This was the last thing Frank expected on his day off, but strangely enough, the first thing he wanted now. "Hect...the first kid. Any I.D. on him? Connections to the second kid?"
Once again Hector blew into the phone. It hurt Frank's ear and he had to pull away for a second. "Frank, I can't have you playing detective right now."
"Why not?"
"You're a witness, and frankly I can't waste any more time. I need to get your statement. Afterwards, we'll talk. I promise."
Frank licked his lips. Frustration. The detective in him wanted all the facts, wanted to start piecing the clues together right away, pronto. "Okay, I'm a witness," he said, rolling his eyes. "But remember, I'm a damn nosy one."
Frank agreed to meet Hector at the 13th at four o'clock. After hanging up, he crawled from bed and spent a half-hour in the bathroom, self-commiserating towards the nearly unfamiliar face watching him from the mirror as he shaved. Fifty-three years old. Jesus, it seemed just yesterday that Jaimie was born, and that was twenty years ago. Five years had already passed since Diane left him. Hard to believe.
That had been real hard on him. After twenty-eight years of marriage, Diane—who had spent most of her time watching her diet and getting fit at the Midtown Health Club—selfishly felt that she had aged much more gracefully than he, and came to the rash decision that a thirty year old 'kid' would make a much better lover than frigid old Frank Ballaro.
It was the shocker of his life. He had never suspected for one brief moment that she had been having an affair. She simply picked up and left with a few of her things, leaving only a 'dear John' letter behind to Frank and Jaimie.
As unsettling an experience it was, Frank refused to put all the blame on her for leaving. He had spent his whole life trying to be the finest detective New York City had to offer, neglecting their marriage—and their sex life. Although the manner in which Diane ended things was clearly unacceptable, he still wished to this day he had made an effort to divide his duties in life, half for Diane, half for the NYPD. Perhaps she still would've been around if he had, regardless of his inability to perform regularly.
He showered, got dressed in a pair of khaki pants, a navy cotton sweater, and sneakers. He went to the kitchen where Jaimie sat studying, a variety of textbooks and papers fanned out on the table before her.
The one good thing that had come out of Diane's departure was the growth of his relationship with Jaimie. She had been fourteen at the time, certainly old enough to understand what had happened. They both read the letter, holding each other for comfort upon finishing. Tears of resentment sprang from their eyes, but somehow the sadness strengthened the bond between them, became a pledge of security that would last throughout the subsequent five years. Frank wouldn't trade anything in the world—even Diane's return—in exchange for the relationship he now had with Jaimie. Some things were sacred, and this was one of them.
"Good morning."
Jaimie smiled. "Good afternoon. Can't believe you out-slept me today. Rough night Frank?"
Frank reached into the refrigerator, grabbed a corn muffin and a can of coke. "You could say that. And please call me dad." He sat at the three-seat rectangular table flanking the cut-out wall in the small kitchen. The smallest room in the two-bedroom apartment, it barely allowed enough standing room for both of them, making things difficult when they decided to prepare a rare dinner together.
"What are you studying?"
Jaimie placed her pen in the crook of the open textbook, blew up a puff of air that sent her bangs against her forehead. "I have an exam in climatology."
"Takes a lot of studying to tell the weather, huh?"
"More than I ever expected." Jaimie rubbed her eyes. "Oh, you got a call earlier this morning, from Neil. He said it was important, but I didn't want to wake you since I knew you were off."
Frank let out an exasperated sigh. Already his partner was starting in. What the hell was so important that he felt the need to call him on his first day off? Frank thought he had made himself very clear, reiterating throughout the entire investigation how he had planned to spend a few days off away from the precinct when the investigation came to a close. And now that he finally made it—although there were times when he thought he wouldn't—here was Neil Connor calling first thing. "Thanks hon, you did the right thing."
Jaimie picked up the pen, put the capped end in her mouth, then stood and grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cabinet above the sink. She wore a pair of faded Levi's and a tie-dye tee shirt, reminding Frank a bit of the hippies that gave him the business on the street corner in Greenwich Village back in '68. Damn thing still haunted him. The only difference was that she had no joint in her mouth. Good thing, too. Frank would freak.
"So why are all these people calling you on your day off?"
