by James Damm
Concrete buildings, traffic and noise eventually replaced the sights of motorways and countryside. Mike had been to the capital before. Maggie thought it was important for the boys to see London, experience how different it was to Northumberland. The photos made the trip look like a pleasant one, smiling faces and two young beaming faces with ice creams. Behind the scenes Mike had been on edge the entire time – accents, places and people he had no anchor to. Drink, a steady flow, had once again been the only way he had got through. Initially, he remembered the trip well, but as the buildings moved by Mike in a blur, it was only those with photos he recalled.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” a sympathetic smile and voice greeted Mike as he stepped out of the car. “My name’s Charlotte Taylor, I’m the police family liaison officer. First, I’d like to say how sorry I am about John. He was a lovely man and will be greatly missed.”
“Thank you,” Mike responded out of courtesy.
“I’ll be your point of contact today. Anything you need, please just let me know,” Charlotte continued. “I know it won’t mean much considering the circumstance but… anything you need and I’ll get right on it. You must be tired from the journey – would you like a coffee or some food?”
“Both would be lifesavers,” Mike said, forcing a smile.
Charlotte, pretty for a police officer, did most of the talking as she gave fragmented snippets of information and drivel as they walked. She was obviously a ‘people person’ – Mike never knew how they did it. Once someone had said it became easier with age, but in every room and every conversation, Mike felt awkward and ill-fitting. The only social lubricant was the alcohol. Yet here was a young woman barely out of school who had mastered all the social rules without even a pause for thought.
The labyrinth of corridors seemed endless, dozens of men and women in suits all having hushed conversations or tapping away on phones. Regularly many would stop, look quizzically at Mike and Charlotte, and return to what they were up to. The comfy clothes Mike had picked suddenly felt like an uncomfortable skin. This wasn’t his world. Offices, emails and soft accents.
The only respite came when Charlotte took Mike to his own kitchen, away from prying eyes. A bacon butty materialised from somewhere alongside a cheap coffee. Mike asked for brown sauce, but the utter look of confusion on Charlotte’s face told him that there was no point repeating himself. Ketchup would do just fine. She left him to it and went to go find an aspirin.
The weight of the situation became plainer by the second. Mike never thought he’d be in a position where he was burying a son, let alone John. The death of parents is something every person grows up knowing as a necessary ending, but the reverse is far more crippling. Old, content and at peace with their history, Mike’s heart would still sometimes long for his parents’ company and wisdom but could accept the reality. The natural order of things was for the new to replace the old, and someday the night would draw in for himself too. Painful but acceptable. Then the sickness came for David, his eldest son. That was the silver bullet and the death of it all. No parents, siblings and with a dead son, Mike only had bitterness and John left. Often they were the same thing in his eyes.
Mike considered an attempt to reconcile at one point – what a disaster that would have been. A coffee round at Mike’s house, the milk sour and the place a tip as he mixed up the days? A conversation drier than the out-of-date biscuits provided. The idea had been sweet in his mind; father and son rebuilding bridges damaged years before. But what was there to rebuild? The old man staring at his child would know nothing of what stirred within. The child, now a man who stared back, never understanding the figure who raised him. A decade of false promises. Still, Mike never quite imagined they’d meet again like this.
It was Mike’s fault; he was the father, and the supposed figure of experience, but that was part of the lie, wasn’t it? In the eyes of children their parents are all knowing, all seeing beings, but really every adult is as shit-scared as the balls of flesh they’re raising. They’ve just learnt to hide it better. The boys never saw the subtle phrases, hopes and dreams of their parents’ arguments. Nor could they understand that their father was just as fragile as they were. How the fuck was Mike meant to cope with a dead wife and then a dead son in David? How did the boy ever have a chance?
Mike lit a cigarette and puffed. Old memories were stirring. He hated it. Too much time spent in the past and memories only made things worse. Television was his usual distraction, but the fuckers had stolen that possibility too. Instead, he sat penned in a tiny side kitchen somewhere, with either conversations about his son or memories of his son for company. The treat for dessert would be to see John’s body.
