A Smudge of Gray (10 page)

Brian entered the bathroom. Blood
smeared the floor and the counter. The white tile had become a canvas for the
color of life and the color of death. Brian glanced at the spotless bathtub
lined with body soaps, shaving lotions, and a razor. As he studied the place
that had cleansed the lady of the house, the place of purity, a perfume
penetrated him. Brian saw the source on the countertop next to toiletries. Colgate
toothpaste, mouthwash, a curling iron, and tubes of makeup lined the
countertop—all items that would never be used again.

The two examiners filled out a “chain of
custody” form answering questions about the collection of evidence. As they marked
checkboxes, Brian wandered past them. He didn’t make any noise, as if he were
guilty of a crime, and to a certain extent he was, but the badge that he
displayed on his belt allowed him to move without answering any questions.

Brian lifted the police tape. The
dark hallway engulfed him. A busted light overhead explained the dimness. Brian’s
pupils adjusted from the bright lights of the crime scene to the gloom of the
area open to civilians. In fact, the hallway was off limits even to residents unless
an emergency prompted their venture into the shadows. Brian scratched his head.
His mind overflowed with scenarios—the suspect sneaked in through a window,
through an unlocked front door, or perhaps he or she was invited. Brian liked
the last scenario as the alcohol and the two glasses supported it.

He removed a Maglite Solitaire from his
suit jacket, a small flashlight powered by a single AAA battery. He screwed the
lens cap, igniting the light, and kept twisting until the beam concentrated into
a circle. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. The place resembled an abandoned
prison, the rooms representing the solitary confinement wing. Brian crept
through the darkness, his movements catlike. His shoes shuffled on the carpet
as he shined the light on the floor. He was looking for something, a treasure
buried in plain sight, a key that would open the door to the police file.

The dark stripes covering the hunter
green carpet played with Brian; they teased his logical mind with a sea of
randomness. A small circle of dark gray grabbed him, but he realized it was
only fabric. Then, he saw another spot, and then another. Possibilities
overwhelmed his brain, a position for a man to go from sane to insane, but for
Brian, he was already the latter. As his flashlight swept the hallway, the beam
hit metal. Brian had made it to the elevators.

He squeezed his cheeks as he
contemplated his next move. He knew the examiners were still compiling
information. He figured the best move was to head back to the precinct to get a
baseline. Brian sheathed his light and pressed the down arrow. He waited alone,
but a sudden movement at the corner of his eye startled him. Brian turned as he
placed his right hand on his gun. He locked eyes with a man holding a weapon with
his left hand. The man wore a suit with his tie undone. A layer of oil covered
his face, filling out the wrinkles on his brow just below his hair, which was
parted to the left. The man had a distinct look about him, an all-too-familiar
look that could turn one’s glance into a stare. The man was Detective Brian
Boise, and he was reflecting back in the mirror.

A ding resonated behind the hypnotized
detective, a sound that he registered yet failed to connect to his muscles. The
doors opened. Brian tried to turn away, but the man in front of him inside that
mirror was a treasure chest filled with enigma. Finally, Brian killed his
trance. He dashed toward the elevator, but as its doors started to shut, he stuck
his foot forward. The metal pressed against his brown shoes, which triggered
the reopening mechanism.

Brian entered the brightly lit
elevator as he turned and faced the seventh floor hallway. He glanced at his
shoes, and then at the bottom of the elevator doors. He bit his lip as all of
his blood rushed to his brain. A new door had opened, a door that could lead to
a room filled with gold, but it could also lead to a space filled with nothing.

Brian flipped the elevator’s stop
switch, which kept the doors open. The bell pierced the air. Brian kneeled. Although
he never polished his shoes, a small scuff of grime had transferred from his
withered manmade material to the rubber seal on one of the elevator doors. He
removed his flashlight and used it to check the door. Stones and yellow goop
stopped his scan, as he didn’t find the particular color he craved. Brian
looked at the elevator across from him. He stood from his spot and pushed the same
switch again, bringing the elevator back into use. He pressed the highest number
on the list, 29, and then jumped out of the box. The doors slammed shut, and
then the elevator ascended to the roof at 5.7 miles per hour.

Brian pressed the down arrow as he moved
to the other elevator. He waited, but the seconds seemed like hours. Impatiently,
he removed a small pocketknife from his pocket and jammed it into the metal
crease. He twisted the blade and sent the doors open. Inside he saw a bare
shaft. Brian tried to orient himself. One step and he would face a drop down
seven stories. Suddenly, the elevator screamed. Brian rocked back as the guillotine
arrived.

