by G. O. Grason
“Clueless Bastard,” Christine said out loud as she checked through Thompson’s messages. She listened to all of them with disinterest, on her way back to Manhattan, until his last voicemail.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about them finding Grace Carmen’s body,” Thompson said. “I’d love to discuss the matter over drinks next time you’re in town.”
A week after the news of the disappearance of Grace Carmen flooded news outlets – it was just another busy Friday night. People who worked all week flooded the entertainment district with their families and significant others. Millennials and business men graced every night club in the city and discussed everything from their sexual prowess to business plans and contracts.
The world went on like it was a safe place to be. Drinks spilled on the floor while 5’s and 10’s were tucked in the panties of strippers. It was as if evil embarked on a long-lost journey and death was on vacation in some unknown beach in Hawaii. Life went on as usual and Detective Halloway agreed to meet with Detective Thompson in one of these clubs downtown. What the hell did she have to lose? They had decided to meet and settle their differences, perhaps even pluck the claws of death and protect innocent lives out here from a criminal still at large. No, they were not pushing aside their respective insurmountable egos but just what work ethics demand of them – cooperation, greater good over selfish interest.
It was around 8:25 p.m. when Christine pulled up at the club.
“Hello Christine. You look a little more relaxed than the last time I saw you.”
“I’ve had some time to cool down,” Christine admitted. She readjusted her black leather blazer, showing off a yellow blouse that revealed cleavage.
Thompson couldn’t help but stare.
“Eyes up here big guy,” Christine scoffed, giving him a soft punch in the arm. “Don’t forget, this is a professional meeting.”
Thompson blushed. “Apologies, mam.”
Christine tried not to notice the firmness of Thompson’s arms underneath his fitted dress shirt. A pang of excitement came over her. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt that way. Work was everything in her life. She had forgotten what that felt like, a good kind of danger.
“I was scared you wouldn’t show up,” Thompson admitted walking inside.
Christine’s face lit up as she answered, “Why wouldn’t I show up, with the information I have gathered from my detective work?”
They paved their path through the crowd and went up a set of stairs to sit comfortably in the casino. A few watchful eyes stared from different corners of the building.
"What would you like to have?" Thompson offered and his request was met by a watchful mock.
"What? Don't you drink on a Friday night?” he pressed.
“Don’t you feel like we are being watched?” Christine answered.
“We’re not being watched detective. I know this place.”
"Well then, you can get me a shot of tequila," she teased.
Thompson moved towards the bartender and moments later, he brought back with him shots of tequila and a bottle of Hennessy.
"Are we celebrating something?" Christine asked, in a puzzled manner, before taking a shot. She had gulped three more shots within the next 15 minutes and was determined to drink off the stress of the previous days.
Thompson watched her intently then asked, "Why did you tamper with my investigation?"
She cautioned herself before answering.
"First off, it wasn't really your case or investigation. Secondly, I got a lead in the case while you’re sitting around doing nothing.”
"You got a lead in the case? And you didn’t report it to me?”
"Yes," Christine replied without breaking her gaze from his eyes.
“No one would speak to me, not even her parents. Every hotel I checked came up with nothing." Thompson sipped his drink. “Every lead ended up being a dead end.”
"You really screwed with my investigation these past few days," Thompson said dismissively.
"You can say that again," Christine replied with a smirk on her face.
“But I appreciate it,” Thompson said. He put his hand on top of hers. Christine felt the impulse to pull it away, but the comfort and security she felt, something she had only given herself lately, felt so good.
Thompson saw the beauty in her eyes and the fullness of her breasts and lips. This version of Christine was something he had never seen before or in any of the pictures in her office. He stared into her eyes waiting to be met. Instead, Christine pulled away.
“I’m here because of the case,” said Christine. “For Grace Carmen.”
“Of course,” Thompson said straightening up. “What
did you find?"
"I think our guy's name is Robert. They had been dating for a while.” Christine took another shot and winced. “Robert was the last person Grace Carmen saw, yet, no one’s seen him.”
Thompson tried not to stare at Christine’s strong jawline or how the lights of the club danced in her flowing hair. She exuded strength and commitment. There was an unwavering determination in her words and she had drank more than Thompson! Never in his life had Thompson been so challenged, yet so attracted to someone before. He felt like a school boy in the back of his class staring at the back of his crushes head, in grade school.
“Uh huh…” Thompson managed to say.
"They had a fight before she went missing and…” Christine continued.
"And what?" Thompson blurted before she could complete her statement.
“That’s all I’ve got so far,” Christine admitted. “But it’s something.”
"That doesn't prove anything," he said dismissingly as he downed his drink and set his glass down with a bang.
Christine gulped another shot and promised to fill him in, appropriately at the office, on Monday. She stood up to leave and Thompson offered to dance with her. She gave a tepid response and finally gave in. They returned to their seats after the dance and poured themselves another drink.
