Vivien lowered her eyes to the piece of paper. On it were the words
Wendell Johnson – Hornell NY 7 June 1948.
140 Broadway Brooklyn
in the captain’s rapid, sloping handwriting.
Vivien found it incredible that a shadow they had been chasing in vain had suddenly become a human being with a name and address and date of birth. But what was equally incredible was the number of victims linked to that name and how many others would eventually have to be added to the list.
As she read, Bellew was already going into action. He was already talking to the switchboard.
‘Get me the police in Hornell, New York State.’
As he waited to be put through, he put the call on speakerphone, so that they could all listen. A professional voice came out of the small speaker.
‘Hornell police headquarters. How can I help you?’
‘This is Captain Alan Bellew of the 13th Precinct in Manhattan. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Officer Drew, sir.’
‘I need to speak with your chief. As soon as possible.’
‘One moment, sir.’
Bellew was put on hold. A jingle played briefly, followed after a few moments by a deep voice sounding much more mature than the previous one.
‘Captain Caldwell.’
‘I’m Captain Alan Bellew of the NYPD.’
At the other end there was a brief silence.
‘Good evening, captain. What can I do for you?’
‘I need information on a man named Wendell Johnson. All I know is that he was born in Hornell on 7 June 1948. Do have anything on him in your files?’
‘Just a moment.’
Only the noise of fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard. Then Captain Caldwell’s voice returned.
‘Here he is. Wendell Bruce Johnson. The only prior I have is an arrest for driving while intoxicated, in May 1968. There’s nothing else on him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Give me another moment, please.’
Again the noise of fingers on keys and then again the voice. Vivien imagined a corpulent man trying to come to terms with a technology he didn’t quite understand, a man whose main objective in life was to hand out as many fines as possible to justify his salary to the city council.
‘There was someone taken in with him, for resisting arrest. A man named Lester Johnson.’
‘His father or his brother?’
‘From the date of birth, it has to be the brother. There’s only a year between them.’
‘Do you know if this Lester is still living in Hornell?’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not from around here. In fact I’ve only just started in the job. I don’t yet know many people. If you give me another few seconds I’ll check.’
‘That would be very helpful.’
Vivien saw on Bellew’s face the temptation to explain that all those seconds added up to days and months. And they were having difficulty finding hours in a situation like this.
In spite of everything, Captain Caldwell replied calmly and politely, ‘There’s no Wendell Johnson in the phone book. But there is a Lester Johnson, at 88 Fulton Street.’
‘Good. I’m sending you a couple of people in a helicopter. Can you provide a place where they can land?’
‘There’s Hornell Municipal Airport.’
‘Perfect. They’ll be arriving as soon as possible. After that, I’m going to need your help.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘If you could go to meet them personally that would be great. In addition it’s vital that this conversation remain confidential. Very confidential – have I made myself clear?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘I’ll speak to you soon then.’
The captain hung up and looked at Vivien and Russell.
‘As I think you heard, you need to take a little trip. In the meantime I’ll send a team to search this Johnson guy’s address in Brooklyn. It’s a formality, because I don’t think we’ll find anything, but in a case like this you never know.’
Within fifteen minutes Bellew had requested and obtained the use of a helicopter equipped for night flights. Vivien and Russell were driven at high speed to a soccer field on 15th Street, on the banks of the East River. The helicopter arrived soon afterwards, a graceless, overgrown insect that moved agilely in the sky. No sooner did they get on than the earth spun away from them and the city became a sequence of houses and towers down below until it had disappeared behind them. The plunge into darkness happened in slow motion, with only an ever thinner blade of light on the horizon to recall that the sun still existed.
*
The pilot brought the helicopter down smoothly next to a long, narrow building lit by a string of lampposts. On an open space to their left, a number of small tourist aeroplanes were parked. Cessnas, Pipers, Socatas and other models that Vivien didn’t know. As she opened the door, a police car that had been waiting next to the building came towards them.
The car stopped and a uniformed officer climbed out. He was tall, in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a moustache. He came towards them with the phlegmatic, shambling gait of a basketball player. As she shook his hand and looked into his eyes, Vivien realized that the judgement she had formed when she had heard his voice on the telephone had been a hasty one. He inspired confidence, the sense that he wasn’t a man who abused the position he occupied.
‘Captain Caldwell.’ His handshake was firm and resolute.
‘Detective Vivien Light. This is Russell Wade.’
The two men nodded to each other. The urgency that was driving them seemed to have also infected Hornell’s chief of police. He immediately pointed to the car.
‘Shall we go?’
They got in, and the vehicle pulled out while they were still putting on their seat belts. They drove out of the airport, leaving the lights of the runway behind them, and took Route 36 heading south.
‘Fulton Street isn’t far. It’s in the north part of Hornell. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
There wasn’t much traffic at that hour but Captain Caldwell nevertheless put on the flashing light.
Vivien insisted on one thing. ‘I’ll need you to switch it off when we get closer. I’d prefer to arrive unannounced.’
