Parker 04 - The Fury (3 page)

shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the

shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor

hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a

little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik

Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of

leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the

weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.

I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down

with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in

front of me and read while I did. The
Gazette
's pages

looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack

O'Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the

treatment he needed.

Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and

made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every

word, fascinated at just how many stories there were

within this small teeming city.

When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes

in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn't

recognize the caller ID.

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Jason Pinter

I clicked Send and said, "This is Parker." I'd strug

gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was

my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too

casual. As did "Henry." I considered, "Parker, Henry

Parker," but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first

time I tried it. "Parker" sounded nice, succinct.

"Is this Henry Parker?" the voice on the other end

said.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Henry, I'm Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.

Are you busy right now?"

I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. What

the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn't

working on any stories that had NYPD involvement,

and I didn't speak to any cops on a regular basis with

the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.

"Detective, it's pretty late and I just got home from

work. What's this about?"

"I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could

answer a few questions."

Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, "Question

away."

"Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?

About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes,

the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues,

much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?"

I felt my pulse quicken. "Actually, a man fitting that

description was waiting for me outside my office when

I left work tonight. I didn't really speak to him. A col

league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled

reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn't much

of a conversationalist."

The Fury

23

"Interesting," Makhoulian said. And he genuinely

sounded interested. "Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to

come down to the county medical examiner's office

tonight. You know where it is?"

"Thirtieth and first. I've been there before. I'm a

reporter with the
Gazette,
I've spoken with the medical

examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?"

"Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

This has nothing to do with any previous involvement

you may have had with the NYPD." He didn't need to

say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about

Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who

were involved in my being hunted across the country

for a murder I didn't commit. "I'm going to need you

to meet me at the M.E.'s office in one hour. Will that be

a problem?"

"No, but I would still like to know what all this is

about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw

this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have

the decency to tell me why."

"This man I'm speaking of, he was found two hours

ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two

gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe

you were the last person to see him alive."

"Okay," I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?

What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?

While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in

the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of

remorse. "Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy

probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter

might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.

Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he's dead,

24

Jason Pinter

and while it really is a shame, I don't know what I can

offer to help the investigation."

There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou

lian said, "This man's name was Stephen Gaines. Does

sound familiar?"

"No, sir, it doesn't."

"That's very interesting." I was beginning to worry.

Why was that interesting? "I'm still going to need you

to meet me at the M.E.'s office. One hour," Makhoulian

said, "because according to his birth certificate and

medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother."

3

There are times in your life when you walk forward

despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan

gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to

steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different

permutations in your mind, positive and negative,

weighing how each might impact you. Then when the

blow comes, you're able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec

essary.

When Detective Makhoulian said those five words--

Stephen Gaines was your brother
--they hit me,

knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare,

no time to soften the blow.

At first I didn't believe it. Or I didn't want to. But

I'd heard the name Makhoulian before. I'd spent enough

time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that

it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men

tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear

nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.

Sitting in the back of a taxi, I tried to wrap my head

around it. I'd never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.

The last name did not sound familiar.
Gaines.

26

Jason Pinter

On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by

four or five years. Of course, considering how strung

out he looked, it could have swayed a few years in

either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was

gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis

tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu

nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn't be

able to answer them. At least not all of them.

I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in

Manhattan's Kips Bay. The medical examiner's office

had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the

building refused to modernize. It was a block away

from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious

medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker's

Island, as well as criminals from New York's central

booking requiring medical attention, were among the

most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the

emergency room late at night, you'd be in the company

of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains,

armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were

a coffee shop, a bookstore and a multiplex movie

theater. Scary to think that while you were busy

munching on popcorn, evil lingered so close by, cloaked

in formaldehyde.

I approached the entrance tentatively. Who was I

going to ID? I'd never met this man before last night,

and now I was expected to point him out, feel some

deep-down emotion like I'd known him my whole life?

I'd never bonded with this person. Never done things

most brothers did. Never played catch. Snuck a drink

from Dad's liquor cabinet. Never smuggled dirty maga

zines under our covers, or smoked cigarettes until our

The Fury

27

lungs burned. I was identifying a stranger, yet expected

to act like he was my blood. Impossible.

