It was in his apartment she was attacked!

  I bet you think that dummy couldn’t hurt a fly. Well let me fill you in on some of things that Sherry told me about him. Like that he has a violent temper. She said he’d fly off the handle at the dumbest things. She was really afraid of him. Of what he might do to her. She told me so.”

  Could Ryan have been simply jealous of Henry, so jealous that he would resort to attacking the very thing he desired and pinning it on Henry Jackman? And, after all, an alibi is only effective until it is found to be false. O’Donnell may have had an ironclad alibi in being out of town the night of Jessica’s murder, but we cops know that he could have managed to be back and forth in any number of ways. Then there was the fact that Vandenberg was ostensibly trying to prevent Sherry from telling the public about the side effects. Who would they have sent to stop her, I wondered? All that said, I couldn’t see Ryan O’Donnell as the one who did it. Nor could I see him showing up late that night at Sherry’s nursing home to “snuff her out,” as Jackman so poetically put it.

  Now, Henry Jackman on the other hand, seemed more and more likely a suspect. It had happened in his apartment; he’d waited till the morning to report it, and, now I’d learned that he had a violent temper.

  Something came into my mind just then. “Henry said you told him Sherry was in love with him. Is that true?”

  Ryan didn’t say anything for so long that I began wondering why he needed to think about such a simple yes or no question. “Yeah,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Unbelievable, but that’s just what she said.”

  * * *

  Ricardo told me the guy we staked out at Parkhill Nursing Home says last night was as quiet as a tomb. No one came to disturb Sherry’s sleep, not that anyone could. Then Jackman had me paged to tell me that he didn’t see any police detail for tonight. Said he’d been there all day, and that was lucky because Ryan showed up this evening. “You better schedule someone tonight,” he warned me.

  No way would I give Jackman the satisfaction of hearing it, but I actually gave some thought to a few more nights of supervision. The likelihood of Ryan coming in the night to murder Sherry in bed was low, but not zero. But with the NYPD budget under attack the way it was these days, I’d have to call in some major chits even to get a few hours of protection. On the other hand, when I was last at Ryan’s apartment I’d noticed that his cell phone was the newest model iPhone. It had to have GPS capability. Right away I got Ricardo on the phone and asked him to get tracking on Ryan’s cell phone.

  These days, almost all new cell phones have built-in GPS functionality. The GPS feature works automatically whenever the cell phone is turned on, the phone identifying its own location to the GPS locator service. All you do is log in to the service to get a map, and you can see the real time position of the phone you’re tracking to within 328 feet. Police departments do it all the time though they may not publicize it. The fact is, it’s not illegal. The legal ground rules are unclear, and federal privacy laws written a generation ago are ambiguous at best. The Obama administration itself argued that warrantless tracking is permitted because Americans enjoy no "reasonable expectation of privacy" in their--or at least their cell phones'--whereabouts.”

  So, is it a bad thing when the government can track your whereabouts through that ubiquitous device called a cell phone? Now, Julian would argue that if we use the technology for good it’s good. If it’s not illegal, and if the department has no cops to spare, it’s fine with him. He doesn’t go around agonizing over good and evil. He figures that evil is as evil does, and whatever it takes to make the arrest is good. As for me, it’s not so simple. I can’t help but feel that it’s a slippery slope to spying on our own citizens. Then again, it works, and technology’s sometimes the only substitute when the budget’s tight.

  A thought came to me before I rang off. “And while you’re at it,” I added, “why don’t you go ahead and track Henry Jackman’s, too.”

  Julian was still watching TV when I went off to bed. He didn’t even try anything; I’d been giving him such mixed signals lately, that he must have been waiting for me to clarify the rules of our relationship before he made another move. The last rule I’d made was two weeks ago when I told him he had to sleep on the living room couch.

  So when the phone rang at one in the morning, I was alone in bed.

  I turned on the light and fumbled for my cell. It was one of the officers on night duty at the precinct.

  “Go to your computer,” he said.

  Fortunately, my computer was in the corner of the bedroom, in sleeper mode. “Why?” I asked as I stood up and stumbled over to it.

  “Get on the GPS locator service,” he told me. “One of your suspects is on the move.”

  “Ryan O’Donnell?” I asked, sitting down and punching at one of the keys to w
ake up the screen.

  “No,” he replied. “Henry Jackman.”

