Roadrunner

by Michael Lilly

  For the first time, her demeanor has come to life. A small, subtle change, but one that makes a difference. It echoes the anthem of those damned by fate but who clawed their way to freedom. I’m awe-stricken.

  Then, it’s time to go, but not without a jar of jam, at Mrs. Pacheco’s insistence. The afternoon’s wind is an angrier, more insistent relative to the one this morning, and I must shield my eyes from tiny dirt particles being whipped around in its wake; I regret having left my sunglasses in the car. To the northwest, thick, dark clouds assemble preparing to mount a precipitative assault, it seems. I welcome it.

  I haven’t quite reached Roadrunner yet before my phone rings. It’s Jason.

  “Hey, so, what do you want me to do with this list? The log of users on the network?”

  “Can you text it or email it to me?”

  “Uh, sure, I’ll get on that.”

  I give him my e-mail address and wait just a minute in the whistling wind before my small, familiar chime goes off. Walking toward the school partly just to have a place semi-sheltered from the wind, I pull up the e-mail.

  Almost every login time is during business hours, and the few outliers are still within ten minutes of being within those hours. After looking over the email for a few minutes, I call Jason back. He picks up after three rings.

  “Yo,” he says.

  “Hey, is there software on the computer that logs the users’ activities?”

  “I’ll look into that. Anything specific I should be keeping my eye out for?”

  “Well, some files were either deleted or moved, probably onto some form of removable storage, if that’s the case.”

  “Oh, that should be easy enough. Are you nearby? You could come and look at it now if you have a minute, while I’m still here.”

  “Yeah, I’m actually right outside.”

  “Come on in, brohams,” he says. I would enjoy watching a conversation between Jason and Beth, I feel. If ever opportunity arises to witness such an exchange, I must seize it.

  I open the door to the room where Kim welcomed me before, with the nice office chair. The chair remains, but Kim has been replaced by who I assume to be Jason.

  Jason is one of the handful of stereotypes thrust upon computer-savvy individuals, or at least he is physically so. He is just the slightest bit overweight, unshaven for what appears to be a week or so, and wears a tee shirt with a grease stain over the belly. The tee shirt is a mock presidential portrait á la Obama, but instead features Captain Picard from Star Trek. Jason’s hair is an almond brown and just long enough that he has to push it aside. The judgmental voice in me, the one I’ve oft condemned and attempted to silence or banish, speaks up: basement dweller. I force the thought back to the depths before it claims a plot of land on the surface of my consciousness.

  “So while you were on your way in, I looked into the recently modified folders. Of course, it took a minute of sifting through admissions and registration sh … tuff they’re doing right now, but one folder caught my eye because its name is just numbers. Then I realized they were dates, and those are the video files from the cameras. So I looked into that and, well have a look.”

  He wheels his chair aside to allow me, in the spare office chair, to roll right up to the desk. I mouse over the folder marked 8-4-17. Last modified: 8-11-17, 9:31 AM. As my memory hones in on what I was doing at that time, the gnashing, consuming snake of realization within me, coiled and patient up until now, lashes out and strikes.

  If I recall correctly, I was, in fact, here at that time. I had heard noises that I attributed to my own imagination or the wind, but what if, for that brief time, I shared a roof with Firenze’s and Anthony’s killer? Is it far-fetched? That is a question happily answered by my experience in law enforcement: No. Indeed, it is not far-fetched at all. I backtrack to when I was here that first time. I heard a door clang shut. Had I found and interrogated him, maybe apprehended him, would Anthony Romero still be alive now?

  I attempt to cast the thought out, a bout of Cop’s Guilt inevitable to any cop or detective from time to time, but it resists, fueled by my fear, my cowardice. I did not simply leave the building yesterday. I fled. It’s in that idea that the guilt lays its roots, its grip on me tightening with every passing minute, and gaining strength with every ounce of attention I feed it.

  With that in mind, I turn my attention back outward. It serves neither me nor my cause to be reflecting on what-ifs and maybes.

  Another realization strikes, this one much friendlier than its aggressive counterpart from before: the cameras in the parking lots aren’t the only ones. Kim also mentioned cameras in the halls and lobby area.

  “Do you know which of these other cameras are in between here and the front entrance?”

  “No, sorry man, but feel free to look around for as long as you need. I’m going to head out, but I made you a temporary login in case you need to use the computers again anytime soon. Anything else you need before I go?”

  “Not that I can think of,” I say.

  Jason nods, stands, and departs, leaving the door to slam shut behind him, the force of which reverberates for just a moment. Then a silence claims the room, incomplete only for the quiet humming of the computer, and by contrast of which my mouse clicks seem to thunder to the heavens.

  I open the folder for Camera Six, followed by the one named 8-11-17. The files are all present. I open 6A-12P and am granted a view of the gym, from the corner opposite the hallway entrance, it seems. I click out of it, and try the same steps with Camera Seven. This one offers a view of the main hallway, the one perpendicular to that which houses the gym and the security room.

  My heart rate picks up, just as it had when I was in here with Kim earlier. Out of fear, I check to see that the video file is a full six hours long. It is. My heart rate accelerates further.

