‘We got a car,’ a voice crackles over the radio. ‘In the garage. Blue station wagon. We’re running plates on it.’
‘Check if it’s registered to Officer Marcus Jones,’ Gabi says. ‘It might be his private vehicle.’
‘Affirmative,’ the voice comes back a moment later.
Gabi bites her tongue until she tastes blood. Her fault. She should have answered the phone. All this time, they were so damn close, all this time.
They fan out, cops spreading into every room. Pounding up the stairs. They call out the prescription warnings, about coming in, coming up, last chance, with your hands visible. Using Clayton’s name like an invocation to summon him.
But every room is the same. Empty. No piles of newspaper, no furniture. Everything has been cleared out. Another vacant house, another day. It’s all gone.
Including Clayton Broom. And Marcus Jones.
Call of Duty
The aftermath is a clusterfuck. The media has gone ballistic. They let the Detroit Monster get away, and a cop is missing, presumed dead. One of their own. Clayton Broom has disappeared and they have no idea where. They had to release his name and photograph officially, before the press did, so the department looks slightly less ragingly incompetent, and somehow the video blogger has gotten hold of crime-scene footage off their computers, and she’s got what feels like the whole of the Internet trying to solve the case.
She knows it’s over the moment she is summoned into Miranda’s office and finds it full of important people. Honey-blonde Jessica diMenna, someone from Internal Affairs, the Chief of Fucking Police. Boyd’s there, too, sitting in a corner, staring down at his hands as if his chewed-up fingernails might reveal great truths.
‘You must know why you’re here,’ Jessica says.
‘Sure. Can we skip to the punchline so I can get back out there and find Officer Jones, who might still be alive?’
‘We appreciate your dedication, Versado, but this has to be done by the book.’ Joe Miranda picks up a sheet of paper. He reads it in a monotone without meeting her eyes. There’s a lot of legal jargon. But the summary of it is that she’s done here. She tunes out the reasons listed: the only one that matters to her is that she put an unqualified officer in danger, and now he’s missing, probably dead.
Miranda finally gets to the end of the spiel. He takes a swig from the bottle of water on his desk and meets her eyes, ignoring their audience. ‘I’m sorry, Versado. Someone has to take the fall. We have to save face. You can still work it, we need everyone. But you’re no longer in charge. We’re putting Detectives Croff and Stricker on it, and we’re bringing in the feds. There’s an agent flying in tomorrow morning.’
‘Permission to speak, sir.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything. This isn’t a tribunal. You’re a fine officer, you were in over your head.’
‘I don’t want to explain. I want to say that I’m not coming off this case. Not until I find Officer Jones.’
She walks out of his office to find Stricker and Croff already waiting outside, as if they’ve already been briefed. Luke reaches for her hand and then thinks better of it. ‘Gabi. You did everything right. It just wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry.’
Croff shrugs. ‘Hey, cheer up, Versado. They’ll make it up to you down the line. And you got your kid to worry about. You can’t be a good mom and a good cop.’
She gives him the finger, but as if to prove his point, she gets a text from Layla before she even gets back to her desk.
>Lay: Can you come pick me up? Pls mom, it’s urgent. I wouldn’t ask.
She phones her immediately. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just—’ She’s crying.
‘Are you in danger, right now? This very second?’
‘No.’
‘Because someone else is. They might be dead. Because of me.’ Because of you and your amazing timing with your teenage drama, she’s tempted to lash out, but that’s not true. It’s all on Gabi.
Words Like Wounds
Layla wakes from muddy dreams at the sound of the front door opening. She thought she was too wound up to sleep, but somehow she drifted off. She moves to check her phone and remembers she can't risk turning it on. NyanCat is curled up tight next to her, a warm furry ball of reassurance. She sits up and turns on the light, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ her mother says, stopping in the doorway. There’s something wrong with her. ‘I thought you were going to stay over at Cas’s house again.’
