[Henry Parker 01.0] The Mark

by Jason Pinter

  “Henry,” she said. “Please…”

  The knob turned. But when I pushed, I felt resistance from inside. Something was blocking the door.

  There was just enough room to peek my head in. Craning my neck, I peered through the tiny slat.

  When I saw what the obstacle was, it took all I had not to vomit.

  A shoe was propped against the door. The shoe was connected to a leg. The leg was connected to a man, fully clothed, his head covered in matted blood, sitting atop the toilet. It was Hans Gustofson, and he was very dead.

  There was a large gash by his right temple, and his skull looked deformed, almost misshapen, like a lump of clay hit with a baseball bat.

  The blood spatter by the front door. Hans had been brained there, his head smacking off the wall. But it hadn’t killed him. At least not right away. Somehow he’d managed to perch himself on the toilet. Very Elvis of him.

  I held my breath, feeling my stomach churn, and gently moved his leg, now captured by the prison of rigor mortis, out of the way. His body shifted.

  I stopped pushing. Made sure he stayed balanced on his death throne.

  Then without warning, Gustofson’s body slipped off the toilet and went crashing to the ground. His maimed head smacked wetly off the tiling. I bit my fist to stop from screaming as his dead eyes stared at me from the floor, his body horribly contorted.

  I closed my eyes, stepped back, felt faint.

  I’d seen a body once before, visiting the medical examiner’s office back in Bend for a story I was writing. I’d felt like throwing up then, too. The ME, a surprisingly young and attractive woman named Grace, had laughed.

  Don’t think of it as a person, she’d said. All it is is a husk, like a snail shell. The soul is gone.

  That helped a little. But not much.

  I gently opened the door. Easy, Henry. He’s just a shell. Like a steak with eyes.

  I looked over the prone body. Gustofson had been an amateur bodybuilder as well as photographer, always snapped at high society events with tree-trunk arms wrapped around the supermodel of the moment. I could tell from the acne scars on his cheeks and thinning hair that he’d recently been resorting to chemical enhancers. Very Barry Bonds of him. Hans Gustofson was once one of the foremost chroniclers of the human experience and now here he was, dead in his bathroom. And for what?

  I looked at the gaping wound by his temple. The death blow. Pushing the horror of the situation away, I focused on the facts. Tried to distance myself.

  Strangely, the medicine cabinet was untouched. The only part of the house that didn’t look like it had been ransacked. It could only mean that either the killer had found what he was looking for, or the item was too big to fit inside such a small space. But the question remained: Why would a gravely wounded man come here to die?

  “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” Amanda was standing outside the bathroom, her hand covering her mouth and nose. “Is he…”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s been dead awhile.”

  “It’s like nobody even noticed,” she said, her voice remorseful, distancing herself from the crime and focusing on the facts. Just like I had. This allowed you to see the story from a more comprehensive angle and was a by-product of journalism. Right now, it was all I had to keep myself from breaking down.

  “But why would he come here?” she added.

  “Well, when you gotta go, you gotta…” I left the joke unfinished. This wasn’t the time.

  “If you’re dying,” Amanda said, “and your world is about to end, there has to be a reason to come here if not for help. There’s no phone. It’s like he was checking up on something.”

  “Maybe he knew whoever attacked him hadn’t searched the bathroom. Think about it. You’re lying on the floor. Some guy’s just bashed you with a big hunk of metal, you’re laying there dying while he’s tearing your home apart. What could be so important that you’d ignore medical help to find it?”

  “The package,” Amanda said. “What DiForio and that man in black wanted. Maybe that’s what was so important. Maybe that’s what the killer missed. You think that maniac who found us in St. Louis did this?”

  “Maybe. It would make sense. But I honestly don’t know.”

  The package. The reason John Fredrickson had assaulted the Guzmans. What the newspapers assumed I’d stolen. What a stranger was trying to kill me for. What the cops thought I was hiding. Gustofson had it, and whoever killed him failed to find it.

