Schizo

  The woman’s head swings back and forth slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen. “Nope. Detective Marshall was transferred to Santa Clara last year.”

  My breath catches in my throat and, instinctively, I take a step back. “Wh- . . . what do you mean?”

  “He was transferred,” she says, without any inflection whatsoever. “Detective William Demarest has taken over all of Detective Marshall’s cases. Would you like to talk to Detective Demarest?”

  “Well . . . I . . . I don’t know. Do you . . . uh . . . remember the case of the little boy who went missing from Ocean Beach?”

  She keeps typing, still not looking over at me. “Lots of children go missing, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, but this was Detective Marshall’s case. A boy, Teddy Cole, was kidnapped from Ocean Beach two years ago. It was in all the papers. Teddy Bryant Cole.”

  Finally the woman stops. She moves her hands off the keyboard and turns to look at me full-on. Her eyes study me. For the first time, there is a hint of color behind the dull gray of her irises.

  “Teddy Bryant . . . That case was never solved.”

  “No,” I say timidly. “That’s why I wanted to talk to Detective Marshall. Teddy Bryant Cole is my brother.”

  The woman shakes her head, her lips held tightly together. “I am so sorry,” she says. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  My nostrils flare and I grit my teeth.

  Teddy is not dead, I want to tell her, but she interrupts me, saying, “I’m sure Detective Demarest will be happy to speak with you. Just wait over there for a moment.” She gestures with her head to the empty benches.

  I nod. “Yes, okay, thank you.”

  “It’ll just be a moment.” And then she smiles again, this time showing off a row of stained yellow teeth.

  I sit, waiting on the bench, my legs crossed.

  There’s a loud noise as the front doors seem to slam open and two police officers, one male and one female, carry a screaming man, hog-tied, through the main entranceway.

  “Fucking cocksuckers!” he screams.

  Two more men are dragged in the same way behind the first, so all three of them can be heard screaming together.

  “Fuckers! Motherfuckers!”

  The receptionist woman comes back then, walking just in front of an extremely short man with close-cropped hair and a dark-colored suit and necktie. The man introduces himself as Detective William Demarest, but tells me to call him Bill. I shake his hand and thank the woman, who smiles at me before heading back to her desk.

  Detective Demarest—Bill—says that I should follow him, and so I do, walking behind him through a side door and away from those three different hog-tied men screaming profanities.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stutter out as we make our way down the cramped hallway past identical windowless offices with different nameplates tacked up on each door. “You must be really busy.”

  There are trophy cases piled high with different awards and a collection of different badges framed on the yellowed walls.

  “Oh, yes, busy, busy, busy,” he says in a booming bass voice. “It sure does get crazy in here sometimes. This city’s just full of them—crazies, I mean. I’ve been here goin’ on twenty-five years, but I still can’t get used to it. Suppose you never do. I thought goin’ from homicide to missing persons was gonna be easier somehow. Don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  He turns in to the office with his name on the door, and I go in after him.

  “Take a seat there,” he tells me, pointing to the only chair in the room.

  “Ah . . . are you sure?” I ask, considering, as I said, there’s literally no other chair in the office.

  “Yeah, sit. I’m all right. Here . . .” He pushes some papers onto the floor and moves the lamp and then sits on the corner of the desk so he looks like a little kid, maybe, or like Kermit the Frog, his legs dangling.

  Besides the desk and the papers and the lamp and the one chair, the rest of the office is nothing but filing boxes all stacked one on top of another. The walls are completely blank, and there’s not even an inch of free floor space.

  “Sit down,” he tells me again.

  And so I do, holding my backpack on my lap as I lean against the hard metal chair.

  “Are you just moving into this office?” I ask dumbly, not sure of what else to say.

  He laughs good-heartedly, running his stubby hand through his lack of hair. His nose is very wide, and he has a scar on his chin running straight across like he’s been divided into segments.

  “You’d think it to look at this place, wouldn’t ya?” he says, smiling. “But, no, I’ve been here a whole year. Took over for Detective Marshall. Did you know him, then?”

  “N- . . . no. But he was working on my brother’s case.”

  Demarest nods, still smiling. “Yes, yes. Louise told me. Let’s see, I’ve got the file here. I’m sorry, son; I know your family’s been going through a hard time.”

  He begins rummaging through the boxes of files scattered everywhere.

  “Believe it or not,” he continues, still riffling, “there’s a whole system I got worked out here. I got every case filed just so. Only . . . only sometimes I outsmart myself, you know what I mean? I think myself into a corner. You ever do that, son?”

  Standing up straight, he turns and looks at me as though trying to read in my face the answer to his question.

  “Nope, nope, I don’t figure you do. You’re a smart one, I bet, always got everything put back in its proper place. Isn’t that so?”

