Authors: David Jackson
‘You haven’t heard what it is yet.’
‘Then tell me. I’ll do whatever you want. Tell me what it is you’d like me to do.’
There’s a pause. It’s probably only a couple of seconds, but it presages what is to come with ominous force.
‘I want you to kill someone.’
10.23 PM
Lord and master of all he surveys. That’s how Marcus Wilson sees it. Small though it is, this is his dominion. He is in charge.
His solid wooden desk is expansive and elevated above the rest of this room. The sides of the desk are completely enclosed in wood paneling. He could easily imagine that he is the captain on the bridge of an old sailing ship, scanning the horizon as his men toil to push this vessel through the choppy waters.
And those seas can get real rough, all right. They can seethe and foam and rage. But
Wilson isn’t fazed. He’s in control. He knows exactly how to see this ship through any storm. He is its captain.
Well, actually he’s a sergeant. But that’s enough. These stripes on his arm and this position behind the huge desk mean that he is in charge of this part of the Eighth Precinct station house, yes sir. And it’s an important job, too. A vital job. He acts as the first point of contact with people who come in off the street, and so the way he handles those people can affect their dealings with the police for good or for bad. Sometimes that means being compassionate. Sometimes it means being unyielding. Sometimes it means kicking ass. Every situation is different, and in a city like this you never know what’s going to come through those doors next. Each time he says to himself that he’s seen it all, a new and surprising scenario develops right in front of his desk. It’s one of the things Marcus Wilson loves about this job.
Take tonight, for example. Just an hour ago, a homeless guy came in to ask if he could curl up and sleep right next to the desk, because it was the only place he felt safe. After that, in came a woman who asked for a permanent police patrol of her building because every night someone would attach some kind of vacuum device to the wall of her apartment and start sucking all the air out of it. And then, only five minutes ago, there was the woman who wanted to know if the cops could arrest her cat for breaking the curfew she had imposed on it.
Wilson
dealt with them all. Calmly, professionally, he responded to their requests in ways that left them with the lasting impression that yes, the boys and girls in blue really do care. We don’t all adhere to stereotype, thinks Wilson. We don’t all eat donuts and drink coffee and hit people with sticks and shoot unarmed civilians and take bribes and chew gum. Some of us believe in those three words written on the sides of the patrol cars. Courtesy, professionalism, respect. That’s what it’s all about.
And that’s precisely what he’ll apply when dealing with this latest arrival at the station house.
The man is short. From Wilson’s lofty vantage point, everyone else in this room looks small, but this guy looks to be on the more unfortunate side of the five foot six mark. Wilson would put the man’s age at about thirty-five, give or take. He’s pale and blinks a lot – as though he’s averse to bright light. He wears a gray hooded sweatshirt, zipped right up to the neck, and unbleached denim jeans. Curiously, the laces on his green sneakers don’t go through the holes; instead, they have been wrapped around the shoes, passing under the soles several times before being knotted tightly on top. As he approaches the desk, his hand keeps shooting up and scratching behind his ear in an exaggerated manner, the way a rabbit or a cat might scratch with its back foot.
Here we go, thinks
Wilson. Another strange one. The characters I get through here, I could write a book.
The man comes right up to the desk, but he keeps his gaze low. Only once or twice does he allow it to flicker upward to take in the view of
Wilson.
‘Aw, Jeez,’ says the man, and then he veers away again. Keeps walking right over to the other side of the room, then down the length of the far wall, muttering to himself and scratching behind his ear.
That’s okay, thinks Wilson. I’m an imposing sight. I can be frightening to some people.
Wilson
is a big man, with a wide head. He thinks he looks like an oversized Yaphet Kotto. When his face is set, he can look pretty mean. But he also knows that when he affixes the right smile, he can look like a big soft teddy-bear. Kids love him when he does that smile. Maybe it’s time to do one now.
The man comes back again, still muttering. Eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Aw, Jeez. Jesus-Cheeses. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. I can’t do this.’
The man turns away again. Starts to shuffle off.
Wilson sighs. ‘Sir? Excuse me. SIR!’
The man stops in his tracks, his back still to
Wilson.
‘I’m in trouble now. Big trouble. Yessiree. Big, big trouble with the big, big sergeant. Oh my.’
Wilson notices that a couple of uniforms have appeared, and are now leaning back against a noticeboard, watching the fun.
Okay, he thinks. Stay calm. Show them how this is done.
‘Sir,’ says Wilson in his most appeasing tone. ‘Could you turn around, please?’
The man does nothing for several seconds.
Wilson opens his mouth to repeat his request, but then he notices a subtle movement: the man turning one of his feet slightly to his right. Then the man follows it with the other foot. Then the first foot again. Gradually and painstakingly, the man continues to move in this way until he has turned all the way around.
This could take some time, thinks
Wilson. Be nice to the guy. Show him how friendly we all are here. Just one big happy family. Welcome, brother, to our happy station house. The cherry pie is almost done, and in the meantime we can offer you a choice of delicious beverages. Now sit yourself down, brother, and tell us of your troubles.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to worry, okay? Sir? Could you look at me, please?’
The man lifts his head a fraction of an inch, but his eyes stay locked on the floor.
‘That’s it,’ says
Wilson. ‘Bring your head up… A little more… Good. Now look up at me.’
The man’s eyelids blink furiously, as though he is having to make a supreme effort. After much apparent turmoil, he eventually manages to align his gaze with
Wilson’s face.
Now, thinks
Wilson. Do it. Do the smile.
He does it. The biggest, daftest grin imaginable. The one that would cause his kids to break out into fits of helpless laughter.
‘Waaah!’ the man yells, his face registering extreme terror. He turns and scurries away, back to the security of the wall.