  I skip to nine-twenty, then move the video along at double speed.

  At nine-twenty-two, in walks a man I don’t recognize. Not that that is terribly surprising, given how short my time in Wometzia has been. With a moment’s struggle and clicking about, I save and print off a screenshot of the man, including the time stamp, as well as the window displaying at what time the folder was most recently modified, and last, the folder itself with its three lonely video files. This should be sufficient to obtain a search warrant, at the least, even though I’m not familiar with any judges around here, and it could easily be argued that the evidence is circumstantial.

  After printing out the screenshots, I hold them in my hand for a moment, looking at the one of the potential perpetrator. He’s most likely in his fifties, big in the way Officer Lund is, but with a dark complexion and black hair pulled back and tied into a tight pony tail. He’s wearing a business casual blue button-up tucked into a pair of light blue jeans, and a pair of red-brown cowboy boots. His expression is one of focus, like an obedient dog called for by its master. He has no facial hair and no visible tattoos.

  I cannot discern whether it’s because of my suspicions and certainties about him or something else, but he unsettles me.

  I insert the flash drive that my friend in Albuquerque gave me and save the images there, as well, so as to secure one additional copy. The more backup the better.

  Time to head back to the station.

  Nine

  The station takes on a different feel when it doesn’t have the intense heat outside against which to contrast like it normally does. But, I’m grateful to be able to sit down after today.

  My chair groans under my weight, and I set to work on a report, organizing all of the evidence into a neat tree of information with Firenze’s murder as the trunk and the roots, then branching out into Melvin Towning, his pizza delivery boy, and bearing the nugget of a fruit that is these screenshots.

  While I’m at it, I shove the flash drive into my computer’s USB port and pull up the traffic camera footage. A satisfyingly crisp image renders and displays the time in the lower right corner. Played at double speed, I’
m still able to see passing cars with enough clarity to identify the appropriate vehicle if and when it does pass. After several minutes, I need to take a break to walk around, as my eyelids have begun to grow heavy. Not until after several minutes of walking around do my eyes feel ready for more police work, and even then, I must tap my foot, drum my fingers, swivel in my chair, or find some other form of motion to perform in order to stay alert. The lack of sleep is taking its toll, but this case mandates my attention.

  Eventually, I’m able to pay more attention, and just in time; the previously unseen burgundy van zips past at a time that suggests that its driver took few to no detours, should it be the vehicle in which the abduction took place, and if he drove straight there from Wometzia.

  I click through the footage frame by frame to try to get the best possible angle at which to view the van’s license plate, but it has been removed. My view is from the southern camera, facing north, so I am able to get a good look at the vehicle as it approaches. This excites me, until I realize that it’s too dark in the footage to get a solid view of the driver. In the split second when light is cast upon the car, all I see is a glare, the bold reflection of the light.

  Instinct, however, tells me that my target is the one from the school. Whether or not he drives the van remains to be seen, though.

  Without warning (or, as far as I can tell, for any discernable reason), my mind lumps together all of the people who have meant something to my life, in any remotely positive way: my mother, my sister, Trina, Beth, Todd.

  Ellen Dodge, the little girl whose murder shaped me into the machine I am today.

  Maylynn Brotcher, whose rescue (and the steps leading to it) taught me many lessons, two of which being that of the human spirit’s resilience, the other that of the complex and simultaneously simple business of trusting.

  And Todd. Todd whisked himself into my life at a time when I would otherwise have asserted that I was perfectly capable of tackling my adversary on my own. I would have been wrong. Possibly that could have gotten me killed. It wasn’t so much a sense of pride but a sense of being alone, not seeing team work as an option because I was certain I was without a team, until the other members pointed out that we were all wearing the same uniform. So, as it was, with Beth and Todd watching my back, I got through it, put Keroth in jail, and in the process, opened up enough to allow another human into my fucked up version of life.

  The people I love and have loved flip through my mind like the fake horses on a ruthlessly fast carousel, each image bringing with it a slew of emotions I’ve previously boxed up and stored away with the various memories of those people.

  Ron Sanders, the late head forensic tech of Riverdell, spins into focus. Here’s a man who paid the eternal price of his life in an effort to help clean up the mess of Jeremy Keroth.

  Perhaps it’s this nature of emotion that propels me, that makes me thirst for a justice the legal system simply can’t deliver.

  However, I promised myself to do things kosher after I started dating Todd, for several reasons. The first of these reasons is the risk. I take compulsively meticulous measures to secure my anonymity whenever I carry out the deed, but as I learned last year, even my precautions don’t come with a one hundred percent guarantee.

  Beyond that is the inherent risk of killing in and of itself. A person backed into a corner becomes unstable, unpredictable. My own actions, then, must be swift and decisive. A misstep could lead to my reception of the death I intended for my target.

  Prudence is prudent.

  The primary reason, however, for my newfound abstinence from bloodshed, is that my need for balance in a world teetering in perpetuity on the cusp of all-out madness is met by the grace of Todd alone. Certainly, the toned-down, gentle way in which he speaks to me doesn’t offset the many obscene trespasses humans inflict upon one another, but it does wonders to convince me that there are indeed powerful sources of light and advocates for compassion in the world. They spill their luminescence into each other’s lives, even though I can’t see them, and if ever there was something to inspire a modicum of faith in me, that is it.