  He goes back to looking while I try to say something.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I’ve got all the respect in the world for good organizational skills. Now, take that Detective Marshall who was here before me. Why, he kept the most detailed notes I ever read in my damn . . .” He clears his throat. “Darn. Darn life, that’s what I mean. And I respect a man like that. I came in here and started reading his case files and, sure enough, it was like reading literature. William Shakespeare. He had a real talent. And organized! Me, I’ve got my own system. But sometimes—”

  “So you read about my brother’s case?” I ask, interrupting him this time.

  “Sure, of course I did. Tragic stuff.”

  Emerging triumphant, he lays the surprisingly thin file folder on the table and takes a seat on top of it.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, too,” I tell him. “I think my brother might still be alive. That’s what I wanted to see you about. That witness, Dotty Peterson, I saw her the other day. She seemed pretty sure that Teddy really was kidnapped.”

  He frowns at me, his jowls shaking like the gristle on a burned piece of meat. “Ah, yes. Well, the sad truth is, that woman, the witness, she’s really not, uhmm, reliable. Of course, I can’t discuss too many details of the case, but her story . . . it didn’t hold up, not at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pulls the file out from underneath him and begins flipping through it absently. “Well, from what I understand, Detective Marshall had a sketch drawn up of the suspect based on Ms. Peterson’s description. Here it is, in fact, right here.”

  The photocopy of the drawing is in black and white, and I hold it, trembling now, staring down at that face—the face of the man who took my brother.

  “What we normally do in a case like this is to both circulate and cross-reference the sketch with our database. These kinds of abductions are almost always perpetrated by sex offenders. So we pulled up every registered sex offender within a thirty-mile radius from the spot the victim, your brother, was taken. Anyone fitting the physical description was immediately brought in for questioning, ’specially if the subject had any contact with the victim. Most times we find the suspects have seen their victims at least o
nce before. Often they’ve even had some sort of interaction with them. So we cross-check all those different pieces of information. And, from what I can see here, looks like they came back with a list of four possible suspects. Oh . . . and there was the car!”

  He says the last part as though surprising himself, pausing to read for a moment before continuing on.

  “That’s right. That same witness identified a car—a white Ford Explorer. So we ran a check to see if there were any registered Explorer owners on the sex offender list. It looks like there was one relevant match, but . . .”

  Grimacing, he turns the papers over one after another.

  “From what I can see here, kid, I’m sorry to say, none of the leads panned out in any way. And then, again, just between you and me—I mean, off the record—that witness didn’t stand up real well under questioning.”

  He closes the file, then reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a packet of Trident gum. Spearmint, I think.

  “Gum?” he asks, holding it up to me.

  “No, thank you.”

  He takes a piece for himself and starts unwrapping it. “Quit smoking a month ago,” he says bitterly. He chomps on his gum and finally says, “I’m sorry, I really should be getting back to work. Is there anything else I can tell you, son?”

  “No,” I answer, bowing my head. “I just wondered if there was anything new, I guess. Do you think I could look at that file?”

  “I’m sorry, pal, can’t do it. But the truth is, there’s not a lot here. The general opinion is that the witness was mistaken. Chances are, Teddy Bryant drowned that day. Ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent. I’m very sorry. I wish I had better news for you. If you want, I can—”

  But just then another detective sticks his head into the office—a large man with a bald, shiny head, reflecting the buzzing and crackling fluorescent lights overhead. “Hey, Bill, sorry, can I get your signature in here for a second?”

  Demarest nods. “Sure thing.”

  And then to me, “Wait here a second—I’ll come walk you out.”

  He leaves, jumping down off the desk with a thud.

  And so I’m left staring at the file.

  Drowned, this guy says. But what does he know, really? He’s not even the original detective. Plus, this whole place seems a little crazy.

  So what I do is, I leap forward and grab the file and tear through it, my heart beating so fast, I can hardly breathe. Sweat breaks out all across my forehead. My vision blurs.

  But still, I’m able to find the page with the suspects’ names. There are even photos—and what look like street addresses. I take the pages and quickly stuff them into my backpack, closing the file and jumping to my feet, knocking the chair over.

  My breathing slows.

  I wipe the sweat from my face with the sleeve of my jacket and set the chair to right.

  Detective Demarest has not come back, but I leave the office anyway, closing the door behind me.

  There is no one in the hall, so I walk quickly out to the main room.

  That woman at the front smiles at me and waves.

  I go out the door.

  No one tries to stop me.

  I have the information I need now.

  And I will find Teddy.

  Because, despite what anyone might say, I know that he is alive.

  I know it because I feel it—like a clear, cool breeze blowing through my mind.

  21.

  OUTSIDE THE FOG HAS settled in over the city, so the streets and skies and buildings and cars and people walking with their heads down and the crows and pigeons and everything are gray and muted silver.

  After stealing that list of suspects and being so close to finding Teddy, you’d think the clouds would’ve parted and the sun would be shining down like a goddamn golden halo all around me.

  That’s how it would work if this were a movie.

  But there is only gray and fog and trash and a thick layer of black sludge ground and beaten into the sidewalk. A bus goes lumbering past, rumbling and shaking, the men and women crowded together inside, sitting and standing.

