Michael Cunningham - Specimen Days

“What did he say?

“Just sit tight a minute, okay?”

Her cell went off, as she’d known it would. It was Pete.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.

“Where was he?”

“Pay phone in Bed-Stuy.”

“They’re doing another one today.”

“So he says. What do you think?”

“Off the top of my head, I’d say I’m not sure.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“I’d say he’s serious.”

“I’d say so, too. What was all that shit about Walt?”

“Frankly, you’ve got me there. The little fucker seems to have memorized the whole book.”

“He says the words are from home. What’s that about?”

“They’re loose, Pete. As you know.”

“How soon can you be in the office?”

“Twenty minutes. Give or take.”

“See you there.”

She clicked off. Simon stared at her, all executive readiness.

“Got to get to work,” she said. “Right,” he said.

He was so fucking gorgeous like this, he who was a potent figure in his own circles but a spectator in this one, a wife if you will, lying here looking at her with those impossible agate eyes of his, hair electrically disordered, face bristling with stubble. It seemed for a moment that she could stop, she could just stop; she could blow off her job and move with Simon into his realm, his high-octane but undangerous life, the hush and sureness of him, buying and selling the future, seeking out maps and jars and bringing them home. She was on her way to a grim office where the equipment was outdated and the air-conditioning prone to failure, where most of her coworkers were right-wing zealots or B students or just too peculiar for the corporate jobs that claimed the best and the brightest; where the villains were as pathetic and off-kilter as the heroes; where the whole struggle between order and chaos had no beauty in it, no philosophy or poetry; where death itself felt cheap and cheesy. She wanted how could she possibly tell him? to take shelter in Simon, to live peacefully alongside him in his spiky and careless beauty, his electrified contentment. She wanted to abandon herself, to abide. But of course he wouldn’t want her that way.

She got out of bed. “Call you later,” she said.

“Right,” he answered.

They both paused. Now would be the time for one of them to say “I love you.” If they were at that point.

“Bye,” she said. “Bye,” he answered.

It was Halloween at the office. She’d never felt the air so agitated. This was what never actually happened: a psychopath announcing his intentions, with every indication of follow-through. This was movie stuff.

Ed was just shy of coming in his pants. His hair, what was left of it, seemed to be standing on end. “Hot damn,” he said.

“They find anything in Bed-Stuy?” she asked. “Nope. I wish I could talk to him.”

“And what would you say?”

“I think he needs a father figure.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t be offended. You’re doing a fine job with him.”

“In my way.”

“No offense. I just think maybe a guy could get more out of him. It’s the luck of the draw, him calling here and attaching to you.”

“You don’t think a woman is as effective with him?”

“Hey. Don’t get all Angela Davis on me.”

Ed was one of the new breed, the guys who seemed to think that if they were right up front about their sexism and racism, if they walked in and sat down and just said it, they were at least semi-absolved. That if racism was inevitable, it was better, it was more manly and honorable, to be candid. She, frankly, preferred secrecy.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said.

“A bad dad is telling him to do bad things. A good dad might have a better chance of telling him to do good things. A mother figure doesn’t have the same authority. She’s a refuge. She can’t contradict the bad dad. She can only console.”

“I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re wrong about that.”

“I hope so, too. We’re going to get this little fucker.”

Ed had the killer buzz in his voice. He had the pure, shining conviction of the almost smart. When Ed went on like this, Cat heard the ping inside her head. Here was a true murderer.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re going to get him.”

Pete came into the cubicle, with black coffee for her.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

“We’re nowhere,” he told her.

“We’re never no where.”

“They’ve run dental records on more than two thousand missing kids. They got no matches to the teeth we found.”

“Disappointing.”

“It’s like that first kid appeared out of thin air.”

“Or nobody knows or cares that the first kid is missing.”

“I know, I know. It’s funny, though.”

“I agree. It’s funny.”

Ed broke in. “Or somebody never cared enough to send their kid to a dentist.”

“Always a possibility,” Cat said. “Have you noticed how he starts to disintegrate as he gets agitated?”

“Go on,” Pete said.

“His coherence fades. He starts throwing out lines from Whitman. Or, as he would say, from home.”

“He gets more and more random,” Ed offered.

“Maybe,” Cat said. “Or maybe, in his mind, he gets less and less random. I have a feeling that the poem is his language. It’s what’s in his head. Maybe it’s more of a stretch for him to say something like ‘I’m afraid to die’ than it is to say ‘Do you think a great city endures?’”

"That sounds like a bit of a stretch, to me,” Ed said.

Cat wanted to say, I have a feeling, but she couldn’t say that kind of thing in front of Ed. He’d use it against her. She was the girl with the degree from Columbia, who’d read more books than all of the men put together, who’d gone into forensics because she hadn’t managed to establish a private practice. She was overaggressive and under-qualified. She was someone who relied on feelings.

She said, “It’s just an idea, Ed. This seems like an excellent time for us to give free rein to our ideas, wouldn’t you say?”

Queenly bearing, schoolmarm diction. She really had to quit that. Problem was, it worked. Most of the time.

“Sure, sure,” Ed said. “Absolutely.”

“There’s something strange about the kid’s associations,” she said. Back to regular voice. “It’s like he’s programmed. A concept trips a wire, and he’s got the line, but he hasn’t got the circuitry to make sense of it. He’s like a vessel for someone else’s wishes. The poetry signifies something for him, but he’s not able to say what it is.”

“I thought we’d have a trace by now,” Pete said. “These are kids."

“Someone is putting them up to it,” Cat said.

“I don’t know,” Ed said. “No one’s taken any credit yet.”

Cat said, “Unless whoever it is wants these kids to call in. Unless that’s his way of taking credit.”

Pete said, “I started that Whitman book last night. Can’t make head or tails of it, frankly.”

“I’m seeing a woman at NYU later today.”

“Good.”

“What more do we know about Dick Harte?” Cat asked.

“A lot,” Pete answered. “But nothing’s jumping out. No history with boys. Or girls, even. Nothing we can find. It’s all pretty standard. Went to law school”

“Where?”

“Cardozo. Not Harvard. Practiced for a few years, then went into real estate. Married a decent girl, got rich, dumped the decent girl and married a new decent girl but prettier. Had two pretty children with wife number two. Big house in Great Neck, country place in Westhampton. All in all, a very regular guy.”