He took a bite of the muffin, washed it down with half the Coke. "Something came up. I have some work to do this afternoon."
She stuck a pretzel in her mouth. "What is it now? I thought you were taking a few days off."
"I thought so too." He paused, thinking a moment of the castrated boy in the alley, then said, "Jame, something happened last night, here in the neighborhood. A couple of kids were murdered."
Jaimie's eyes widened as she swiped a sip of Frank's Coke. "God. What happened?"
Frank retrieved his stolen soda. "Long story. But they were two boys about your age."
Jaimie rolled her eyes. "Dad...I'll be fine."
Frank locked gazes with his daughter. "Please. Be careful. There's a lot of crazies out there. Kids with earrings in their noses."
She picked up the pen from her book, grinning. "Haven't we been through all this before?"
Nodding in agreement, Frank wondered to what extent he should reveal to her the events of the early morning hours. Of course he had no desire to itemize every weird detail. It would only scare her, and that was something he didn't want to do. Never in the past had Frank revealed to Jaimie the finer details of his investigations, but he always believed it would be wise to teach her some street smarts, let her in on what really went on day to day in the streets of New York. Sure, newspapers shared the outer surface of crime—murders, mayhem (Jaimie had done a fine job of keeping up to date with the Lindsay murder, letting him know exactly what she thought), but there was so much more hidden beyond the headlines—burglaries, muggings, thefts, assaults. People ended up in the hospital daily with injuries sustained in these so called 'petty crimes'. Frank wanted to make sure his daughter didn't become a victim of them.
For now, he decided to tell her nothing more. It would only distract her from her studies.
Smiling, he said, "Someday you'll be a parent..."
"...and I'll understand," she finished. "I know. Listen, I have to finish up. I have a test in two hours."
Frank stuffed the rest of the muffin in his mouth and stood up. "Okay, okay, I get the hint," he said, raising his arms in a surrender position. They exchanged smiles and he placed the soda can in the recycle bin under the sink.
He moved to the living room, sat on the couch and dialed Neil at the precinct before he persuaded himself to do otherwise.
"Connor..." His voice was harried and rushed.
"Neil. Frank."
"Frankie. We have a problem."
Talk about cutting to the chase. Oh, that Neil and his tendencies. Frank always taught himself to never accept Neil Connor's panic quite seriously. His partner had a habit of raising the red flags as soon as something struck as a inherent problem. Most of the time those flags never amounted to much more than casual inconsiderables, leaving Frank flustered and annoyed most of the time. Amazing that Neil Connor achieved as much success as he did; Frank always felt he was too panicky for the job.
"Neil. I'm off. This better be good."
"Actually, it's bad. Bobby Lindsay made bail."
All of a sudden Frank felt as if the good Lord had struck him with one of those big lightning bolts he carries around with Him. Two months he worked on the
case, days twelve hours or longer, slaving and sweating to disclose the proper evidence to put the bastard away.
And to think he had known from the onset that the eighteen year old had sexually maimed his sister.
But he had had to find the evidence to prove it. That had been the hard part.
Bobby Lindsay's methodology had been cunning and conniving, his attack well thought out and executed. As a result, hardly any circumstantial evidence turned up—at least enough the police could work with. No fingerprints were found at the scene of the crime, the suitcase Carey was found in, her clothing, skin, everything—printless.
In addition, no hair evidence showed up, not a single fiber. Coincidentally, Bobby, claimed during an interrogation to have joined some unnameable religious order prior to the murder and had shaved every hair from his body, toes through head. Even his eyebrows.
Additionally, the kid possessed a paranoid demeanor that had Frank and Neil raising eyebrows all throughout questioning. For Frank Ballaro, the lack of evidence pointed all fingers to no one but Bobby Lindsay. But how to implicate him?
As they waited, wondering just that, something broke. And Frank got his man.
With all of Bobby's clever planning, his detailed formulations, his perfect crime had a crack in its armor. He made a mistake.
He bought the wrong condoms.
Although the girl had been raped and sodomized repeatedly, there was no semen present. When the coroner's report came back, they found large traces of non-oxynol 9 in and around Carey Lindsay's genital area. The report went on to explain that non-oxynol 9, a generic name for a common over the counter spermicidal lubricant, was also found to be used in the manufacture of widely used condoms as a secondary precaution in preventing pregnancy.