‘I needed to talk to you,’ Layla says, sick with terror. It makes her feel hyper-attuned to everything. The sound of Gabi throwing her keys onto the desk by the front door, the bug pattering softly against the lightbulb, the glassy brightness of Gabi’s eyes. ‘Have you been crying, Mom? Are you drunk?’
‘I’ve had a drink. Grown-up’s prerogative. It’s been a bad day.’ She walks into the kitchen with particular deliberation. The soft pop of a cork, the clatter of ice: the good whiskey she keeps in the cupboard above the sink for special occasions or especially shitty days.
She comes out holding a coffee mug, drops onto the couch next to her daughter and rubs NyanCat behind the ears. The cat opens one eye and nudges its head up into her hand, purring.
‘Least someone still likes me.’
‘I saw the news,’ Layla says, carefully. She’s never seen Gabi this shattered.
‘Yeah, well.’ She takes a sip from the mug, which is three-quarters full, Layla notices with alarm. ‘I got demoted and Travis’s parents are dropping the charges. So, you and me, beanie, we got a load off. Although I spoke to your dad earlier, and he’s riled. He said you had not called, as instructed—’ She notices the revolver on the table and stops mid-sentence. ‘Why is my gun out of the safe? Jesus, Layla.’ She puts down the mug with a sharp clang and picks up the gun, flicking open the barrel to reveal that one bullet is missing. ‘What did you do?’ Totally alert now.
‘Did someone hurt you? Shit, did you kill someone?’ There’s a sharpness in the way she says it that Layla hears as: ‘Am I going to have to get a shovel and a carpet to wrap him in?’
‘I was— oh God, Mom.’ Layla grabs the mug and takes a big gulp of the whiskey. Gabi doesn’t stop her. It tastes like gasoline, burning down her throat into her chest. But there’s a soft blob in her mouth. She sets the mug down and spits into her hand, jerking her head like a cat, until she gets it out: the moth that was pattering against the light, half-drowned, still moving limply. ‘Oh God,’ she says again, in revulsion, but it’s like the bug has made way for the words to come spilling out. All of it, in between racking sobs. The dumb shit they were doing online, trolling pervy boys on SpinChat, VelvetBoy and the diner and all the awful messages she’s been getting, and Jonno’s offer and the money and their stupid, stupid blackmail ploy and the tussle over the gun.
Gabriella listens attentively and doesn’t say anything until Layla runs out.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ she says in a very soft, very dangerous voice. It’s worse that she’s not rampaging round the room breaking stuff. She once saw her mom throw an apple at her father’s head in the middle of a particularly bad argument. It smashed in a splatter of pulp against the doorjamb.
‘I was trying to sort it out. It was my fault. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it.’
‘You’re fifteen years old! You can’t sort out shit.’ Gabi closes her eyes. ‘Give me your phone.’
Layla hands it over, contrite. ‘The messages are horrible, you shouldn’t look. I can’t even face turning it on.’
‘And get your jacket.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Tomorrow, you’re getting on the first plane to Atlanta.’
‘What? No!’
Gabi drops Layla’s phone in the mug of whiskey.
‘Are you crazy? Mom!’
‘But right now, we’re going to go dig a bullet out of a playground, so it
doesn’t mess up some future case if someone gets shot nearby. I’ve already screwed up one case. I’m not having this on my damn conscience too.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Layla trails after her, desperate. ‘Please don’t send me away.’
‘Do you know where my toolbox is? We’re going to need pliers, maybe a screwdriver to pry the slug out. Did you see where it went?’
‘I said I’m sorry!’
‘That doesn’t cut it, Lay.’ Gabriella turns on her. ‘That’s not enough. Sorry means that you stop doing stupid shit.’
Hotline Transcripts
Time: 14:07
(773)-936-[Redacted]
Caller #0054
Hi there, this is Amber Parkwood. The psychic. I helped your department with the train-track murders a few years ago?
Yes. Please could you ask the detective who found the body to call me. I have critical information from Daveyton Lafonte.
