The sun had gone down several hours ago. He stared out the window into total darkness. The only thing he saw was his own reflection.
Vikram Patel was in his mid-thirties. He had dark skin, curly black hair, and a thick mustache. He was skinny to the bones.
He knew why that was. It was his vegetarian diet that kept his weight below what it should be. He had once tried to get heavier by eating a lot of potatoes but he found only his stomach got bigger and nothing else.
Like many young people from India, he had once dreamed of becoming a Bollywood actor. He would build his body up and become an action movie star. But he never did gain much muscle mass, and with his dark complexion, the only role he would ever get was as a villain’s henchman or as a poor laborer and a beggar. India was still heavily influenced by the British rule, even though the English left India more than half a century ago. Those with lighter complexions were given better acting parts, while those with darker complexions were relegated to minor, or in some instances, negative acting parts.
Vikram had quickly given up on his dream and studied environmental science at Goa University in India. This now led him all the way to the United States of America and to the Centre for Inland Waters or CIW.
Vikram had come to America on a six-month work visa, which was set to expire in another three months.
Those three months now felt like an entirety.
He glanced at the photo tacked on the cubicle wall. It was of his wife, Reema, and son, Sachin. He missed them every minute of every day. He would normally call them around this time, but today he was at work.
He decided to send his wife a text, or else she would be worried if she didn’t hear from him.
It was short and brief. It only stated that he would call her as soon as he was able to.
Vikram went back to the document he was working on. It was done, but he wanted to go over it once more. He then pushed the laptop back and leaned back on his chair. Suddenly, his heart and his mind was not into it. He had to submit the report before he left for the day, but it was the last thing he wanted to do right now.
He wished he was back in Goa. He wished he was at home with his wife and son. He missed his wife’s cooking. Aloo gobi paratha (potato and cauliflower wrap). Daal chawal (lentils and rice). And his favorite, mirch saag (spicy spinach). His mouth watered at the thought of all the dishes. He closed his eyes and he could almost taste and smell them.
He had, however, found an Indian restaurant near his work, but it just wasn’t the same as back in India. The food didn't have the right flavor or texture.
He knew he was being picky, but food was one of the things that reminded him of home. So when he didn’t have it just right, he didn’t feel like he belonged here.
Prior to taking the position, he had hoped to perform his duties at the CIW, return to India and then apply for permanent status for the United States. This would then allow him to provide his son with a Western education.
Now, he wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. His experience at the CIW wasn’t what he had expected. He felt like an outsider, like he never fully belonged here.
There were too many restrictions, similar to the ones he found in India. He was not allowed to freely state his opinions and conclusions. At first, he thought it was because he was a foreigner, but he soon realized that was not the case.
He heard a noise. It echoed down the hall.
He waited and listened.
The noise came again. It sounded like someone was banging something on the walls.
He stood up and looked around. The floor was deserted. Everyone had gone home hours ago.
It could be the cleaning people, he thought.
He had seen them dusting, mopping, and vacuuming the building during after hours.
He went back to his laptop.
The noise became louder and distinct.
He got up and went to where he had heard the noise come from.
He had barely walked fifteen steps when he froze in horror.
Standing by the door was a figure of a man. He was tall and looked well built. The man was wearing a leather jacket and a hoodie.
What terrified Vikram was not how the man stood—with his head bent low and shoulders held high, as if he were some monster—it was what he had over his face.
It was a mask and it shook Vikram to the core.
Vikram tried to run and get away from him, but he found his legs wouldn’t move as fast as he had wanted them to.
He felt something sharp pierce the back of his leg. He fell forward onto his stomach. He looked down and found a piece of metal was protruding from his calf.
He screamed in agony.
He felt a shadow over him.
The man was looking down at him. Behind the animal mask he could see human eyes. But they were filled with anger and hate.
“Where is the original report?” the man growled.
Vikram didn’t know how to respond. The pain throbbed in his leg, making him disoriented. He saw blood spurt out from the entry wound. It stained the carpet underneath him. He thought of his wife and his son. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He wanted to go back home…
“I’m asking you a question,” the man yelled, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Where is the original report?”
“I… I don’t know…” he quivered.
The man aimed what looked like a gun, and pulled the trigger. A piece of metal tore into his shoulder.
Vikram howled in pain as his entire body shook from the impact. When he touched the metal object, he realized it was a piece of nail. It was long and thick and it was now wedged inside his muscles.
Blood covered his hand and fingertips.
“Please… I… didn’t do anything,” he pleaded.
“Tell me where it is and it will be over quick,” the man said. “If you don’t, then it’ll be slow and very painful.”
Suddenly, there was a noise. It was coming from down the hall. The man turned and then walked away. He disappeared around the corner.
Vikram tried to get up, but he couldn’t.
He tried to crawl, but even that was not possible. His shoulder and leg wouldn’t allow it. They were covered in blood.
