“So why weren’t they with the file?”
“I guess it got buried under some other reports or something the boys were doing. I don’t know.”
“Okay, so has anything come of it?”
“No. No matches, actually. We’ve run it through our local and state databases, and nothing. Juvenile halls, prisons, mental institutions, and other correctional facilities, courts across the nation. Can’t find a damn thing on these prints.”
“Do we know that all of the prints came from the same guy? Any chance there’s more than one?”
“Nah. We thought so at first, because there were so many, but ten different ones, repeated all over everything, they’d have left footprints, made one hell of a mess that just isn’t here. I think someone’s playin’ games with us.”
“I’m coming back to the station.”
“Damn right you are. Where’d you go, anyway?”
“Just having a look around. Trying to get used to the area before I go looking for a killer in it.”
“Fair point. See you soon.”
I walk once more into the cool station, my sweaty back uncomfortably cold in the air conditioning.
“Report’s on your desk!” Husk calls from his office.
I look through the report, but it doesn’t offer any more information that I ascertained from the phone call. Mostly I’m eager to search our database (and neighboring ones) for Geoffrey Smith. It could save me a trip to Phoenix if he shows up in the search, as it would mean that the prints left all over the scene do not belong to him. Still, I could see if maybe the meetings mentioned on their website are formal enough to take attendance, and hound out the records for the fourth of August. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be something.
As a preemptive measure, I text Todd to see whether he will need the car today.
I type Smith’s name into the computer and start the query, first using our own database, as he grew up here.
The search yields no results. This fuels me, even though a lack of Smith in the system is far from a sure indicator that he had any involvement in the murder.
Next, I use the New Mexico general database, and still, the results turn up nothing, further stoking the fire within me.
I use Arizona’s database, and there he is. Geoffrey Smith. A handful of them show up, but our Geoffrey, the correct incorrect Geoffrey, sits at the top of the list. The neat web I’ve been spinning comes apart in an instant, as if the adhesive were set to deactivate on a timer.
Apparently, there was an epidemic of hate crimes that swept through Phoenix about a year ago. Because of that, the authorities visited with each known white supremacist group and asked them for fingerprints. Most complied, and the ones who didn’t were treated as suspects until they could provide evidence to the contrary.
Smith, it seems, was among those who complied.
“Husk,” I say.
He grunts in return.
“Did you run the prints through the Arizona state database?”
“Yep,” he says.
But the fingerprints yielded no matches. This rules out not only Geoffrey Smith, but scores of racists across Phoenix. Still, I don’t remove the trip to Phoenix from my itinerary; he may know something about it, or may even be in contact with the killer. If I can get my hands on attendance records, I can see who was absent last Friday and check that against the list of fingerprints whose owners already have a place in our database.
Also on my to-do list is to make a trip to look at the crime scene myself; while the notes in the file are detailed and satisfyingly concise at the same time, helpful in the highest caliber, they still don’t compare to being on-site, letting one’s mind wander, explore, construct and theorize with three-dimensional context complemented by total sensory input. A complete picture is simply more useful than a heap of pieces.
I get a text from Todd: “I’ll just be at home all day. What’s up?”
In the moment, I decide that Phoenix takes priority over the crime scene for the time being, even though Albuquerque is closer by six hours.
“You up for a road trip?” I say. I know I should leave him uninvolved, but his mind is a gem, meticulous like mine, but in a way that’s more perceptive than creative.
His talent lies in observation rather than execution, and he’s likely to be able to offer fresh perspective on the case. Plus, he gets an adorable little crinkle in his brow when he concentrates.
“Haha! Always. I’ll get snacks. What time is liftoff?”
“T minus thirty minutes until launch. Mind packing an overnight bag for us?”
“No problem. See you soon!”
What a peach.
I look through the reports and find that, of the handful who refused to provide fingerprints, a couple had moved away. Far away. Alaska and New York far. I print a list of those who stayed put and slip it into my bag, with contact information for each of them. Most still have Phoenix addresses, and surprisingly few have any sort of record. Only two have violent charges, and both, it seems, were just bar fights. There’s a first time for everything, though. Many people who commit violent crimes have no prior charges whatsoever.
Like me. Over the course of just a few seconds, my consciousness zips through the past year: meeting Todd, my mother returning to my life, my friendship with Beth both deepening and widening, putting a pervert in jail, saving the life of May Brotcher, and—oh yeah—murdering my father, which catalyzed all of those events.
Those times were emotional, challenging, and downright scary. I feared for our lives then, a fear that rested peacefully between then and the onset of the death threats. The first was in the form of a brick through Todd’s window. We had both been reading, and it startled us like a gunshot might have. The note was pretty self-explanatory:
Window
Jeremy
Todd
One down, two to go.
Points for creativity, I suppose.
Naturally, we checked the brick for fingerprints, but the perp was too cautious for us to find success in that avenue; there were none. The note was printed, as well, so no handwriting analysis was available. We took heavy precautions, and surveilled as much as we could, but the notes continued, all with the implication of the intention of Todd’s and my imminent murders.