Yes, he has my number.
She.
Of course. Excuse me.
Her energy is very male.
Please ask her to call me. It really is critically important. Daveyton says the next body is going to be found in the river.
Time: 20:39
(412)-873-[Redacted]
Caller #0106
Hi, yes. Um. I have information about the man you’re looking for.
Clayton Broom.
My name? Louanne.
You need my last name too?
All right. It’s Becker.
No, Bee not Dee. That’s B-E-C-K-E-R.
I dated him a few years ago, well, we went on a date. It was a mistake, I was drunk. I never would have … But never mind that.
The last time I saw him? I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Coupla weeks ago, before Halloween, he comes and finds me. Middle of the night, he hunts me down to a parking lot in Traverse City, can you believe that? And knocks on my car window.
Yes, I was in the vehicle at the time. I was sleeping in my car, all right? You never had a rough patch?
Fine, establishing the facts, whatever. Think I don’t hear you judging me?
I’m trying to tell you what happened. Be patient, jeez! First you want every little detail, now you want me to rush?
Clayton knocks on my car window, wakes us up, me and Charlie.
He’s my kid.
No, he can’t corroborate.
He’s two years old, ma’am! He can just about say mama and bottle and Buzz Lightyear.
Okay, Clay knocks on my window, scares the bejesus out of me. He’s all talking crazy. About how he misses me and we can be a family. Then he starts in on his usual crazy shit. About this other dimension and I don’t know. Like God gave him magic 3D glasses so he could see angels and devils.
No, not actual glasses. He always used to talk like that. Ever since I’ve known him. The waitresses at the diner used to rib him about it. I guess I encouraged it. I’m not proud of that.
Oh, yeah. Yeah, I reckon he’s definitely capable of all those things they say he’s done. Stalked me halfway across the state, didn’t he? Nearly ran me and my boy off the road when I took off. Serves him right he crashed his truck. Scared the bejesus outta me. But shit, if I think …
No, I don’t know where he is now. He has a house in Detroit, don’t he? You checked there?
No, that was the last time I saw him, smashing his car through the trees. I didn’t stop to check.
No. I didn’t call 9-1-1.
I just didn’t.
I was scared. I didn’t want to get involved.
I wasn’t leaving the scene of an accident! I didn’t cause it! He did. Going crazy like that.
Oh God, he’s proper crazy. I never thought. I never would have—
No, I didn’t hear anything from him after that. I guess I hoped he was dead. Not dead. That he’d learned his lesson. I took off anyway.
Pittsburgh, yeah that’s where I’m calling from. It’s nice enough. That’s a lie. You try to get away, but every place is the same, you know? You’re still right there in it.
I didn’t want to report it. I wanted to forget the whole thing. I tried to put it outta my mind. Didn’t even think about it again till I saw him on the TV. Hey, is it true what they’re saying on the Internet?
Even though I was nearly one of his victims!? And you can’t say? Don’t I got a right to know?
I will take it up with the detective. You bet. You tell him to call me.
Yeah, I’ll be willing to testify ’bout what happened. If it helps you put him away.
This is the best number to get me on.
I don’t have a permanent address right now. I’ll give you my mom’s in Burton.
Hey, you think I got a legal claim against the state?
For, I dunno, undue distress from being stalked by a madman who should have been locked away?
Well, can I get a restraining order?
Yeah, yeah, fine, I’ll get a lawyer. Somewhere. No harm in asking. Not like the law is part of your job.
No, that’s all.
Hey, hey wait. You still there? What do you think he was going to do to us? To Charlie and me?’
Time: 22:25
(313)-402-[Redacted]
Caller #0114
Yes. Police. The killer is outside my house! He’s outside my house right now!
What? No.
No, he’s black.
I don’t know. Maybe early twenties? Thirties. It’s hard to tell. He’s got a black hoodie and a backpack.
What is he doing? What do you think he’s doing! Figuring a way to get in and chop me up and stuff me like a turkey for Thanksgiving! Just like all those other murders on the news.
