[Henry Parker 01.0] The Mark

by Jason Pinter

  As long as Mauser found Henry Parker, though…as long as he found Parker. Denton had something to gain, too. On some level, Mauser understood it. Respect could be as powerful a motivator as anger. Between the two of them, there was an awful lot of motivation.

  “Agent Mauser?” Denton said. He extended his hand. Joe merely nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am.”

  “Thanks.” He shook his hand limply.

  “I know you want this case closed quickly. That’s what I’m here for. I know I don’t have the personal attachment you do, but I can promise you that…”

  “Save your breath. We’re partners, fine. Don’t expect small talk, chitchat, or bullshit. You want to be my friend? Help me skewer this fuck with a chainsaw.”

  Denton smiled. “I’m here to help you power it.”

  “Good.” Joe pulled a manila folder from under his armpit, opened to the first page. A photocopy of Henry Parker’s driver’s license. Mauser leafed through several pages, flipping too fast for Denton to see.

  “We got this from Henry Parker’s landlord, guy named Manuel Vega. Shady asshole tried to rent me a ground-floor apartment for thirteen hundred a month after I questioned him.” Mauser tried hard to mask the anger in his voice. Was it anger?

  Suddenly he felt choked up, almost unable to speak. Joe coughed, wiped his eyes with the edge of his tie, showed Denton the file and flipped to the next page. “We’ve examined Parker’s checking and savings accounts and frozen his funds. As soon as he deposits one paycheck it’s gone to pay rent, phone, Internet porn, et cetera. Parker saves about a buck fifty a month.” Mauser flipped to the next page.

  “Phone bill?” Denton asked.

  “Cellular. We couldn’t find records for any landlines in his apartment.”

  “That’s pretty common these days,” Denton said. “Especially with the younger set. A lot of people use cells as their primary lines. Assuming you get service, it’s cheaper than paying for a landline and a mobile.”

  Mauser nodded. He noticed several officers walk by the office, peering in through the windows. Rage on some faces, regret on others. All of the eyes desperate to find Henry Parker and cut his balls off. Mauser closed the blinds and watched the eyes disappear.

  Ordinarily Mauser would have allowed the NYPD to remain primary in a cop slaying. Not this time. Joe had to find Parker before anyone. His was a personal anger, not professional. Not like the rest of them. He respected their anger, fed off it, but couldn’t sate it. Refused to sate it.

  Mauser pulled out Parker’s most recent phone bill. He passed it to Denton, who scanned it, his finger tracing several numbers that were highlighted in yellow.

  “What’re these?”

  “We marked any numbers that appeared on Parker’s bill more than once a week. Not a whole lot, actually. His voice mail at the Gazette— he’s a reporter there, just started a month ago. Doesn’t call out of state much. His parents live in Bend, Oregon, but we’ve only found records of two calls made there in the past six weeks.”

  “That’s good,” Denton said. “Means he’s not close to his parents. One less friendly face willing to take him in.”

  Mauser nodded. Denton pointed to one number that was highlighted numerous times on the list. “What’s this one?”

  “Girlfriend, Mya Loverne. Law student at Columbia. Father’s David Loverne, the family’s got money squirting out his asshole. She met Parker while they were undergrads at Cornell. You know the deal. Poor boy from the Northwest meets spoiled rich girl who’s never been felt up by a guy without a trust fund. Rent any Molly Ringwald movie and you get the picture. Miss Mya graduated last May and decided to follow Daddy’s footsteps into law school.”

  “At least he has good taste,” Denton said. “There’s a lot more money in law than in newspapers, unless you can figure a way to skim from Rupert Murdoch. Have you been in touch with Mya yet?”

  “That’s the next ride in the theme park.”

  Denton said, “I’m a Six Flags guy myself. Never got into Disney World.”

  Mauser eyed him contemptuously. “You gonna small talk me? Is that what you’re gonna do?” Mauser stood up, turned to leave the room. “Fuck it. I don’t need this shit right now.”