  I run across the street and then go fast up a couple of blocks to get away from the police station, just in case Detective Demarest notices part of my brother’s file is missing. Not that he will. He’ll stuff the folder back in with all those others as part of his “system.” Then he’ll forget about it. He’ll forget about Teddy, like everyone else has. I’m the only one left who can help him. And so I need to get home as soon as possible to look over what I have.

  I hike up the hill to the bus stop on Grant next to Caffe Trieste. I turn to see someone waving at me from inside the coffee shop.

  “Miles!”

  Of course, it’s Eliza. She comes out the swinging door not set right on its hinges.

  I say of course only because fate or karma or whatever fucking else clearly has it in for me.

  So it has to be Eliza.

  Looking beautiful as always—dark hair pulled back, her face pale, her eyes flashing green-blue against the gray. She’s wearing tight jeans and fur-lined boots and a hooded parka. It’s cold outside, and she rubs her small hands together.

  “Hey!” I say to her, still moving—wanting to get away.

  But she immediately starts talking.

  And she asks me to sit down.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Homework. I’m so far behind.”

  Those pages I stole are stashed in my backpack, and I want so badly just to go home and read through them. But now Eliza is saying to me, “Come on, Mie. Come sit down for a minute.”

  I follow her in and order coffee and then I ask her if we can go back outside so I can smoke. She grabs her books and backpack, and we go sit at one of the unsteady tables.

  Across the street there is a white church with steeples like pulled sugar stretching up above the white marble steps. There is a pack of street kids huddled together beneath the vaulted arches wearing army gear and wrapped in tattered wool blankets. They have some sort of off-white pit bull mix tied to a long piece of rope.

  “Aww, what a cute dog,” Eliza says, exhaling the smoke a little theatrically from the cigarette I gave her. “Did you know my mom and I brought a puppy back from New Orleans?”

  “Awesome. What kind?”

  “A bloodhound,” she says, looking down at her hands. “Seriously, they are absolutely the cutest things in the entire world.”

  Her legs are crossed, and she leans forward. She’s very close to me now. I can feel the heat from her body.

  I don’t want to feel it, but I do.

  So I keep on dipping my raspberry ring thing into my big bowl of coffee with sugar and milk.

  “Miles,” she says, bowing her head. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get out, about what happened. When I came back in I was just upset, and Mackenzie Miller was right there when I told Lily. Remember her? She transferred to Lincoln in eighth grade, and she was totally my best friend.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” I tell her, which is the truth.

  “Well, believe me, she wouldn’t have said anything, I promise. And I really was too freaked out to notice all the people standing around us. But I think it was Mackenzie. That’s what Ian Larkin told me. He said he heard it from her.”

  I breathe then and drink my coffee. I don’t want to care about any of this.

  “Look, it’s okay. I knew you didn’t mean for it to get out.”

  “Really? Oh, good, Miles. I was worried.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. And, listen, I hope you know that it had nothing to do with you. I’m on a lot of medication and I get super sick if I don’t eat enough. But, anyway, I’m . . . I’m sorry I puked on you.”

  I smile then, and so does she.

  “Well,
technically,” she starts, stubbing out her cigarette in the red plastic ashtray laid out between us, “you didn’t puke on me—but you were close.”

  She giggles sweetly so the table shakes a little and some of her coffee spills into the saucer. A hipster guy in his early twenties walks past, transfixed by the screen of his iPhone—though he still manages to stop and do a kind of double-take when he notices Eliza. He stares and then catches himself staring and averts his eyes back to his phone and keeps on walking.

  It’s not a big deal or anything.

  I mean, it’s just a moment—and yet it is enough to remind me that Eliza is really, truly, out of my league.

  I swallow and blush and say, “That guy was totally checking you out just then. Did you see that?”

  Her head tilts to the side. “What? Who?”

  “That hipster dude that walked by. You didn’t notice?”

  “Uh-uh.” She smiles with her lips pressed together.

  “I bet that happens to you all the time,” I say, maybe because I’m already feeling jealous, which is so totally dumb.

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m sort of used to it, you know? Not to sound all full of myself or anything.”

  I shake my head. “No, no, of course not. It’s just a fact, right? You’re super beautiful.”

  But right after I say that, my face goes hot and I’m embarrassed as hell and my heart races and I smoke and don’t look at her. It came out sounding really awkward, too.

  “No, I’m not.” I can hear her fidgeting around. “But thank you.”

  My throat is very dry. “Sorry, was that weird I said that?”

  Her body moves closer to mine.

  “No, are you kidding? You’re so sweet. Coming back here, I was scared you were going to hate me for what I did. And maybe . . . maybe even blame me for what happened.”

  I cross my legs and make myself small in my chair.

  “Blame you?”

  “Yeah, for what happened to you.”

  “Not all all,” I say hurriedly. “Me having that episode . . . I mean, it’s a disease—bad wiring in my brain. It’s nobody’s fault. Nobody’s.”