Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

It was the perfect trap, except for one thing-it’s not a trap when you know what’s coming.

“Brunch it is,” I said. “Can I bring anything?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“For brunch,” I reminded him. “Can I make something? Bring some juice? Just trying to be a good guest.”

How about that: I was keeping up his pretense better than he was.

“Oh, right,” he said. “No, just a pen and a notepad. I’ll take care of everything else.”

The shopping. The cooking. The killing.

He gave me his address and directions, not that I needed either. He was so easy about the whole thing, almost charming. But isn’t that what people always said about Ted Bundy?

“We go to the early church service, so we’ll be home by ten-thirty,” Wallace said. “Why don’t you plan on being there around eleven?”

“Sounds fine. See you then,” I said, hanging up.

The clock on my computer read 2:14. I had less than twenty-one hours to go.

Ilooked around the newsroom with eyes that could barely focus. There were a dozen emotions and a hundred thoughts bouncing around inside me, each clamoring for my attention. There was rage and relief and nervousness. There were schemes and gambits and ploys. I couldn’t untangle one thing from the other.

It was time to compartmentalize. If I didn’t start dealing with things one at a time, I wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything. First order of business: I had a story to write. Irving Wallace had to wake up and find something in his Sunday paper, or he’d get suspicious. Plus, I’d promised the Sunday editor.

A story. No problem. I had written thousands of stories, I told myself. Just treat this one like all the rest. Quotes. I needed quotes. I started with the Newark police, calling their Public Noninformation Officer, Hakeem Rogers.

“What the hell do you want?” Rogers answered.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Rogers,” I said, trying to ooze as much falseness as my voice could muster. “Carter Ross from the Eagle-Examiner here.”

“Why are you calling me? You seem to know everything already.”

“Why, whatever are you talking about, Officer?” I asked sweetly.

“Stop being a dick. You printed a victim ID before we located the family.”

I dropped the courteous act: “Hey, it’s not our fault you guys suck at finding next of kin.”

I heard Rogers huffing through the phone. “Is there any reason you’re calling or can I hang up on you?” he asked.

“Anything new on the Rashan Reeves investigation?”

“That investigation has been turned over to the National Drug Bureau. Since it’s no longer our investigation, I have no comment.”

“Okay. Anything new on the explosions or fires?”

“National Drug Bureau. No comment,” he said again.

“Fair enough. You ever give them that sketch my friend was nice enough to provide you last night?”

“Yeah, we gave it to them,” Rogers said. “I think they’re lining their trash cans with it as we speak.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when we told them the ID was offered by a drunk, homeless guy, they said it was useless.”

“It’s got to be worth something, ” I said.

“Yeah, well, that’s their business now. Anyway, since we no longer have any investigations that are of interest to you, can I get on with enjoying a Saturday afternoon surrounded by people who love me?”

“Assuming you can find any? Sure,” I said, happy to get one final shot in.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a twinge of desperation. Sure, I could give the Sunday editor a nicely written rehash of what we had already reported-we had tossed enough out there that needed tying together. But journalistically, that was unsatisfying. Unless you had at least some new information to offer readers, you may as well have been a third-grader writing a book report.

It was just frustrating: the National Drug Bureau seemed to have been given jurisdiction over everything that mattered in Newark, and the NDB had been little more than a big stone wall of disinformation and nonanswers from the start. I was beginning to hope the toe fungus I had wished on L. Pete earlier was now spreading to his jock.

Just then, I got a call on my cell phone from a blocked number.

“Carter Ross.”

“Carter, Pete Sampson from the National Drug Bureau.”

“Hey, Pete. I was just thinking about you.”

“That’s great, just great,” he said. “Your story today was really well done.”

“Thanks. I understand you guys have taken over that investigation.”

“Yes. Yes, we have,” L. Pete said cautiously, then paused like he didn’t dare to say anything else, lest it get him fired.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I prompted.

“Remember that exclusive interview I promised you?”

“Of course.”

“Could you be at our offices in ten minutes? My boss wants to do it right now. With everything happening, he says time is of the essence.”

An interview with L. Pete’s boss. Maybe the big stone wall was about to come tumbling down.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you in ten.”

Before we hung up, L. Pete gave me instructions to park in a secure lot under the building-there would be plenty of room on a Saturday, and it would save me having to find a spot on the street.

“Thanks for agreeing to come so quickly,” L. Pete said. “When this is all over, we’ll have to go to a Jets game. I’ve got season tickets. We’ll have a few beers, swap war stories.”

“Sure,” I said. “See you in a bit.”

I hastily collected my notepad and threw on my jacket. Then, as an afterthought, I stuffed my digital recorder in my pocket, just in case L. Pete had a boss whose mouth moved faster than my pen.

As I drove toward the NDB’s Newark Field Office, I was actually feeling optimistic for the first time since my house blew up. Maybe it was how L. Pete prefaced that one sentence- when this is all over. . -but I was allowing myself to daydream about getting Irving Wallace locked up then putting my life back in order. I would use the insurance money to build a new bungalow-a better bungalow, one with a home theater instead of a living room. I would buy new electronics equipment, new clothes, new kitchen appliances. I would buy furniture with salsa-resistant fabric.

I was somewhere in the midst of thinking about the golf clubs I would buy-Callaway irons and TaylorMade woods? Or just go all Titleist? — when Tommy called me.

“Hey,” he said in a hushed voice. “The guy finally came home. . in a van. ”

“What kind of van?” I asked in a whisper, even though I suppose I could have talked at normal volume.

“I don’t know. I guess you would call it a minivan,” Tommy said. “I couldn’t give you make and model. But it’s one of the big, boxy ones.”

I realized I never got much description from Mrs. Scalabrine about exactly what kind of van Irving Wallace had been driving. That was a detail I’d have to sort out later.

“What color is it? White?”

“More of a tan, actually,” Tommy said.

Which was close enough to white. Mrs. Scalabrine saw the van in the early morning. The rising sun can play tricks with colors, what with all that refracted light.

“What’s he doing?” I asked.

“Well, he parked,” Tommy narrated. “A blond woman-looks like bottle blond-popped out of the passenger side. Then three kids got out of the back. They’re unloading groceries.”

Well, at least Irving Wallace hadn’t lied about one thing: he really was shopping with the family. I wondered if his wife knew she slept next to a murderer every night.

“How tall is he?” I asked.