Jason Pinter - The Darkness

There’s no way he’d be calling this early in the morning unless something had happened. Something bad.

I answered the phone. “Curt?” I said.

“Henry,” Curt Sheffield said. Curt was an officer with the NYPD. A good buddy and dedicated cop. He’d helped me with numerous cases over the last few years, often giving me scoops ahead of other papers because he knew

I’d do the right thing with them. A lot of other news outlets, not that I’d name names, would takes quotes out of context, make officers who stuck their necks out look bad.

The thing you learned in the news business was that the cops needed you almost as badly as you needed them.

If the cops needed to swing public opinion on a certain topic, or if they needed help from the community in catching a perp, they turned to the papers and television anchors. It wasn’t enough for them to come up with a sketch of an alleged rapist-they needed a medium to get the guy’s face in front of millions of people. Curt understood that. He wasn’t looking for fame, or to see his name in the paper. He didn’t have the sense of rebellious pride most sources had. He was just trying to be a good cop.

“You should come down here right away,” the cop said.

“Where are you?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a murder. Just dredged the body up from the East River this morning,” he said. And something in Curt’s voice told me this wasn’t just any run-ofthe-mill domestic quarrel or guy jumping off the Triboro

Bridge kind of death. “We’ve identified the body. His name was Ken Tsang. We checked his records, and

Henry…the guy was Hector Guardado’s roommate.”

“Jesus,” I said, my heart pounding. Jack’s eyes were wide open, imploring me to tell him what was going on.

Hector Guardado, I believed, worked as a drug courier for 718 Enterprises. He was a colleague of the men who killed Stephen Gaines, one of the anonymous suits who delivered their drugs to buyers in their homes.

Guardado was killed just a few days ago. And now his roommate was dead as well.

“I’ll be right down there,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Eighty-fourth, by the East River, on the promenade,”

Curt said. “You might want to bring some antinausea medication.”

“Why?” I said. “What happened?”

“Whoever killed Ken Tsang,” Curt said, “wanted his corpse to have more in common with a boneless chicken than a human being. Somebody broke every single one of his joints. Turned his toes, fingers, arms, legs and finally neck in all sorts of ways they ain’t supposed to go.”

By the time Jack and I arrived at the East River, the smell of vomit was choking the air. The view from the promenade was breathtaking early in the morning. The sun glistened off the river, as New Yorkers jogged, walked their dogs, sat in silence admiring the beauty. Normally you would see fishing poles out. Today’s catch must have driven them away.

The scene on this day, though, had the promenade at a standstill. There were no bystanders going about their business; they were all being held back by the same yellow police tape that would soon cordon off my colleagues and competition.

I could see three cops who, by the look of them, were a breakfast short and still green around the gills. They’d roped off about fifty feet along the red brick walkway, and from just beyond that I could make out a white sheet covering the outline of a body. An ambulance waited twenty feet away. Its lights weren’t on. They didn’t need to be. There was no rush here.

“You never like to see cops this quiet,” Jack said.

“Most of the guys on the force, they’ve seen everything.

Drive-by victims, people burned to death, children, everything. One thing we have in common with them, you need to learn to desensitize yourself from the horrors you see sometimes. Without that, you won’t last a year on either job. It takes a lot to send a shock wave through those nervous systems.”

I saw Curt Sheffield among the crowd of cops. He saw me and began to walk over. I didn’t see any other reporters just yet. Curt must have given me first shot at this.

“Hey, Henry,” he said, nodding. He didn’t offer his hand, and I didn’t expect it. Even though we were friends, cops were expected to keep their distance from reporters.

They were naturally distrustful of us, and as much as I hated to admit it, sometimes rightfully so. I’d seen what the media could brew without all the facts. News, like a bell, could not be unrung. Once you were accused of something, once information was given to the public, it was nearly gospel. And for cops, once your uniform was stained, fair or unfair, it never washed off.

“Hey, man,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up on this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said. Curt was a good-looking guy, about six-two, and filled out his uniform. As a young black officer, he’d made high marks and was even used in some promotional materials for the department when recruiting was down. The taglines on the poster read:

Good People Make Good Cops. Good Cops Make a Great

City. Curt was a good cop, and, as much as he hated to admit it, a good poster child. Thankfully for him he didn’t get recognized on the street much anymore. “I see a few motherchuckers in the crowd.”

“You see that body,” Curt said, “you’ll lose your last three meals, guaranteed.”

“You look fine to me,” I said.

“That’s ’cause the girl I’m seeing, Denise, can’t cook anything that doesn’t say ‘microwavable’ on the box. And even then I have to remind her to take it out of the box.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Oh yeah? I had chicken casserole a la cardboard two nights in a row. I swear, if the girl didn’t screw like a jackalope…”

“How’s the leg?” I said. Talking about sex in front of

Jack had the same appeal as discussing it with my parents.

Curt had taken a bullet recently, the bullet nicking an artery, necessitating some time off the streets. The man went stir-crazy, but considered his scar a badge.

Not to mention he liked to talk about it more than sex.

“Feels good today. Hurt like hell yesterday. Touch and go. Know the worst thing about being shot in the leg? You can’t really show people the scar without causing a scene.” Curt looked at Jack. I realized they’d never met.

“Sorry. Jack, this is Officer Curtis Sheffield. Curt, Jack

O’Donnell.”

They both nodded, familiar with the drill.

“Henry’s talked a lot about you,” Curt said. “I figure he must go through your garbage the way he knows you front to back. Take care of our boy, he’s one of the few journos we can trust in this burg.”

“I’ll teach him everything I know,” Jack said with a smile.

“Hey,” I said, “how’s Detective Makhoulian? I didn’t really get to thank him for his help.”

Detective Sevag Makhoulian was the officer assigned to investigating my brother’s death. He’d been an invaluable asset to the investigation. Plus he had impeccable timing. Makhoulian was Armenian. Quiet and intense, as no-nonsense as they came, but he’d proved his reliability and dedication. I owed him, big-time.

“He’s doing well. Mandatory leave for an officer involved in a shooting, but it’s a clean-cut case and he’ll be back on the street any day now.”

“Good. City needs more cops like you guys.”

“Not going to argue with you there. I keep telling my captain that they need to clone my ass. Sure as hell save the city some money, and they need to save every penny they can these days.”

Jack decided to chime in. “So according to Henry,” he said, “Ken Tsang’s body was beaten pretty bad?”