Parker 01 - The Mark (8 page)

“You’re gonna ruin your part,” Mauser said, pointing at Denton’s hair. Denton ran a hand through it, combed it back into place with his fingers, laughed.

“You’re a prick,” he said with a grin. Mauser felt more relaxed. Maybe the rumors about Denton were bogus. The guy was rubbing off on him. “Come on, let’s go talk to Ms. Loverne.”

Mauser admired the building’s facade, the clean red brick, like the vandals had too much respect to desecrate it with their “art.” He watched as pedestrians strolled with their heads held high, too high to see the dirt at their feet. One thing Mauser had learned over the years was that students, almost to a one, viewed the world from the inside of a fishbowl. They had the bigger points covered—genocide in Kamchatka, illegal whale hunting in the Arctic Circle, shit like that. But if you asked about anything relevant to their lives they’d look at you with glazed eyes and go right back to sipping their double-mocha lattes.

Parker was just another in a growing line of young shit-heads who felt they put on their pants two legs at a time. They gain a little fame, a little notoriety, and suddenly they’re Edward R. Murrow.

Mya Loverne’s building had no doorman, only an antiquated buzzer system with a small camera for tenants to view their visitors from the comfort of their Jennifer Convertibles. Mauser found the directory on the wall, ran his finger down until it came to a stop at M. Loverne. Apartment 4A.

Denton pressed the gray nipple and waited. Mauser shuffled around, anxiety building inside him. Every moment they waited was more time for Parker to run. Denton pressed the buzzer again. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds later, and still no answer.

“Screw this,” Mauser said. He pushed Denton aside and jammed his thumb on the call button. He held it there for a full minute, then released for five seconds, then jammed it down again. Finally a tired female voice answered.

“Who is it? Henry?”

Denton tried to stifle a laugh. Mauser elbowed him in the kidney.

“Ms. Loverne?” Denton said.

“Who is this?”

“Ms. Loverne, my name is Leonard Denton, FBI.”

“Excuse me? Why…what’s the matter?” Denton waited a few seconds to let her heart rate build up. Get her good and fearful.

Then he pressed the intercom again and said, “We need to talk about your boyfriend, Henry Parker.”

“Is there…do you have any identification or something?”

Denton held his government ID with the elegant blue FBI seal to the camera. After a moment of hesitation, the buzzer rang and Denton pulled the door open. He looked at Mauser, a blank stare on the older cop’s face.

“And away we go.”

I
reread the story. Blood, thick like cement, swirled and pounded in my head. Misunderstandings. Errors of judgment. Callousness. Human frailty. Weakness. All of it was quantifiable, rectified by specific reactions. Errors could be fixed. Misunderstandings explained. Human frailty bolstered by gaining strength.

I’d dealt with all of these in my investigative journalism. But the emotions I felt when I read those words were completely foreign. There was no rational explanation as to how suddenly I was wanted for killing a police officer.

I’d always wanted to report about crime, corruption. Men and women convinced they’d get away with it, until I proved they couldn’t. And now, with my picture splashed across thousands of newspapers all over the city, I’d become exactly who I’d hoped to expose. True reporters only want the story. They never want to be the story. And now here I was. The hero of the day.

I read the story again.

Reporter, 24, Kills Police Officer
During Failed Drug Bust

In what has been described by Police Commissioner Ray Kelly as a heinous act of violence against one of the city’s most beloved peace officers, Detective Jonathan A. Fredrickson, 42, was shot and killed late last night while investigating a drug deal gone sour. The alleged shooter, Henry Parker, 24, a recent Cornell graduate and a junior reporter at the New York Gazette, fled the scene and has yet to be apprehended.

According to Commissioner Kelly, Fredrickson was responding to the site of an alleged heroin exchange in an apartment building at 2937 Broadway in Spanish Harlem. It remains unclear whether the tenants, Luis and Christine Guzman, were involved in the deal. The building’s superintendent, Grady Larkin, 36, admitted to hearing strange noises coming from the Guzmans’ apartment, which he relayed to Officer Fredrickson when he arrived at the scene. Fredrickson apparently discovered the Guzmans tied and beaten, and upon confronting the assailant, still present at the scene, was shot with his own gun in the ensuing struggle. Larkin claims to have seen Parker running from the crime scene, carrying a bag that may or may not have contained the alleged narcotics.

Luis Guzman, 34, on parole for armed robbery in 1994, and his wife were being treated at an undisclosed medical facility for wounds suffered in the attack.

