I don’t really know my way around the city. So when I find the address I am looking for, I heave a sigh of relief, draw my coat closer around me, and turn the handle.
It’s locked.
I scan quickly for a doorbell and, not finding one, I knock. No answer. I knock again.
“Yeah, who is it?” The voice is gruff; the kind of person who’s short on time for everything. It comes from a small dark vent-like thing on the side of the door, protected by glass.
I glance around me, checking for eavesdropping ears. “I’m one of the… ummm…” I whisper, my mouth close to what I assume is the microphone, part of my breath blossoming into droplets on the glass it catches, part of it dissipating into the frigid air. “You know… at the station…”
“Please wait a few moments. Someone will be there to escort you up shortly.” The tone has changed to one of formality.
I nod, and then realize the futility of the action. “Ok. Thank you.”
Within a minute, I hear the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs; professional, efficient. Then the door opens, and a tall, light-skinned, dark-haired guy with gold-rimmed glasses stands before me, his face serious. He checks the surroundings, scans through my identification, and ushers me in.
The dark-haired guy says nothing as we walk up four flights of narrow, time-stained stairs. When we reach 404, he types in a combination on a sleek black electronic lock (that clashes utterly with the rest of this decrepit, and possibly disused, building) and holds the door ajar for me. I step inside, and a rush of warm air hits me.
He points me to a small area where a couple of other guys are seated. “You’re #3,” he says, and walks through a glass door on the left. I see a few cops inside before the door swings and clicks to a close.
The other guys have already taken the sofa and the armchair. Plastic chair for me. Table in between with a notepad and some pens. Guy Number One is on his phone: I can’t see his face, but he is built like a gym instructor. He’s in a white hoodie, with the hood drawn over a red Yankees hat, grey sweatpants, and red shoes. Flicking a pen in his left hand. Guy Number Two is on his laptop but he’s facing me – Asian descent, button-down, jeans, heavy black Canada Goose jacket. He looks up at me, nods, and goes back to whatever he is doing on his device.
The glass door opens and a lady cop calls out: “Number 1, we’re ready when you are.”
It turns out my Guy Number Two is actually Number 1. He flips his laptop closed, takes out its case, slips it in, picks up his jacket, and strides into the white room beyond the glass door.
The sounds from inside are so muffled I can’t really tell what’s going on. I don’t do well without information. I get antsy. Guy Number One (or should I start calling him Number 2?) notices and makes a “calm down” sign with his hands.
“Sorry,” I say. “Bit anxious.”
“My brother has anxiety too.” He says, and he goes back to his phone. I can see he’s looking at some sort of dating app; beautiful women keep showing up on his screen and disappearing as he makes hand motions. “You want some gum?”
I don’t know why he says that but I assume it helps his brother calm down. I nod and extend a hand as he fishes about in his pocket. A fresh stick of Orbit passes between us.
“Thanks.”
“So you saw the whole thing play out, too, huh?”
“Yeah. I was waiting for the train, and I didn’t wanna stand, so I was early. You saw the whole thing as well?”
“Yeah – that’s why they asked the three of us to come in. Jeremy Lin over there…” - he gestures to the glass door – “…you, and me. We’re the only ones who saw it from the start. By the time the train rolled in and the line started filling up, he was de-yead.” He enunciates the final word, making it di-syllabic.
“I remember.” Torn. Ripped… no, cleaved. Blood on the rails. Smell of rust in the air. I didn’t know who the victim was, and I still don’t, but I can’t imagine what someone had done to deserve that. My ears start to ring at the memory.
“Apparently, he’d been skimming funds from our friend… you know… in there.” He nodded towards the door. “And let’s just say men of his standing don’t take it well when they find out they’ve been cheated, especially by their inner circle. Man took it hard.”
Really hard, I think, to justify that level of gore. I am about to respond with something when –
“Where the FUCK do you think you’re going, son?!” The shout is muffled by the glass door, but not enough for me to not hear the words. I hear someone screaming to let them out, and a calm voice explaining they can choose to leave if they want to but there’s no way he’s in any danger and that the entire force is behind him, can protect him. Finally, Number 1 emerges, his button-down dark from perspiration, panic-stricken, off-kilter.
Terrified.
He looks back at us as he makes for 404’s main door, mouths something that I can’t quite catch, and rushes out, banging the door behind him.
Number 2 and I look at each other. He’s standing up, as bewildered as I am. “Did you catch what… what he said?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I feel my anxiety starting to crawl back in, its claws firmly hooked in my insecurity.
He shakes his head and sits back down noisily; the leather of the armchair creaks as it re-positions to accommodate him.
I realize I have unconsciously taken quite a few steps towards the exit door, and walk back to the seating area, confused. Was the person I was testifying against really so frightening that it scared the living daylights out of a guy in a room full of cops?
