The Fury (2009)

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The Fury (2009) Page 19

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter


  young man. A man scared of something. Something he

  felt, for some reason, I could help with.

  I was a newspaper reporter. Nothing more, nothing

  less. I sincerely doubted Gaines came to me because I

  was his flesh and blood. He’d had years to try to reach

  out. He came to me because something about my pro­

  fession, my line of work, could have helped him, thrown

  him a lifeline.

  I sat down, my butt immediately becoming stuck to

  the seat by a clear substance I hadn’t seen before. The

  joys of traveling on the MTA. Unfolding that morning’s

  copy of the Gazette, I put all thoughts of Gaines and

  Willingham out of my mind until I got home. Perhaps

  good old-fashioned newspaper reporting would help

  me out. Clear my mind.

  But when I saw the story on page eleven, I nearly

  threw up.

  Man, 27, Shot to Death in His Apartment

  A photo accompanied the article. I recognized the

  man in the shot. I’d seen him just recently.

  It was the guy whose briefcase I’d stolen. He was

  found last night, murdered, shot twice in the back of the

  head.

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  I couldn’t think of any words. My mouth was dry, my

  head throbbing. Amanda and I were sitting in a cold

  room in the Twenty-eighth Precinct on Eighth Avenue

  between 122d and 123d streets. On the table in front of

  us were several items: an empty briefcase, several

  thousand dollars’ worth of various types of narcotics;

  and one cell phone.

  The man’s name was Hector Guardado. He was

  twenty-seven years old. Lived alone in Spanish Harlem.

  According to police reports, Hector had less than a

  thousand dollars in his bank account. But upon search­

  ing his apartment, they found nearly fifty thousand

  dollars in cash stuffed underneath a fake floorboard in

  his kitchen.

  Hector was not some young kid with no education

  dealing to make ends meet. He had an MBA. A freaking

  business degree. Yet despite the degree, despite the

  hundred thousand dollars he spent to attain it, Hector

  Guardado had not been able to find employment since

  returning to New York City, his hometown.

  The other day I’d stolen Hector’s briefcase to learn

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  more about his dealings, to learn more about this group

  of misfits that my brother may or may not have been a

  part of. And now the man was dead, murdered in cold

  blood. Another young man killed like a piece of meat,

  shot twice in the back of the head, surely by someone

  who knew him.

  Because of that, I called Amanda the moment I got

  out of the subway. Stopping at the apartment first to pick

  up the briefcase and its contents, I headed straight for

  the police. No more clandestine detective work. No

  more hiding my hand until all the cards were dealt. A

  life had been taken.

  It made me sick to my stomach to think that Hector

  Guardado’s life might have been taken because of his

  stolen briefcase, but two days ago he was alive. Two

  days ago the briefcase, along with the drugs and his cell

  phone, were in his possession.

  And now today he was dead, and the drugs were

  in police custody. I wasn’t willing to write it off as a

  coincidence.

  “You okay?” Amanda asked. I didn’t nod. I wasn’t

  the one on a slab somewhere, or being written about in

  the newspaper. She seemed to get this, because she

  didn’t ask again.

  Soon the door opened and a familiar face walked in:

  Detective Sevi Makhoulian.

  Makhoulian sat down in a chair across from us.

  Looked me over, then looked at the items on the table.

  He took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, spread

  open the black folds of the suitcase and peered in.

  “This everything?”

  I nodded.

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  197

  “And this was all in Guardado’s possession when

  you took it from him.”

  I nodded again. “You can fingerprint it,” I said. “I

  never touched the stuff.” I nudged Amanda slightly with

  my elbow, giving her a silent thanks for the advice.

  Makhoulian sighed and leaned back in his chair. He

  folded his arms behind his head as though deciding

  what to watch on television. He didn’t look the least bit

  concerned with anything.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Frankly,” he said, “I’m not sure yet. Unfortunately

  we can’t charge you with theft, because Mr. Guardado

  would have been our only witness, and frankly it would

  be a waste of time. Because, though I don’t know you

  that well, anytime a person willingly brings half a pound

  of weed, a fourth of a kilo of cocaine and enough crack

  rocks to keep Flavor Flav’s teeth chattering for a year,

  they’re not the ones using it.”

  “We’re not,” Amanda said. “We weren’t.”

  Makhoulian nodded, then thumbed his lip. “Look,

  Parker, I know you think your father is innocent. If I was

  in your shoes, I’d want to do anything I could to help

  him, too. And if he is innocent, he’ll be found as such

  by a jury of his peers.”

  “The case hasn’t even gone to the grand jury yet,”

  Amanda spat.

  “True, but we all know that’s a mere formality. We

  have his fingerprints. We have his receipts from his trip

  to New York. And we have a motive.”