Luis Guzman is listed in stable condition with a fractured jaw and three broken ribs and was unable to comment. Christine, 28, is suffering from a concussion and facial lacerations.

“He hit me,” Christine said of Parker’s brutalization. “He hit me a lot. I was screaming at him to stop, but he kept hitting my husband until he couldn’t talk anymore.”

She continued, “That policeman died to protect us from Henry Parker. We could both be dead. He sacrificed his life. We will never forget what he gave for us.”

And, according to several sources within the NYPD and FBI, neither will New York’s finest.

Said Kelly at an early morning press conference, “This city will not rest until Officer Fredrickson’s killer is found. This investigation will be the very definition of swift justice.”

The local branch of the FBI has been called in to aid in Parker’s capture. The Assistant Director in Charge of the New York City FBI branch, Donald L. West, said his agents would receive special jurisdiction to cross state lines if found that Parker has fled the state.

Detective Fredrickson is survived by his wife, Linda, and two children.

The pounding blood in my head slowly came to a boil.

He hit me,
she said.

Christine Guzman lied to the police. So did Grady Larkin, the superintendent, a man I’d never met. The world had collapsed onto itself, and I was caught in the middle.

It had to be a dream. I was a college graduate, had just started my dream job at a respected newspaper. I was supposed to do great things, accomplish my goals, all the good stuff that would secure me respect and money, and give my reputation longevity. And now I was accused of killing a policeman. A husband. A father. A man who protected the world from criminals. Like me. How was this possible? John Fredrickson—a fucking cop—had nearly beaten two people to death, almost killed me in the process, and now I was facing the vengeance of an entire city.

Drugs. A heroin deal. That’s what the paper said. That’s what Fredrickson must have been looking for, and what the papers assumed I stole. But why would a cop go to such brutal lengths to retrieve drugs? And why did Christine claim they didn’t have it, risking all three of our lives?

And why would a cop, with a family no less, risk everything by beating two unarmed people nearly to death?

I didn’t have the answer.

And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.

I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.

Ironic. I’d always wanted to be Bob Woodward. Pete Ha-mill. Jimmy Breslin. Recognized. Now, my only hope was that the world would see right through me.

I stopped at a thrift store and bought a pair of crappy warm-up pants and a white T-shirt whose collar had already begun to fray. My sneakers I threw into a mailbox, replaced them with a worn pair of Sambas. A cheap pair of sunglasses hid my eyes. But these were only stopgap measures, using bubble gum to plug a ruptured dam.

There were few people in New York I could turn to for help, and if they came up empty…I tried not to think about it.

I walked quickly toward the subway, keeping an eye out for lurking transit officers. I felt light-headed, searching amongst unknown faces for any hint of danger. My hands could be shackled before I knew what happened, I could be beaten to death in my cell, either by cops who thought I’d killed one of their own or by criminals who’d consider it a feather in their cap to kill a man who’d taken a policeman’s life.

Stepping onto the uptown 6 train, my legs felt weak, rubbery. It was all I could do to support my own weight.

The train chugged along, and at each stop I scanned the new passengers, watching intently for the royal blue dress of the NYPD. My life, it seemed, was now entirely up to chance.

I exited at 116th Street and found the nearest pay phone. It killed me to call him after this. I had to hope he’d believe the truth.

My fingers trembling, I inserted a quarter and dialed. The switchboard operator picked up, a woman’s superficially perky voice on the other end.

“
New York Gazette,
how may I direct your call?”

“Wallace Langston, please.”

“Just a moment.” I heard a click, then ringing as my call was put through. I chewed on a fingernail, then stopped. Can’t draw any attention. Must act normal. Just another guy on the phone.

A guy with a murder charge hanging over his head. A dead man haunting his thoughts. An entire city turned against him. A whole life…

“Wallace Langston’s office.”

Shit. It was Shirley, his secretary. She’d recognize my voice. And once she did, I’d never get through. She’d call the cops in the blink of an eye.

I raised my voice an octave and gave myself a slight lisp. Thank God my chosen profession wasn’t acting.

“Yes, Wallace Langston. Is he in?”

“And who may I ask is calling?”

“Um…this is Paul Westington calling from Hillary Clinton’s office. Mrs. Clinton is ready to give the
Gazette
an exclusive on her presidential aspirations.”

Silence.