A horrible thought materialized in my head. What if one of the cops is bent? Maybe the guy figured it out, maybe he saw something that made him realize his testimony was just going to get him killed, and the cops couldn’t protect him because not all the cops were even on the same payroll.
Before I could share my thoughts with my equally disturbed friend, the lady cop appeared at the doorway and called for him. I couldn’t well warn him about bent cops while she stood right there.
Out of ideas, I stood up as he got up to leave and extended a hand, and said cryptically “Hey, good luck in there. Sorry about your girlfriend, man, can’t trust anyone these days.”
I said the final phrase with what I hoped was a meaningful inflection. What I hoped would suffice.
Number 2 looked back at me, confused. Then he shrugged and shook my hand. His grip was like cold iron: clearly, he was as disturbed by Number 1’s exit as I was.
The cop didn’t see the piece of paper he passed to me. On it was written, in clear uppercase, a URL link. I fished my phone out of my pocket and keyed in the URL. It was what I call a ‘no-frills’ website – just plain text or markdown with a few images here and there. Nothing fancy. Nothing special.
Except that it was a hoard of information about the man we were here to testify against.
I won’t write his name. I can’t write his name. Let’s call him K.
I read it all, his entire (alleged, never proven) history of violence condensed into less than a megabyte. He was especially violent to women, and though there was nothing linking him to any of the victims listed on the page, the modus operandi was exactly the same.
It was like a frenzy took over whoever killed these people: bite marks all over their bodies, lacerations all over their face and torso, faces so disfigured they looked more like unfinished bloody mannequins than once-humans. And if these indignities weren’t enough, a body part had been removed and stuffed into their mouths, indicative of the ‘crime’ they had committed against him.
Like the guy in the train station whose fingers I watched him cut off and pushed firmly into the gaping hole that was once where he ate from. The message was clear: keep your fingers out of my money. One of the pictures was significantly worse than all the others: the murdered man had clearly been having an affair with someone close to K.
Maybe I could just leave. No one can stop me. They can’t stop me from not testifying, right? I’m sweating now, profusely, but I dare not take my jacket off, as if a couple of layers of winter clothes can protect me from a Bowie knife or whatever it was he’d used. I feel bile rising, acrid against the back of my throat, choking.
Wait. I’m not even sure it was him that I saw that morning in the train station. Maybe? Maybe not. I mean, I was about thirty yards from where it happened before I started running. Yeah, what if it wasn’t him, and I’m about to give false testimony?
I rise to leave, and almost immediately I’m stopped. The lady cop. We both know what I was about to do – if she can’t see the fear in my eyes or the cowardice in my soul, she can definitely see the sweat drenching me. I consider saying I need the restroom, but we both know before I say the words that I’m not going anywhere.
“Why don’t you take a seat inside, sir? We were going to call you in in a minute anyway.”
I follow her through the glass door, despondently. This room is totally different from the seating area,. White panels everywhere, white plastic chairs, white tiles… blinding. I see #2 in there, seated at a white table on a white chair, and a heavyset white guy is leaning over him, his tone level but I can sense the tension in his voice.
“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to look again, please. Perhaps you can walk up to the glass and get a closer look.”
Number 2 shakes his head, “He isn’t there. The guy I saw in the station isn’t in that lineup. I’m tellin’ you boss, he ain’t there.” Anger seeps into the final sentence.
The heavyset guy throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “You’re telling me – sir – that you don’t recognize a single guy in that entire lineup? Not one? You didn’t see a single one of these men -” #2 cuts him off with a firm shake of the head, eyes down, hands clasped as if in prayer.
“I’d like to leave now please. I’ve done what I came to do. I saw your lineup,” he glances up once, and just as quickly averts his eyes from what I assume (I can’t see from where I am sitting) is a two-way mirror.
The dark-haired guy who brought me up the stairs appears in my field of vision. His entry makes the scene look like something out of a Kubrick film, all contrast against the stark whiteness. He speaks less aggressively than his partner (?), his voice reassuring, calm, oozing control.
“Look, Mr. B—, you’re right. You are totally free to go, there’s nothing we can do to stop you. But just realize that if you were to do that, that would weaken our case. Even if #3 were to testify, the more independent testimonies we can document, the better our chances are. And, if that’s not enough to change your mind, understand that this will happen again. He is extremely dangerous and does not deserve to be a part of our society.”
“What about DNA evidence? His shit should be all over the other guy! What about cameras? Why does it have to depend on eye-witness accounts?!”
The heavyset guy slams the table with his fist and cries, “Because we have fuck-all against him. No cameras! Not a single fucking YouTuber with an iPhone when you need one!”
The dark-haired cop adds, “The DNA case isn’t strong enough. He was a fairly inner-circle business associate of the suspect’s, they could have met before the incident, shook hands. And we didn’t recover any weapon when we took him.”