  As abruptly as it started, the merry-go-round vanishes, replaced by my desk and computer screen, the cursor blinking at the end of my report. I pull up the images of the probable perpetrator and the images of the corpses, wondering if they might act as bait, tempting the dormant monster within me into action once more. I think briefly of the alleged technique of dangling food over one’s mouth to lure out a parasitic tapeworm. But, even with this potent catalyst, the monster does not stir.

  With my file worked and assembled, I call Husk over to show him my work. And to collect a gold star.

  He accepts the stack of paperwork and begins leafing through it, peppering it with grunts and nods as his assessment. I see the moment he comes across the picture from the school’s security camera. His jaw drops.

  “Mother of god,” he says. He holds the photograph out for me to see. “That’s Andre Romero.”

  “As in father to Stanley Romero?”

  “That’s the one. Jill! Get Kent and Simpson over to arrest Andre Romero, now!”

  Jill is our receptionist, who doubles as our dispatch. Apparently, she has been here for only a few months. When they first met her, she was fresh out of cosmetology school and seemed to subscribe to a very Jersey-esque style of fashion, with big, bleached hair and liberal yet tastefully applied makeup. Her demeanor was questionable, but with interest in law enforcement employment so pitifully low around here, they were forced to give her a shot.

  In her testing period, she flew through the pre-qualifying exam, finishing with enough time left over to fall into a near unconscious trance with her face resting on her hand. This had been frowned upon, of course, but then they scored her and found that she had scored better than any applicant in the history of the town.

  Her exceptional performance extended into her role-playing scenarios and, to the astonishment of her former nay-sayers, was offered the position and received a fifty-cent raise within the month. Chief Husk was the one most profoundly disgusted by Jill’s hiring and, especially, her raise.

  This was until Husk’s wife, Peggy, made an emergency call only a month ago, while Chief Husk was in Albuquerque testifying in court.

  Officer Simpson was responding to a domestic call on the opposite side of town, and Officer Kent was on her way in with a suspect from a burglary. Peggy Husk was in the early stages of a heart attack. She’d noticed symptoms that her doctor had taught her about long ago, so she called 911 as soon as she recognized what was happening. Through some tricky dispatch work, Jill was able to coordinate what resources she had in order to resolve the domestic case, the burglar, and get Peggy to a hospital. When Chief Husk returned, Jill delivered her report on the evening with humble professionalism, backed by Officers Kent and Simpson. Chief Husk then, according to legend, broke down into real, human tears and actually hugged Jill.

  If there’s one thing that every citizen of Wometzia loves without fail, it’s their women. Their mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, they’re the priority. Ever since this incident, Jill has had Husk’s explicit trust.

  Without missing a beat, Jill hops on the radio and rattles of the appropriate codes and instructions, simultaneously getting shit done and making protocol her bitch.

  “Officers Kent and Simpson en route,” she says.

  “Damn, Thorn,” says Husk, “we might be ready to get this fucker already, even though the state police couldn’t put a dent in it in a week!”

  “Well, to their credit, the state police don’t have the extensive history and rapport with Wometzia and its habitants that I have.”

  This earns a hearty chuckle that the weak joke itself does not warrant. I take this disparity as Chief Husk officially recognizing me to be mildly more useful than a parachute for birds.

  By the time I walk out of the station, the sun has all but surrendered its claim on the sky to the storm clouds, now galloping toward W
ometzia in a steady, ominous way. This incites in me a feeling that can’t be far form the way a medieval warrior must have felt, watching the enemy approach in incredible numbers, footsteps and hoof beats as the preemptive percussion to their collective dirge.

  The temperature, at least, has achieved a mild, pleasant warmth, one reminiscent of a nice summer’s evening in Riverdell, minus all of the life and greenery. The atmosphere seems to serve as a preview of the warmth with which I intend to surround myself when I arrive at home, just a couple of minutes away now.

  The sidewalk in Wometzia is invariably broken, cracked in every square, some of them more shattered than cracked. Had this been the case in Riverdell, new plant life would have surged into the cracks, taking advantage of every possible space that has a remote chance at supporting life. Here, they remain as empty as the surrounding desert. But this is okay, as well; while I normally oscillate into and out of various depths and habits symptomatic of OCD, my rituals and needs have been quelled over the past few months, necessitating nothing more intense than an extra step here and there. In my days of heightened anxiety, back in Riverdell, the rules I had imposed on myself in an effort to deal with the ever-churning chaos of the world, ranging from counting my steps to an obscene amount of hand-washing, particularly in public restrooms with their multiple sinks, were both embarrassing and exhausting.

  I turn the corner to Coyote Lane and my house swings into view. As it’s situated to the northwest of the station, and I had to approach from the east, the cottage is silhouetted against the twilit sky—or what has yet to be swallowed by both night and storm.

  My pace quickens for the sole purpose of seeing Todd that much sooner.