Parker 02 - The Guilty (7 page)

closer. "Listen, I've got a contact in the medical examiner's

office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I'll have him on

the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy."

"What do you want me to do?"

"He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to

go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People

don't like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them

feel like they're being accused of something. Too many

freaking
Law & Order
spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you

are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You

make 'em believe it, they'll let you hold their newborn."

"Got it."

At that moment, Mayor Perez said, "And now I'd like to

turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley,

who will answer further questions."

"Might be worth leaving now," I said. "Get a head start."

"Not yet," Jack said. "Leaving early is how you miss the

big stuff."

Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early

fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He

stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity.

Then I noticed something strange.

Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his

eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed

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Jason Pinter

his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way.

Then I saw what he saw--a faint glimmer of light off

of...
something--
and then all hell broke loose.

Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was

shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode

by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were

screaming and running and cursing and fleeing.

I heard someone yell, "He's been shot!" EMS workers

sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment,

arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a

woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the

stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into

walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn.

At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from.

I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of

the carnage.

I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas

Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get

through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops

were shaking, ready to fire at an instant's notice.

I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the

downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of

them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down

the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can't be

saved.

As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the

magnification. I could just make out the face.

My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt

Jack's hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away.

Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law's face. Both men

lying in a pool of their own blood.

The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.

8

She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows.

One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt

warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said

she was building a fort every night.Yet when the lights went out,

after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would

push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.

She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat.

She knew when he was thinking about a story--his heart

beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat.

She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side.

She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop.

Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the

bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in

some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason,

despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.

She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow.

Henry's eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been

sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters

after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their

body then yells something cheesy like "Fatality!"

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Jason Pinter

Another death. Reporters weren't supposed to see lives end

in front of them. Henry wasn't off in a tank in Iraq. How much

more could he take?

Henry's breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen

asleep. She hoped so.

And then the shrill noise of Henry's cell phone broke the

silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change

the ring tone.

Henry didn't stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston

or Jack O'Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.

But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again

in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend

would return her affection. That some previously severed

synapses would again begin firing.

Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the

power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered

all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep

would arrive soon.

For both of them.

9

The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted

on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he'd

done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and

turned off the light.

He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It

wasn't just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood.

His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of

his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the

newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying

quicker than the blood.

He thought about last week. He thought about the grave,

that headstone he'd visited so many times, wanting to wrap

his strong hands around the necks of all those idiots who'd

stolen God knew how many marble replacements. It had

gotten so bad that the graveyard proprietors had to construct

a metal fence around the headstone. Didn't matter much.

They couldn't afford good metal, and twice a year some kid

would use a pair of eleven-ninety-nine wire cutters and steal

it just the same.

After visiting the grave for twenty years the Boy didn't

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Jason Pinter

care about the headstone itself. All he cared about was the

bones that lay underneath. The body that lay buried in that

hard earth for over a century. People thought they knew the

truth. They saw movies, read books, figured they knew everything. He was here to change that. Through blood and

lead, they would know the truth, and they would know exactly

why he died. The Boy's legacy, and now he was being

baptized in the blood of the damned.

Every now and then he would bring a fresh bullet to the

grave, dig a small hole with his hands and place the ammunition inside. It's what He would have wanted--to be close

to the bullets. Up until now, those bullets were the only link

between them. Until Athena. Until that cop. Now blood linked

them, and blood was thicker than lead.

All those summers in the broiling sun, pretending to ignore

his birthright. Watching that ungodly woman tarnish their

family's name with that demon. He got through the day because he knew eventually the day would come when he could

take up the mantle. When he could finally finally
finally
come

out from the darkness and show the world that the throne was

his now. It had merely been waiting for the new blood to carry

it into the new century.