  “Joe, come on, man. I’m only…”

  “You’re only what?” Mauser said, spittle flying from his lips. “You wanna get cute with me? Six fucking Flags?”

  Denton’s eyes grew sorrowful and his head tilted down. He spoke solemnly and, Mauser could tell, honestly.

  “I’m sorry about your brother-in-law,” Denton said. “I swear I am. But Henry Parker’s out there, and a thousand cops are walking the streets, hands on their holsters, looking for anyone under the age of thirty to pop. I’m here to help. You want me to stay quiet, fine. But I want to find Henry Parker, and I want to know why John Fredrickson died last night. Just like you.”

  Mauser stepped closer until he was breathing in Denton’s face. “Not like me. Understand that.”

  Denton nodded. “Understood.” He paused before asking his next question. Mauser knew he was doing it out of politeness. He wouldn’t let his curiosity sit idle. “I don’t mean to pry, but how’s Mrs. Fredrickson? She’s your sister, right?”

  “A mess,” Mauser said. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and coughed loudly into it, then wiped his mouth.

  “The kids?”

  “About what you’d expect. Joel’s in college, thank God the kid’s already finished up the semester. Can’t imagine going through finals with your father’s murder hanging over you. You get older, somehow you’re more prepared for this kind of thing.”

  “Have you seen Linda?”

  “I went over to the house last night, after I left the crime scene.”

  Denton spoke softly. “You’re the one broke the news to her, weren’t you?”

  Mauser felt a lump rise in his throat and nodded. Tears would come in an instant. His sister’s husband. The man he’d shared so many laughs with, gotten stinking drunk with so many times. Watching ball games in front of the crappy Panasonic, cheering on their lovable loser Mets and hoping to God the Yankees got blown out of the water. One of his best friends. One of his only friends.

  Mauser always considered it fortunate that Linda had married such a stand-up guy, not one of those louses who make a killing in the market and never see their families except during two-week vacations to the Poconos where they spend the entire time on their BlackBerries. If you married a cop, you did it for love. And so far, Mauser hadn’t found any woman willing to give him what Linda had given John. He admired his sister for making that choice. He’d told her just that many times.

  It’s not a conscious decision, she’d told him. It’s not like I wake up every day and think “Should I or shouldn’t I be with John?” I just am. He makes me happy.

  And now he was gone. Linda, alone with the kids. Joe knew he’d have to offer support. Moral. Financial. Becoming a surrogate father to his sister’s children had as seductive a ring as a colonoscopy, but he had a responsibility to the family. And his first responsibility, one that would speed up the grieving process, was to find Henry Parker and gut him like a fish.

  Mauser sat down, brushed his pants. Denton looked at him expectantly. Joe said, “Let’s go talk to the girlfriend, Mya. See what the murderer’s moll has to say.”

  Denton smiled. He stood up, tentatively reached out and squeezed Joe’s shoulder.

  “You sure you’re up for this?”

  Mauser nodded. “Let’s go quick. I want to get into this thing before it all hits me at once.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Yeah, better you do. I see someone on the street looks like the photo on that driver’s license, I’ll mow him down without giving it a second thought.”

  They left the precinct, Denton pulling the Crown Victoria onto the West Side Highway. Early morning sunlight filtered through the windshield. The cold leather on the seats prick-led Mauser’s skin. Soft rock w
as on the radio, the DJ sounding like he’d overdosed on Xanax.

  “Mya Loverne’s cell phone bill is forwarded to an apartment near the Columbia campus reserved for student housing,” Joe said. “Keep your eyes open just in case our man decides he needs a morning pick-me-up.”

  “She live alone?” Denton asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Denton sniffed. “I couldn’t afford my own place till I was thirty. Fucking unbelievable.”

  Mauser spoke, his voice apprehensive. “She’s a pretty girl. I’ve seen pictures of Mya with her father, fund raisers at Cipriani, fancy dinners that cost more per plate than your mortgage. Heard rumors that Loverne is going to run for district attorney. It’s kinda creepy, almost like he uses Mya as publicity t and a. She’s always wearing these low-cut dresses and the cameras always get her good side. Both of them.”