‘Sure.’
If he, too, was dying of curiosity, he didn’t let it show. He drove in silence, his face illuminated by the dim light of the dashboard. Vivien felt the presence of Russell in the back seat, silent, apparently absent. But judging by what she had read on his computer, that dreamy air of his concealed the ability to capture aspects and moods in a very involving way. After participating in something, he was able to make the reader feel as if he had actually been there with him. It was a completely different way of treating a subject, different from anything she had seen before in a newspaper article.
What they needed now was the truth. The press, once they’d had enough of reporting the attacks and their aftermath, and speculating on the possible perpetrators, would soon launch a virulent campaign against the police and the other investigating bodies, accusing them of not doing enough to guarantee the safety of the public. Criminal acts like those that were devastating the city would soon have political repercussions, offering a valid pretext to anyone who wanted to attack Willard or the mayor or whoever. Anyone with the slightest involvement in the investigation, her included, would be caught up in the storm, which, although starting at the top, would inevitably affect those at the bottom, too.
The cellphone in her pocket started ringing. On the display she saw Bellew’s number.
She replied, with the absurd hope that he would tell her it was all over.
‘Hello, Alan.’
‘Where are you?’
‘We just landed and now we’re on our way to the subject’s house.’
By now names were gone, as were all traces of identity, replaced by cold, impersonal words that referred to a human being only as ‘the subject?
?? or ‘a suspect’.
‘Great. We discovered something strange at this end, and I’m not sure what to make of it.’
‘What is it?’
‘We checked out Wendell Johnson’s apartment. Obviously, no one was there. But get this: the guy knew he was terminally ill, but just before he was admitted to hospital he paid a year’s rent.’
‘That is strange.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Captain Caldwell switched off the light on the roof. Vivien realized that they were nearing their destination.
‘Alan, we’re there. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’
‘OK.’
The car turned left onto a short street called Fulton Street, drove past a row of identical houses and stopped at the end, outside number 88. It was a small house that, from what they could see of it, could have done with a coat of paint and some repairs to the roof. There were lights on in the windows. Vivien was grateful she wouldn’t have to drag anyone from their bed. She knew that when that happened, it usually took a while before people were in a fit state to talk.
‘Here we are.’
They got out of the car in silence and walked in Indian file down the short drive. Vivien let Captain Caldwell lead the way, so that he could feel he was still in charge.
Caldwell rang the bell next to the door. A few moments later, light filtered through the frosted glass. There was the sound of bare feet approaching quickly and lightly. The door opened and a blond, freckled boy of about five peered out. He was surprised to see a man in uniform towering over him, but did not seem afraid.
Caldwell bent slightly. ‘Hello there, champ,’ he said in a calm, friendly voice. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy reacted suspiciously to this attempt at communication. ‘I’m Billy. What do you want?’
‘I need to speak to Lester Johnson. Is he home?’
The boy ran away, allowing the door to swing open. ‘Grandpa, the police want you.’
Straight ahead of them was a corridor ending in a staircase that led to the upper floor. To the right was a small lobby, and to the left a door, through which the boy disappeared. Before long, a man came out. He was an energetic-looking man in his sixties, wearing a blue shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He still had a thick head of hair and alert eyes that looked them rapidly up and down. It struck Vivien that this was the way prison inmates sometimes behaved.
She let Captain Caldwell take the initiative. It was his territory and Vivien owed that to him. She hoped that when the time came he would be shrewd enough to step aside.
‘Mr Lester Johnson?’
‘Yes, that’s me. What do you want?’
That phrase seemed to be part of the family’s linguistic heritage: the boy had used it, too.
‘I’m Captain Caldwell. I—’
‘Yes, I know who you are. Who are these people?’
Vivien decided that this was the moment to step forward. ‘I’m Detective Vivien Light, from the NYPD. I need to speak with you.’
Lester Johnson gave her a quick, self-satisfied appraisal, which above all took in her physical appearance. ‘OK. Come on in.’
He led them to the door through which he had emerged and the boy had disappeared. They found themselves in a large living room, with couches and armchairs. On one of these Billy was sitting watching cartoons on a flat screen TV. However rundown the exterior of the house might have looked, the interior was neat and tidy, with an excellent choice of fabrics and wallpaper, all in natural colours. Vivien saw a woman’s hand in the matching shades.
‘Billy, it’s time for bed,’ Lester Johnson said to his grandson in an authoritative tone.
‘But grandpa …’ the boy protested weakly.
‘I said it’s time for bed. Go to your room and don’t make a fuss.’
His voice made it clear he would accept no compromise. The boy switched off the TV and walked sulkily past them, and without saying goodnight to anyone disappeared around the corner. A few moments later they heard the sound of his bare feet on the stairs grow weaker until it faded completely.
‘My son and sister-in-law are out for the evening. And I’m a bit more lenient with the boy than his parents.’
After that brief insight into his family life, he indicated the couch and the armchairs. ‘Take a seat.’