He wanted to close his eyes and wake up from this nightmare, but he knew it was more real than ever.
He hoped the man would not return, but that thought quickly disappeared when he heard footsteps coming his way.
He dabbed his fingers in the blood and then proceeded to write something on the carpet.
It took several attempts when he felt a shadow over him again.
When he turned he found himself staring at a gun, the barrel holding a nail.
Vikram Patel shut his eyes tight.
He then heard a click, followed by something cold and hard penetrating his skull and then the brain.
TWO
The woman wiped her eyes with a clean tissue. She was in her early to mid-fifties, with graying hair and a slight paunch.
She sat on the sofa with her son and daughter on either side of her. The son was fifteen and the daughter eighteen. They had their arms around their mother.
Across from them sat Hyder Ali. Hyder was in his mid-twenties, with a height of around five-ten. He had a brown complexion and thick shaggy hair that was difficult to keep straight.
Hyder had been named after a Mughal Emperor from India. Hyder’s late father had wished his son would accomplish great things like his namesake. So far, Hyder had accomplished very little when compared to the Indian ruler, but he had, however, managed to bring down a very large corporation that was linked to corruption, bribery, and even murder. The story, dubbed the TriGate Scandal, had been read by almost every citizen in Franklin.
This had brought him some notoriety, but not enough where people would stop him on the street and ask for his autograph.
Hyder adjusted his browline glasses. This type of frame had been worn by his idol, Malcolm X. If they were good enough for Mr. X
then they were good enough for him, he’d concluded.
“Thank you for talking to me, Mrs. Albright,” Hyder said. “I know this must be difficult.”
Francesca Albright nodded and blew her nose.
“Tell me exactly what happened?” Hyder asked.
“My husband, Leo, went out to walk our dog last night and he never came back.”
“Has he ever disappeared like this before?”
She shook her head. “No, never. Leo likes to be in bed by ten, so right before that, around nine-thirty, he takes Walter…”
“That’s the name of your dog?” Hyder asked.
“Yes, Walter is our German Shepherd.”
Hyder quickly scribbled into his notepad. “Please go on.”
“Well, when Leo didn’t show up, it was around eleven, and I got worried. It was not like Leo to be somewhere without telling anyone. I asked my son, Jason, to go out and look for him.”
“Where did you look?” Hyder turned to Jason.
He shrugged. “Everywhere. I know the route my dad walked each night and I followed it. I checked the parks in our area. I even walked through a short trail behind our house, but nothing.”
Mrs. Albright said, “When Jason came back, I started calling everyone I knew. I called our friends, family, neighbors, even some of Leo’s co-workers.”
“What does Mr. Albright do?” Hyder asked.
“He’s a regional sales manager for an automobile dealership.” Hyder quickly jotted it down. “When we had exhausted every avenue we called the police.”
“And what did they say?”
“They told us to wait. They can’t file a missing persons report until at least twenty-four hours have passed. I don’t want to sit around and do nothing. It was my daughter, Lori, who told me to call you.” The girl next to her moved her head. “We are hoping that maybe if our story makes it into the Daily Times then it might help us in finding Leo.”
Hyder was a reporter for the Daily Times. After he broke the TriGate Scandal, his story was front page news for several days.
Lori must have remembered me from that time, Hyder thought.
He chose his next words very carefully, “What if your husband just decided not to come home?”
Mrs. Albright’s face turned dark. “I’m not sure what you mean?” she said.
Hyder moved his shoulders.
She understood. “For your information, Leo and I have been married for over thirty years. We met in high school and we are still in love. We were even planning to go away on a cruise for our next anniversary.” She paused to control her emotions. “Mr. Ali, my husband never came home after a routine walk, one he took on a regular basis. I’m afraid that something bad could have happened to him. My children need their father back. And I need my husband back. Will you help us?”
Hyder looked at her and then nodded. “I will pass this story by my editor. If it doesn’t make it into print, I will make sure it makes it onto our online edition.”
She finally managed a smile. “Thank you.”
THREE
“Whoa, is that a nail?” Pascale said. He was leaning down over the body while spinning a toothpick in his mouth.
Detective Angelo Pascale wore a black leather jacket, tight jeans, and his hair was greased back. He walked and talked like he had just stepped out of one of The Godfather movies. In the police force, Pascale had a reputation for being an arrogant prick. But no one dared say it to his face. They were worried he might go ‘gangster’ on them. No one had seen him do this before, but they weren’t about to take any chances. Plus, Pascale’s father was a retired Deputy Chief, which held some weight in the force, should a situation ever arise.
“Looks like it,” Lopez said, also leaning down.
