Atmosphere Read online

  Muldoon followed his counterparts through the shed hole in the fence. Frank finally coerced movement in himself, and he and Hector followed.

  The entire courtyard came into view. It was smaller than it had first seemed, perhaps only thirty feet across to the next building. It appeared from this angle that the only legitimate accesses to the yard were those from the buildings themselves; all the other alleys were fenced off.

  Frank immediately saw streaks of blood in the grass, like trails of paint, the body clearly having been dragged away with the same quick determination as it had been scooped through the hole in the fence. Frank and Hector followed the messy streaks to a hole in the ground where the policemen stood circled about it, looking down inside and shaking their heads with what indicated utter disbelief. Muldoon and a middle-aged mustachioed cop with tufts of black hair jutting from the sides of his hat were shining their flashlights down into the hole. Another was crouched on his knees, tugging at a manhole cover in the grass at the side of the opening.

  The cop with the moustache, McGoldrick, spread his arms in question, disbelief drawn on his face. "Bastard disappeared down the sewer."

  "Did anyone see him go down?" Hector asked, jerking his head in all directions, including all the cops in the query.

  "No...but there's blood all over the edge," McGoldrick answered, shining the flashlight around to confirm his statement. "And on the grass around it."

  "Maybe he threw the body down there and fled?" Hector suggested, breaths escaping his throat in anxious gasps.

  "Captain, I don't think so. He would've been spotted heading across the courtyard. Cullen and Shafski went to check out the exits and the other alleys, but we're pretty sure he went down here."

  Hector's face flushed red as if the veins inside his head had exploded and let their flow seep beneath his skin. He shook his head, confusion no doubt bringing about a flurry of questions. One eventually came out. "Why hasn't anyone gone down after him?"

  The cops stayed motionless, lips sealed and eyes blank, not the slightest bit of initiative present in their body language. Something had hold of them and kept them rooted.

  "What? What's the matter?" Hector looked at Frank, eyes wide with disbelief as if to say, You believe these guys Frank? They're nothing like we used to be, when we were young.

  McGoldrick stepped forward. "Captain, it's a cesspool duct. There's no ladder. It's nothing but cement walls and hook-eyes from here on down. You need equipment to get down there." Muldoon nodded, confirming his statement.

  Hector stared at him for a moment, clearly befuddled. "You sure?" Receiving four nods in unison, Hector removed his hat, frustration clearly getting to him. How many times in his checkered career had something as cunning and corrupt as this occur just beyond the grasp of his fingertips, and slip away so easily without allowing a fragment of opportunity to take hold of it? Never? Yet here it happened, a first, and there seemed to be no excuse or valid explanation for letting this incredible mystery just slip away.

  He swiped his forehead then stepped forward, peering into the dark depression. Frank stepped next to him.

  "They're right Hect. No way down."

  "Except if you jumped."

  "Must be, what, twenty? Twenty five feet? Can't be done without nearly killing yourself."

  "Which means the bastard's still down there with a broken ankle or leg."

  A crazy thought entered Frank's mind and he shuddered at its outrageousness. But it seemed to make some sense. "Unless..."

  "Unless what?" Hector's mouth trembled and his cheeks, even here in the early morning light, started showing deep ruddy patches of maroon. He would listen to anything as long as he got a viable answer.

  "Unless he used the body to break his fall." The option suddenly seemed all to realistic, and Frank could see Hector's frustration jarring almost every muscle in his face as he considered this possibility. It looked as if steam would start pouring out from his ears.

  "Captain?" Muldoon interrupted. "He probably is still down there. It's a cesspool. There's gonna be a lot of pipes and ducts leading out, but no tunnels. None that a man could fit through anyway."

  Hector at once pulled his radio, placed a call into Special Teams. They'd have spelunkers here in a half hour, all geared up and ready to hoist on down. Holstering his radio, he asked, "If this is a cesspool, how come there's no stink?"

  Still peering into the dark of the hole, Frank said, "I imagine it'd stink if you went down there."

