Atmosphere (7 page)

"Harbinger, take the unit. Seek out new Suppliers."

"
Yes Giver," he answered automatically.

The room went black, relinquishing the colors, restoring darkness. He leaned down, picked up the Atmosphere, the very feel of it sending tiny jolts of electricity through his fingers. He returned it to his jacket pocket, allowing his fingers to again roam the spines, wondering what it must be like to become one with the Atmosphere just as the Suppliers had—the fortunate ones whom he had bestowed its magic upon. He desired so badly for the opportunity to supply. But he had been tentative to query the Giver. Perhaps next time. Yes, next time, when he returned the Atmosphere back for replenishing, he would request that he become a Supplier. He turned and exited the way he came, through the ebony corridor, into the long tunnel and back into the subway. Eventually he made it outside and his memories returned, his name, his purpose, his thoughts and beliefs. The sunlight pained his eyes, even with the sunglasses, they hurt. No matter. He would go home and hide until the sun went down. Then he would set out and share the pleasure of the Atmosphere with new Suppliers.

Yes indeed, perhaps next time the Giver would allow him to supply.

4
:
00 PM approached, Thursday afternoon. New York was a maze of dips and recesses, buildings and subway entrances. The sky was cloudless, warm rays of sunshine extending across Queens, Brooklyn, Jersey. Taxis fired by, horns blaring. Buses gridlocked the street corners. Innumerable people, notably anonymous within the chaos, shifted in every direction imaginable, mazing their way to destinations unknown, their thoughts unquestionably in as much disorder as the environment surrounding them. People yelling. Children shrieking. Complete chaos, yet somehow systemized in its entirety. Typical day in the city.

Climbing the concrete steps leading to the13th precinct, Frank felt winded and lightheaded, as if he had just run a race. The trek from his apartment was only six blocks today, less than ten minute walk. But still he felt tired.

Sometimes, weather permitting, he would walk to his office at the 12th, which took nearly thirty minutes, and he usually felt fine, sometimes exercised, invigorated. But today he had trouble simply keeping up with the traffic.
One bad night will kill you
, he thought, figuring it would take at least two days before he felt like 'himself' again. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, one hand gripping the handrail, one hand instinctively feeling for the gun strapped around his waist.
 

The outer appearance of the 13th looked exactly as he remembered it from his last visit two years ago: chipped brickface hiding the building's infrastructure, the weather- beaten arched doorway basked in dull green paint, a big metal 'thirteen' fringed with rust identifying the station.

He entered and immediately smiled, the work environment triggering instant memories of the past. Some things never changed.

The first thing he noticed were the community policing charts and robbery beat maps, still posted in the same exact place they had been for the last twenty years: to the left, on the dull-as-dull-can-be gray walls. As a matter of fact, everything in the precinct possessed the same sallow flavor. Ceiling to furniture to floors, as if the room itself were ill and all the color had been drained from its veneer. The sickly gray hue gave him the impression of the shade a body retains after rigor mortis sets in. And then there were those scary art prints hanging crookedly amidst the charts, faded and seemingly untouchable like petrified fungi growing on a tree trunk. They'll be there in another twenty years, Frank thought, recalling the somber feelings the environment elicited when desk duty ran overtime, it always feeling like
he
were being institutionalized.

Beyond the phone system and the recent addition of computers, the 13th precinct remained virtually the same as it did when he last worked here eleven years ago.

Frank quickly thought back to the Summer of 1990, when he and Diane had vacationed to California. He took a few hours to pay visit to his telephone acquaintances at the 71st in Los Angeles—friends he made while researching a murder case he worked on the previous year.
  

Frank hadn't believed his eyes when he first laid sight on the working environment in L.A. It was like he had just stepped into a country club. Polished floors, clean walls, organization comparable to that of a library. And the technology—
unbelievable
. Radar maps of the city; computerized composite programs storing over six thousand simulated facial features; infrared tracking devices. And funny: in comparison to the crusty coffee pots at the 13th, those lads in LA sported a nifty cappuccino maker complete with brass pots and gourmet coffee. No comparison. The stations in New York were virtual slums compared to those in Los Angeles. But in Frank's ongoing opinion, all that polish—yellow walls, cushiony furniture, espresso—it kind of softened the ethic of those who worked in it. Certainly there was no intent to think less of them—it wasn't
easy
being a cop in L.A. But it took a real
tough
, hard-as-nails guy to work as one in New York.

The case that had earned Frank friends in LA resulted in all his New York associates nicknaming him 'the psychic detective', a moniker that lasted a good two years. A tip from Inspector Morris at the L.A.P.D. revealed that a local businessman named John Douglas, who'd had a very public, ongoing marital dispute, hadn't shown up at work for a week, and was eventually reported missing. Inspector Morris' research discovered that Douglas had flown to New York's JFK two days before his wife left for business in Manhattan. Morris notified Frank at the 13th, who subsequently looked into it. As details developed, Frank found out that Douglas had stalked his wife while here, following her upon her arrival at the airport to the New York Hilton, and later all around the city as she went about her business. He eventually discovered her capping off her second night in town snuggled up in her hotel room with a business associate.

He murdered them both, shooting each of them three times with a semi-automatic.

Although assumed to be hiding somewhere in the city, there had been no immediate sign of Douglas' whereabouts following the murders. Frank, listening to his instinct, put a stakeout on a pawn shop in which the owner claimed a man fitting the suspect's description had purchased a semi-automatic there the day before the murders. Unbelievable as it seemed, Frank figured that Douglas' execution had been planned, that the guy had intended to go into seclusion, henceforth needing every penny he could get his hands on. The very next day, Douglas tried to return the gun to the pawn shop and get his two-hundred back. Just as Frank had guessed.