The search of Bobby's room had found a box of Trojan Ultra Ribbed condoms with non-oxynol 9 in a drawer next to his bed. There were five missing. The next day a video showed up of Bobby Lindsay purchasing the same brand of condoms from a convenience store two blocks away from his home. The grainy surveillance tape was dated June 2nd, two months before the murder.
They had their man.
"Frank? You there?"
Frank broke his paralysis. A film of sweat had formed on his hands. "Who in God's name set bail for him?"
"Judge Mathews. My guess is that she didn't think his folks would show any sympathy, and honestly, I didn't either. Heck, it's not even his real father. But the two of them just waltzed right in to the City Courthouse, arm in arm, and plunked down a mil cash. That ain't no kitty litter. I'm telling you, that Jo-Beth Lindsay must have her rich husband wrapped around her finger like a gold ring."
"Why the hell did Mathews set bail?"
"Well...I figure it's like this. If he makes bail, he can't go anywhere because they tag him with a homing bracelet. It'll send up a million red flags if he places one foot out the door. If he tries, they shoot him full of holes, and the city gets the dough. Beats the hell out of spending all sorts of bucks to keep him in jail while deciding if the creep gets the death penalty. Higher-ups won't fess it, but it's the truth."
Frank scoffed inside, even though it really made sense. "Neil...where do you get these ideas?"
"It's the truth, Frank, I'm tellin' you. And another thing. I don't think she's buying all our evidence. Kid's pleading innocent. They hired some hot-shot Jew lawyer from the upper-east side. Gonna be a real uphill battle." He took a deep breath. "Nevertheless, he's out, and we got to keep an eye on him and his folks. Us too, kiddo. There's going to be a shit-load of pissed off people when this hits the papers tomorrow."
Frank ran a hand through his thinning hair. "It's gonna be a nightmare. Thanks for letting me know, Neil."
"Wanted to fill you in before you heard it on the news."
"I appreciate it." Wanting to get off the phone, he blurted, "Listen, Neil, I gotta head over to the thirteenth." He suddenly realized he spilled something he had hoped to keep a secret—at least until the news broke about his involvement in last night's adventure.
"The thirteenth?"
"I'm going to pay Hect a visit. Haven't seen him in a few. We're gonna grab a bite." Dodged that bullet.
"Ah...send Hect my regards. Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, Frankie. Try to have a good weekend."
"No easy feat."
After hanging up, Jaimie appeared from the kitchen with her books cradled next to her chest. She now had her hair tied back in a scrunchie, and Frank thought she looked more beautiful than an angel appearing from the heavens. She dropped her books on the couch and put on a blue windbreaker she retrieved from the closet next to the door. "Gotta run."
"Good luck on your test."
"Thanks. Oh, I almost forgot. Some of us are going out for dinner tonight. After the test. I won't be home till later."
"How late?"
"Dad..."
Frank had a feeling he wouldn't be home for dinner either. "Okay. Have fun. And be careful," he said, standing, smiling.
"I will."
"Maybe we'll have dinner together this weekend?"
She smiled. Beautiful. "Okay. I'd like that." Then she left.
And Frank felt utterly alone.
