P. Parrish - Paint It Black

“It’s already on,” Horton said.

She nodded woodenly and looked back at Louis. “He threw something over my head and coldcocked me,” she said. “I woke up, tied to a chair, with the cloth still over my head.” She looked at Horton again. “Forensics has it, right?”

Horton nodded.

“Go slow,” Louis said. “Tell us what happened, whatever you can remember.”

She took a deep breath. “I heard him pacing and swearing, like he was talking to himself. Then a dragging sound.” She paused. “I didn’t know what it was. It was probably Heller.”

“Did he talk to you?” Louis asked.

She nodded. “He told me to listen, that he wanted to say something. Then he said that he had to change his plan, something like, ‘It’s all ruined.’ ”

“Then what?”

Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them roughly away. “I heard him stabbing Heller. It went on for a long time. I started to get sick.”

Emily drew in several slow breaths. Her hand, resting on the arm of the chair, was trembling. “He started beating him after that,” she said, the words pouring out. “I could hear that, too.”

She ran a shaky hand over her brow. “Then it stopped and it was quiet. There was a sound, like a hiss. He was painting him. I could smell it.”

“Did you hear him say anything while he was doing it?”

She nodded. “He said, ‘Motherfucking piece of shit.’ ” She hesitated. “And something else. . ‘Get it right this time, you fucking idiot.’ ”

Louis laid his hand over hers. “Then what?”

“He said, ‘No, no,’ like he was sorry about something. But then he started yelling, ‘He made me do it.”’

“He said this to you?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or me.” She drew in another shaky breath. “Then I heard a door open and I think he dragged Heller out. Then he was back.”

“Then what?”

“He asked me who I was and what I was doing there.”

“At the Dockside?”

She nodded. “I told him I was an FBI agent and went there to take a missing person’s report.”

She paused. “Wait. . wait. He said something strange then. He asked me who was missing.”

“Who?”

“Yes. I told him Tyrone Heller and he asked if Captain Lynch had been the one reporting him missing.” She ran a shaking hand across her forehead. “He sounded angry, not making any sense, and he asked me what Lynch said about Heller.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he wanted to know what Lynch thought of Heller. So I told him Lynch described him as a fine young man.” She paused. “It almost sounded like jealousy.”

Louis glanced up at Wainwright and Horton. Neither man had moved a muscle.

Emily drew in another deep breath. “He started pacing again, saying things like, ‘I didn’t want to do this.’ And then-”

She closed her eyes. The room was quiet.

“Then he said, ‘I have to finish it.”’

Her fingers wove through Louis’s and she squeezed tight. “I. . I thought he was going to kill me and I lost it.” A tear made its way down her cheek. She withdrew her hand from Louis’s and wiped it quickly away.

“I was pleading with him, telling him I wasn’t black. Oh, God. .” She covered her face.

“It’s okay, Emily,” Louis said quietly.

She shook her head rapidly, looking at him. “He wanted to know if I had ever slept with a black man.”

Her voice grew tight. “No, no. . he said, exactly, ‘Have you ever fucked a black man?’ And when I said no, he said, ‘Good, all you get from that are monkeys who should’ve been scraped from their mothers’ wombs with a spoon.’ ”

Louis glanced back at Wainwright. He was shaking his head.

“That was all,” Emily said softly. She was staring at the floor. “Until he cut me.”

Louis took a deep breath. “Why do you think he cut you?”

She closed her eyes.

“Farentino?” He touched her arm. “Emily. .”

She looked up at him, tears welling again. “I don’t know, Louis. He cut me and then I felt him put his hand over it to stop the bleeding. Then he was gone.”

The room was quiet. Emily was slumped in the chair, her face like chalk. She brought up a hand to shield her eyes and sat motionless for a long time. Horton turned off the tape.

“I think-” Horton began.

“I was so stupid,” Emily whispered.

“What?” Louis said.

She removed her hand, looking at him. “I blew it, Louis. I blew everything.”

“Emily-”

“I was in the same room with him,” she said. “I should’ve been able to talk to him. I should’ve been able to get more out of him.”

“Emily, stop.”

She curled her hands into fists and leaned on her knees. “That is what I do! It’s what I was trained to do and I couldn’t get past my fear. I just sat there paralyzed!”

Blood oozed from under the bandage.

Louis leaned forward, hands on her shoulders. “Emily, listen to me. It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve been smarter,” she said.

“Stop this.”

“I am so sorry. . so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

Her eyes bore into his. “No!” she said. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

“Listen to me. It doesn’t work that way. I know.”

She was shaking her head.

“Something happened to me,” Louis said. “Up in Michigan. Men are dead because of something I missed.”

She was quiet now, looking at the floor.

“We all miss things,” he said. “But you can’t keep beating yourself up over it. You go on with your life. You do better next time. You deal with it.”

She looked up at him. He couldn’t tell if she was hearing him or not. He glanced at her arm. The gauze was soaked through.

“Emily,” he said, “go get yourself stitched up.”

She looked down at her arm and nodded slightly.

Louis heard the door open and looked back to see the paramedic standing there. Louis eased Farentino up from the chair. The paramedic came forward, took her arm, and led her out.

“When you’re ready, why don’t you guys leave by the back,” Horton said.

Wainwright nodded. A young woman poked her head in the door. It was Karen, the public information officer.

“Chief, it’s getting ugly out there,” she said.

Horton glanced at his watch. “I’m not waiting for Mobley,” he said. “Come on, Karen. Let’s go throw ’em some meat.”

Louis and Wainwright left Horton’s office and went out the back entrance. The morning sun was still low in the sky but the day was already warm. Louis and Wainwright stood just outside the door for a moment, neither saying a word.

Wainwright moved away, going to a nearby bench and sinking down onto it. Louis joined him. Two uniformed patrolmen came up the walk, stared at Wainwright’s wrinkled uniform, and went in.

“Think she’ll be all right?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes,” Louis said. He leaned his head back against the brick building, closing his eyes.

For several minutes, neither man moved or said a word. Louis knew they were both long past exhaustion.

“Louis,” Wainwright said finally, “what were you talking about back there?”

“When?”

“When you were telling her what happened in Michigan,” Wainwright said. “When you said you should have seen it coming.”

Louis opened his eyes. Wainwright wasn’t looking at him. He was staring straight ahead.

“I made a lot of mistakes,” Louis said.

He could feel Wainwright’s eyes on him now. He drew in a long breath. “Mistakes I could have prevented if I had seen it coming.”

Wainwright said nothing. Finally, Louis looked at him. Wainwright was staring straight ahead again, but his eyes were unfocused, distant.