  Hector gave Frank a quizzical look, one eyebrow jutting in the air.

  Frank smiled and shrugged, fatigue making an effort of it. "That's why I'm a detective."

  "The object," Muldoon suddenly said, bringing about a round of silence and a variety of perplexed looks. "The thing he was holding, remember Captain?" He stepped forward. "The black thing? It was covered in blood and he was rubbing it with his fingers." He made a swirling motion with his hands.

  Hector's eyebrows arched downward. Now he looked pissed, perhaps by the fact that he either forgot about the strange object, or didn't want to remember.

  Frank felt a chill sprint through his upper body at the mention of the strange piece. The sudden discomfort made him realize that this whole damn scenario was more than just a weird body snatching of sorts. A plethora of mysteries surrounded everything, and he knew that somehow the object, the black thing with the prongs sticking from it, held answers. Answers to secrets that were shrouded with a tenebrous black veil and talons hidden underneath so that they could no doubt lash poison-laden scratches should someone come near it in attempt to lift it away.

  Cullen and Shafski both returned from their investigation, heads shaking. They hadn't found anything, not a drop of blood.

  The bald guy had indeed gone down.

  "So did anyone find it?" Frank finally asked, his renewed strength now vacating as fatigue once again caught up during the lag of activity. Everyone shot harried glances around at each other, but there was no admission.

  "What do you think, Frank?" Hector asked, brow furrowed with lines of curiosity.

  "I think it's what the guy was after."

  The smile on Hector's face could have been one of incredulousness, but Frank doubted his ex-captain would feel anything but inquisitiveness during a situation as considerable as this. "What makes you say that?"

  Frank thought about it for a moment and shuddered. He really couldn't answer that question with any form of truthfulness. I just do would have been the most appropriate response. Just 'knowing things'. It had been a dominant part of his inbred talent as a cognitive figure in society, the one trait that all three of his personalities willingly shared. He closed his eyes for a moment, pondering Hector's simple question.

  "I don't know for sure. It just seems obvious to me. I think it was the way the kid was holding it. Like he was...caressing it. Like it was something special."

  The statement maintained the silence, everyone clearly giving thought to it, their faces blank stares. Whether they accepted Frank's observation was another story altogether.

  Hector finally broke the silence, changing the subject, no doubt wanting his men to put their minds back on capturing the bald man. "Well, at this point there's nothing else we can do until the unit arrives." He tapped Frank on the waist. "Why don't you get some sleep Smoky, and we'll talk tomorrow. Besides, it's all dirty work from here on in."

  Frank stared at Hector, felt slapped. What had he said? Was it that crazy an observation? Or was Hector in truth cutting him a break, allowing him to go home?

  Frank rubbed a hand along the side of his face and realized that everyone was staring at him. He probably looked like hell, eyes barely open, as pale as a ghost after a hundred years of hauntings.

  Hector nodded, gave him a quick patronizing smile. "It's all right Frank, go 'head. We'll be fine." He stepped over next to Frank, whispered, "You and I both know I shouldn't have let you back here in the first place."

  Hector was right. Legally, Frank cou
ld only be a witness to this crime and nothing more. He had been off duty, and although everything had happened in his neighborhood, this wasn't his jurisdiction. Hector would be in charge.

  But Hector was a dear friend. Tomorrow they would speak, and then Frank would get a small hold on things...

  Frank tried to smile but knew it looked like a grimace. He then grunted, making his reluctance obvious, and turned away. As he dragged his feet, waves of relief suddenly washed over him like a rushing tide, rousing restless, anxious feelings that yelled get home! The prospect of getting into bed sounded so glorious all of a sudden, motivating that lesser listened-to, rational personality to peek out from behind the iron curtain of his consciousness and take control of his bearings. He spun back, added, "I guess we'll be speaking soon then, right Hect?"

  "Of course Frank. Very soon. You're a witness and we'll need your report."

