Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick turned the paperback upside down and shook it. A small photograph fell to the floor. He picked it up and stared into his past. Squad 3, Echo Company at Jungle Warfare school in Florida. He was standing on the far left, twenty pounds lighter, face greased with jungle cammie. Next to him, a head shorter, stood Gunny Ortiga, skin painted so dark you could only see his pearly whites. And next to him Sims, Medjuck, Illsey, Leonard, Edwards, and Yerkovic. They’d all been with him in the P.I. He wondered what sea they were floating on tonight.

Nick replaced the paperback and drew a volume from the shelf above it. It was a leather-bound book, taller and slimmer than the rest. His father’s agenda for 1978. Nick placed it gently on the desk, then went into the bathroom and found an unused double-edged razor blade. He returned to the desk, sat down, and opened the front cover of the agenda. He slid the razor under the upper left-hand corner of the yellow paper lining the inside cover and sawed it slowly back and forth. After three or four passes, the razor cut through the epoxy bond, and the yellow page came free. He folded it back and extracted a wrinkled piece of paper lying under it.

Nick held the police report concerning his father’s murder in one hand, the razor blade in the other, and sighed gratefully. His secret admirer hadn’t found the report. Thank God for that. He threw the razor blade in the wastebasket and laid the report down so he could take a good look at it. One ear was ripped and there was a perfect brown halo staining the lower half of the paper where a detective had rested his coffee mug. Still, all the facts were there, and Nick was reading them for the thousand and first time before he could even think of stopping himself.

Administrative facts were typed in a series of rectangular boxes across the top of the sheet. Date: January 31, 1980. Detective in charge: W. J. Lee, Lieutenant. Criminal Violation: Code 187—Homicide. Time of death: approx. 9:00 P.M. Cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds. The box marked “Suspects” held the initials N.S.A.—no suspect apprehended. Below these facts was a large blank area, about a quarter of a page in size, where Detective Lee provided a description of the events. At 9:05 P.M., Sergeants M. Holloway and B. Schiff responded to a call of shots fired at 10602 Stone Canyon Drive. Sergeants Holloway and Schiff found the victim, Alexander Neumann, age 40, lying prone in the entryway to the home. The victim had been shot three times in the upper abdomen by a high-caliber weapon at close range (powder marks visible). Victim was deceased at time of officers’ arrival. The front door to the residence was open. The lock was intact. No other individuals were present. No sign of struggle. No determination yet made as to the state of articles in the home. Call requesting immediate dispatch of homicide detectives was made to West Los Angeles police headquarters at 9:15 P.M. Case forwarded to above filing detective.

A red stamp bearing the letters N.F.A.—No further action—and the date July 31, 1980, was emblazoned across the report. Nick had found it among his mother’s possessions in Hannibal. He’d called the L.A.P.D. to request a copy of the investigating detective’s final report and the coroner’s inquest but learned that both had been destroyed in a fire at Parker Center ten years earlier. He even tried calling Detective Lee but found he’d retired and left no forwarding address, at least none for disgruntled relatives of unsolved murder victims.

Nick examined the page for a while longer, reading his father’s name over again and again, and the word that followed it: homicide. He recalled the picture of him at his going-away party in 1967, twenty-seven years old, happy as hell to be going to America. His first big step up. He could practically hear the laughter and the revelry. He could feel his father’s joy in his own heart. He thought back to those nightly homework reviews, his father cradling his hands. He saw himself hugging his father on that mountaintop in Arosa. He had never felt closer to him than at that moment.

A flashbulb burst and he was standing in the rain looking down at his father’s dead body, staring into the pool of blood.

Suddenly, Nick sobbed. A great choking explosion from deep in his gut. He slammed his hand on the desk and held his breath, hoping to rob himself of the very air he needed to give vent to his emotions. But after a moment, he relented, sucking in a deep breath and expelling it just as quickly. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he managed to whisper in a voice as wounded as his soul.

Tears fell from his eyes, and for the first time since his father died seventeen years ago, he cried.

The time was eleven P.M. and for the second time that day, Nick stood in front of an unfamiliar apartment, waiting for the buzzer to sound that would grant him admittance. He had called ahead and was expected—if that’s how you could term a halfhearted response to a plea for company late on a Friday night. He pulled his overcoat close around his neck, fending off the insistent cold. Open the door, Sylvia. You know it’s me. The poor slob who called an hour ago saying that if he didn’t get out of his grim apartment and see a friendly face he’d go crazy.

The buzzer rang and he was inside, tripping over himself to get down the stairs leading to her doorway. The door was ajar. He could see the outline of her face checking if he was shit-face drunk or hopped up on drugs. But it was only him. Nicholas Neumann, eager bank trainee, feeling more tired, more uncertain, and more alone than he could remember.

The light went on inside the hallway, and the door swung open. Sylvia Schon stood back and with a wag of her head motioned for him to enter. She was wearing a red flannel bathrobe and heavy woolen socks that drooped low around her ankles, as if ashamed to cover up such gorgeous territory. Her hair was loose around her face, and she had on the heavy eyeglasses that he hadn’t seen since his first day at work. The look on her face said she was not amused.

“Mr. Neumann, I am hoping you have something very important to discuss. When I said I’d be happy to do anything for you, it was in reference to…”

“Nick,” he said softly. “My name is Nick. And you said that if I ever needed anything, to give you a call. I realize this is an odd time to visit and right now I’m standing here asking myself why exactly I’m here, but if we go inside and have a cup of coffee or something, I’m sure we can get this straightened out.”

Nick stopped speaking. He had stunned himself. He’d never strung together so many words in a single sentence and not had the slightest idea what he’d said. He stammered, wanting to explain, but a firm hand on his jacket stopped him dead.

“All right, Nick, come in. And since it is eleven-oh-five and I am wearing my most flattering pajamas, I imagine you’d better call me Sylvia.”

She turned and walked down a short corridor that gave onto a cozy living room. A brown sofa ran the length of one wall and half of another. A glass coffee table sat in front of it. Bookshelves adorned the other walls, the spaces between hardcover titles filled by framed photographs. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

She returned with two mugs of coffee and handed him one. Nick took a sip and relaxed. A fire burned in the grate. Soft music played from the stereo. He inclined his head toward the speakers. “Who is that?”

“Tchaikovsky. Violin Concerto in D minor. Are you familiar with it?”

He listened for a moment longer. “No, but I like it. It has passion.”

Sylvia sat away from him on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her. She stared at him for a minute, giving him some time to loosen up, letting him know that she was interested in him but that the clock was ticking. Finally, she said, “You seem upset. What’s going on?”