T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Morse acknowledged him with a sigh. “Do you know a five-letter word for a pagan endeavor?”

“No sir.”

“That’s too bad.” Morse pushed the crossword aside. “Me neither. How can I help you?”

“I need to file a missing person report for a resident.”

“That’s too bad,” he said in the same tone he had used for the crossword. Morse pushed his bifocals farther up his nose. He breathed through his mouth, but had a round, friendly face. “A resident, you say?”

“Yes sir,” said Achilles.

“Of what? A resident of what? A hospital? A nursing home?”

“New Orleans, sir.”

“Right, but that’s not necessary to file the report. Neither a New Orleans address nor residency status is necessary to file the report. Technically, aren’t you here because he’s not at home?”

“Right sir.”

Except for the night Troy had been arrested over the goats, Achilles had never spent much time in police stations, but he felt at ease. Under Morse’s supervision, Achilles filled out a form full of checks and boxes, describing Troy: 6′–1″, 185 pounds, light brown skin, brown hair, green eyes. It was an accurate description, but he couldn’t quite see Troy in it. Those stats didn’t catch his devious grin, or his saunter, or how he laughed at any joke, funny or not. Achilles was handed an Identifying Marks sheet with the outlines of a full face as well as right and left profiles, and on the reverse, the outline of a body. He made an X on the chin where Troy had accidentally shot himself by firing a pellet gun at a rock. Of course, Achilles was blamed. He put another X where that bullet had nicked his right shoulder in the Khyber Pass, taking his Airborne patch right off. He drew a line where his palm was cut on his birthday. He sketched hatch marks where Troy had burned himself pulling Jackson out of that fire, and two dots to represent the two moles under Troy’s left eye, but the more he tried to correct the alignment, the larger the moles became until they looked like tears, and Achilles had to ask for a new sheet. He was more careful the second time.

Finished, the two sheets sat before him like an odd blueprint. Achilles had tried to include everything he remembered, even the long scar on his left side that Troy never explained, the one that was stitched up like a ladder to his chest, but it wasn’t enough. Those numbers and dots and dashes weren’t his brother. Were he to show this sheet to someone who knew Troy, they’d have no idea who this was, this vacant-eyed cartoon. Morse, he wanted to say, you don’t need this, you’ll know him if you see him. You’ll feel his intensity, like a dog that fights to the death. You’ll know my brother by his heart, fearless and light, like a rock that floats.

Morse read the completed forms to himself, mumbling as he went, and ending with “ABM.”

Achilles felt a sense of relief — he’d filed the report, even though it probably wouldn’t do any good. As Morse sorted through the paper on his desk, Achilles asked about the miniature clocks on his desk.

“Big Ben,” he said. “You know London, England.”

“Right,” said Achilles.

“Apparently there’s some old British show with a detective named Morse who also likes crosswords.”

“Apparently? Haven’t you seen it?”

“Have you?”

“I never heard of it,” said Achilles.

“So why should I? Do doctors watch General Hospital ? Does the President watch West Wing ?” he snapped. Before Achilles could answer, he asked, “Do you mind if I record this interview?”

“Interview?” asked Achilles. “No sir.”

“Sign here.” He handed Achilles another form, saying, to no one in particular, “Mr. Conroy has given his written and oral permission for the interview to be recorded. Mr. Conroy, is your brother mentally ill?”

“Where’s the camera?” asked Achilles.

“Everywhere.” Morse turned his palms up, exasperated. “Are you ready?”

Achilles nodded, noticing for the first time the smoky glass globes mounted on the ceiling.

“Is he mentally ill?” he repeated.

“No sir.”

“Emotionally unstable?”

“No sir.”

“Given to unpredictable behavior?”

“No sir.”

“In dire need of medication?”

“No sir.”

“Using any mood-altering prescription drugs?”

“No sir.”

“Does he have a history of illegal drug use?”

“No sir.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect he has been a victim of foul play?”

“No sir.”

“Has he ever run away or vanished before?”

“No sir.” Those three times when Troy was a teenager didn’t count.

“Why’d he come to New Orleans?”

“To see friends, sir.”

“Did he see them?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where do they live?”

Exasperated by the unending questions and the fact that the officers who walked by all nodded at Morse as if Achilles didn’t even exist, he shrugged.

“Verbal please.”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Achilles,

Morse leaned back in his chair. “Under what circumstances did you last see him?”

“The night of my father’s funeral, sir.”

“How’d your father die?”

“Car accident.”

“Sudden and unexpected?” asked Morse.

Achilles nodded.

“Verbal please.”

“Yes. It was a sudden and unexpected death,” said Achilles. Most of what he had seen in the last two years had been. “Yes. Very sudden. Completely unexpected.”

Morse leaned forward and scribbled on a notepad. “Did you argue at the funeral?”

“No sir.”

“Was there an argument about the will?”

“No sir. No will was discussed.”

“Was there any discussion of an inheritance?”

“No sir.”

“Is there an inheritance?”

“No sir, not that I know of. My mother still lives in the house.”

Morse wrote something else on the notepad. “Is he a habitual drug user?”

“No sir. We just spent two tours in Afghanistan. We were barely able to drink, sir.”

“Afghanistan. Understood.” He stopped writing and his demeanor shifted. “Anything else you remember?”

“No sir.”

“Any known aliases or nicknames?”

“No sir.” In fifth grade, a lot of people thought Troy was Hispanic. When they found out he was black, a few kids accused him of changing his name from Tyrone. In high school, his girlfriend called him T, and the varsity squad called him TC. When they were little, Achilles called him Tick, in recognition of his tenacious grip and because he followed Achilles everywhere. The squad called Troy “the Duke,” because he was cocky and gun for anything. But Achilles didn’t think any of that information was helpful. And to explain why the platoon called him the Duke would make him sound foolish, when he was only reckless.

“That’s it. Interview number 786X2 with Achilles Conroy completed,” Morse said, and pressed the return key with a dramatic flourish. “Got a photo to go with the file? You can keep the original. We just scan it in.”

After scanning the photo, Morse said, “Sorry about the verbal thing — it’s policy. And those questions. Half the time the person filing the report is the one who did them in. But don’t worry. If anything comes up — hospital, moving violation, anything — you’ll be the third to know. So you were in Afghanistan?”

Achilles nodded, then said, “Yes sir.”

Morse looked sheepish for a moment, then said, “My son is in the 130th.”

“They were right up the road from us, at the ANA,” said Achilles.

Morse fiddled with his pencil. “His letters say everything is okay over there. But that’s what they’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”