  Frank finally staggered away, crawling back through the hole in the fence and into the alley. Wet trash and dirty puddles sloshed under his footsteps. The cool temperature locked the breath in his lungs. "So much for my long weekend," he mumbled as he passed a forensics team specialist prepping the area for a sweep. He slowly followed the now nearly invisible streaks of blood past a police barricade at the alley's entrance, back around the corner, through all the activity and onlookers. He barely made it to his apartment just as many were starting out their work day.

  It wasn't until he was laying comfortable in bed a half-hour later, up to his chin in sheets, that he remembered something else he should have mentioned to Hector.

  Atmosphere...

  Chapter Four

  In the sleep that followed, Frank dreamed of babies, tens of thousands of infants dressed entirely in black. They stood like soldiers in a procession that went on for as far as his eyes could see, their tiny bald heads a sea of pink texture disappearing into a strikingly colorful horizon. He stood positioned on a platform before them, arms outstretched, he their messiah, they his disciples. The heads peered up at him, large black orbs—inhuman eyes—silently staring, waiting...

  "Dad!"

  Frank startled awake, his breath temporarily left behind in his dream, sweat dampening his body, the sheets enveloping him. Through filmy eyes he saw Jaimie's outline nestled in the half-opened door-frame, her arm extended into his room, the cordless phone attached to her hand.

  "Oh, God, Jaimie..."

  "You all right?" She arched her eyebrows into a perplexed triangle-shape, swung the phone to her side.

  Every time Frank got the chance to see his daughter—which hadn't been very often these past couple of months—he would take a few moments, no matter what the circumstances, to admire her beauty. She seemed to grow more and more attractive every day, like a flower in slow-motion bloom. Even now through wearied eyes she looked magnificent, her eyes as crystal blue as Caribbean waters, sienna-brown hair and eyebrows perfectly fashioned around them in contrast to their wondrous beauty. And her skin—a silky olive tone that boasted her Italian half—made splendid use of the sun's rays on days she decided to divulge herself in its warmth. She may have gotten her mother's Irish looks, but her blood and skin was pure Italiano, something Frank, of course, was quite pleased with.

  "Yeah. Sure. I'm fine. I was having a dream." He rubbed away the black blotches obscuring his eyesight.

  "Sorry." She smiled weakly, a little embarrassed it seemed, then raised the phone back up, holding it forward. "You got a call. Captain Rodriguez."

  "Yeah. Okay." Frank groaned as he leaned over to grab the telephone handset from its cradle on the nightstand alongside the bed. The bones in his back and waist popped and cracked, the sheets hissed under his body weight. He placed the receiver to his ear. "After last night you'd think I could grab a couple hours shut-eye."

  "It's two o'clock, Smoky. Or is it Sleepy?"

  Frank rolled his eyes toward the clock on the nightstand. The digital readout glowed 2:07, bright red. He hadn't slept this late since he was in college. He also hadn't stayed out all night since then either. No wonder Jaimie slept all afternoon on the weekends.

  "Jesus..."

  "It's a good thing I called."

  "Not really. I'd rather be sleeping. As my daughter would say, I pulled an all nighter."

  "That her on the phone?"

  "Would you believe me if I said it was my girlfriend?"

  Hector chuckled and Frank wriggled up, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position, pillows propped up behind his head, legs stretched out beneath the sheets. His bones creaked again, different ones this time. "So what happened after I left?"

  Hector hesitated, exhaling a long wind of breath. He must have told the story a dozen times since last night and had no desire to repeat himself again. Frank knew quite well that Hector wasn't supposed to share information with any outsiders, or witnesses for that matter. Which of course didn't make a darn of a difference as far as he was concerned. The stronger, stubborn detective inside, tired and all, would go deaf, dumb, and blind until it got the rest of the story out of his ex-captain. Hector had no choice. He had to fill him in.

  Hector's silence indicated clear exasperation. He wouldn't be able to play this whole thing out by the book. He'd have to give Frank a few inches.