Instinct he bragged. Not psychic. They needled him anyway.

A visit to any precinct in the 'Big Apple' would unquestionably find a flurry of caged decadence within its walls: restless teenagers sporting handcuffs, fidgeting in their seats as desk officers questioned their immoral activities; prostitutes with prune-sized bruises on their faces claiming they were just 'hanging around'; scofflaws screaming at the tops of their lungs, emphatically insisting their innocence. Today was no different at the 13th. They were all there, a movie rerun for the thousandth time, a front row seat for Frank. If he had gone to work today at the 12th, he'd find much of the same.

All of a sudden, the doors to the precinct slammed open behind him. A shirtless vagrant appeared, scraggly beard crawling halfway down the front of his chest. Two cops had him by the arms, wrists cuffed behind him—Frank's sharp memory recognized one of the officers from the crime scene early this morning. The vagrant was screaming in a raspy voice about aliens from outer space who were trying to steal his empty deposit cans. Frank shifted aside, watching curiously as the cops shoved the bum forward, forcefully leading him through the office to the 'backroom'. Every precinct had a backroom, a row of cells where criminals were detained for a short period until they were either sent off to prison or released on their own recognizance. Lovely place. Always lots to see.
  

A half-dozen metal folding chairs ran along the perimeter of a small waiting area. A frail looking elderly man with an unkempt beard and one clouded eye occupied one. He utilized his good eye to gaze up at Frank. Ahead, behind a sign-in desk, a middle-aged desk sergeant sat thumbing through a stack of paper.

"Help you?" he asked, eyes glued to his paperwork.

Frank stuck his detective's badge under the cop's nose. "Frank Ballaro for Captain Rodriguez."

The cop looked up. A show of regard livened the features on his face. "Ah, Detective. Captain Rodriguez told me to expect you. I'll tell him you're here."

"Thanks." Frank glanced around. A few cops were laughing out loud, making cracks about the crazy man; his pleading cries about aliens were still audible even from behind the closed doors of the back room.

"He's right, you know..."

Frank twisted his neck towards the voice. The man with the clouded eye still gazed at him, straggles of hair escaping the worn Yankees cap he wore. "Pardon?"

"The aliens. They
are
here." His voice sounded like a distorted stereo speaker, and as he spoke drool dribbled from his toothless grin. "And they're covering it up," he whispered, pointing to the offices where the police were working.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to keep an eye out, then."

"You do that." The man smiled, wet lips flattened against each other like two slimy worms.

"Shut up!" The cop behind the desk. "Sorry 'bout that."

Frank placed a hand on the desk. "He's harmless."

"He's nuts. Like the rest of them. Been here three times this month." He leaned forward, smiling. "Said the aliens are here."

"Must be catching."

"Huh?"

"The guy they just brought in."

The desk sergeant laughed. "Yeah, they're a dime a dozen. By the way, nice job."

"Sorry?"

"On the Lindsay case."

Frank smiled halfheartedly, nodded. "Thanks."
Damn
, he thought. Bobby Lindsay, out on bail. It had escaped him for a moment. Being reminded of it now suddenly triggered the vexatious, irrational side of his personality, the same one that had creeped up on him early this morning, tempting him to splatter the rat in the gutter. Suddenly he felt the need to get a grip, control himself from wanting to leap over the desk and choke the desk sergeant. Last night he blamed this illogical anger on fatigue. But today?

He was starting to scare himself.

"Frank..." He heard Hector Rodriguez yell his name from across the room. Frank saw him standing in his open office door at the rear of the precinct. "Come back," he motioned, waving.

The desk sergeant nodded as Frank passed him. He wormed his way through the maze of desks. Twenty or so cops milled about, some busy at work on computers, others questioning disgruntled folk whose expressions clearly indicated that this was the last place they wanted to be.

Frank reached Hector. They shook hands. "How are you?"

"Tired," Hector said. "Been going non-stop since I last saw you."

They entered the office. Hector shut the door behind them and added, "You don't look so hot."

"I feel like
I
was the one who was hit by a taxi. Too old to pull them all nighters."

"I bet. It must be tough sleeping 'till noon." Hector smiled.

"Two. How quickly you forget. Must be old age."

Hector grimaced, then, as always with Hector, it was right down to business. Motioning with his hand, he said, "Have a seat."

Frank stayed standing, and with no hesitation, threw his first question at him. "Anything new come up?"

Down to business—two could play that game.

Surprisingly, Hector didn't give him the run-around. "The first kid's dead too." He sat down behind his desk. "Stayed alive another ten minutes or so, but was DOA at Mercy Hospital. Looks like we got a double murder here."

"Did he say anything?"

"The kid?"

"Yeah."

"EMT's reported nothing. You know...I was going to ask you the same question."

"Actually I was hoping you would." Frank stepped to the water cooler against the wall, pulled a plastic cup from the attached dispenser and filled it. "Before anyone else showed up, he did say something." He took a mouthful of water, tossed the cup in a pail next to the cooler. "This is going to sound strange Hect, and please, don't think I'm crazy or that I was tired because I'm quite sure I heard it correctly."

Hector waited, hands folded beneath his chin. "Yes?"

"Atmosphere."

"Pardon?"

"That's it. Atmosphere. He said just that one word, one time." Frank gripped the back of the chair facing Hector's desk, leaned forward slightly. "I was kneeling over him trying to get him to talk about what had happened. At first he said absolutely nothing, just groaned a lot, and I thought I'd never get anything out of him. But then, right out of the blue, it just slipped from his lips, almost as if he had no control over it. I tried real hard to get him to say something else, but he was hurting real bad, and I got nothing. He said just the one word, one time. That was it."