  Denton said, “People almost always vote for whichever candidate’s daughters are hotter. You see Bloomberg’s daughter? Unbelievable that girl came from that guy.” Denton took the 96th Street exit, forgoing his turn signal.

  “You do the talking,” Mauser said. Denton looked at Mauser, concern on his face.

  “You sure you’re up for this? I can get the case reassigned, no problem.”

  Joe waved his hand in dismissal. “Over my dead body. I’ll be fine once we get there.”

  “Don’t say that. Parker’s body, that I can live with.”

  Joe smiled. “Deal.” He lowered the window. Fresh air beat against his face. The trees shook gently, leaves rattling in the wind. He stared out the window, his eyes latching onto anything that moved.

  Denton squeezed into a spot on 114th and Broadway, leaning over the headrest as he backed in. He didn’t even use the side mirrors, Mauser noticed. Guy didn’t trust anything but his own eyes. Mauser liked that.

  Joe felt his knee joints groan as he climbed out of the car. Denton slid on a pair of designer sunglasses, his blond hair fitting in perfectly with the young men and women carrying thick valises who crowded the streets. Tanned and toned bodies looking healthy and vigorous in the bronzed sunlight. Ready to take their place among the proletariat of NewYork City.

  “You’re gonna ruin your part,” Mauser said, pointing at Denton’s hair. Denton ran a hand through it, combed it back into place with his fingers, laughed.

  “You’re a prick,” he said with a grin. Mauser felt more relaxed. Maybe the rumors about Denton were bogus. The guy was rubbing off on him. “Come on, let’s go talk to Ms. Loverne.”

  Mauser admired the building’s facade, the clean red brick, like the vandals had too much respect to desecrate it with their “art.” He watched as pedestrians strolled with their heads held high, too high to see the dirt at their feet. One thing Mauser had learned over the years was that students, almost to a one, viewed the world from the inside of a fishbowl. They had the bigger points covered—genocide in Kamchatka, illegal whale hunting in the Arctic Circle, shit like that. But if you asked about anything relevant to their lives they’d look at you with glazed eyes and go right back to sipping their double-mocha lattes.

  Parker was just another in a growing line of young shit-heads who felt they put on their pants two legs at a time. They gain a little fame, a little notoriety, and suddenly they’re Edward R. Murrow.

  Mya Loverne’s building had no doorman, only an antiquated buzzer system with a small camera for tenants to view their visitors from the comfort of their Jennifer Convertibles. Mauser found the directory on the wall, ran his finger down until it came to a stop at M. Loverne. Apartment 4A.

  Denton pressed the gray nipple and waited. Mauser shuffled around, anxiety building inside him. Every moment they waited was more time for Parker to run. Denton pressed the buzzer again. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds later, and still no answer.

  “Screw this,” Mauser said. He pushed Denton aside and jammed his thumb on the call button. He held it there for a full minute, then released for five seconds, then jammed it down again. Finally a tired female voice answered.

  “Who is it? Henry?”

  Denton tried to stifle a laugh. Mauser elbowed him in the kidney.

  “Ms. Loverne?” Denton said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Ms. Loverne, my name is Leonard Denton, FBI.”

  “Excuse me? Why…what’s the matter?” Denton waited a few seconds to let her heart rate build up. Get her good and fearful.

  Then he pressed the intercom again and said, “We need to talk about your boyfriend, Henry Parker.”

  “Is there…do you have any identification or something?”

  Denton held his government ID with the elegant blue FBI seal to the camera. After a moment of hesitation, the buzzer rang and Denton pulled the door open. He looked at Mauser, a blank stare on the older cop’s face.

  “And away we go.”

  11

  I reread the story. Blood, thick like cement, swirled and pounded in my head. Misunderstandings. Errors of judgment. Callousness. Human frailty. Weakness. All of it was quantifiable, rectified by specific reactions. Errors could be fixed. Misunderstandings explained. Human frailty bolstered by gaining strength.