Checking his head, he entered the
elevator and flipped the stop switch, which awakened the buzzer. This one
sounded louder, angrier, as it filtered down the elevator shaft and into his
spine. Brian concentrated his light on the ground. This elevator had a one-inch
gap between the elevator and the floor, which Brian analyzed. After a moment, he
repositioned the light and checked the rubber seal. Exactly thirteen inches up,
something caught his eye. Brian kneeled and looked closely at the something
that had dilated his pupils. It was a discoloration, an obvious presence of
something foreign. It was a smudge of gray.

Brian jumped to his feet and darted down
the hallway. His heart raced; his breathing intensified. He burst through the
doorway, tearing the yellow police tape.

“Hey! I found something!” Brian shouted
at the two examiners who were still wielding their pens. “Come on!”

Brian turned as both men followed his
hustle. The group ran toward the bell that was ringing uncontrollably. Brian
used his light and kept it on the smudge. He gestured to his colleagues.

“I need a full analysis of this. See if
it checks out as shoe polish.”

The two men used their own flashlights to
cover the area.

Brian watched them work, as the buzzer
seemed to strengthen. The detective observed the “CSI” on their jackets shift
around the item of interest. Brian felt alive, as he had walked into the open
door, but no gold was inside, just a large safe that was empty.

Chapter 15

A classic episode of
Seinfeld
displayed on a Sony 55” LCD television. Jerry sat at a table as his date, a
buxom blonde, opened a bottle of beer with her “man hands.” Trevor and his
family burst out laughing on their couch. The Malloys sat together as one
before bed, wearing their pajamas. Trevor put his arm around Laura as his
cotton robe massaged her neck. He squeezed her tightly, just enough to let her
know that he loved her. Katie snuggled next to her mom. Kevin nestled between
his parents on the floor. Jerry’s date on screen cracked open a lobster with
her hands, which sent more laughs from the Malloys.

Beyond the serene suburbs and into the
confused city, the tenth floor on one of the oldest city high-rises housed a
similar family. The 26” CRT RCA television engrossed Jonathan Boise with a
video game. He played alone, unemotionally, and without a warm hand on his
shoulder. Anne Marie Boise sat in the cramped kitchen writing in her diary. The
pages were filled with synonyms for the words “disappointed” and “unhappy.” The
Boise residence lacked the energy of that of the Malloys, but there was an even
greater difference between both homes—the father of the Boise house was not
present; he was off in another life.

Two hours later, after the kids of the
Malloys and the Boises slept in their beds, Detective Brian Boise sat at his
desk with a barrage of mess. Papers, old food wrappers, and Post-it notes
attacked him as he stared at his computer screen. He did not wear a handsome
robe, warm flannel pajamas, or even feathery slippers; rather, he wore a white
dress shirt caked with the stench of stale air.

As the moon rose to its peak over the
slumbering city, Brian’s desk was empty. The janitor might have mistaken the
absence of the desk owner to mean he was gone, but at further inspection, the
orange light on the sleeping computer monitor and the open manila folder would suggest
otherwise. The owner of the desk, Detective Brian Boise, stood at the window,
the same window he often had stared through as he reflected.

The morning sun rose over the city. Most
of its residents still slept, waiting for their alarm clocks to wake them to a
new day. But for Detective Brian Boise, his night had never ended. He went back
to his desk with a layer of stress painting his face. The small wrinkles on his
brow seemed to deepen as he willingly, yet unwillingly, prevented a night of
rejuvenation. His computer monitor reflected off his red eyes. Brian scratched
his cheek with his left hand as his nails agitated his growing stubble. Brian’s
right hand scrolled through the windows on his screen as his brain processed
the information at a quarter of its clock rate. Page after page of shoe
polishes consumed his screen. Light gray, silver, slate gray, cool gray, ash
gray, arsenic, dim gray, cadet gray, timberwolf, platinum, battleship gray, and
charcoal displayed in over twenty brands.

Brian paused as his eyes rejected
the commands from his brain. He rubbed his face and closed his eyes. He saw
nothing, the void of blindness that we all see when we choke our eyes of light.
However, there was a bright intensity of light that he couldn’t remove. No
matter how he moved his eyes, the light followed him. He knew he had to rid
himself of the desk, to try another avenue in a city with a thousand avenues.
Brian opened his eyes and refocused on the sunrise through the window. He stood
up and paused for a moment as his bones cracked. Brian grabbed his keys.