  Frank heard a shuffling of papers on the other end. "Well," Hector finally said, "the special teams unit arrived. A few men went down into the cesspool and found a tunnel." He paused for a moment, perhaps in wait for a response from Frank, which he did not immediately get, then said, "It had been dug out."

  "Dug out?"

  "Looks that way. Can't tell with what, though. A machine of some kind."

  "Was there a body?"

  "Don't jump ahead of me."

  "Sorry. Go 'head." Frank felt a chill race down his back. His heart started beating faster and he gripped the phone like an eagle's talon on a piece of prey.

  "The tunnel led to an air duct in the R line terminal, on Broadway and 4th—about four hundred yards from the hole in the courtyard. The kid's body was inside the duct, dead and as naked as day, a few feet from where a vent had been popped out in a bathroom wall. We're pretty sure the bald guy escaped through it."

  "He got away?"

  "Yep."

  "Any witnesses?"

  There was a delay on Hector's end of the phone, Frank heard him say 'thank you' to someone at his end. "No. Nothing yet."

  Frank felt staggered. The whole scenario—from the moment he stepped into the blood till now—was becoming a more and more unbelievable story by the minute—one which he wouldn't have bought for a second had he not been there to see it himself. "What in God's name is going on?" he asked, a fistful of sheets bunched in his free hand.

  "I have no idea."

  "And what is it all?"

  "Damned if I can even offer a guess."

  Pausing, he asked, "How wide was it?"

  "What? The tunnel? Big enough for that bald goon to fit through—but barely."

  "Then how did he drag the body through with him?

  "You saw him. He was a big guy. He made it fit."

  "It must've been a mess."

  "Yep. And I think you were most likely right when you said the body may have provided a cushion to baldie's fall. The kid's arms and legs were broken. Neck too."

  The image of it made Frank's stomach purl with nausea. A young boy waking up innocently one day to have no life just hours later, his body mangled like a piece of highway carnage and left for the rats to feed on.

  But this terrifying vision in his mind's eye was secondary to the knowledge that some wicked psychopath was still walking the streets with blood on his hands, and that no immediate solution existed at the moment for Frank to sever the maniac's bond with society. Frank realized at this very moment that he would find no rest, no peace of mind today or any other day, until the guy was caught.

  But with a terrible situation such as this, much more existed for Frank than just his commitment to society. Once a scenario rendered itself
within his reach, an ever compelling need to grasp it demanded he do so, draw himself close and refuse to surrender hold until he worked his way through to the very limit of its span. It consumed him, became an immediate obsession, and ultimately an art. Perhaps this compulsory desire surfaced through a shifting of chemical balances, perhaps a simple psychological tendency drove him. Regardless, it inspired his very existence.

  Given the current circumstances, the settling down period he anticipated now that the Carey Lindsay case had been put to rest would come to pass. Every intricate facet of this mystery would be just as it was during the brutal weeks he sweated the perplexities of her murder.

  Life consuming.

  He had nearly drove himself to hallucination speculating on the events leading to the poor girl's dying moments, time and time again asking himself the same unanswerable questions: How had she been seduced by her brother? Had she trusted him, agreed to play his game? Or was she snatched against her will?

  Regardless, the facts were alarming. The sixteen year-old had been raped and sodomized repeatedly during the last moments of her life, beaten and bloodied beyond recognition. When the police found her, her entire body bore a mottling of angry blue blotches and bruises, had been swathed in blood. She had no broken bones, but virtually every inch of skin, every muscle and every tendon had sustained damage. Frank remembered seeing the body for the first time, practically folded in half like a piece of paper and stuffed in a large overnight bag, hidden away in a closet in the Park Avenue apartment.

  "Frank?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You still with me?"

  "Hect...I'm sorry. I'm still tired." He smoothed the sheets with his hand, thinking about how torturous Carey Lindsay's moments must have been prior to her murder. The images of death, her death, seemed so surrealistic, and impossible. Dear God, how terrible it must have been...

  "When you get your old self out of bed, I'd like for you come in and give a statement. Outside of the cabby, you're our only real witness, and it's important I see you, preferably sometime today."