Vivien and Caldwell sat down on the couch and Lester Johnson on the armchair facing it. Russell chose the one that was further away.
Vivien decided to get straight to the point. ‘Mr Johnson, are you related to a man named Wendell Johnson?’
‘He was my brother.’
‘Why do you say was?’
Lester Johnson gave a vague shrug. ‘Because early in 1971 he left for Vietnam and that’s the last we heard of him. He was never declared either dead or missing in action. Which must mean he got out alive, but never got in touch with us. Well, that’s his business. He stopped being my brother a long time ago.’
Hearing a relationship between brothers dismissed like that, Vivien instinctively turned to look at Russell. His eyes had hardened for a moment, but immediately afterwards he resumed the stance he had decided to adopt, one of attentive silence.
‘Before he left for Vietnam, did Wendell work in the construction industry?’
‘No.’
That monosyllable rang in Vivien’s ears like a bad omen. She sought refuge in illusion. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Miss, I’m old enough to be a little soft in the head. But not so soft that I can’t remember what my brother did when he was still here. He wanted to be a musician. He played the guitar. He would never have done any job where he risked damaging his hands.’
From the inside pocket of her jacket, she took the photographs that had brought her to Hornell. She held them out to Lester Johnson. ‘Is this Wendell?’
Lester did not take them from her, but leaned forward to look at them. After what seemed an eternity, he said, ‘No. I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.’ He leaned back in his chair.
Russell, who had been silent until now, surprised everyone by speaking at this point. ‘Mr Johnson, if that isn’t your brother, it might be someone he knew in the army. Usually, guys who went to Vietnam sent home photographs of themselves in uniform. Sometimes alone, but often with a group of friends. Did he happen to do the same?’
Lester Johnson looked at him sharply, as if the question had put paid to any hope he might have had that these intruders would leave his house soon. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He got up from the couch and left the room. When he returned, he was holding a cardboard box. He handed it to Vivien and sat down again.
‘These are all the pictures I still have of Wendell. There should be some from Vietnam among them.’
Vivien opened the box. It was full of photographs, some in colour, some in black and white. She looked through them quickly. The subject was always the same: a pleasant-looking, fair-haired boy, alone or with friends. At the wheel of a car, as a child on a pony, with his brother, with his parents, with long hair held in a band while he hugged a guitar. She had already gone through most of them when she found it. It was in black and white and showed two soldiers in front of a tank. One was the smiling boy she had seen many times in the previous photographs; the other was the young man who had been holding up a three-legged cat in the photographs they had in their possession.
Vivien turned it over and saw on the back in faded letters
The King and Little Boss
written in irregular handwriting that had one major characteristic: it was completely different from the handwriting in the letter that had started this whole madness.
She handed the photograph to Russell, so that he could see the result of his intuition. When she got it back, she passed it to Lester Johnson. ‘What do these words on the back mean?’
The man took the photograph and looked first at the front and then at the back. ‘The King was what Wendell called himself as a
joke. I assume Little Boss was the other boy’s nickname.’
He handed the rectangle back to Vivien.
‘I’m sorry if I told you I’d never seen him. I don’t think I’ve looked at these photos for thirty years.’
He leaned back in the armchair again and Vivien was surprised to see tears welling in his eyes. Maybe his cynical attitude was only a kind of self-defence – maybe the fact that he’d never heard from his brother again had hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Her arrival must have reopened an old wound.
‘And you really have no idea who that person with Wendell could be?’
The man shook his head, without saying anything. His silence was worth more than a thousand words. It meant that tonight he had lost his brother for a second time. It also meant that they had lost the one real lead they had.
‘Can we keep this photograph? I promise you’ll get it back.’
‘All right.’
Vivien had stood up. The others realized that they had no reason to stay here any longer. All the energy seemed to have drained out of Lester Johnson. He walked them to the door in silence, maybe thinking to himself how little it takes to dredge up old memories and how much they hurt.
As Vivien was about to leave, he held her back. ‘Can I ask you a question, Miss?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why are you looking for him?’
‘I can’t tell you that. But there’s one thing I can say for certain.’ She paused, as if to isolate what she was about to say. ‘The reason your brother never got in touch with you isn’t because he didn’t want to. Your brother died in Vietnam, just like so many others.’
She saw the man take a deep breath. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. Say goodnight to Billy for us. He’s a great kid.’
When the door closed behind them, she was pleased that she had resolved his uncertainties. For them, on the other hand, she thought as they walked to the car, certainty was still a distant target. She had arrived in Hornell convinced she had reached the finishing post, instead of which she had come up against a new and very uncertain point of departure.
Wars end. Hate lasts for ever.
That phrase of Russell’s came back to her as she opened the car door. Hate kept alive for years had led a man to plant bombs all over a city. Hate had led another man to detonate them. The illusion that she might return to New York in a different mood had faded. She knew that the return journey she would be thinking of the consequences of war and the power it had, after many years, to still claim victims.