by Douglas Jern
His voice trailed off and his eyes widened. A connection had formed in his mind, a clear, luminous pathway leading to new possibilities.
“Like what? Speak up!”
Mullin must have leaned forward in his seat; his voice sounded a lot closer. Jeffrey looked at where he assumed his face was and spoke.
“Like someone made me do it.”
When he heard himself speak the words aloud, it made sense. Someone had manipulated him to attack the man in the car. He and Laura had been able to access each other’s minds and thoughts since childhood. It was a special sibling bond that had been theirs and theirs alone. But what if there were others like them? It seemed unlikely that only two people out of several billion would have such a gift, so maybe there was another, someone who could not only read the thoughts of other people, but manipulate them as well? Someone who could control people’s actions and make them do things they normally wouldn’t? That would explain everything. It would also mean that Jeffrey had been living a lie.
Back when he and Laura were kids, Jeffrey had enjoyed sharing that secret bond with her. It was a connection that brought them closer to each other than anyone else. But he had always been wary about getting into other people’s heads. Whenever he caught a glimpse of his friends’ or his parents’ thoughts, he’d felt like a peeping Tom. Then, after… that thing with their dad, he had decided to close himself to everyone, including Laura.
Over the years, he had practiced every day, visualizing an impenetrable barrier enclosing his mind, shielding it from any invasion, while keeping his own mental antennae firmly under lock and key. He had at first only envisioned it as a means of blocking people’s thoughts so that he could not read them, but he also did not want Laura to see his. He was the one who had revealed their mother’s infidelity and brought their father’s rage down upon her. The guilt he felt over their family’s breakdown was almost too much to bear, and he did not want to burden Laura with it too. He thought his mental protection would shield both Laura and him from further sorrow. Yet here he was, the victim of an unforeseen psychic attack that had made him a killer. All his efforts for nothing.
A loud thump brought him back to the present with a jerk that caused the hated screw to prick him almost hard enough to draw blood. Mullin’s fist was on the small table in front of him, the fine hairs on each knuckle defined in the sharp lamplight. They looked like tiny spider’s legs.
“Answer me when I’m talking to you, dammit!” yelled Mullin. “Who made you do it? Who are you working for?”
Jeffrey sighed. They would never believe him if he told them what he was certain was the truth. He was sure that someone had manipulated him somehow, but he had no means to prove it. At best, the two detectives would laugh at him before resuming their questioning. At worst, they would think him a nutcase and have him sent to a psych ward. Either way, the situation was hopeless.
“I’m not working for anyone,” he muttered, staring down at his bandaged hands lying in his lap. “I’ve already told you all I know.”
He thought about Laura. If he told her what had happened, would she believe him? Would she stand up for him in court? They would have to reveal their telepathic abilities to the world for it to work, and he was not sure he wanted to do that.
All his life he had sheltered himself from the outside world. He went to work because he had to earn a living somehow, but his free time he spent reading, tending to his plants, and cooking. He had tried to entertain friends from work at his apartment a few times, but they either drank too much or stayed too late or didn’t appreciate the finer points of tomato grafting. Laura would come to visit every now and then, and she made for much more enjoyable company. She would eat his cooking, fawn over his orchids and cacti, ask about the progress on his latest hybrid tea rose, and tell him about what went on in her life. Being together with her, hearing her voice, knowing that she took the time to come and see him, made him feel happy and content. She was his only real human connection in a world that to him seemed cold and uncaring.
Asking Laura for help now would mean inviting the world into their circle. In court, they would have to demonstrate their abilities, and if by some miracle he was acquitted—and the chances of that were slim, he was not naïve enough to think otherwise—they would then have to face the ravenous curiosity of the public eye, not to mention the scientific community. He saw himself and Laura dressed in white patient’s gowns in a nondescript room, not unlike the one he was in right now, but bigger, lit by glaring fluorescent lights. They had electrodes taped to their shaved heads, and men and women with clipboards and cameras were observing them, studying their every move and brainwave, prodding and poking at their minds to see what made them tick. The thought made his skin crawl.