The city flowed with the morning traffic
jumpstarting their attack on the new day. Cars lined the roads; business
professionals paraded with newspapers. Brian drove his SUV behind a Toyota
compact car. It offered a bumper sticker to the world that said, “Well, this
day was a total waste of makeup.” It was a joke that gave nearly everyone
following a chuckle, but this particular driver reading the sign was not nearly
everyone.

The traffic light up ahead turned yellow
as the Toyota’s four cylinders barked from its driver’s punch. Brian, on the
other hand, decided to play it safe. He stopped. His V8 calmed to an idle as he
sat with a weariness flowing over him. Even though his mind knew where he was going,
it couldn’t process any other information.

The crosswalk sign illuminated a white
stick figure. The mess of pedestrians marched across the street. Brian stared
at them as they moved with a purpose in life. He lowered his eyes to the
concrete as the shoes of the crowd captivated him. Brown loafers, abused tennis
shoes, polished black dress shoes, and red stiletto heels all trudged across
the street. Brian tried to track them, but they all seemed to blur together.

The light turned green. Brian accelerated.
Suddenly, a teal minivan sped past and cut in front of him. He hit the brakes.

“Asshole!” Brian yelled.

The van tailgated another car. Brian
sped up and followed. He watched as the minivan’s lights flashed the innocent
vehicle. It pulled over as the van rocketed forward.

Brian grabbed his red light and placed
it on the roof of his SUV. He punched the gas and reached the teal minivan.
Now, Brian tailgated it.

Seconds passed as the minivan kept up its
speed. Brian inched closer. Finally, the minivan pulled over.

Brian stopped and burst forth from his
SUV. He moved with conviction as he neared the teal-colored vehicle. The paint
was faded. A hubcap was missing. The windows were all blacked out. The vehicle
was…Brian.

He banged on the opaque glass, his mug
reflecting back at him. Finally, the window rolled down as a middle-aged man with
a crooked nose stared back.

“What’s the fuckin’ hurry?” Brian said.

“You’re not a cop. You look like a bum,”
the man replied.

Brian flashed his 9mm. He patted his
other side searching for his badge.

“Yeah. Where’s your badge, huh?” The man
rolled down the other window. “Someone help! Get the cops! There’s a crazy dude
with a gun here!”

Brian looked back at his SUV. Then,
he bit down as he grabbed his 9mm and smacked the driver in the face. Blood
gushed from the man’s nose.

“Listen, asshole,” Brian said. “I’m very
fragile right now. So please, get the fuck out of here…
slowly
.”

The minivan crept away, the window still
down.

“And use your signal!” Brian shouted.

The man turned on his signal and drove
cautiously away.

Brain holstered his 9mm as several
business professionals gawked. Others took cover. Brian stomped back to his
SUV. He looked on the seat, and then bent to check under it. On the floor next
to a Wendy’s wrapper, he found his badge.

Brian pulled into the parking garage for
Janice’s condo building and into the first of three spots labeled “Police
Vehicles Only.” He slammed the door shut, the sound filtering throughout the
concrete, and checked his weapon and his badge. He walked down the sidewalk
toward the towering building as the brisk morning air enveloped him. Brian’s
breath steamed from his mouth. It seemed to flow lower in the air than the breath
from the other passing people, lower because he was already cold. Brian hoped
to find the familiar doorman, the same man who had helped him the other night.
If he weren’t at his post, then that would mean more time trying to track him down.
But as Brian approached the glass facade, the portly doorman greeted him.

“Hello, sir,” the doorman said.

“You and me should get a job with more
hours,” Brian joked.

“Tell me about it,” the burly doorman
returned with a chuckle.

“I know you’ve been interviewed before,
but I have a question for you.”

The doorman closed the door and stepped
closer to the detective. “No problem, sir. Anything I can do to help. Miss Davis
was such a nice young lady.” The man shook his head. “She would always go grocery
shopping Monday evenings.”

“Shoes. Do you remember the shoes of
anyone around the time of Miss Davis’ return?” Brian asked.

“Shoes? I can’t think right now.”

“Please.”

The doorman looked off into the distance
and focused on a dog leading a blind man. The overworked door holder chewed the
detective’s query with his mind, chewed it over like salt-water taffy.

“I…don’t know.”

“Men’s dark gray dress shoes, nearly
black. He would probably be dressed professionally,” Brian clarified.

A man dressed in a black pinstripe suit
with a newspaper under his arm walked in front of the two men.

“Ninety percent of the people walking in
and out of here are dressed professionally. I need a picture or something.”

“Thank you for your time. If you think
of anything, please give me a call,” Brian said as he handed him his business
card.