  But one thing was for certain: it was here in the bathroom with us.

  Amanda looked at me, and suddenly she reached forward and wrenched open the porcelain top to the toilet. We gazed inside. Nothing but water, levers and rust. She replaced the top.

  “So where…” she said, thinking aloud. I maneuvered around Gustofson’s body and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Nothing but Rogaine, unidentifiable pill boxes and an unopened pack of condoms. The medicine cabinet was stocked with hair gel, cologne and shaving gear, but nothing to arouse suspicion.

  I stepped back and surveyed the bathroom. There had to be something. My eyes went to the ceiling, looking for a fake smoke detector, anything. I kicked over the hamper, sifted through a pile of dirty clothes with my shoe. Nothing.

  Amanda checked behind the toilet, as I silently gave her credit for being brave enough to do so. She came up, her eyes defeated.

  “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Maybe Hans did just come here to die on the toilet. He knew he’d thrown his life in the shitter and that’s where he wanted it to end.”

  “No,” I said, still searching. “There has to be something.” Then I looked at the bathtub and saw it. Tiny chips of blue paint were sprinkled by the drain. As I looked closer, tiny cracks emerged in the tiling, invisible if you weren’t looking for them.

  Slowly I brought my hands up to grip the hot and cold knobs. I turned them. No water came out. Amanda’s eyes went wide.

  I turned around, looked at her, nodded.

  I yanked both knobs as hard as I could. There was a terrible crunching sound as the knobs tore away from the wall, spraying blue paint and dust everywhere. Tiling cascaded down into the bathtub as the room filled up with steam and dust. Coughing, I waved the detritus away and peered into the two-foot wide, six-inch high hole I’d created. Inside was a thick manila envelope sealed inside a plastic bag.

  “Is that…” she said.

  “Be some coincidence,” I said. “Now let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

  37

  After freeing the plastic sheaf from the wall, I carried it into the living room. The small edgewood dining room table had been wiped clean during the break-in, candlesticks bent and twisted and dinnerware shattered. I blocked Gustofson’s body from my mind, ignoring the dried blood, the acrid smell. I would have preferred to examine our finding anywhere but a dead man’s apartment, but we had nowhere to go. Time was running out, each second bringing an increased sense of dread. When was the last shoe going to drop, our last free seconds melting away? This envelope held the answers to so many questions. A lot of people were willing to kill for this, and I had no doubt that what happened to Hans Gustofson could happen to me as well.

  I placed the package on the table, my breathing long and slow. I gently slipped my fingers inside, finally touched what people had died for, had killed for. I ran my hand along the envelope’s grainy surface, still sharp, untouched by the elements. It was fastened with a red drawstring. Unwinding the twine, I took a deep breath and opened the envelope.

  A binder slid out onto the table. The cover was shiny and black. I ran my hand over its smooth surface. Silence drummed in my ears as I slowly lifted the cover to see what lay inside.

  There was a photo of two men mounted on the first page, and an index card pasted below it with two names written in thick ink. The photo looked at least twenty years old. Both men were wearing overcoats. And they looked like they didn’t want anyone else to know they were meeting.

  Detective Lieut
enant Harvey N. Pennick

  Jimmy “Eight Ball” Rizzoli

  I turned the page. Another photo, another index card. Another detective. Another guy with a clichéd nickname. I flipped the pages. More photos, more cards, more cops, more crooks. The book was full of them. Immediately it dawned on me. I knew what the connection was. The revelation made my head swim.

  I knew how Hans Gustofson was connected to Michael DiForio. What John Fredrickson had been looking for at the Guzmans’ house. That many more lives were at stake than just mine and Amanda’s. That I’d stumbled onto something big, something huge, and oh, God, there was a whole lot more at stake than my insignificant life.

  Within these pages were images that could ruin a city.

  Or control it.