So what was the alternative? The detectives would grow tired of questioning him eventually, and with all the evidence proclaiming him a murderer, he would go to prison. He had no idea if he could survive in there, but at least Laura would be free to live her life as she pleased. Maybe sacrificing his own freedom for hers was the right thing to do.
But I’m forgetting something, aren’t I? Laura may walk free, but so will he.
And that was the rub. Going to prison may give Laura some peace, but it would also mean letting his manipulator go free, just like his father. Could that really be justified? How many others would he victimize if left to his own devices? He recalled the long-haired man who had watched the aftermath of the beating with such glee, and knew the answer was many.
Just as Mullin drew breath to fire off another question, the door to the interrogation room burst open, and a tall officer stomped in and gave a slapdash salute. The man was enormous; his body nearly filled the entire door frame. His hat, too small by far, perched precariously on his head, like a crow roosting on a pumpkin. The brass nametag on his chest said ‘John Doe.’ Jeffrey believed it. After this morning, anything seemed possible.
“Sorry to interrupt, Detectives,” barked Doe, expelling a fine spray of saliva. “But I have orders to transfer this suspect to the Bunker without delay!”
Detective Mullin stood up, his chair scraping against the concrete floor as he spun around to face the intruder.
“What the hell are you babbling about, Doe?” Mullin’s face was red.
“Got to transfer Greenwood to the Bunker, sir. Word is he’s connected to the mob.”
“What? On whose authority?” Mullin’s face transitioned from red to crimson.
“Orders from above, sir. Sorry, but I’ve got to take him now. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up the chain.”
“Take it up the— Who the hell do you think you are, Doe?” Mullin’s face had gone from crimson, past carmine, and straight into maroon. He jabbed a finger at Doe. “Get your ass out of here, right now!”
“Sure thing, sir. Let me just pick up the suspect here.”
Without further ado, Doe stepped around Mullin, grabbed Jeffrey by the arm and hoisted him to his feet. The man was a head taller than Jeffrey, and his meaty hand clamped down on Jeffrey’s arm like a gigantic lobster claw. Struggling against that grip, Jeffrey thought, would be like trying to lift a mountain.
They walked out of the interrogation room into the corridor outside, ignoring Mullin’s shouted protests. Jeffrey stumbled along, trying to keep up with Doe’s long strides as he marched down the passage, passing by several brown doors like the one to the room they had just left. Perhaps there were other suspects behind each of these doors, being interrogated under the same blinding light in little rooms without windows.
“Where are you taking me?” Jeffrey asked. “What was that about a connection to the mob?”
“No talking, prisoner!” Doe’s loud bark nearly ruptured Jeffrey’s eardrums.
“Technically, I don’t think I am a prisoner—”
“Well, you sure as hell will be.” Doe tightened his grip on Jeffrey’s arm. “You really think you’re gonna get away? Gangster scum. The sooner they put you
behind bars, the better!”
“I think this might be considered police brutality,” said Jeffrey, almost tripping as they turned a corner and approached a set of stairs at the end of the corridor.
“Yeah? And what do you call what you did to that guy in the street, huh?”
Jeffrey decided it was useless to argue. Doe would never listen to him. He hurried along the corridor toward the stairs, wondering where he was going and what would become of him once he got there.
11:58 – Laura
It was shortly before twelve o’clock when Laura stumbled in through the glass doors of Stonewell Central Police Station, wiping her face with a towel. She had biked here as fast as she could, wishing fervently that she owned a car.
She took a few moments to catch her breath, then headed for the reception desk. The bespectacled woman behind it—whose name was Gloria Rosen, judging by the nametag pinned to her chest—beamed at her.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m Laura Greenwood,” said Laura. “I heard my brother Jeffrey is here. I want to see him.”