Brian shook the man’s hand, and
then staggered into the building. He made it to the elevators and pressed the
up arrow. Brian waited for the machine to respond to his command. He took a
deep breath as the warm, filtered air felt good deep inside his chest. A rack
of newspapers caught his attention. Brian tilted his head to read the bottom
half of the newspaper—“…The City To Be Safe.” He reached to flip over the newspaper,
curious to the beginning half of the phrase hidden by the fold, but the elevator
dinged and stole his focus.

The elevator opened as a rush of cool
air rolled over Brian. It felt brisk to him as if he were outside again, but
the air had an odor to it, an odor that caused the detective to breathe through
his mouth. As he entered, he looked down and saw the gap between the elevator
and the floor. Then, he looked at the rubber that was one foot above the
ground. It glistened under the fluorescent lights. The place once the focal
point of an entire Crime Scene Investigation team was now nothing more than a
rubber seal protecting the metal doors. As the elevator closed, the detective
knew the box that he stood in had housed the killer that he so desperately sought.

On the seventh floor, a ring sounded. The
elevator opened. Brian walked off and moved toward the room that haunted his
mind. He saw the shadow of the man in the mirror out of his peripheral vision,
but this time the detective kept moving. The hallway was now lit as the broken
light appeared fixed, but the quietness was still eerie. Doors lined the area
as Brian stepped on the zebra-patterned carpet. All of the rooms appeared
identical, part of the condominium’s association, except for a door down the
hall on the right. Yellow tape, plastered with the word “crime scene,”
decorated it.

Brian stopped at what appeared to be the
entrance to a twisted Halloween party. A sheet scribbled with police
jurisdictions was stuck to the door offering a drifter with a list of reasons not
to enter. Suddenly, the sound of metal reached Brian’s oversensitive ears. The
detective turned as an elderly woman filled his bloodshot eyes. She stepped
from the door to her condo, but at the sight of Brian lingering at the entryway—the
entryway that had kept her awake at night, had kept her contemplating whether
she should move—the woman turned the other way and decided to take the stairs.
Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing a key to
the room that had also kept him awake at night. He pushed the metal into the
cylinder and twisted, the sounds of his subtle movements stabbing through him.

The door creaked open. The smell of
death stewing inside hit Brian’s nostrils. He stood motionless at the door
trying to adjust to the place limited only to individuals who had taken an
oath. The morning sun tried to penetrate the condo, but the heavy drapes
absorbed it. Brian stepped into the tomb. A ray of the sun, still pristine from
its 93 million-mile journey, sneaked its way through a crease between the drapes
and cut through the condo. Specks of dust scared from Brian’s presence swirled
in the sunlight.

The detective reached for the light switch
and flipped it. It was dead, just like everything else inside. Brian shut the door.
The metal lock clicked, and then like that, he was sealed inside. His pupils
adjusted to the filtered light, a bodily function that still worked.
The
Starry Night
was still hanging. The flat-screen television was still
suspended. The furniture still offered a place of reprieve. But the blood,
brain matter, and dead body were gone, now recreated with chalk and police
tape. Brian stared at the outline of the woman who had once lived inside the condominium,
the outline of her last pose, the outline of death. A strange feeling surged
through him. He scratched his skull. A scream from a woman pierced him. Brian
flinched. More shrieks cut through him. Brian turned away from the dead body
made of tape.

“What the fuck?” Brian mumbled.

His mind was shot. His body yielded. He suddenly
felt burned by the glare from eyes of a million lost souls. It was as if he
were back in that hotel room nearly ten years ago, that room where he had
witnessed evil. He remembered seeing his father, the detective, trembling,
sweat pouring from his brow, a pistol against his temple. Brian couldn’t do
anything, his body frozen, his mind gripped by the image that still haunted
him. When he had looked into the eyes of the man sitting on the bed in front of
him, he didn’t see his father; he saw a monster. And Brian could never forget
the last words his father had said moments before the bullet blasted his
brain—“I have to get
them
out of my head.” Brian never told anyone those
words, even his wife, and to the present day, almost ten years later, he did not
know what they meant. After his father had committed suicide inside that room,
Brian remembered holding him and holding the badge clutched in his father’s
dead hand, the badge that transferred to Brian inside that room. He knew that
he had to become a police officer, to carry on the flame of the family—he had
no other choice. The ten year anniversary was now just a day away, and no
matter how Brian tried to keep those memories buried, he knew those memories
had just found him inside the condo. Brian needed to get out of the room; he
needed to run away, far away. He turned to the kitchen, but someone was in
there. A shadow moved. Brian knew it was a demon—the demon that stalked him.