Wilson
drops his smile. Darn it. This is getting ridiculous. Hearing snorts of laughter, he turns to his right, where the two uniforms are having a whale of a time. He turns his mean face on them, and instantly they become paragons of sobriety. One of them takes it as his cue to make himself useful, and starts to saunter over to the man.
‘Hey, buddy. You okay there? Come on, let’s get over here and sort this out.’
The man’s response is to shuffle closer to the wall and press his forehead against it. He continues to mutter.
‘Hey,’ says the uni, more aggressively now. ‘You hear what I’m saying to you?’ He reaches out a hand and places it on the man’s shoulder.
Big mistake.
The man screams and then whirls away from the wall. He clutches his shoulder where the cop just touched it. Acts as though he’s just been shot there.
Startled, the cop jumps backward and reaches for his sidearm. His partner starts to race over, his hand also on the butt of his gun.
‘He hit me,’ yells the man. ‘He hit me. 10-34. Assault in progress. 10-34.’
He continues yelling and screaming while the two officers circle him warily. Wilson shows the palm of his hand to the patrolmen, warning them to stay calm. Then he makes a pushing motion, telling them to back off. Slowly, the cops retreat.
‘Hey,’ says
Wilson. ‘Hey, mister. Come over here. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Do you want me to send those two cops away?’
The man glances at
Wilson, then back at the unis. ‘Yeah,’ he says, his hand still pressed to his imagined wound. ‘Away. In the slammer. Put ’em in the slammer. 10-34.’
Wilson
jerks his head, telling the cops to disappear. They look at him questioningly, but Wilson maintains his glare until they obey his command and move into the records office.
‘There,’ says
Wilson. ‘See what I did for you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I got rid of them, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just you and me now, all right?’
‘Yeah. You and me. Me and you. Me and the big sergeant.’
Wilson can see that the man is growing calmer by the second, and he beckons him over.
‘Come a little closer, man. Come talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.’
The man sidles gradually toward the desk, allowing his eyes to jump up much more frequently than before. Wilson decides not to attempt the smile again, but he’s got another trick up his sleeve.
‘You want some candy? I got candy here.’
He picks up a plastic bowl that he keeps on his desk for whenever there are young children in the station house, although its contents are constantly being depleted by passing officers when he’s not looking. He tips it to show the man what it holds.
‘Go ahead. Take some.’
The man cranes his neck and peers into the bowl. He seems mildly interested, but then he pulls his head back in and shakes it.
‘Five blues, seven reds, thirteen yellows. All prime. Primes are good, but you’re a stranger. Don’t take candy from strangers. Look before you leap. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. All that glitters is not gold.’
Wilson looks with puzzlement into his bowl, then replaces it on his desk. Never had a reaction like that before.
‘So it’s because I’m a stranger? Okay, then, let’s fix that. My name is Sergeant Marcus Wilson. How’s that? We friends now?’
The man scratches again. Then he brings a hand up and starts touching the thumb to each finger in turn, over and over.
‘One-three-seven-one,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘One-three-seven-one.’
Wilson nods. ‘Yeah. That’s my shield number. What about it?’
‘Thirteen-seven-one. Thirteen is prime. Seventy-one is prime. Seven is also prime. Thirteen times seven is ninety-one. Put the one on the end gives nine-one-one. The emergency number is nine-one-one. The
World Trade Center disaster was on nine-eleven. Nine hundred and eleven is also prime.’
Wilson
can’t remember what a prime number is, but he bobs his head more appreciatively now. ‘That’s pretty good. You like numbers, huh?’
‘I like numbers.’
‘Is that why you came here? Something to do with numbers?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
He’s rocking now. Still touching his thumb to his fingers, but rocking back and forth on his heels.
‘Okay, so not numbers. You know what this place is, don’t you? You know where you’re at?’
‘Yeah. Police station. Nine-one-one. Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘That’s right. This is a police station. Do you have an emergency? Some kind of crime you need to report?’
The rocking increases in tempo. Wilson believes the guy is getting more agitated. On the verge of losing it again.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. We’re here to help you. Tell me what the problem is, and we’ll see if we can fix it for you, all right?’
‘Yeah. Aw, Jeez. Aw Jeez. It’s bad, it’s bad.’
He’s getting more anxious. Another few seconds and he’ll be tearing off toward his wall again.
‘Did somebody hurt you? Is that it? Or maybe you saw something? Somebody do a bad thing, and you saw it happen?’
The man starts scratching again. Both hands this time, flapping frantically behind his ears.
Wilson isn’t sure what to do now. Say something or keep quiet? Which is the least likely to detonate this guy?
But then the man stops beating his ears. Panting heavily, he brings a hand to the zipper of his hooded sweatshirt. Takes it away again, brings it back again.
Wilson watches, a little concerned now. Years of training and experience have taught him to be wary of people who suddenly decide to reach under their clothing. Especially those who appear to be in a disturbed state of mind.
‘Aw Jeez,’ the man says again. He takes a deep breath, as if he has just made a momentous decision. Then he grabs the zipper, pulls it all the way down, and opens up his sweatshirt.
Wilson’s eyes widen at what he sees. This changes things. Wilson had started to believe this situation would come to nothing. Another amusing but innocuous episode to add to tonight’s list. But this – this is different. This situation has just shown him a serious edge he can’t ignore.
The man’s shirt is soaked in blood.
‘Sir,’ says Wilson. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘N-n-no. Oh boy.’
‘Then whose blood is that?’
The man’s jaw works up and down and his eyelids flutter as he tries to force out the words.
‘It’s my… It’s my m-m-mom’s.’
‘Your mom’s? It’s your mother’s blood?’