Detective Marina Lopez had brown shoulder length hair. She had olive skin and hazel colored eyes. Lopez had been with the force for over ten years. She had worked from the bottom up, meaning she started on foot patrol, walking the streets day and night, and had made her way to detective. There were rumors that she could one day be Captain. If she did, Lopez would do everything in her power to make it look like she earned it. The last thing she wanted was some jerk thinking the only reason she was in the position was because of her looks.
“It must have hurt,” Pascale said, staring at the nail in the victim’s forehead.
“You think?” Lopez shot back.
“I’m just saying,” Pascale shrugged. He pulled out the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it across the room. It hit a wall and then landed somewhere on the ground.
“That’s disgusting,” Lopez said.
“It’s only a toothpick,” he replied with a grin. He produced another from his jacket and placed it between his lips.
“You got an entire box in there?” she said.
“It’s called back up,” he said with a wink.
Lopez rolled her eyes.
They moved around the body. The victim lay on his back. His eyes were open, but they were vacant and hollow. Blood pooled underneath his body, staining the carpet a dark red.
Along with the nail in the head, they noticed two others were on the leg and the shoulder.
“Maybe bullets were too expensive,” Pascale quipped.
“What’s the victim’s name?” Lopez asked a man standing a few feet away from them.
Akume Ossai was the security guard of the building. He was also the one who had called in the murder. Ossai looked like he would throw up. He was still studying part-time at a local college, he had told them. He never expected that his second month at CIW would involve a homicide.
“It… it should be on his ID card,” Ossai said, putting a hand over his mouth.
“Go clear your stomach,” Pascale ordered.
Ossai quickly disappeared down the hall.
“What’s with these kids these days?” Pascale moved his hands. “I thought they saw this kind of shit on TV all the time.”
Lopez looked around and found an ID card along with an access card attached to the victim’s belt. “Vikram Patel,” she said, looking at the name and photo.
Ossai appeared again.
Lopez asked, “What does the T stand for on the ID?”
“Temporary,” he said. “He must have been new or here for a short time.”
“What’s that?” Pascale pointed to something on the floor.
It was next to the body and it was made out in blood.
Lopez squinted. “Look’s like symbols.”
“It’s Hindi,” Ossai said.
“You sure?” Pascale made a face. “Looks like scribbles to me.”
“I’ve seen that writing before,” Ossai said. “My roommate in college is from India.”
“Call a translator,” Lopez said.
Pascale pulled out his cell phone and dialled a number.
Lopez turned to Ossai. “Why was Patel here, in the building, this time of the day?”
“I don’t know, they don’t tell us,” Ossai shook his head. “We just get a list that lets us know who should be in the building and for how long.”
“Do they inform you when they are leaving?”
“Sure. They have to sign out. If they don’t, then we search the building.”
“Can you please show us that list?” Lopez asked.
Ossai nodded and quickly left, probably relieved to be away from the body.
Lopez moved her hand over the body. From the pants pocket, she pulled out a wallet. She looked inside and found some American dollars, a calling card, and a driver’s license.
“It’s from India,” she said.
“You think he’s a new immigrant?” Pascale said.
“Could be.”
Ossai returned with the list. He handed it to Pascale.
“Looks like our boy was supposed to leave at six,” he said.
“Yes,” Ossai said. “When he didn’t sign out at the specified time, I came looking for him. That was when I saw…” he cringed at the body.
“Who are these other people?” Pascale pointed to three other names on the list.
“Mr. Innis Shaw is the director of the CIW. Mr. Ron Hemsted is the manager of HR and Ms. Barbara Cauldean is the manager of Staffing.”
Pascale made a face. “It looks like they all left at the same time,” he said.
“They probably had a meeting or something,” Ossai replied. “They stay late quite often.”
Pascale frowned. “I guess, we can strike their names off the suspect list.”
“Can we see his work area?” Lopez asked.
Ossai took them to Patel’s desk. It was clean and organized. Lopez removed a photo of a woman with a boy from the cubicle wall.
“We have to notify the next of kin,” she said.
Pascale pulled open the drawers in the desk. He spotted a stapler, tape dispenser, a box of paper clips, pencils, pens, highlighter, but nothing particularly significant.
“Do you notice anything odd about his desk?” Lopez asked.
Pascale moved back and examined the area. “Yeah, it’s dull and depressing. I wouldn’t be caught dead…” he stopped. He then corrected himself, “I wouldn’t enjoy working in this environment.”
Lopez said, “If the victim was staying late to work, then where is his laptop or computer?”
Pascale squinted. “You’re right.”
“Did you touch anything?” she asked Ossai.
“No,” he looked horrified. “Why would I?”
She squinted, as if thinking. She then said, “Can we see your security tapes?”
THE ROGUE REPORTER now available!
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OTHER WORKS
The Blue Hornet
The October Five
The Paperboys Club
Killing Them Gently
The Silent Reporter (Hyder Ali #1)
The Silent Reporter (A Police Procedural Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Hyder Ali #1) Page 19