“You can’t smoke in here, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Charlotte admonished as she re-entered.
“Where can I smoke?”
“Outside,” Charlotte replied, her eyes wide as he took another drag. “The body, it’s… they’re ready to see you now.”
Mike sighed and stubbed his cigarette out on the table. A look of horror passed over Charlotte’s face, her concerned eyes never left the ash and remaining remnants of the cigarette on the table.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m ready if they are,” he said, the lie convincing nobody.
Hauling himself to his feet, the room suddenly felt unsteady and as he followed Charlotte, his steps were arduous. Every face they passed felt like they had eyes trained on Mike, and the temperature of the air dialled up a few degrees. Face red and sweating, Mike felt his hands shaking as he approached what looked to be the door.
“I’ll be right outside,” Charlotte smiled as she pressed the door open. “Take as long as you need.”
Momentarily Mike’s eyes flicked from the young lady to the beckoning room. Even with a body pumped full of booze, he never felt less numb than in that moment. Shoulders heavy and stomach feeling light, he let the door swing shut and approached the room. A waiting doctor stood on guard, face emotionless and mouth covered, but Mike had little time to stare at them. Everything seemed to orbit around the human-shaped figure covered by the sheet.
The doctor pulled back the sheet. Nothing could have prepared Mike for the reality of the scene before him. His son, dead on the table. There was no more to it.
“THAT’S MY BOY,” bellowed as Mike’s knees crumpled before the body.
The tears didn’t feel thick enough. The crack in his voice or the shake of his core felt too weak. As Mike’s hand fumbled for his son’s hands, his entire body recoiled when he found them cold. The emotion was overbearing, Mike could not bring himself to look at the face of his son twice. Seeing him once would be enough for a lifetime.
Thoughts rushed back to the night John left. Or was it morning? The memory had twisted and revolved in Mike’s own mind over the years. Drunk, so drunk he’d staggered to the sofa. Was that a night he’d pissed himself or vomited down his clothes? Time had blurred such facts.
The boy, good as gold, was trying to help get him off to bed, but the venom was thick that night. Dull rage clawing at any kind of reaction to feed itself. The words Mike wished he’d remembered but, like most things, had evaporated. Whatever was said, one line of poison had worked and it had crushed the last ounce of hope from the boy. Mike remembered the sadness, devastating disappointment and brewing anger frothing in the boy’s eyes. That was unforgettable. The next morning John had gone, and it stayed that way the next day and a thousand days after that.
Then there had been the fire at Cherwell School years later. Mike hadn’t caught the news that day. The fanfare passed him by completely in the bottom of a bottle. There was footage he’d see later, a press conference, interviews and photo shoots, but it was a while until Mike’s eyes fell on the face of his son once more. The idea of superheroes living among them was straight out of the cartoons he’d raged so hard against the boys watching. That was until his face scanned a front page, saw his son front and centre. Mike begged the shopkeeper to read him every word of the article. When the truth be
came a reality, Mike snatched up the paper and would spend days going back to it. The boy had been okay; the boy had done all right. Undeserved and unearned pride welled up inside him.
One last look at the table and Mike’s eyes welled up once more. His handsome boy, thick brown hair, a tattoo and a firm jaw he longed for. Someone he barely knew. John looked more like Maggie than Mike, and the memory of his lost family nauseated him. Before he left the room, embarrassed in his own company, Mike slapped his face twice, the sting focusing the pain somewhere physical. Men don’t cry. Wiping away any tears, Mike greeted Charlotte with a stiff smile.
Chapter Seven
“Sometimes you have to let things play out the wrong way to let the course correct itself,” Tom assured Juliet outside. She was pacing back and forth in a corridor after two hours in an interview room with various patrons of the Old Red Lion, the pub next to the crime scene.