  I’d dealt with all of these in my investigative journalism. But the emotions I felt when I read those words were completely foreign. There was no rational explanation as to how suddenly I was wanted for killing a police officer.

  I’d always wanted to report about crime, corruption. Men and women convinced they’d get away with it, until I proved they couldn’t. And now, with my picture splashed across thousands of newspapers all over the city, I’d become exactly who I’d hoped to expose. True reporters only want the story. They never want to be the story. And now here I was. The hero of the day.

  I read the story again.

  Reporter, 24, Kills Police Officer

  During Failed Drug Bust

  In what has been described by Police Commissioner Ray Kelly as a heinous act of violence against one of the city’s most beloved peace officers, Detective Jonathan A. Fredrickson, 42, was shot and killed late last night while investigating a drug deal gone sour. The alleged shooter, Henry Parker, 24, a recent Cornell graduate and a junior reporter at the New York Gazette, fled the scene and has yet to be apprehended.

  According to Commissioner Kelly, Fredrickson was responding to the site of an alleged heroin exchange in an apartment building at 2937 Broadway in Spanish Harlem. It remains unclear whether the tenants, Luis and Christine Guzman, were involved in the deal. The building’s superintendent, Grady Larkin, 36, admitted to hearing strange noises coming from the Guzmans’ apartment, which he relayed to Officer Fredrickson when he arrived at the scene. Fredrickson apparently discovered the Guzmans tied and beaten, and upon confronting the assailant, still present at the scene, was shot with his own gun in the ensuing struggle. Larkin claims to have seen Parker running from the crime scene, carrying a bag that may or may not have contained the alleged narcotics.

  Luis Guzman, 34, on parole for armed robbery in 1994, and his wife were being treated at an undisclosed medical facility for wounds suffered in the attack.

  Luis Guzman is listed in stable condition with a fractured jaw and three broken ribs and was unable to comment. Christine, 28, is suffering from a concussion and facial lacerations.

  “He hit me,” Christine said of Parker’s brutalization. “He hit me a lot. I was screaming at him to stop, but he kept hitting my husband until he couldn’t talk anymore.”

  She continued, “That policeman died to protect us from Henry Parker. We could both be dead. He sacrificed his life. We will never forget what he gave for us.”

  And, according to several sources within the NYPD and FBI, neither will New York’s finest.

  Said Kelly at an early morning press conference, “This city will not rest until Officer Fredrickson’s killer is found. This investigation will be the very definition of swift justice.”

  The local branch of the FBI has been called in to aid in Parker’s capture. The Assist
ant Director in Charge of the New York City FBI branch, Donald L. West, said his agents would receive special jurisdiction to cross state lines if found that Parker has fled the state.

  Detective Fredrickson is survived by his wife, Linda, and two children.

  The pounding blood in my head slowly came to a boil.

  He hit me, she said.

  Christine Guzman lied to the police. So did Grady Larkin, the superintendent, a man I’d never met. The world had collapsed onto itself, and I was caught in the middle.

  It had to be a dream. I was a college graduate, had just started my dream job at a respected newspaper. I was supposed to do great things, accomplish my goals, all the good stuff that would secure me respect and money, and give my reputation longevity. And now I was accused of killing a policeman. A husband. A father. A man who protected the world from criminals. Like me. How was this possible? John Fredrickson—a fucking cop—had nearly beaten two people to death, almost killed me in the process, and now I was facing the vengeance of an entire city.

  Drugs. A heroin deal. That’s what the paper said. That’s what Fredrickson must have been looking for, and what the papers assumed I stole. But why would a cop go to such brutal lengths to retrieve drugs? And why did Christine claim they didn’t have it, risking all three of our lives?

  And why would a cop, with a family no less, risk everything by beating two unarmed people nearly to death?

  I didn’t have the answer.

  And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.

  I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.