Wait, I thought, that’s impossible. The cops assigned to or near the station had pinned him down and arrested him before the guy had even stopped tearing the victim apart.
Number 2 echoes my thought – “But… he wasn’t done when they took him. How did he get rid of whatever it was he used to chop that guy’s fingers off?”
“We don’t know, and we don’t know what he used either. In your written statement, none of the witnesses, including you, report observing any sharp object in his possession at any time during the incident, or him concealing it.” The heavyset guy looks at him squarely, as if expecting Number 2 to address that lack of information.
“I didn’t see any sharp object. I was trying to run away, not get a better view. I’d like to leave now.” Number 2 repeats.
I concur – I can’t quite remember how he’d done any of it. It just seemed like the assailant had bent over the victim, and rivulets of blood had started to flow. I had been trying to get as from that as possible, while dialing the emergency digits. I hadn’t seen what he’d done to the fingers until they’d been freed of the hand to which they belonged.
I revisited my bent cop theory again. Someone in the cohort that arrested the guy must’ve helped him out somehow. Destroyed key evidence, removed his weapons. But if one of these cops was bent, why were they trying so hard to get Number 2 to testify? Wouldn’t it be easier for them to just let reluctant witnesses go? Something about my theory wasn’t fitting right.
The dark-haired cop tries again, “This – man –” he spits the word out with distaste “had the balls to mutilate another human being in broad daylight, in front of everyone, with complete disregard to the consequences. His ego is so out of whack with reality that –”
Number 2 cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear it. I need… I want to leave. Now.” The cops exchange a glance. They know it’s over. Dark-hair slumps back on his seat and the other cop tells #2 he knows where the exit it and thanks him for his time. I can hear the sarcasm in his voice from where I am.
I don’t even have time to get up. Number 2 rushes past, head down, tunnel vision. He glances back to the interrogation room, crossing himself. He doesn’t realize I’m sitting on this side of the glass door. He exits quickly, turns left to see the seating area, sees that it’s empty, and slams the door on his way out of 404.
I suddenly feel very alone.
“This is exactly how it went down in Brooklyn!” exclaims the heavyset cop, “Every fucking witness. Every fucking time! How the –” He stops pacing around, sees me, and shuts up. Then he glares at the lady cop who’s making sure I stick around for my turn. “What in the name of Christ is this man doing in here?! Isn’t he our final witness? Why is he in here, Ruth?” His eyes shoot pure venom in my direction.
Ruth doesn’t bother entering into a screaming match with him. She walks over to the guy (I think she calls him Ted or Ed or something) calmly and explains (probably) that I was going to make a run for it if she hadn’t intervened.
Whatever she says, Ted/Ed finds his cool again and grunts half-approvingly. Then he returns to the desk where the other cop is writing something, and bends down to whisper into his ear.
Not-Ted/Ed throws a glance in my direction, and beckons at me to head over to the desk. Ruth confirms this with a well-practiced “Ok, sir, you can go in now. We thank you for your time.”
The first thing I notice as I step into the inner chamber is that it’s freezing. The temperature is several degrees below the other room, and Ted/Ed and Not-Ted/Ed seem not to have noticed. I can feel the vents pointed towards the desk, but they aren’t throwing out enough warm air. I shiver and look to my left – the direction where all the action would be.
I was right. There is (or I hope it is) a two-way mirror, behind which are six people, all male, all white, all quite similar looking; makes me think of that scene in The Usual Suspects. There’s a bunch of black horizontal stripes behind them, and I can see their heights are very different.
And then I see him. And I remember. The blood-rage. The frenzy. The carnage. And the screams and laughter merged in a grotesque symphony muffled only by the beating drum of my racing heart as I hurtled away from the scene.
I am waist-deep in the memory when I realize Not-Ted/Ed has been introducing himself and reading me to me from some sort of legal document. I nod along and sign at the appropriate places.
I hesitate when I see the witness protection program papers but sign again when I am assured this will not likely not come to that, since it’s “pretty slam-dunk once I make an ID from the lineup”.
I wish I’d brought a lawyer along. All this gobbledygook makes me a little uncomfortable and my neck starts to feel warm, and my wrist starts to itch.
“This is officer Edward G.”, he introduces me to the heavyset guy, “He goes by Ted.”
A sudden thought strikes me: instead of a live lineup, why didn’t they just use photographs? Then I realize I’ve already asked the question aloud.
The two men look at each other. The words are left unspoken, but I can hear the silent “should we tell him?” glance reverberate off their faces. Not-Ted turns to me and states, “He doesn’t photograph.” I look at him, and he sees the bewilderment on my face, but that doesn’t make him uncomfortable enough to explain further.
Perhaps I misheard. “He doesn’t photograph?” I clarify, incredulous.
