The phone rang over and over but no one picked up, which was rather strange. Ever since his mother died, every other Friday was dinner night. It was strange his father didn't answer. He hung up and called back once, twice, until the traffic moved a little better for about two blocks, only to gridlock again. Anderson slammed a fist into the steering wheel and swore. He always complained about how bad the traffic was, but he'd never once thought of moving until that very moment. There had to be a better way. Side streets were out of the question since there were no real side streets in New York anyway; they all looked like the street he was on. He had to get to his father. Something was not right. His mind began racing about the possibilities.
Maybe Dad was in the shower.
Maybe Dad stepped out for a second.
Maybe…
But when the guard allowed Anderson into the parking lot and he pulled up behind his father's car, the bad feeling still hadn't gone away. If anything, it had worsened.
"Hey, Andy!" the guard called when he walked back toward the doors leading to the elevators.
"Hi, Mike," Anderson called but didn't stop to speak like he normally would. There was urgency about the way he moved quickly, like a spirit through the doors, and jabbed his finger impatiently against the button leading from the parking lot to his father's floor. When he was finally there, his eyes widened to see the front door to the large apartment standing wide open. Now he was certain something wasn't right. His father would never leave the door open, not even if he was expecting his son to arrive. He held his breath as he walked up to the front door and stepped into the lobby. The floor was clean, the way his father would normally keep it, but still that dread washed through him. His heart began slamming against his chest, his palms sweating.
Easy, Andy. You're exaggerating again.
But that voice quickly turned into panic when he moved further into the house and almost stepped into a large puddle of blood.
"Dad!" he screamed. All thoughts of being careful or rational left his mind as he began tearing through the house. The fact he should back out and call the cops didn't remotely enter his head. All he could think was there was blood on the floor in the foyer and his father wasn't answering his phone. When he finally found his father in the bedroom, Anderson's world collapsed in on him, threatening to destroy him completely. There was writing on the wall across from the bed. The room was neat—put together—which struck Anderson because his father was never a neat person. The bedroom bore the brunt of his paperwork and files.
"Dad," the word was a strangled cry the second time he said it. He didn't recognize his voice.
With shaking hands and tears streaming down his face, he picked up his phone again.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need the police; I just found my father, Judge Williams, dead…"
That was the last thing Anderson remembered doing before he stumbled out of the apartment and fell to his knees, panting for air. It was as though no matter how much air he took in, his body craved more. His throat burned terribly as his body heaved and for the first time in a long while, he vomited. Even though he'd skipped lunch and barely had anything for breakfast, he still threw up. Finally his body simply dry heaved painfully. He lost all track of time and when the sirens stopped and someone began asking him what happened, he turned dazed eyes to look at who was speaking to him. It was a uniformed cop.
Of all the days to be late, why did it have to be this one? He was normally on time but the day had gotten away from him. He'd spent too much time doing other things and he'd forgotten about his dinner plans. He normally would allow his students to go a little early so he could make it on time. Guilt washed over him so strongly his knees wobbled uncontrollably. He felt like a fool and a coward.
Anderson swallowed and leaned against a low wall with his arms folded over his chest, "I don't know," he spoke softly to himself. His voice shook. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight. I knew something was wrong when he didn't pick up the phone. Then I get here and his door… my dad never leaves his door open. He's a judge, for crying out loud! He knows better!"
When Anderson inhaled, he felt his body tremble. Tears threatened to pour down his face again and he turned his head from the cop. "He knew better…" Anderson whispered weakly.
* * * *
A feeling of accomplishment washed over Leo as he added his signature to the file and began reading it over. Though he knew the feeling only lasted until another case fell atop the already high pile of unsolved ones he had on his desk, he had every intention of relishing the feeling for as long as it lasted. With a deep breath, he closed that file, dropped it into a red basket by his desk, and reached for another.
Suddenly there was an outbreak of chaos and Leo Sung Kim looked up from the