“You have a person who can read minds and you stick her in a room with Dale who wants to rant about the immigration problem in Tower Hamlets, rather than anything to do with the murder,” Juliet recounted wide-eyed, before slipping into an impression. “I bet it was one of them.”
“So we can rule out any of the regulars or anybody inside the pub,” Tom said, optimistic in his tone. “You spoke to all three of the people there until closing time. Nobody drank any wine that night. That closes one line of investigation.”
“We’re miles from solving this case.”
“We have partial prints, footprints, and CCTV still to come,” Tom said hopefully. “We’ve worked cases where we’d beg for that sliver of evidence.”
“And what about the heroin, the scarring or fact that John didn’t regenerate? Those answers aren’t bits of information you find in a drawer somewhere. It’s personal history, years of memories and stories. In an entire morning, not one person who was close to John Fitzgerald has come forward.”
“The father is sitting upstairs.”
“And from what you’ve told me, he hadn’t spoken to John for over a decade,” Juliet lamented. “Where did John Fitzgerald really live? Who did he hang out with or have a laugh with over a drink? More than ever, the victim himself matters in this case.”
“We’ll get there.”
“Will we?” Juliet questioned. “Do you not find it strange that we know so little about the victim, one so famous? I’m not even talking about the investigation anymore; I’m talking about the John Fitzgerald of yesterday. To have a superhero mopping up after us and not even know his girlfriend’s name, his favourite television show.”
“Trust the process,” Tom insisted. “What case gets solved in a few hours? I don’t want you thinking this is all on you to fix.”
“Let’s go back in,” Juliet snapped.
“I’ll grab a coffee,” Tom insisted. “It’s been a long day, bound to get longer.”
Juliet allowed Tom to leave her without acknowledgement. Sure, for now there was patience and process. But when the days ticked by in high-profile cases, when the police needed to play politics and wrestle public perception, where would they turn? The same place they’d turned before. Well, if the mind-reader can’t find anything either…
Back upstairs and Juliet could finally watch John Fitzgerald’s father before her. A voluntary interview, she scrutinised and eyeballed Mike behind a one-way mirror all the same.
The FLO Charlotte had been a glorified waitress, pandering to his every demand. In his thoughts Mike leered over Charlotte as she provided water, food and even a cushion to cater to him. News travelled of the father weeping as he’d identified his son on the table, and the sympathetic instruction was to be as accommodating as possible. Yet time ticked on and comfort provided no answers.
The fuss and attention was clearly something Mike wasn’t used to, and he wanted to appreciate it. John Fitzgerald’s father was the star of his own show, and Tom had informed her that a meeting with the Queen and Prime Minister awaited him later on. Somewhere else, people were dashing to find a hairdresser, a suit in his size and shoes for his feet so he was presentable for the cameras. Politics, spin, and appearance. The reason they were all together in the first place seemed to be lost in the noise.
Far from the body, the officers had picked a quieter spot for the sit-down with Mike.
Ethan came into the room. “You got anything interesting?”
“He knows nothing,” Juliet confirmed. “He’s embarrassed by the estrangement and hasn’t been letting any of the people he’s been speaking to know it. Caught him retelling a childhood story to Charlotte earlier. Never happened.”
Ethan let out a cynical laugh as he rubbed his eyes. “Tom was telling me the pub’s a dead end.”
“Your killer wasn’t in that pub. The wine bottle came from elsewhere.”
“Trust my luck for a red ball like this case to land on my desk.”
“What’s the plan with the dad?” Juliet quizzed as she watched Mike stew.
“Charlotte’s keeping him occupied and happy, she’s been asking him some questions already.”
“You want me to speak with him?”
“No need,” Ethan acknowledged. “He’s not here as a suspect. Stay in here and pick up anything you can, but I’d leave it to Charlotte to be the contact.”