Ted replies, “You heard him. He doesn’t photograph. He doesn’t turn up in the picture. Phones, SLRs, camcorders, polaroids… nothing works. Fucking asshole.” Ted looks daggers in the general direction of the lineup, and I am left amazed that he is angry at the inconvenience this causes rather than the complete shattering of known physics this phenomenon implies.
“It’s like the light bends away from him. The photographs just have an outline of a shape at the location he is present,” Not-Ted explains further, opening up a little bit now that Ted has given the game away.
“And it isn’t even his outline, just some weird-shaped…” Ted begins, but is interrupted.
“Excellent. Now if you could please follow me to the screen.” I am led to the massive two-way mirror, stretching from ceiling to floor. “Are you ready?” Not-Ted asks, and I nod my confirmation. He motions with his hand, and a bright light shines from above the room where the lineup stands waiting. The men behind the screen stand up straight, squinting, their eyes adjusting to the amped-up brightness.
“Witness will now inspect each candidate in Lineup #47601. Upon making their decision, they will enter into the keypad and also write down the ID number that they see assigned to the member of the lineup –“ he hands me a card, roughly the shape of a birthday card, “ – that they saw on the morning of …” and he paraphrases the incident again.
“Take your time,” Not-Ted says, but I can sense the impatience of the two men on this side of the glass with me. I can’t hear Ted breathing; I can sense his eyes boring into the back of my head, wondering if I have the wherewithal to pull this off. He has been noticing my tics gradually increase in intensity, and I can feel his silent judgement at my discomfort.
I go through the ID numbers one-by-one, until I am right in front of him. Mister K. I can see him clearly from here. I place a cursory glance at the rest of them, but I don’t really need to move further. All I have to do is write this ID number down and enter it on the keypad. I decide to go for the keypad first.
Only… I can’t.
It reveals itself through the sound of bells. Not clear, dulcet ringing, no. Chipped, strident, clangs where each ring ends with a scratching noise of metal on metal.
An old, un-remembered sound.
As I process the sound, I realize everything around me is completely still. Unnaturally still, like the world around me is stuck in a freeze-frame. Only my senses seem to be working fine, I can hear, see, smell… a rancid, all-encompassing odor emanates from the direction of the lineup. I can’t turn my head, but I can see from the corner of my eye. I can see what is ringing the bells.
The thing that was Mr. K- moves crab-like, knees bent, crawling one way then another, zigzagging towards me like a deranged puppet, its motions grotesque, its sinews contorted into abhorrent angles. I glimpse a leathery hand clawing two spherical brass objects – the bells – the rings synchronized with its movement.
In abject horror, I try to scream with all my might but the signals from my brain fizzle out before reaching my frozen larynx.
And then, it is there.
Right in front of me, squatting in front of my crotch. The keypad blocks a clear view of it, but I see its head, K’s head. It looks at me, and it grins. A wide grin, stretching ear-to-ear, revealing yellowed, jagged fangs where human teeth once resided, fleshy things stuck between maggot-infested jaws. And as it grins, it raises its free hand to where I can see it, unobstructed.
A fingernail of K’s left hand begins to transform into something longer and more deadly. Instinctively, I know that this new growth is capable of skewering me if this creature so desires. Telepathically, I scream towards it, asking it to stop and reconsider, begging for mercy.
It raises - no, extends - its arms, still in that squatting position, until the drill-like fingernail is directly in front of my left eyeball. I notice the dull-red marks on it then, and whimper internally, praying silently for salvation.
The nail retracts. The creature lingers for a few moments more, still squatting. Then suddenly, I feel it probing my mind, its consciousness streaming through my psyche like a breeze, scanning, searching. The intrusion is brief, but when it removes itself, it takes something of me with it.
A souvenir from my mind.
Then, as quickly and disconcertingly as it arrived, it scuttles back towards the mirror, the bells tolling all the while. I hear squelching from behind the mirror, which I assume are the sounds of it assimilating into K’s human form.
Then the sounds of the bell abruptly cease.
“Everything all right?” Not-Ted looks at me expectantly.
I blink. I look up from the keypad I’ve been holding in a death-grip. I don’t really remember anything that happens after that. I go through the motions, robotically, denying that anyone in the lineup matches the person I witnessed that god-forsaken day in the station.
I remember Ted losing it, threatening me with some court-order or another, and that he had seen me about to dial-in K’s number into the keypad, and that it was all on videotape, and that I was a fucking coward.
He was right. But I continue to live as a fucking coward, rather than die a fucking hero. And I have things to live for. I’m not proud of what I did, but I know my decision at the time, just like #1 and #2 had made before me, was correct. There are demons in this world that we are not equipped to wage war against.
Even now, months later, every once in a while, I hear the metallic clinking sound of the bells again. Perhaps the sound of the bells are just echoes in the alcoves of my troubled mind. Or perhaps it didn’t just take a souvenir from my mind.
Perhaps it left something there as well.