"It didn’t occur to me you liked to have a few drinks," Thompson said as he walked Christine to get a taxi home.
"It didn’t occur to me you did either," she replied, his sweat from dancing, sweet and thick on her blouse.
They said good night to one another and Thompson walked back into the bar with an unsettled feeling. Nothing had really changed. The serial killer was still lurking in the city, looking for his new victim.
4
It was around 11 in the morning when Lieutenant Baggins summoned both Detective Thompson and Detective Halloway into his office. The sun shone at its brightest, at that time of day, into the window of his office. The precinct was located in a row of buildings across the street from city hall, in lower Manhattan. Baggins was pacing the room upon the arrival of the two detectives.
"I think you've got some explaining to do," he said to the two of them, who looked as blank as a sheet of paper. He moved behind his desk and brought out newspapers and that showed derogatory and disparaging headlines about the effort of the NYPD at finding the criminals. He went on yelling and banging his fist on his desk that was cluttered with a stack of files and two picture frames of his wife and two kids. He looked calm in one of the pictures and carried a white dog in the other; he was the exact opposite of the man standing before them, yelling. He brought out another newspaper, picturing the two detectives on the front page.
"What in the hell were you two doing in a club when you should be working?" he shouted, sweating profusely. The two detectives looked at the floor, sheepishly, like two school children being scolded and apologized incoherently.
“We can’t have regular lives Lieutenant?” Thompson asked.
“Not when you’ve got multiple dead and the killer still on the loose!”
“We were discussing the case,”
"I want that son of a bitch arrested or killed immediately," Baggins yelled. “I need you two to work together. Drunk, sober, dancing or stone faced,
I don’t give a shit! Just find this bastard because if I see any more bad press out of this case, you’re through! Now get the fuck out of my office.”
As they left, Baggins kept on.
“Any more mistakes and you’re suspended without pay! This is your last chance. Last chance!
“Well,” Thompson said. “I could use another drink after that.”
Christine did not respond and went straight to her office.
Thompson, once again, was alone.
The two detectives parted ways. Detective Thompson tried to run over the case in his mind, over a cup of coffee but nothing came to him. The name Robert was meaningless without any context. There was not enough there. He found himself knocking on Christine’s door once again.
“Come in,” Christine said.
“You see why I need your help on this case?” Thompson started, “I don’t need that jackass yelling at me, after begging for my help. Baggins is useless when it comes to real police work. I need you.”
"Well, that is none of my business," answered Christine as she browsed through a file.
“What did you learn from your investigation?” Thompson asked.
Christine flung the file at him.
Thompson was shocked by everything Christine had found.
"You spoke with her parents before they went missing?”
“What do you think the killer wants?” Thompson asked. “ Right now, all signs point to Grace’s ex, Robert. What are Robert’s motivations?’
“I don’t know. All I know is that he is still out there on the streets,” Christine said. “And could kill again at any time.”
Thompson could feel the pain in Christine’s voice. He wanted to help her in any way that he could but it didn’t feel like enough.
"You know, this is all circumstantial. It's possible he might not be our guy and he just might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time," Christine added.
Thompson opened the file again and pulled out one of the papers.
“This report-your report- identifies some guy named Robert as a suspect”, he stated. “The only suspect ever identified in this case and now you just want to dismiss it as circumstantial? We haven’t even found the guy to question him!”
The room was still. Christine felt the passion in her drying up. Continuous disappointment is a like a sickness. First, the mind and body can handle it but then it grows. It starts to deplete all energy, all motivation, until the thought of continuing, whatever the cause, seems futile. She was so angry but even that was starting to become senseless and useless. Then, Christine saw Grace Carmen’s home, her lovely parents, her life. The injustice of that being taken away by someone brought her back to reality.
“Listen, all I’m saying is that it isn’t much to go on. If we put all our focus and effort into finding this guy and it turns out not to be him, then we are right back where we started”.
“That’s right nowhere and that is exactly where we are without this lead,” Thompson countered.
The duo examined the papers and continued to discuss a strategy and in the end, resolved to name “Robert” as the prime suspect before releasing his name to the press.
“I would love to investigate these files and question the other parents,” Thompson said.
"I wouldn’t advise you to do that," replied Christine.
"Do what?" asked Thompson. 'To talk to the families of the other victims.
“Grace's parents went missing after speaking with me and I feel it's unsafe to investigate others," Christine said.
"Any better ideas to catch this guy?" he asked smugly.
"I'm only saying they might be scared to talk and for good reason.” Christine reiterated. “That’s all.”
Thompson implored her to work on some other files and people that went missing. He stood up to leave when Christine called out to Thompson.
“Thank You for the other night Brian. I was feeling really stressed and it was nice to blow off some steam."
Thompson thought her voice was sweet and genuine.
“My Pleasure” Thompson replied.
Detective Thompson got back to his makeshift office and looked out of the window. It was calm outside except for a distant horn blaring. He had no idea where it was coming from. Thompson took his seat and brought out some of the files. He would be moving entirely into action and nothing would stop him.