You'd think things would have changed in a hundred and

thirty years,
the Boy would say to the headstone. He would

always say it out loud. He didn't care who heard him. If he

didn't have the courage to take a few errant glances, he wouldn't

be able to pull the trigger when the time came.
You'd think

they'd have changed, but they haven't. A hundred and thirty

years and you'd be so sick of it you'd dust your guns off, brush

all that dirt off your old, old bones and do what I'm doing.

His hands and legs ached. The rifle had a mean kick. The

Boy hadn't gotten a chance to practice much with it, but the

The Guilty

63

gun was every bit as true as he knew it would be. That gun

had a reputation, and not the kind that came from some pussy

who talked his own game up. This was the kind of rep that

came through force, violence and blood.

He looked around the room. Grime covered the walls, and

he could hear insects scurrying behind the plaster. Nothing

bothered him. He tapped the rifle with his fingers and thought

about the next kill.

He'd read the newspapers that morning. Read the ongoing

coverage of Athena's murder. Only today it was sparring for

coverage with the murder of Joe Mauser. He was surprised

to see that he'd killed the cop rather than the mayor. But the

more he read about this cop, the better he felt. He read how

the cop tracked down and nearly killed an innocent reporter

named Henry Parker. The same Henry Parker whose words

the Boy had used before killing Athena Paradis.

The Boy read about how the death of officer Joe Mauser's

brother-in-law had driven Mauser over the edge, how he relentlessly pursued Parker across the country before nearly

dying at the hands of the real killer. And even though the

Boy's bullet hadn't been meant for Mauser, fate was on his

side. Joe Mauser was just as guilty as the rest of them.

The Boy looked out the window at the night sky, the beauty

that was so close, and the beauty that he would help create.

Then he closed his eyes, dreamt of blood, blood that purified,

blood that seeped back into an old, old grave. He dreamt that

he was lying in the grave next to the man whose legacy he

was carrying on, and the Boy slept in peace.

10

I'd only met with a medical examiner once in my career

as a reporter, and that was back in Oregon when I covered

a B and E that turned ugly when the home owner confronted

the burglar. The home owner was stabbed twice in the chest,

the knife stolen from his own bedroom. The ME confirmed

the murder weapon was some fancy German blade, which the

victim had bought on the black market. I ended up uncovering an unauthorized dealer ring in Portland, and was subsequently nominated for a Payne journalism award. The ME in

Portland was a woman in her midforties, professional as hell,

and willing to part with any and all information I needed for

my story. From that encounter I assumed most MEs were

similarly professional.

But when I met Leon Binks, New York County Medical

Examiner, behind the rusty Dumpster on Thirty-first and First,

let's just say it wasn't quite the professionalism I was hoping for.

Leon was wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt,

both dirty and disheveled. My guess was they were spare clothes

for the times he had to run out and meet people behind Dumpsters. He was a fairly young man, mid to late thirties, with a wisp

of a mustache and hair in desperate need of some Pert Plus.

The Guilty

65

He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, and I wondered

what sort of compulsion that came from.

"So you know Jack," Binks said, more of a statement of

fact than a question.

"I work with him at the
Gazette,
" I replied.

Jack had called Binks and told him to meet me as soon as

possible. Didn't ask Binks. Told him. I wondered what sort

of coverage Jack had given--or shielded--to have the New

York City medical examiner wrapped around his little finger.

"Good guy, O'Donnell," Binks said, his hands rubbing

rhythmically.

"Yeah, he is." I waited for Binks to continue.

"Had a lot of good times with him," Binks said. "Well, not

good times, but good conversations. Like he's always been a

good egg with me, a good egg. I figure any friend of Jack's

has gotta be a friend of mine."

"That's right," I said. "So, Leon, if I can call you that..."

"You can call me Binky," he said. "S'what my friends

do, anyway."

"Right. So...
Binky...
you've done the initial on Joe Mauser?"

Binky nodded. "You'd be correct. Listen, Henry." Binky

leaned in close. I could smell chemicals. Iodine and cheap

aftershave. "Did Jack tell you about that...
thing?
"

"Uh..."

"I get it, you're playing dumb. It's okay, better you don't