Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

Parisi led me around back, and we entered through the rear door, its jamb splintered where a pry bar had done its work. We walked down a short hallway and passed through open French doors to a large sunny den that smelled like the Chad Brown death house. I’d been at enough murder scenes to know that dead bodies often smell of expelled body fluids, but here the acrid smell of urine seemed unusually strong.

To our left, floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases were filled with thick medical books, a couple of them with Wayne’s name on the spines. Straight ahead, hanging plants, most of them in bloom, dangled from the ceiling in front of a bank of jalousie windows. To the right, a lab tech wiped a swab across the splattered screen of Wayne’s desktop computer.

“You about done here?” Parisi asked.

“With the evidence collection, yeah,” the tech said, “but I’ve gotta disconnect the computer and take it back to the lab so the nerds can look it over, see what’s on it.”

“Okay if I take a look at it first?”

“Long as you glove up.”

Parisi tugged on a pair of latex gloves and touched the space bar on the keyboard. The computer screen lit up, displaying a paused video that was partially visible through the bloody mess. We looked at each other and both said the same thing: “Aw, fuck.” Then he moved the cursor to the play button and left-clicked.

“Jack Daniel’s, rocks,” Parisi said.

“Yes, it does,” the waitress said.

“And make it a double.”

“Killian’s for me,” I said. I needed whiskey, too, and my stomach seemed to be getting better; but I didn’t dare risk the hard stuff yet.

We had reconvened at Hopes after he’d finished up at the crime scene and I’d filed my story, and we were sitting together now at a table in back. It was nearly nine o’clock, and the Celtics-Knicks game I’d placed a small bet on was playing on the TV behind the bar. An off-duty fireman whose nickname, Hose Hogan, had nothing to do with his occupation, slipped some coins in the jukebox, and B. B. King’s Lucille cried out with the opening licks of “There Must Be a Better World Somewhere.”

We stared at our hands and waited silently for the waitress to return with our order. I studied the ropy scars on the middle and index fingers of my left hand, reminders of compound fractures from a time when the only villains in my life were the kids who played hoops for Syracuse and Georgetown. Then I slid my gaze to Parisi’s thick, knife-scarred fingers and saw that his knuckles were red and swollen, as if he’d recently punched something. Neither of us looked up as the waitress placed our drinks on the table, but we both turned to watch her ass switch as she traipsed away. Some habits are hard to break.

We were natural enemies, reporter and cop, but we’d been getting along pretty well lately. Now we were trying to decide how much of ourselves to share. We reached for our glasses and drank deeply. Then we looked over the rims and caught each other’s eyes. I wondered if I looked as haunted as he did.

“Recognize the girl?” he asked.

“It was Julia Arruda.”

“Did you put her name in the story?”

“Hell, no,” I said. I took another pull from my beer. “You gonna tell her parents about this?”

“Not on your life.”

“At least they didn’t kill her,” I said.

“Maybe they’re saving that for later.”

We drained our glasses, and I signaled the waitress for two more.

“Captain?”

“Um?”

“You look like shit.”

“You too.”

Something buzzed in his breast pocket. He reached in and drew out a smartphone.

“Parisi,” he said, and then listened hard. “Aw, hell. Well, keep working on it, and call me back immediately if you get anywhere.”

“Bad news?” I asked.

“We fucked up. Wayne’s computer is password protected. The crime scene tech unplugged it and took it back to the lab, and when he turned it back on, he couldn’t get past the screen saver.”

“Call him back,” I said, “and tell him the password is Dark Knight.”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“Reporters know all kinds of stuff.”

He stared at me hard, then made the call.

“Conner? It’s Parisi. The password is Dark Knight… Never mind how I know. Just type it in… Great. Call me as soon as you figure out what else is on it.”

He clicked off, downed his whiskey, noticed my glass was nearly empty, and signaled the waitress for another round.

“You’re gonna have to tell me how you knew that,” he said.

“Confidential source,” I said, “but let me see if she’ll talk to you.”

Peggi picked up on the third ring.

“Hi. It’s Mulligan.”

“Is it true? Is Dr. Wayne really dead?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“There was something on the TV news at six.”

“It’s true.”

“Somebody shot him?”

“Yes, somebody did.”

“Do they know who?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Does this have something to do with the bad stuff you said he might be into?”

“I think so.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Yeah.”

“I never knew anybody who got shot before.”

“Are you okay?”

“A little shaky, but yeah. I’m all right.”

“Have the police talked to you yet?”

“No.”

“They’re going to be talking to people who knew him, and you’ll be near the top of the list.”

“Okay.”

“I’m with Captain Parisi of the state police right now.”

“The one that answered the phone when I called the house?”

“That’s right. He wants to know how I learned the password to Dr. Wayne’s computer, but I didn’t want to involve you without your permission. Do you think you could tell him about it?”

“Will it get me in trouble?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, then,” she said, so I handed Parisi the phone. He listened for a few moments, asked a couple of questions, and then clicked off.

“We square now?” I asked.

“Not quite.”

“How come?”

“She said you told her Wayne might have been involved in some bad stuff.”

“I did.”

“So where did you hear that ?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Another confidential source?”

“Yeah.”

I held his stare for about ten seconds, then picked up the phone, called McCracken’s cell, and listened to it ring five times before going to voice mail.

“He’s not answering,” I said. “I’ll try again tomorrow, see if he’s willing to talk to you.”

“Think he will be?”

“I think so, yeah.”

We leaned back in our chairs and finished our drinks.

“Another, Captain?”

“Better not. I’ve got to drive back to headquarters.”

He dropped a twenty on the table and was about to get to his feet when his cell buzzed again.

“Parisi… That right? How many?… Anything else?… Well, keep looking,” he said, and clicked off.

“Developments?” I asked.

“You could say that. The techs found over two hundred child porn videos on Wayne’s computer.”

“Any of them snuff films?”

“Don’t know yet. The techs are still looking at them, the poor bastards.”

We fell silent and stared into our empty glasses.

“Captain?”

“What?”

“Got somebody you can talk to about all this?”

“Been talkin’ to you, haven’t I?”

“Not really, no.”

His shoulders slumped. Suddenly, he looked smaller.

“I’m not much of a talker,” he said.

“Me either.”

“Guess I could talk to the department shrink if I really need to.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” I said.