The names of the files are; Brenda Clissen- 26 years old who died mysteriously in her one-room apartment. Eleanor Rose – a 28 year old college student who disappeared on a stormy night and lived in Manhattan. Gilbert Fenway is a 27 year old computer geek whose body was recovered from a stream and Catherine Ferguson who was the twenty-six year old from Cornell.
These deaths were so sudden and had not been investigated deeply enough. We will have to go back and see if there is any connection to this guy Robert, Thompson reasoned.
Grace's death touched his soul and he couldn't imagine the cruelty she suffered before her demise. The image of her pale body in the morgue was burnt into his memory and he couldn’t stand the sight of her tortured remains.
It obviously was the work of a homicidal maniac, Thompson thought as he checked the files.
He sent out an APB to all the precincts of the NYPD, to be on the lookout for a man named Robert, with a deep scar running beneath his eyes, of average height and build. The APB was vague but that’s all he had to go on. He couldn’t take any chances. He didn’t want to put any more lives of unsuspecting New Yorkers at risk. He sighed and brought out Brenda Clissen’s file. He would be working on it as his first case and he returned the other records.
Thompson opened up the file in front of him. Still, that horn was blaring.
Brenda Clissen lived on Jackson Ave in Queens, before her death and it was recorded that she moved out of her parent's home before the incident. She lived alone before she died. Brenda wanted to be a vet.
The distance between Queens and Manhattan is 10 miles. He realized he could make it there in 30 minutes, as he stood up to get lunch from the cafeteria. Later on, he thought he might hit the gym.
He got home later in the day to pack a few clothes and get himself prepared for the next few days. Thompson was unsure when he would be back or what exactly was going to happen to him. As he packed his socks, his underwear, his t-shirts, he noticed that his hand was shaking. He took it with his other and squeezed. This action centered him and brought him back to earth rather than his mind.
He got in his car moments later and set to journey to Queens. He arrived in Queens around 4:15 in the evening and drove to Jackson Ave., past her parents’ house and from there, went straight to Pearson Street, which boasted mostly residential buildings and once housed Brenda Clissen before she was killed.
He parked his car and moved towards a group of men, whom he hoped would know something about the dead lady, or saw anything unusual, or out of place, at the time.
“Hey there, I’m sure you know about the lady that used to live here that was killed. I’m wondering if you remember seeing anything unusual or someone that didn’t belong hanging around.”
"Nah, the only one that doesn’t belong around here is you," one of the men said. They all laughed and faded into the night.
Thompson walked backed to his car and drove to search for a motel to stay at. He found one a few blocks away from Brenda's former apartment. The room was dimly lit, looked well used and a bit rough.
“Shit hole,” Thompson muttered under his breath as he sat down on the creaky bed and studied the file.
Thompson woke up the following morning to a raspy knock and he stood up to check. It was room service.
“Here is the coffee you ordered sir” said the guy with a British accent.
"Thank You," he said as he took the coffee and shut the door.
A message notification from Christine popped up as he checked his phone. His heart skipped a beat.
Good Luck and stay safe, the message read.
The
coffee he ordered was already cold, but he drank it down anyways and headed out the door. Christine’s words boosted his drive and his confidence. She had that way about her.
Outside, the air was refreshing and crisp. The sky was clear and the sun was shining. Thompson walked to Brenda's former apartment, instead of driving, to stretch his legs and enjoy the fresh air. These moments were rare but necessary for Thompson. Most days he barely took the time to recognize all the beautiful life around him. Every day, all of his energy went into preserving this beauty for all people, which was so ironic because he never gave himself permission to do so.
He arrived there in five minutes and identified himself as the investigating detective on the case, to the people around. Upon entering the room, he could hear the squeak of rats devouring the rotted food. A thick spider web was the only obstacle he had to overcome. Dried drops of blood on the wall of the room made it look like a painting. The white mark on the floor where Brenda's twisted body laid was still visible. He scrutinized the room and realized nothing had been moved or disturbed, as everything was covered in dust. It was like a time capsule locked away and forgotten about. He methodically checked through everything that had already been checked and rechecked countless times, hoping to find something, anything that might have been overlooked.
He approached the neighbours. No one would talk. Everyone played dumb and he understood – he wouldn't force them to talk at the expense of their lives. There was a deep fear in their eyes, one that they both knew Thompson could not help them with. It was a look of the fear of the unknown.
Thompson walked back to his car, made a call to get two police officers to seal off the room again and he drove off into the city.
Detective Thompson drove around, took note of every night club and street security camera. He tried calling Brenda's parents but no one would pick up. Thompson went to her former place of work and no one would meet with him. He was hell-bent on getting something out of someone and waited a little while in a local neighborhood dive bar. He ordered a drink and opened the newspaper, that he had brought with him, so as not to attract attention.