Gloria’s mouth turned down at the corners.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Greenwood. I’m afraid that’s not possible right now.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry,” said Gloria again, “but I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“What do you mean you’re not allowed to—”
A door next to the reception slammed open and a middle-aged man wearing a striped shirt, slacks, and black loafers stormed into the reception hall, red in the face and breathing heavily. He raised an accusatory finger towards Gloria, advancing on the reception desk like a charging bull.
“Why the hell is Greenwood being transferred?” he yelled. “That idiot Doe just came and damn near carried my suspect away!”
He slammed his hands down on the reception desk, sending a stand of flyers advertising the yearly police charity ball crashing to the floor. Gloria eyed him coolly.
“There’s no need to shout, sir. I can hear you just fine.”
The man waved at her impatiently.
“Whatever. Look, who ordered Greenwood to be transferred, and why was I not informed?”
“Well, according to Doe, Detective Zimmerman called it in about—”
“Zimmerman!” the man exclaimed, thumping the desk again. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
“Apparently Greenwood is part of the mob or something and should be moved to the Bunker for safekeeping. That’s what Doe said, anyway.”
The word ‘bunker’ caught Laura’s attention. And what was this about the mob?
“Excuse me,” she said. Gloria and the incensed man turned to look at her. “Hi, I’m Laura Greenwood, Jeffrey Greenwood’s sister,” she said by way of introduction to the man. Then she asked Gloria: “Where did you say he’s being moved?”
Gloria slapped her hand over her mouth. She had completely forgotten who was listening. Before she could say anything, the man cleared his throat.
“I’m Detective Fred Mullin, and I’m in charge of this case. I’m sorry to say your brother appears to have been transferred without my approval. I can’t tell you where he’s being taken—top secret information, I’m sure you understand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Laura. “What have you done with my brother?”
“Well, ma’am, there are some safety concerns…”
Laura nodded as he talked but didn’t hear a word of what he said. Instead, she listened to his thoughts. The word ‘bunker’ conjured up an image of a gray building in Mullin’s mind, a building with no distinguishing features, little more than a concrete block with an entrance and a few small windows. She dug deeper into his mind and found an address.
“Fine,” she said, interrupting Mullin mid-sentence. “I don’t know what kind of Gestapo crap you’re trying to pull here, but you’re not getting away with it. I’ll be back here with my lawyer, just you wait.”
Laura spun around and headed for the exit before Mullin had time to respond. That last bit had been a bluff; she didn’t have time to argue with him, let alone get in touch with a lawyer. If they were taking Jeffrey somewhere without due process, then it would do no good going about this the proper way. She was going to have to do it herself.
Reciting the address in her mind, she fished out her cell phone from her purse and opened the map. The ‘bunker’ was closer than expected; only twenty minutes away by bike, fifteen if she pushed herself. If they were moving Jeffrey there right now, she might be able to catch up with them. She had no idea why they thought Jeffrey was connected to the mob, but there was no time to think about it right now. She left the station, unlocked her bike, checked the map one more time, and set out.
12:01 – Zachary
“Hey, Zach! How you doing?”
Joey sat at his usual table, three falafel rolls lined up in front of him. He had a fourth in his hand, halfway eaten. Zachary introduced Leo and the two of them sat down in the couch on the opposite side of the table. Leo sat as far from Zachary as the narrow couch would allow, trying to make as little physical contact as possible with the greasy faux-leather seat, taking occasional sips from a mug of coffee. He hadn’t ordered anything to eat. Zachary had bought himself a falafel roll which he munched on while he exchanged meaningless pleasantries with Joey.
Joey was a scumbag, like all mobsters and their associates, but at least he was a useful scumbag. Zachary always made sure to keep him at a comfortable arm’s length and kept their relation strictly business. Joey had information; Zachary had ways of keeping Joey out of jail. The arrangement wasn’t exactly kosher, from a legal point of view, but letting a two-bit hustler like Joey run free was, in Zachary’s mind, a reasonable price to pay for bagging the real nasty pieces of work out there. Maxwell would have approved.