Excuse me? What kind of question is that? Have I been drinking? You should be asking where the killer is. You should be asking what he’s drinking.
You mean right now? He’s walking. Like he doesn’t have a care in the whole world. Yeah, right past my house.
Don’t tell me to calm down! He’s outside my house! He’s going to break in here and kill me in my bed and the police don’t give a flying fuck. I know my rights! I can stand my ground. That murdering son-of-a-bitch comes near my front porch and I’m gonna blow him away!
Hell yeah, I think you should dispatch someone. Right away. Damn straight.
For my own safety? I got a shotgun, lady. But all right, I’ll stay on the line. But you tell your boys they better get here fast, because otherwise I’m going to shoot the shit out of the murdering nigger before he tries to do the same to me.
Time: 06:28
(313)-690-[Redacted]
Caller #0132
He got … he got Ramón. You gotta come. He killed him. I can tell it’s him by the shoes. Them red shoes. I gave him those damn shoes. But he’s stuck.
You gotta come … cut him down
It’s right here.
Where I’m standing! Here. It’s corner of, let’s see … I’m looking. Jefferson and, I, I don’t know. The street sign has fallen down. Where that big mural of the eagle is. By the bus stop. Where the kid was killed. You know the one? Please come. Right away. Please.
Time 06:42
(313)-690-[Redacted]
Caller #0132
It’s me, again, I’m sorry. ’Bout earlier. I— he’s my friend.
Are you on your way? Please, you gotta come cut him down. He’s stuck here with the bears and the balloons and his shoes sticking out. Please come.
I got the other street name. It’s Clare. Corner of Jefferson and Clare. You got it? His name’s Ramón Flores. I got to go. I know where he is.
Not Ramón. Ramón’s right here. Aren’t you listening? The man who did this to him. He’s covered with, oh God, all kinds of stuff. I can’t—
It’s some kind of pattern. I don’t understand it. Like the chairs.
What do you mean, what do I mean? The chairs. The fucking chairs! The patterns. He
infects you. He brings things out!
No, I can’t wait here. You just come get Ramón down. You phone Diyana. No, wait. Don’t phone her. She can’t see him like this. Phone Reverend Alan. Get him to keep her at the church. She mustn’t come down here. Under no circumstances, you hear! She can’t see this. Oh, Ramón, I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. Jesus.
No, I can’t wait, I told you. I have to go find him. I know where he is. The chair told me. I have to go.
Time 06:45
(212)-495-[Redacted] Caller #0133
Hey! Is that the hotline?
Oh man, this is so cool.
No, I’m phoning from Fort Green, in Brooklyn. We’ve got a theory about the killer. We know who she is. Well, me and Martin. Some of the others on the board think it’s unlikely, you know, being a woman, but if you look at the footage from the party, there’s this one woman who is acting incredibly suspicio—
What? The Detroit Monster board. On Reddit.
No.
Time 07:11
(606)-553-[Redacted]
Caller #0146
Yes, hello, Detroit PD.
Because I’m using a voice distorter.
Because I want to be anonymous.
This is not a waste of police time! We are doing your job for you. You should be grateful.
Time 08:17
(919)-167-[Redacted]
Caller #0398
We’ve figured out who the killer is. It’s Clayton Broom!
No. I didn’t see it on the news. We worked it out from the evidence.
Wait, it was on the news? Shit, I haven’t checked the board this morning. Yep. You’re right. There it is. My bad. Well, hope you find him!
Time 08:22
(313)-690-[Redacted]
Caller #0132
I know where he is. I found him. There’s a truck—
No! Don’t hang—
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19
Come One, Come All
Ramón was a good disciple. He worked so hard to help Clayton move all the furniture and the newspapers and the sculptures to the place they had chosen. He helped arrange them, even though he didn’t understand and he got scared when he saw how the dream was alive in them, how things stirred and rustled and turned their heads to look.