  Fear rushed through my veins like a bad drug, seizing hold of my body. I stood up to compose myself. I felt dizzy, unbalanced. Whispering, under my breath. Oh God, oh Jesus, oh shit, oh fuck.

  Amanda was staring at me. She was looking at the last page, the page I’d stopped on. The page that tied it all together.

  “Is that…” she said, her voice trembling like she was walking a tightrope thousands of feet above ground. “Are those…”

  “Yes,” I said weakly. “That’s Officer John Fredrickson and Angelo Pineiro.”

  Inside this album were pasted hundreds of photos. Policemen. Politicians. Government officials. All captured by the steady eye of Hans Gustofson. The negatives were neatly tucked away in the back for safekeeping.

  In some photos they were taking money, in others they were buying or selling drugs. Some were having sex with women. Some were having sex with men. All their faces were clear as day. The subjects were all unaware. Taking bribes. Some men seemed to be playing to the camera—they knew about Hans taking their picture from the shadows. Some photos looked twenty years old, some as fresh as the moonlight streaming through the window.

  Some cops were in uniform and some were in plainclothes, easily distinguishable from their posture and countenance that they knew what they were doing was so, so wrong.

  The patsy’s name was written on the index card. First and last, middle initial. Rank. Their office. Also listed were their associates, the men or women they were photographed with. I recognized many of them. I recognized the name Angelo Pineiro. Blanket.

  The Right Hand of Lucifer.

  Oh, God…

  Some of the faces looked sad, remorseful. Faces that once held dreams of nobility but had since been reduced to this. Some were happy, jovial, looking like they’d known their associates for years. Unrepentant for their crimes, or disillusioned to the point of apathy.

  “Jesus,” Amanda said.

  “I hope he hears you,” I said. “Because nobody else seems to.”

  We flipped through the entire book, an encyclopedia of corruption spanning a generation. And on the very last page, staring back at us, was John Fredrickson.

  He looked weary, haggard. He held a wad of cash in his palm. Officer John Fredrickson. The man who’d died at my hands. The man I was being hunted for, I’d given up my life for. I closed my eyes and replayed that fateful night in my mind. The deafening gunshot that ended one life and changed the course of another.

  This binder was supposed to find its way to Luis Guzman. It was what John Fredrickson had nearly beaten three people to death for. Luis Guzman was the courier for John Fredrickson. Fredrickson was working for Michael DiForio. The hired muscle. Cop muscle. The strongest kind. DiForio had the goods on Fredrickson, and was using him to deliver the very photos that possessed his soul.

  But after all that, there was still an unanswered question.

  Who killed Hans Gustofson?

  It couldn’t have been DiForio. According to the newspapers, I’d stolen the package and the maniac in black seemed to think this as well. Assuming the assassin had been hired by DiForio, there would be no sense in him killing Hans before receiving the photos.

  No, Gustofson was killed by someone working outside of Michael DiForio’s jurisdiction. Someone who knew about the photos and wanted them for him or herself. Someone who’d clearly left empty-handed and was still looking.

  But as I stood there looking at the photos, another realization came to me.

  Within this binder was the opportunity to reclaim my life. John Fredrickson had set me on an unalterable course to hell, but this album held my salvation. These photos were the story of a lifetime. A generation of corruption captured on film. This could bring down the entire criminal justice system. It could restart my career, put it back on the path I thought had been destroyed.

  Here it was, perhaps the greatest story I could ever hope to uncover, the story I’d longed to write for years, sitting in front of me in literal black and white. Here was a network of corruption whose capillaries reached far and wide, whose tainted blood carried venom to all parts of the city, and spanned decades. This was my Watergate, my Abu Ghraib.

  “What do we do with this?” Amanda asked. “Bring it to the cops? Burn it?”

  “No,” I said, my voice monotone. “I need to use it.”

  “Use it how?”

  “This is my story.” I turned to Amanda, my eyes desperately wide, hoping she’d understand the incredible opportunity in front of me.