  “Jackman!” I said, clicking on an icon. This was a surprise.

  The login page came on and I put in a password. The screen transformed itself into a map, with a yellow blinking dot labeled Henry Jackman, moving east, straight and fast. I stared at the screen with bleary eyes. Where was he going so quickly? And how?

  “It looks like he’s on the subway,” the officer said. “From the looks of it, it’s the V train to Queens. You want me to get someone to follow him?”

  “Nah,” I said. “By the time we get someone in Queens, he’ll be somewhere else.”

  We watched the yellow dot stop in its tracks, circle slowly around as if determining its whereabouts. “I’m changing the resolution on this,” I announced, clicking on the zoom-in button several times to make it larger. I could just make out the streets now, with the blinking yellow dot named Henry Jackman making its way onto Parson’s Boulevard. Then slowly, slowly, the dot diddled its way north, making a right onto 78th and a left onto 160th Street. The dot stopped at 7822. Then it didn’t move for a long time.

  HENRY

  Of course, the NYPD didn’t contact me. I was really good about not calling. I was really, really good: I was obsessing, but I didn’t call. I didn’t go over. I waited for a week and a half, but that bitch detective never called. So, finally, after work I walked over to the 24th Precinct, went up to the same female officer at the front desk and demanded to see Sirken.

  “What’s this in connection to?” she asked, looking up from some paperwork.

  “You asked me that last time. The Sherry Pollack case. And the Jessica Finklemeyer case.”

  “Two separate cases?”

  “They’re connected. I was the one who discovered they’re connected. I told you that, too.”

  “I talk to a lot of people,” she said, looking right through me. “If I remembered every case, I’d be Deputy Commissioner by now. Name?”

  “Henry Jackman.”

  “I’ll call up. Meanwhile, you can sit there.” The officer pointed to the wooden bench against the wall, while she called upstairs.

  I shook my head, planning to just wait her out till she was done. I watched her talk into the phone, then put the phone down and go back to her paperwork. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes went by, me still standing there. I was making these little noises, clearing my throat, stamping my feet; but she didn’t even bother to look up. Finally, I gave in, walking back and sitting down on the far end of the bench from this tall, strangely broad-shouldered woman in a tight orange dress. Whenever I’d look at her, she’d give me these little smiles; I’d turn my head away, but the next time I’d turn back, there she was, still watching me. Only when she pursed her lips to blow me a kiss did I notice the lady was sporting a five o’clock shadow. Right. I jumped up and ran back to the desk.

  “Is Detective Sirken ever coming down?”

  “They couldn’t find her. They said to call back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll call again. You can go sit down.”

  “I think I’ll just stand here,” I said, not turning around.

  The policewoman shrugged again. “Suit yourself.” She picked up the phone and asked whether Detective Sirken had come back yet. Someone was obviously talking back. “Mm-hmm,” the clerk said. “Mm-hmmm,” she said again, then, “Okay, then. I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “She’s not there.”

  “Sure she isn’t,” I said. “I think I’ll just go up and see.” I turned toward the elevator. In the corner of my eye I could just make out the person in the orange dress wiggling her fingers at me.

  “You can’t go up there, sir!” the officer shouted.

  “Oh, yes I can!” I shouted back, running.

  “Oh, no you can’t!” said a deep voice behind me, a hand grabbing my collar, leading me out. I turned around to see a big dark guy in a blue uniform. Just as we got to the door, who should we see but Detective Sirken coming in.

  She glanced over at me, then sighed. “It’s okay, Officer. He’s waiting for me.”

  “You don’t want me to throw him out on his sorry ass?” the cop asked.

  “No, I need to have a talk with Mr. Jackman, anyway.”

  He released my collar. “Have a nice day,” he growled.

  I followed her on back to her cubicle, and moved the chair a foot for her while she closed the door. Then I sat down, and the detective sidled around the old metal desk.

  I started asking questions before she ever sat down. “Did you question O’Donnell? What did he have to say for himself? Did you arrest him?”

  Sirken gave me one of her fake smiles. “Yes, we questioned him. I can’t reveal anything about it except to say that he has a solid alibi for at least one of the attacks. We don’t think he had anything to do with it, Henry.”

  “And you believe him?!”

  She didn’t answer that. “What was your relationship like with Sherry, Henry?” she asked.