Pushing the door open, I went up to the receptionist.

He was wearing a white lab coat, and didn't look a day

over twenty-five. I figured he was some sort of medical

intern, manning the phones while studying for his

exams.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked. His name tag read

Nelson, Mark. He chewed on a pen while he waited

for my answer.

"I'm here to see Binky...er Dr. Binks," I corrected.

No sense ruining the illusion that Binks was a sane and

respected member of the medical profession.

"And you are..."

"Henry Parker," I said, taking my driver's license

from my wallet. "I'm here to identify Stephen Gaines."

The name felt foreign on my tongue, yet Nelson's eyes

melted with sympathy. He looked down at his desk,

pursed his lips.

"Right," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

I didn't bother to point out Nelson's faux pas. That

it was a little premature to console someone for their

loss before they'd actually identified the body. Or that

I felt no loss at all. How could I? Nevertheless, I told

him I appreciated it. He asked me to have a seat while

he paged Dr. Binks.

I took a seat on a light blue couch. It was hard. There

was a small table in front of me. No reading material.

This wasn't your typical waiting room. If you were

here, I supposed not even
Golf Digest
could take your

mind off of what lurked below.

After several minutes, I heard the
ding
of an elevator

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Jason Pinter

and out strode Leon Binks. Binks was in his late thirties,

graying hair matted against his brow. His eyebrows

were as messy as his hair, a collection of short pipe

cleaners bent every which way. The medical examiner

was perpetually disheveled, as though he cared no more

about his appearance than those corpses he worked on

would. His hands always seemed to be moving, offering

gestures that his dialogue (and lack of social skills) pre

sumably could not. I imagined that if, like Leon Binks,

my whole life was spent amongst the dead, I might

have some personality idiosyncrasies as well.

"Mr. Parker," Binks said, approaching me with his

hand outstretched. I went to meet him, and he shook it

vigorously. An awful smell wafted off of Binks, iodine

perhaps. I didn't want to ask, but I hoped he showered

before attending any dinner parties. "Thanks so much

for coming. Detective Makhoulian is downstairs

already." Then Binky's eyes lowered, and he said, "I'm

sorry for your loss."

I sighed, thanked him. "Can I see the body?"

"Oh, of course," Binks said. "Follow me."

Binks led me into a gray metal elevator. He took a

key chain from his pocket, inserted it into a slit next to

the sole button. Once turned, he pressed the button, and

the doors opened. Once inside, he pressed a button

marked M. For Morgue. The doors closed, and we

traveled in silence, down several flights. Finally the

elevator stopped and the door slid open.

Whatever odor had been stuck to Binks was even

stronger down here.

Outside of the elevator, the hallway divided into two

separate pathways. A plaque mounted on the wall had

The Fury

29

arrows pointing in either direction. To the left, the arrow

read, Morgue. To the right, the arrow read, Viewing

Room.

Binks began walking toward the right.

I followed behind him as he opened a door and led

me into a small room. A man was waiting for us inside.

He was about five-eight and built stocky and muscular,

like one of those NFL linebackers who had trouble

seeing over the center but could deliver a hit like

nobody's business. His skin was dark, a neat goatee, and

he wore a dark gray suit. He looked at me as we entered.

"Detective?" I said.

"Detective Sevag Makhoulian," he said. He ap

proached and shook my hand. "For short, people call me

Sevi."

"Makhoulian...what background does that name

come from?" I asked stalling for time.

"It's Armenian," he answered patiently.

"Were you born here?"

"I was born in Yerevan, my parents emigrated here

when I was very young." His accent was noticeable but

not thick, and his suit was as American as they came.

"Gotcha, don't mean to pry."

"I know it's your job to do just that, Mr. Parker. I do

appreciate your coming down here on such short notice.

And I must say I enjoy your work. Insightful, not to

mention how nice it is to see a young man achieving

success based on something other than setting fire to

hotel rooms. It's a shame we had to meet under these

circumstances. Curtis Sheffield speaks very highly of

you."

"How's Curt doing?" I asked.

30

Jason Pinter

"Aside from the bullet in his leg? He's just peachy."

Makhoulian said this with a slight smile. Last year Curt