Chapter Five
The bald man entered the long hall. It looked just as it did the first time he was here: dark and gloomy. Yet somehow, even through the sunglasses, he could see everything clearly. It wasn't as if his eyesight had improved, he just knew where to go, as if his thoughts had been attuned to an outside force that invisibly guided him to this place, this place that he not only needed to be, but that would provide him with the answers to all the questions suddenly speeding about in his head. Questions like: what is life? And: what purpose do I serve? Dressed entirely in black, he wore jeans, a tee shirt beneath a leather biker jacket, gloves and sneakers. The gloves, caked with blood and dirt, hung at his sides as he stared straight ahead and carefully eyed the lengthy corridor. Impulsively, he lifted his arms and dragged his soiled fingertips along the smooth ebony walls as he traversed the length of the hall, leaving streaks of brown and red upon them like sand-trails from a snake in the desert. As he did this, his thoughts and memories evaporated, leaving a blank slate behind in his mind. Still he tried to remember something about himself, what he had been called before he was summoned to this place and became the person he is now. But as his efforts ricocheted around inside his head, endeavoring to find answers, stronger, darker impressions surrounded and subdued them like a virus, pointing out to him quite surely that it really wasn't necessary to know anything about who he used to be at this moment, that nothing else mattered so long as he had guidance from the Giver. Unexpectedly, he reached an impasse at the end of the corridor. He stood there, confused at first about what to do, but quickly allowed his thoughts to collect themselves and find an answer to this dilemma. They told him to enter. Yes, enter. Something important waited on the other side and he knew his purpose at this very moment was to access it. He searched for a means to venture forth. A knob perhaps? Or a switch? But he found nothing. Still, he identified this impasse as a door of some fashion. He gently placed his gloved right hand upon the smooth inky surface. Like a sudden shot of static through a stereo speaker, a ghostly electronic storm emanated from within the shiny blackness in front of him, as if it were alive, seeping through his gloves into his pores. The wall evaporated, unveiling a vast room, allowing him access into its reach. He stepped forward and found himself within a great span of blackness, far-away walls enveloping him as if he were an embryo inside a great black egg. Familiar this place seemed. He had been here before. Yes. This is the place where he had first received the Atmosphere. Oh yes, the Atmosphere. He wondered for a brief moment how he knew it was called that. But, as usual, he could not answer his own query. He simply accepted the fact that he just knew, as if the knowledge of the object had been buried in his mind all this time and had been empathically called forth by the Giver. He spun his body, looking around. The room was round, like an amphitheater, entirely b
lack and glossy, the walls, ceiling, and floor like the finish on a brand new car. Ever so slowly, he walked towards the center of the vacuous room. The squeaky footfalls of his black sneakers echoed hollowly amid the quietude, careening off the curved walls like an invisible pinball. He finally stood at what he perceived to be the middlemost point, placing his hand in his jacket pocket to make sure the Atmosphere was still there. It was. He had done this so many times before, even on his way here—in the street, on the subway, in the tunnel—because he knew it was crucial that he not misplace it. It was the Atmosphere, and the Giver had chosen him to carry out its requirements. He waited for what seemed a very along time, and then the Giver made its presence known. A slight humming sound filled the room then quickly grew into a pulse that radiated from the walls like a distant explosion. It permeated his skin, deep into his bloodstream, bearing a euphoria with it that he could neither explain nor define. It eclipsed the very pleasures of any drug he had used in his past life. It surpassed the gratification of the heady rush he felt while listening to the pulsating beats and rhythms of ambient and techno music. Prospering in the moment, he closed his eyes, permitting the sensation-filled droning to douse his mind and body like a rapid wash of warm water. He felt himself smiling and truly hoped that it would last a long, long time. Suddenly he felt himself getting hard, the pulse now reaching into his crotch. The vibration sped up. A tingling raced through his blood stream. It felt wonderful. He wanted it to last forever. He wanted to see its magic, and when he opened his eyes, he found a faint bluish color illuminating the room. He immediately felt as though he were swimming miles beneath the ocean, spelunking in a warm limestone cave where shimmering stalactites washed their ghostly natural phosphorescence over his body. This, in combination with the bodily resonance brought on a higher feeling, a miraculous awareness. This perhaps, was Nirvana. This is what the Suppliers felt. Yes, it would be his pleasure to bring it to them again and again. Now if only the Giver would allow him to supply someday! He stared into the light, eyes wide and tearing. Now all the walls glowed, brighter than before, a sea of neon blue swimming throughout the room. Then, like magic, the walls became translucent. Oh, he could see through them! Colorful shapes flowing beneath their surface, intertwining amidst one another in a jubilant frenzy! Microbiotic creatures orgied into a great tapestry of surrealistic hues! He raised a palm to the fluid shapes. "I am yours," he managed to whisper, the pulse in his body reaching orgasmic proportions. The shapes moved within each other, growing brighter as the seconds passed. Suddenly brighter more magnificent colors emerged: greens, purples, yellows, oranges. All glowing, fusing with the dominant blue like sucklings on a mother. Again he said, "I am yours," more than a whisper now.
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