  Whoa. What had Ryan told her? “Great,” I said.

  “No fights?”

  “No. Not fights. Discussions.”

  “About?”

  “Everything under the sun. What she liked. What I liked. Philosophical stuff. What we wanted to do with our lives. You know, things like that.”

  “I’m asking about disagreements.”

  “No. Not really.”

  Sirken flipped through some papers in a file folder on her desk. “Then why was she afraid of you?”

  Yeah, he told her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If O’Donnell told you that, he’s lying. Besides, it’s hearsay.”

  “Hearsay or lying? It can’t be both.”

  “Lying,” I said. “We had this great relationship. She loved me. Did he tell you that? I bet he didn’t tell you that. She wanted to move in with me.”

  “Then why didn’t she?”

  “Uh, she wanted her independence.”

  “It wasn’t that she was afraid of you?” Sirken asked.

  “No!”

  “It wasn’t that you had a violent temper?”

  “Did O’Donnell tell you that?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “It’s hearsay.”

  “But it’s true?”

  “No! I never touched her...except to make love to her. You wait. Sherry’ll wake up, and she’ll tell you herself.”

  “I certainly hope so, but it doesn’t seem likely, Henry.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Then, Sirken asked, “Did you know Jessica?”

  Now, this was a fine turn of events. “No way. I never met her. The first time I went to her apartment was when I saw the address in the Daily News. By then she was dead.”

  “So, if we put you in a line-up for Jessica’s first floor neighbor, she wouldn’t recognize you?”

  This was getting worse and worse. “No! I never saw either of them in my life!”

  “Fine,” Sirken said. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  No, “Okay then, let’s just put you in a line-up.” No reading me my rights. She just stood up and said I was free to leave. I think all she was trying to do was to scare the shit out of me, making me think I was under suspicion. Well, it worked. I got up in a daze and stumbled downstairs to the lobby before I thought of half a dozen other questions I could have asked. The guy in the orange dress was gone, so I dropped down onto the wooden bench to figure out what to do next. I began to think about what O’Donnell must have told her. How he cunningly tried to implicate me to throw them off his track. The more I thought of him, the angrier I got. Damn. And now it looked like he’d got the downstairs neighbor into it, too, telling the cops she’d be able to identify me from a line-up. Right! When I’d never even been there before. What a bastard. Finally, I stood up, knowing what I had to do. I’d go over to his apartment and really put the fear of God into him.

  I was practically there
, so I decided to just head over to 96th Street and have it out with him then and there. I jogged down 100th to Columbus, then south on Columbus till I came to 96th. I stood in front of 119, looking up. The top and bottom floors were lit up like Times Square; the second floor dark. I climbed up the worn stone steps and through the heavy wooden door, wondering how I was going to enter. O’Donnell would never buzz me in. By now I was standing in the vestibule, staring at the intercom: Arlene Fisher:1A; Jessica Finklemeyer: 2A, covered by yellow tape, and Ryan O’Donnell: 3A. No contest. I pushed 1A.

  Nothing happened. I pushed again. A minute later, I heard a staticky female voice. “Who is it?”

  I decided to try the same ploy I used with O’Donnell. “Police,” I said.

  “Not again! I told you everything. Twice.”

  “Then you’re just gonna have to tell it again, Ma’am.”

  The buzzer sounded, and I let myself in. Down the hall, lit by a single bulb at the end, a door opened. A young woman in short shorts stood in a circle of light, holding the door open. Pretty, with brown hair and a tiny snub nose that looked like it had seen longer days. I walked toward her, partly in shadow. As I approached, I could see her squint. “You don’t look like a policeman,” she called. Then she saw me and her expression changed. “I know you!” she shouted, and tried to pull the door closed.

  I grabbed at the door. “I just want to talk to you. That’s all.”

  “No!” she shouted, still pulling at the door. I pulled harder, and she gave up. “I didn’t tell them anything,” she whimpered.

  “Who? The police?” I asked.

  “Yes. They asked me if Jessie had a boyfriend, and I told them yes, but that you always came at night, and I had never seen your face.”

  “I never saw you in my life before this,” I said.

  She looked at me, her brow furrowed. “Whatevuhyasay,” she said at last.

  “No, I mean it,” I said.

  She still looked puzzled. “Anyway, that’s what I told the cops.” She paused, then added, “And I won’t ever say anything different. Promise.”