Alex Barclay - The Caller

Joe looked around the room at the people who first came together on this case: Denis Cullen – a man who would rather stare at figures all day so he could save his energy for visiting his sick little girl. Tom Blazkow – tough and thorough, Aldos Martinez – dedicated, but narrow-minded, Roger Pace – nothing more than Bobby Nicotero’s long skinny shadow, Fred Rencher – good guy, but not too sharp. And then Bobby Nicotero – Joe glanced down at the page – and his girlie handwriting.

‘For Christ’s sake, Lucchesi, that’s your freakin’ phone,’ shouted Martinez from across the room.

Joe threw the paper back into the bin and went to his desk.

‘Detective Lucchesi? Preston Blake.’

Joe couldn’t tell whether it was the line that had a hiss in it or Preston Blake’s voice.

‘Oh, hi ‘You fucking asshole.’

‘Mr Blake?’ said Joe, sitting down.

‘You clueless son of a bitch.’ He was sobbing.

Joe looked around the room, but couldn’t find anyone to get eye contact with. His cell phone vibrated on the desk in front of him. It was Danny.

‘Mr Blake, could you hold a moment?’ said Joe, punching the button anyway.

‘Joe? It’s Danny. I’m on my way in. Have you seen the front page of the Post? Do not take a call from Preston Blake until you do.’

‘What the hell is going on? And you’re too late – I’ve got him on hold.’

‘Uh-oh. Go to Martinez’s desk. He’ll have a copy. Blake has been named by the press as “the one who got away”. How the hell did that happen?’

‘How do I know?’ said Joe, walking over to Martinez’s desk and picking up the newspaper. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘We were the only ones who knew. I mean, very few people knew I was there. Rencher, Martinez, me, you, Rufo.’

‘Think you can hang up on him? Think the line might be faulty?’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Or tell him you think you hear someone at his front door.’

Joe laughed. ‘I’ll do the honorable thing…’

‘What? Put him through to Rufo?’

‘Something like that. Gotta go.’

‘Call me after.’

Joe took the handset back up. ‘My apologies, Mr Blake. Could you give me the opportunity to read through the article before we have this conversation?’

‘Let me save you the trouble. “ Preston Blake, seen here in happier times ” – insert smiling photo – “ before he became the alleged victim of The Caller, the only one lucky enough to survive his horrendous attack.” And “ Preston Blake has been living the life of a recluse in his luxury Brooklyn Heights brownstone, rumoured to be the location of his vicious assault six months ago. Mr Blake refused to comment on The Caller’s latest victim, following the discovery of the mutilated body of Ethan Lowry on September 7th.” And let’s skip down here: “ While unclear how prolonged his ordeal was at the hands of The Caller or how extensive his injuries, Mr Blake has been visited by Manhattan North Homicide Detective Joe Lucchesi for assistance in his inquiries. Detective Lucchesi came to prominence -” and then there’s a bit about your tale of suffering and woe. You have my sympathies for that, as do your wife and son, but I am furious here. I am betrayed and exposed.’

‘I feel for you, Mr Blake. I really do. But I can promise you I had nothing to do with this disclosure. I have respected your wishes throughout this whole process. Would you like us to have someone watch the house? Would you feel safer?’

‘No. I invited you into my home, Detective. Do you know how many people have been inside my home since the attack?’ He paused. ‘I don’t have visitors. I spend months, sequestered, happily, if that makes sense, you show up and the game is up. Did you see? I’ve made the news. “How ironic” people will think in the way that stupid people do not understand the meaning of the word ironic-’

‘I don’t know what happened here, but I can assure you this did not come from me or anyone involved in the investigation.’

‘I just don’t buy that. Because it sure as hell did not come from me. This should not have gotten out. Can you imagine how violated I feel? Violation after violation. Is that what I can expect from life now, Detective? Do I sit back and accept that fate?’

‘You don’t. This will pass. The press are more interested in the perp. Because they didn’t have a bright, shiny new victim this week, yours is the story they went for. How they got it, we don’t know, but they’ll move on.’

‘Just like me, Detective. I’ve nothing more to say. What you need to do now is read and re-read every word of what I told you the day I was foolish enough to let you into my home. And here’s hoping you’ll find enlightenment in those pages. Because my cooperation ends there.’

‘It can’t.’

‘Oh yes it can.’

‘But you’re the only one who has seen-’

‘I’ve told you everything. And honestly? I can’t imagine a time where I’m sitting on the stand pointing at The Caller across a courtroom. Because I can’t imagine a time where you will gain the insight to apprehend him. If you ain’t got him now, Detective, you ain’t never will.’

‘I disagree, Mr Blake. My colleagues and I won’t let that happen.’

‘Your colleagues and you are leaking, Detective. And a leaky vessel won’t hold water. And a leaky vessel sinks.’

Joe hung up on the dial tone and went to Rufo’s office.

‘Come in,’ said Rufo. ‘Close the door.’

‘You see the-’

‘ Post? Yeah I did. What’s going on?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Blake is really pissed. He just called saying all kinds of shit, me and Danny ratted him out, left him exposed…’

‘What did you say?’

‘I set him straight, obviously, but he didn’t want to listen.’

‘Do you know the guy who wrote this? Artie Blackwell? Why don’t you make a few calls, see if we can find out who did tip him off.’

‘Artie fucking Blackwell. I didn’t notice.’

Rufo scanned the page again. ‘Whole thing seems kinda weird to me. You think Blake likes the attention?’

‘Not if you heard him on the phone just now. The guy’s like a recluse, far as I can tell.’

‘Was he screaming for the Chief, the mayor, Larry King Live?’

‘Nah.’

‘Was he looking for anything else? Did you tell him we can have a few guys watch the house?’

‘Yeah. He wasn’t interested.’

‘OK,’ said Rufo. ‘Let me put a call in to him, see if I can’t talk him off the ledge.’

‘Danny and me are heading out,’ said Joe. ‘Surveillance on the post office.’

‘Good luck,’ said Rufo, reaching for the phone.

There was never a weekday quiet time on 21st Street. Danny and Joe were parked opposite the post office where the letters were mailed. The air conditioning was on high and the sun was beating down on the shiny black hood. Danny and Joe were quietly focused on everyone entering and leaving the building.

Suddenly, something slammed against the driver’s window. Joe turned to see the white hairy crack of someone’s ass pressed up against the glass. Outside someone else was roaring, ‘You motherfucker! You fucking motherfucker!’

A huge paper cup landed on the car, splashing strawberry milkshake up onto the windshield of Manhattan North’s new Chevy Impala.

‘Son of a bitch,’ said Danny.

Joe hammered his forearm against the glass and shouted. ‘Get away from the car.’

Danny got out the passenger side. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said to the two men.

‘None of your business,’ said the guy forcing the other one against Joe’s window. He was massively overweight and the skinny guy underneath him was feeling the pressure.

‘You’re going to suffocate him if you don’t get up off of him,’ said Danny. ‘And either way, my friend in there is going to climb out the passenger door and kill you both. Now, back away from the car.’