Eventually, prudence was in favor of skipping town and, in that case, state. So far, we have eluded our killer-to-be. When we moved here to Wometzia, there was suspicion, but when we explained that we were getting threats in our old town, the questions ceased; when a young, gay couple move in and reveal that they had been getting death threats, that’s all the context a person needs. The people of Wometzia, native and otherwise, welcomed us with open arms and more indigenous treats than we could eat in a week.
I finish gathering what I need from the station’s computer, double check to make sure I’m not forgetting something important, then set off to take care of a couple more errands before meeting up with Todd.
In my haste to leave the school this morning, I forgot to look around in the parking lot to check what angles the cameras might be able to cover.
Later, I’ll meet Todd at our place. For now, the haven of academic proliferation awaits.
Again, I’m appreciative of the town’s smallness, offering on-foot accessibility of virtually every corner in under twenty minutes. Half that if you’re already at the town’s center, which I am, and walk with briskness, which I do.
The school is still yet deserted, save for a roadrunner bolting from the school’s west side off into the sage brush, leaving behind a wispy trail that’s almost comical; I half expect to see Wile E. Coyote ahead with a faulty bundle of dynamite or dangling an anvil over the edge of a cliff.
I look to the light poles in the parking lot, but need to close distance between me and there in order to view the ones to the east clearly. On approach, they take on a clarity that exposes the cameras, fixed on the parking lot. They’re angled mostly downward, the better to catch or ward off
vandals and thieves, but if the lens is wide enough, it should still offer at least a decent view of the road. That’s all the information I need.
My next errand is less concrete; now I’m off to explore Firenze’s alleged hideout.
I pass the school and cross Redtail Road, landing on its east side and heading south. My tasks (both the bigger version and the smaller counterparts that make it up) loom in a piñata in my mind, waiting to be smashed open by my excursion into the woods. The snobbish, Oregon-seasoned forest-dweller in me scoffs at the thought of calling that brambly ensemble a forest, but as I approach, the twigs and branches seem to grow in number and density and thickness. Old Larry’s house seems strangely distant, like it’s on a different plane, a staple of reality while I traverse the landscape of dreams. My footsteps in the dirt are steady and rhythmic, but I’m overcome with an odd sensation of feeling my own footfalls while the noise emitted from them seems foreign and distant.
As I stamp closer to the trees, the spindly branches seem to flex and curl like claws ready to tear into an unsuspecting victim. I find the entrance Stan told me about, a small opening barely noticeable to passersby. I certainly wouldn’t have found it had I not been told where to find it.
I crouch slightly, less out of genuine concern for my hair and scalp and more out of an instinctive measure of self-preservation. The path is plenty tall and wide, certainly sufficient for a man my size. Even so, I shrink away from the branches. As I progress deeper and deeper into the forest, the path narrows. Gradually, gradually so, but in time, I’m forced to walk at an awkward sideways angle to avoid being scratched up by the dry, claw-like twigs. On the plus side, the density of the trees overhead provides a relieving shade, and the difference in temperature is quite noticeable. Even more so than before I entered, I feel as though I’m walking on a plane just outside of reality, in a dimension parallel and almost identical.
Just after this sensation sets down roots and sits in my consciousness, I push forward into a clearing, with tree branches growing up and in, just like Stan said. I thought maybe he had been exaggerating, but it certainly was dense enough that the canopy seemed just like a ceiling.
In the center of the clearing, an old, battered chest sits innocently. At one point, it certainly had a handsome, black, leather exterior with gleaming brass ribs and a brass clasp. I can almost hear the satisfying click that it surely made back when it was young. Now, pieces of the ribbing had broken off, and what’s left was tarnished more than not. The lock has long since been broken off, and the leather is dirty and ripped in myriad places. It looks like it’s been handled by a band of angry cats of various sizes.
The auditory atmosphere, before now distant and removed, now crashes in with a clarity and presence that I haven’t felt in months. Despite the shade, a warm wind blows through the clearing, but it’s more pleasant than oppressive.
I approach the chest and set my right hand on it for a moment—I suppose opening it straight away would seem irreverent—and lift the lid. I expect it to emit a shrill creak, but it doesn’t.
Inside, I find a variety of items that pull me, almost violently, into a childhood that wasn’t mine. A small stack of comic books sits on top, most of them well read but a couple of the editions look just like new. Underneath, there’s a handful of what one might call essentials: an umbrella, some water bottles, trail mix, and a bag of dried peaches. Some books litter the inside of the chest, also well read. The few that I see right away are J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, John Connelly’s The Book of Lost Things, and Jean Craighead George’s My Side of the Mountain. Some miscellaneous items include a slingshot, a baggie stuffed full of pebbles that I assume are ammunition for the slingshot, a deck of playing cards, and a few rags. I wonder about how recently Firenze touched any of this. If he was anything like me, this was where he could escape to. Where he could come to read or think or stare into nothingness without the nagging, prodding bits of reality biting into his consciousness.
But alas, no clues. Certainly, I’m afforded insight as to what kind of person he was, but no indication as to what might have happened. And with that, I take my leave.