“Sure…just a moment.” Another click, more ringing. Then Wallace picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Westington, is it?” He sounded rushed. Excited for the story. Sorry, Wally, Hillary couldn’t make it, instead you’re on the line with a wanted criminal.

“Wallace, it’s me.”

Beat. I held my breath, pulse quickening.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Henry. Henry Parker.”

There was a moment of silence as I waited for a response.

“Henry. Oh, Christ, Henry.”

“Yeah.”

“Henry, what have you done?” His voice was sad, ashamed.

I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. Wallace believed it, believed what they were saying.

“Wallace, please,” I said, choking back a sob. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it. Nothing in the papers is true. I…”

“Henry, I can’t speak to you. You need to go to the police. You need to turn yourself in.”

“I can’t turn myself in!” I cried. “I’ll be dead before I make it to trial! I can’t do it, Wallace. I need your help.”

“I can’t help you,” he said softly. “The only advice I can offer is for you to turn yourself in. Please, Henry, that’s what’s best for everyone. If they find you before you do that, I don’t know what will happen. God, Henry, how could you
do
this?”

The muscles in my jaw tensed. My outlets had just diminished by fifty percent.

“They won’t find me,” I said, and slammed down the receiver. Wallace. Jack. Could Jack have known about Luis Guzman? He was a lone beacon in the sea of journalistic turmoil, the man whose allegiances could never be bought, whose opinion never corrupted. But now I wasn’t so sure.

Wincing, I glanced around. Nobody seemed to have noticed the outburst. Shaking, my throat dry, I took another quarter and slid it in. Dialing the next number, the last number, I said a silent prayer. After three rings, a voice answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God. Mya.”

“Henry.”

“Mya, listen to me. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but none of it’s true. I need to see you. I need to talk to your father. He can help me.”

“Henry, I…I saw the newspapers. It’s all over the television. I don’t think my father can speak to you unless you go to the police.”

“I can’t do that, Mya. I can’t…”

“Wait one second, Henry.” I heard a soft clap—her hand covering the receiver—then a shuffling sound in the background.

“Mya, are you there? What’s going on?” Then she was back, her voice distracted.

“Oh, sorry, Hen. I’m just in the middle of breakfast.” Her voice seemed remarkably calm. It unnerved me.

“Anyway, I need to come over. I need somewhere to stay for a bit until I figure things out. What the papers say, that’s not what happened last night. Your father could…”

“I can’t do that, Henry, I told you.”

“Dammit, Mya,” I said, starting to lose it. I didn’t care if anyone was watching. “This is my life! You can’t just shut me out.”

“I don’t want to, Henry. I don’t have a choice.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Joe Mauser pinched his thumb and forefinger together and pulled them apart. He mouthed the words, “Keep stringing him along.”

Mya nodded, her face grim. Denton was on his cell phone as he waited for the line to be traced. He held up three fingers. After a moment, two fingers.

“Twenty seconds,” Denton mouthed.

Mya nodded. Mauser had to give the girl credit. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she was biting her lip so hard he could see white where the blood was being forced out, but she was remarkably composed. Sitting next to her on the bed, hearing Parker’s faint voice through the earpiece, it took all of Mauser’s patience not to grab the phone and tear it to pieces.

Denton dropped one finger, then held up ten. Slowly counting down.

“Nine…eight…seven…six…” Denton mouthed. Mya watched him. She shut her eyes, squeezing out several drops that spattered onto the comforter.

Joe’s heart fluttered. Just a few seconds and they’d have him.

“Four…three…two…”

Suddenly Mya yelled, “Henry, run!”

She bolted off the bed, the cell phone still in her hand. Denton lunged for her, catching the cuff of her jeans. She wriggled free and ran to the other end of the apartment. A door slammed shut and a latch clicked. She’d locked herself in the bathroom.

Mya screamed again, then Joe heard a beep as she severed the connection.

“God
damn
it!” Joe shouted. “Len, tell me we got something.”

Denton ran for the door, signaling Mauser to follow.

“Parker’s at a pay phone two goddamn blocks east from here. NYPD’s on the way.” Mauser thought he saw a disappointed look on Denton’s face as he threw the door open and raced into the stairwell.

Denton said, “Joe, we gotta find this kid before anyone else does.”

Mauser looked over his shoulder and smiled as he felt the reassuring weight of his Glock against his ribs. “Tell the NYPD to throw a fucking vise on this entire city. If anyone lays a goddamn finger on Parker before I fucking find him, I’ll be bringing two bodies to the morgue today.”