  “Does the name Butch Willingham ring a bell?” I

  asked suddenly.

  Makhoulian looked confused. Said, “No, why?”

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  I believed him. “Nothing,” I said. “Just a guy who

  was killed a long time ago.”

  “And you bring it up, why, as a brainteaser?”

  “I’m not sure why,” I said. “Just wondering if I’m the

  only one who thinks there’s a lot more to this than a

  simple case of a guy murdering his son. Since, you

  know, another young man was just killed in the same

  manner as Stephen Gaines.”

  “The investigation into the death of Hector Guardado

  is under way,” Sevi said. “You’re a reporter, Henry,

  right? Can you tell me how many murders were com­

  mitted in New York City last year?”

  “Not the exact number, but I believe it was under

  five hundred.”

  “Four hundred and ninety-two,” Makhoulian said.

  His eyes were riveted on mine. This was not a history

  lesson or an attempt to belittle my knowledge. “Now,

  first of all, that was the lowest number of murders com­

  mitted in Manhattan in over forty years. First time it’s

  been under five hundred since 1963, to be precise. Thing

  is, even though that’s low for our standards, that’s still

  an awful lot of homicides. Now, think about that word.

  Homicide. These four hundred ninety-two people were

  killed by someone else. They didn’t step into open

  ele
vator shafts or pee on the third rail. They were killed.

  Murdered. Now, you are a reporter. So it’s part of your

  job to report crimes that are extraordinary. Like Sharon

  Dombrowski, the elderly woman on Spring Street who

  was so convinced she was being targeted by a robber

  that she hooked up an electric cable to her door, so

  when her poor landlord came by to check on a leak and

  knocked he was electrocuted to death. Or Percy

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  199

  Whitmore who bought a studio in Little Italy using a

  loan from his father. Only when he didn’t repay in time,

  Percy’s dad came over and smacked his son across the

  face so hard ol’ Percy fell and cracked his skull open on

  his bookshelf. Accidental? Maybe. But homicides

  nonetheless.”

  “What’s your point?” I said.

  “See, you write about these instances because they’re

  one in a million. Like a shark attack, they’re so

  gruesome and out of the ordinary that people want to

  hear about them just like how they slow down when

  passing a car wreck. What doesn’t get that press are the

  boring murders. The two taps to the back of the head.”

  Makhoulian mimicked pointing a gun to his cranium,

  cocking his trigger finger twice to illustrate the shots.

  “You know how many of those nearly five hundred

  murders were the result of gunshot wounds? Four

  hundred and twenty-eight. Now, I’m not a mathemati­

  cian, but that’s somewhere between eighty and ninety

  percent. So you’re going to come in here and tell me,

  definitively, that these two murders are the result of

  some vast conspiracy that I’m too dumb to see?”

  “I’m not saying you’re dumb. But Hector called my

  brother that night.”

  “According to Verizon, the phone call lasted eight

  seconds. You know how long eight seconds is? Long

  enough to realize you’ve dialed the wrong number before

  you hang up. There are no other records of these two

  having ever corresponded, no other calls between the

  two.”

  “You don’t see these killings as two pieces to—”

  “Pieces my ass, you’re reading too much James

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  Ellroy. Know what they teach us in the academy? The

  rule of lex parsimoniae. Since I’m guessing you’re not

  exactly fluent, what the Latin translates to is ‘entities

  must not be multiplied beyond necessity.’ Boil down the

  translation, what that means is if a man is murdered, and

  the fingerprints on the gun belong to someone he

  knows, who has access to him, and who has a motive

  to kill him, I’d be willing to bet my badge, my wife, my

  mortgage and my iPhone you put that killer in cell block

  D you’ve got the right guy.”

  “You said usually,” I replied. “You said eighty to

  ninety percent. Well, it’s my job to find the exception

  to your rule. I’ve told you everything I know. I’m hoping

  when I walk out of here you do something with it, and

  don’t piss it all away because of what you read in a

  damn textbook. Because I find that extra few percent,

  Detective. Father or not, brother or not, it’s just what I

  do.”

  Amanda and I stood up. Waited for Detective Sevi

  Makhoulian to say something. When he didn’t, we

  waved at the camera so the observers in the other room

  would unlock the door. Makhoulian nodded, a click

  signaled that the door was unlocked, and I left to prove

  to the detective I was a man of my word.

  And as I walked down the hallway, Amanda’s

  unsteady hand locked in mine, I could feel the detec­

  tive’s eyes on my back.