I walk into the house and Todd thrusts an armful of clothes and a towel at me.
“Go shower and change. Hurry up,” he says.
I go shower and change and hurry up, glad to be clean and wearing clothes that aren’t damp with perspiration.
“I’ll drive,” he says as I’m putting shoes on. “Also, where are we going?”
“Phoenix,” I say. “I’ll explain in the car.”
Four
“So,” Todd says, “some racist asshole murders a kid, hollows him out, and leaves the corpse on the grave of his grandfather in a crazed, ritualistic manner? And the only racist contact his grandpa had, that we know of, lives in Phoenix. But it definitely wasn’t him. Am I hearing this right?”
“Three for three,” I say.
“And we have the fingerprints of all of Phoenix’s official racists.”
“Most of them. From a year ago.”
“Okay. And we’re going to Phoenix because …?”
“Smith might have had someone else do it, or know something about it.”
“Right.”
“You okay?” I say.
“Yeah, it’s just … something seems off.”
“You mean other than the racist, ritual killing of an innocent eleven-year-old boy with grotesque completeness?”
“Well, yeah. There’s something missing. We’re treating this like a map, like each thing will lead us to the next thing, down the line until we reach our destination.”
“What’s the problem there?” I ask.
“Well, when you’re following directions, if you take a wrong turn at some point, the rest of the steps become obsolete. At least until you get back on track.”
“So you think I took a wrong turn somewhere?” I ask.
“Well, maybe not so much ‘took a wrong turn’ as missed your exit.”
“Hmm.” He’s probably right. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but hearing it in words, laid out plainly, makes me question my process thus far. There are many paths, many scents, and perhaps I am indeed sniffing up the wrong one while a more pressing, more important scent cools and fades. Time is of the essence, as they say. With that in mind, is this trip even worth it? As far as time goes, this trip is very costly.
Might as well try, I decide. We’re already into Arizona, anyway. If we keep up our pace, we can be there well before sundown, allowing us to take care of business and get some sleep before heading back tomorrow morning.
I dread the next twenty-four hours.
We cross the Phoenix border at seven, and locate a shitty motel to book a room for the night. The desk attendant is an absolute zombie, communicating in little more than grunts and never inflecting his speech when he does make it that far.
We open the door to our room using a manual key. I begin to set my backpack on the floor, but reconsider when it looks like something moves. I opt for the table instead. Todd looks around, just short of shuddering in revulsion.
“Well, it was cheap,” he says, eyeing a stain of some sort as though it might spring to life and lunge at him.
The bedspread is the color of regurgitated algae, and Todd and I debate briefly whether that’s its original color. I win that debate; no one in their right mind would intentionally create a product that color. Not within the past forty years, at least. The wallpaper, bearing the sickly remnants of a pleasant floral pattern, now plays host to numerous stains and, no doubt, unholy amounts of bacteria. The main dresser, which sports a boxy old TV that’s stuck emitting a zzz noise whether it’s on or off, is made of some cheap wood that’s been chewed and eaten away over the years. The carpet is a deep, brown variety that surely contains many mysteries of its own, if we could only see well enough in the dim light to discern anything from the brown-ness. The one lamp casts a yellow glow over the room that thematically makes it look
like it’s coated in urine.
“Charming though this is,” Todd says, “can we stay at less of a shithole next time?”
“You got it,” I say. We minimize the speaking, lest we breathe some nasty particles into our mouths.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says. “I worried that we might end up in a place like this, so …” He reaches into a poofy bag and extracts a sheet and comforter, along with a couple of pillowcases. Thank god for Todd.
“Bless your soul,” I say.
“No, thanks; I’ve already had mine done.”
“You sure I couldn’t talk you into switching companies?”
Todd embraces me. “Nah. I’m pretty happy with mine.”
“What a sap,” I say. I’m unable to suppress a smile, though.
If the heat in Wometzia was bad, Phoenix is the tip of a cosmic dipstick plunged directly into the pits of hell. It radiates from the sun, yes, but it doesn’t stop there. The heat seems to bleed from the road, the buildings, the sidewalk. It envelops rather than shines, suffocating and agitating. Why the fuck would anybody ever live here?
But alas, it is a hell that must be traversed on our quest to identify the wretched villain.
“You gonna come with?” I ask.
“Hmm. Between the heat and the moldy hotel room … I’ll take the mold. Sorry.”
“I don’t blame you. I’ll be back soon, hopefully.”
“Hopefully.”
“Could just turn into a huge fucking mess á la Riverdell.”
“You kill someone again?”
“Not this time, no.”
“I think we’ll manage, then.”
As if the world’s only problems arise from vengeful sons killing their pervert dads.
“Later, then,” I say. And I’m off into the evening heat of Phoenix in August.
To their credit, blazing heat and shitty motel aside, the city really is quite pretty in the more urban area, and fabulously well-kept. The streets are lined with towering palm trees, neatly trimmed. When one is too close to a building, it wears a foot-thick metal band, as if to symbolize its marriage to the house or small office space. The metal strip is to prevent rats from climbing up the trees and jumping to the tops of the nearby structures.
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