  “What do you mean, ‘your story,’ Henry? I don’t understand.”

  “Amanda,” I said, gently taking her hands in mine, feeling the strong pulse in her wrists. “This album, everything inside it, this could make my career right again. If I went to the Gazette with this story, I’d be a page-one writer in no time. This is the kind of moment careers are built on. Reporters can go an entire lifetime and not find anything close to this. I can’t pass it up.”

  Amanda pulled her hands away, crossed them on her chest.

  “I don’t know, Henry. It doesn’t seem right. This could single-handedly destroy the NYPD. If you write about this, it could bring down the city. Think about it. There are thousands and thousands of cops and lawmen in New York who risk their lives every day. We have pictures of probably twenty guys who are still on active duty. You’d risk everything they work and die for, just for a story?”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “Sometimes you only get one chance, one moment to make a difference. If I don’t take this…I don’t know if it will ever happen again.

  “Don’t you see?” I pleaded. “Don’t you see what this could mean for my life? I have nothing right now. I have no name, no hope, and my future is fucked. This could bring it all back. I can expose the truth and make up for everything that’s happened.”

  “And then what?” Amanda said, her back ramrod straight, her eyes slicing through me. “You make your name. Congratulations, Henry Parker. Then what happens to the millions of people who lose faith because you want to make your name? The thousands of cops who have to answer for the few who went bad? You’re thinking how it will affect you, and that’s selfish. You want to be a great reporter? You need to remember that the story isn’t about you.”

  “Please. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. To make a difference. To change lives.” I thumped my hand on the binder, felt the shockwave rattle through my body. “This book could do that.”

  “Whose life will it change besides yours?” Amanda yelled. “Whose? These cops? It’ll ruin them. The people? Do you really think losing faith in their protectors—most of it completely unwarranted—will make their lives better?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I can’t just pass this up.”

  “Yes, you can,” she said. “Why did you want to become a reporter in the first place? Really, why?”

  “To help people,” I said. “To tell the truth about what needed to be told. To give people what they deserve to know.”

  Amanda’s voice grew soft as a tear landed softly on the table. Surprisingly, it had come from me.

  “You can help people,” she said. “You can help them by making things right. Not just for yourself. That door opens for ever
yone, Henry, but this isn’t your time. I know you’re innocent. I know you have a good heart. So use it. Make things right for these people. Help them. Then help yourself.”

  Her eyes found mine. I cursed the cold book beneath my hand, cursed that my life had been altered. That this small folder had the power to change—and end—many other lives as well. And now I was questioning something I never thought I would. Every moment I hesitated, that door would be closing. All I had to do was prop it open. But I couldn’t.

  “You’re right,” I said. “There has to be another way.” I slid the album back into the envelope and sealed it. “But right now we need to leave.”

  She threw her arms around me. I had no energy to hug her back. “Now the front door, I’ll happily walk through.”

  I gathered up the package. But as we left the apartment, a deep male voice called out from the stairwell. We froze.

  “Hello?”

  Amanda grabbed my arm, whispered, “Henry?”

  Again, “Hello?”

  I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Neither of us reacted. We couldn’t let anyone see us. We had to hide. Putting my finger to my lips, I ushered Amanda back inside Gustofson’s apartment. I went to push the front door closed, but something stopped it. A hand. Someone was standing right outside the door.

  “I heard a noise, is something broken?” The man pushed harder. There was nothing I could do. The door swung open. A Hispanic man wearing paint-splattered overalls stood in the doorway. One word flashed through my head.

  Superintendent.

  He glanced down at the floor, covered in dark brown pools. He saw my hands, the residue of blood from when I’d fallen. He looked up at me, his mouth agape, horror in his eyes. He backed away, arms outstretched, pleading.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, realizing every criminal in history probably said that. Suddenly the man turned and bolted down the stairs.

  “Help! Policía! Somebody’s been killed!”