  24

  I was dialing the number before I even left the station

  house. He picked up right away, his voice not even at­

  tempting to hide the boredom that had no doubt settled

  in over the past several months. Though I still harbored

  some guilt over what had happened, every time we

  spoke he’d forbid me to show any pity, either for myself

  or for him. To Curt Sheffield, being wounded in the line

  of duty was something to be proud of. He’d never

  wanted to be anything but a cop—and he was a damn

  good one at that—and he wasn’t going to let some

  pissant reporter wallow in a pint over some spilt blood.

  “Officer Sheffield,” he said, practically moaning.

  Curt had taken a bullet in the leg last year while helping

  me investigate a series of child kidnappings. The slug

  had nicked an artery, and it took a few surgeries to

  repair the wound. He’d probably never run in the

  Olympics, but while he wouldn’t accept anyone’s pity

  he had told me on several occasions the injury had done

  wonders for his sex life. Guess chicks really do dig

  scars. I’d have to ask Amanda if that’s why she was still

  with me.

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  “Hey, man, has your ass spread at all today?”

  “S’up, Henry? Matter of fact I’ve been doing butt

  blasts at my desk. Docs won’t let me go to the gym, but

  I think it’s a trick to get me to keep coming in so they

  can charge my insurance company. I swear my ass looks

  like the victim of an attack of cottage cheese.”

  “I don’t want to think about anything involving your

  butt. What do you say to a drink after work? On me.”

  “I don’t know man, I feel like I gotta lay low a little

  bit. Last time I brought you in here I caught hell from

  the chief of the department. You don’t have a lot of

  friends around here these days, especially considering

  what’s going on with your pops. At least you can be

  happy you got the deep end of the Parker gene pool.”

  “I’ll let that one slide. No work talk,” I said. “Just

  conversation. All I ask. Okay, maybe one or two ques­

  tions, but that’s it.”

  Curt went silent, but I could tell he was checking his

  watch. Sitting behind the desk for Curt was like keeping

  a racehorse stalled behind the starting gate. He was

  born to walk the streets, not type up reports. That’s

  likely why I felt the most guilt; it was one less great cop

  protecting the city.

  “Gimme one hour. Mixins.” Mixins was a cheesy

  singles bar primarily frequented by law and finance

  professionals who felt eight-dollar beers and weak

  cosmos were part of the mating ritual. The bar had

  undergone a total renovation over the last few years,

  mainly due to its predilection to serving underage girls.

  A friend of a friend who used to drink there said the

  waitstaff would grossly undercharge young women,

  naturally in the hopes of luring free-spending men to the

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  203

  bar. Soon enough the cops caught on. Though rumor

  had it they didn’t so much as catch on, but an off-duty

  detective saw a group of girls walk directly to the bar

  once after finishing class on Friday.

 
The bar had been shut down, but underwent a classic

  change in management, and now you’d be hard pressed

  to find someone holding a glass who didn’t take home

  close to six figures. Neither Curt nor I pulled in

  anywhere in the universe of that salary, but Curt enjoyed

  it because, in his words, finance girls were workahol­

  ics in every aspect of their lives. They kept their minds

  and their bodies sharp, and even though he seemed to

  always be in a serious relationship—sometimes several

  at once—he enjoyed having nice views at the bar. When

  I asked him about it, his answer was simply that I wasn’t

  pretty enough to hold his attention through more than

  one round of drinks.

  I got to the bar before he did, took a seat and ordered

  a Brooklyn Lager. The bartender, a tall, rail-thin guy

  wearing a tight black T-shirt that ended right above his

  veiny pelvic area, served it to me then recommenced

  putting his elbows on the table and looking tortured.

  The stools by the bar were never full here. It wasn’t the

  kind of place one went to for a quiet drink.

  A few months ago I’d gone through a rough personal

  patch. When Amanda and I were separated for a while.

  Being apart from her led me to drink too much and seek

  out my own solitude. Losing a part of your life can be

  the most accurate barometer of what matters most. If

  you love something, being apart from it will haunt you.

  If it doesn’t, it can’t have mattered all that much to

  begin with.

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  Jason Pinter

  Being apart from Amanda was a miserable experi­

  ence. I slept at my desk at the Gazette. My personal

  hygiene fell a rung below your average wino’s. I

  wondered if I was simply the kind of guy who always

  needed to be in a relationship. Before Amanda, I’d been

  with my previous girlfriend, Mya, for several years. We

  also ended badly, and after suffering brutal injuries at

  the hands of a maniac, she seemed fully recovered, her

  life back on track. I was happy with Amanda, and I

  knew the difference between a good and a bad relation­

  ship. Learning it had nearly killed me, but it was worth

  it.

  After waiting fifteen minutes and downing half my

  beer, Curt strode into the bar. He was tall, black, in

  great shape, though his recent sedentary work life had

  softened the edges just a bit. He was wearing a dark shirt

  made of some shiny fabric. Certainly not what he wore

  on the job, unless the NYPD was far more fashionable

 

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