Legal advice kept Juliet to minimal contact and involvement with the accused in most cases. Any court would deem her opinion and account inadmissible. Equally, Juliet knew she was to learn nothing of importance from Mike. Watching through the glass, it was the context that appealed to her. In the time before superheroes became a reality, their existence had filled popular culture. Comics, blockbuster films and television serials had a rich history dating back decades. Each universe had their own traits, clichés and rules.
But the life of John Fitzgerald wasn’t like fiction.
Unlike the cliché characters in comics, John was no orphan. His father sat in the other room, a rough figure with no special abilities to speak of. A brother and a mother had passed away over the years, and there was no mask or cape to hide behind. Nor was he a billionaire, from another planet or hiding behind a secret identity. No, this was the murder investigation of a working-class boy from the North East who had become a person of spectacular importance for reasons yet unknown.
What interested Juliet most about John’s father was the access to the buried history. Had John been a rebellious toddler, shy child or awkward teen – there lay decades of memories backstage and Juliet wanted to shine the light on it.
Equally, another thought was sinking into her consciousness. Mike knowing no answers didn’t mean he couldn’t get some. Push the right buttons and the father can learn more about his son in one morning than we can in a week. An entire morning and early part of the afternoon had passed without a single lead materialising.
Ethan’s phone vibrated in his hand, and he stepped out the room to answer it. Like a revolving door, Tom returned with two coffees. “Two sugars, enough milk to make me sick,” he said as he handed the coffee over. The same joke, going back years. A lot had changed from the first time they had met; a lot hadn’t. After being hired, Juliet had laughed at the trainer before her as he rattled through a checklist regarding the responsibilities of her new role. That man had turned out not to be a trainer, but a partner. And his affection for her, even in the face of Juliet’s extraordinary ability, never dampened.
“I feel a bit like a spare part,” Juliet said as she warmed her hands on the cup’s surface.
“There will be eulogy later,” Tom confirmed. “A people-led movement that the politicians have jumped upon. Ethan’s asked us to attend.”
“Can he not ask me himself? I was just in the room with him. Sometimes I feel like a giant baby,” Juliet scoffed.
“Try being the babysitter,” Tom countered. “Once upon a time, I used to be a detective.”
As Juliet sipped her coffee, from the corner of her eye she watched Charlotte leave the next room, leaving Mike alone. Push the right button
s and the father can learn more about his son in one morning than we can in a week. A risky manoeuvre was materialising in her mind, one that was immoral and risked her entire presence in the investigation. If Juliet had access to what was simmering beneath the surface, this could be the one chance they had.
“You forgot the sugars,” Juliet stated as she handed Tom back the cup.
“I definitely put sugars in,” Tom insisted.
“I’m telling you,” Juliet demanded, raising her eyebrows and pointing her finger to her coffee. “You did not.”
Doubt stirred in Tom’s mind, and Juliet leapt on it. “I can read your mind, you know? I know you’re unsure.”
Sighing, Tom put his coffee down on the side. “You really rinse the coffee situation when it’s my turn.”
“Thanks!” Juliet called as Tom left the room. The second he was a moment away, she dashed out of the room. There would be one opportunity for the world’s only mind-reader to get access to the victim’s father, wade through the depths and layers of such an intimate relationship, regardless of any recent distance. In good conscience she couldn’t afford to let the opportunity to pass on ceremony, fluffing up the old man with niceties and chit-chat. Was that what she was here for?
As Juliet entered the room her eyes fell on John’s father who looked battered, broken and exhausted. His hair stood up all over the place, thick bags sat under his eyes while his pale skin looked fatigued. A thick, unkempt stubble coated his face, and the image presented before her was of an individual who stopped caring about life a long time ago. The faint smell of sick and alcohol clung to the man’s body. The image before Juliet repulsed her.
A heroin-using superhero lay murdered in a nearby room. Juliet should play by the rules, but in her head she’d already decided on what her next steps would be. The rulebook had been torn up.