He was hoping Leo would come to the same realization. The remainder of the ride to Himdad’s Kebab and Falafel had been mired in an uncomfortable silence, the tension so thick you could have sliced it into strips and wrapped them in bread.
It was clear that Leo disliked Joey right off the bat. After a perfunctory greeting the kid had clammed up and just sat there watching and listening to the conversation. Zachary remembered how hard it had been for himself to get used to the idea of rubbing elbows with various criminals and lowlifes, but once he’d gotten his feet wet, he couldn’t imagine not taking advantage of the information they possessed. The wheels of justice turn slowly and were it not for the occasional application of the unsavory grease dredged up from the murky depths of society, they would undoubtedly grind to a halt.
“So,” said Joey after washing down his second roll with a sip of coke, “what can I do for you today, Zach?”
“I need you to help me find a guy. Not sure who he is, but I’ve got a feeling he’s a big shot. He was here last night. Anyone come to mind?”
Joey shrugged. “Lots of people come in here all the time. It’s a popular place.”
“Yeah, but how many of them drive a Ferrari?”
Joey’s face went blank and Zachary knew he’d hit the jackpot.
“Come on now, Joey,” he said, leaning over the table. “Who?”
“Sorry, but there are some people I can’t rat out.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about retaliation in this case,” said Zachary. “Whoever he was, he’s been dead for…” he looked at his watch, “…a little less than three hours now.”
“Dead?” Joey’s eyes widened. “He’s dead? How?”
“Beat to death on the street in broad daylight. Pretty fucked up way to go.”
“But no less than what he deserved,” muttered Joey. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Positive. So, think you can tell me who he was now?”
Joey looked around the diner, then leaned a little closer. In a hushed voice, he said:
“Vinnie Morricone. He was here last night, like you said.”
Zachary knew the name. Vincent Mor
ricone was the son of Giuseppe Morricone, one of the mightiest crime bosses in the city. No wonder they hadn’t been able to find any matching fingerprints. No matter what kind of trouble Vincent may have gotten himself into, it would only take one word from daddy to make any charges and records go away.
“You’re sure it was him?” asked Zachary.
“No doubt. Anyone around here knows his face. How come you guys didn’t?”
“Not much of a face to recognize anymore.”
“No shit?” Joey whistled softly. “Sounds like someone got him good.”
“Yeah. That’s another thing I wanted to ask you about. Do you know of a guy by the name Jeffrey Greenwood?”
“Jeffrey Greenwood?” Joey frowned. “Can’t say I do. He the one who did it?”
“Bingo. The thing is, we got nothing on the guy. No criminal record whatsoever. But I got a feeling he’s connected to Vinnie in some way. He has to be. You sure you’ve never heard of him?”
“Sorry, Zach. Don’t know the guy.”
“Do you know anyone who wanted Vinnie dead?”
“Man, anyone in the neighborhood would tell you they want him dead. I mean, they’d be too scared to actually tell you, but they’d all be thinking it. Just between you and me,” said Joey, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “I’m glad Vinnie got wacked, that sonofabitch.”
“Not exactly popular, was he?” asked Zachary.
“Uh-uh. I’m telling you,” said Joey between mouthfuls of falafel and pickled cucumber, “the guy was an animal. He did some real fucked up shit to some unlucky people. That’s all I’ll say cuz I’m still eating here. There’s a lot of people ‘round here who’ll be sleeping sounder knowing he’s gone.”
“What about the big players? Which one of them would be most likely to put out a hit?”
Joey shrugged. “Harder to say. Things have been pretty peaceful lately. Business is going well, and the families keep mostly to their own turfs. Haven’t heard anything specific about Vinnie or the Morricones in general. If it was personal, well…”
