Specimen Days

'Did you talk to him? I'm sorry, but I need to know.'

'When would he have called?'

'Last week. Tuesday.'

Shit. This was something.

'I'd have to check the records. Can you tell me his name?'

'We're in the family. We don't have names.'

Keep him talking. Give the guys as much time as you can.

'What family are you in?' she said.

'He told me he talked to you. I just want to make sure.'

'Are you in trouble? Can you let me help you?'

'I was wondering. Can you tell me what he told you?'

'If somebody's hurting you, I can make them stop.'

No, no statements. Phrase everything as a question. Keep him answering.

'I didn't know.'

'What didn't you know?'

'I thought he was just going to put the bomb somewhere and run.'

'Can you tell me about the bomb?'

'Did you tell him not to do it?'

'Who's your brother? What do you think he did?'

'I shouldn't have called. I'm just scared. Sorry.'

'Won't you tell me what you're afraid of? Won't you let me help you?'

'That's nice of you. But you can't.' 'Yes. I can.' 'Are you happy?'

What the fuck? No one had ever asked her that particular question.

Cat said, 'I think you're un happy. Is somebody making you do something you don't want to do?'

'You'd do the same thing. Wouldn't you?' 'What is it you think you and I would do?'

'We're all the same person. We all want the same things.'

'Can you let me come meet you? Don't you think we should talk in person?'

'Nobody really dies. We go on in the grass. We go on in the trees.'

He was spinning out. Cat kept her voice calm.

'Why do you think that?'

'Every atom of mine belongs to you, too.'

Click.

She paused a moment, to be absolutely sure he was gone. By the time she'd risen from her chair, Pete was in her cubicle.

'Fucking A,' he said. 'What the hell? Brothers?'

'He was on a pay phone. Way the hell up in Washington Heights.'

'Are they there yet?' 'On their way.'

'Mm.'

'There's that line again. 'We're in the family.''

'Is it from some rock band?'

'Not that we can find. We're still on it.'

'They're checking movies, TV shows?'

'They are, Cat. They're good at this.'

'Right.'

'What was that he said at the end?'

'I'm not quite sure. I think it was from Whitman.'

'Say what?'

'I think it was a line from Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass.'

'Poetry?'

'That would be poetry, yes.'

'Fuck me. I'll check in with you later,' he said. 'Right.'

Pete barreled off. Cat had to stay put in case of a callback. No other calls for her unless she was specifically asked for.

Thirty minutes passed. This was part of what she hadn't expected the downtime, the hanging around. When she went into police work she'd seen herself careening around in unmarked cars or touching down in helicopters. She hadn't anticipated so much waiting by the phone. She hadn't pictured a life that would so closely resemble working for a corporation, dutifully performing her little piece of it all.

Every atom of mine belongs to you, too. That wasn't quite right, but it was close enough. A kid who quoted Whitman? Cat was probably the only department member who'd recognize it; she was without question the only one on the premises who'd read Winnicott and Klein, Whitman and Dostoyevsky. For all the difference it made.

Did you talk to my brother? Jesus fucking Christ. One kid self-detonates and his little brother calls to check up on him. A picture was emerging there was that, at least. A missing kid with a younger brother-assuming it was true, and who knew? would be much easier to track down. Were they the sons of cultists? That was more of a rural thing, messianics who raised children deep in the woods, taught them to hate the sinful world, and congratulated themselves for doing God's work. It was more Idaho or Montana, these righteously murderous families who'd gone off the grid. But the five boroughs had their share, too. Hadn't they just arrested a guy who'd been keeping an adult tiger and a full-grown alligator in his one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn? They were everywhere.

She could have kissed Pete when he finally returned. 'What's up?' she said.

'Phone's on the corner of St. Nicholas and 176th. Out of the way. No kid on the scene, no witnesses yet.'

'Shit.'

'You're okay?'

'Yeah.'

'I'll check back again soon.'

'Thanks.'

She was sequestered now. She was bound to her cubicle, on the off chance of a callback. Momma is waiting. Call her. She'll never leave you alone.

* * *

The morning passed. Cat did some filing, caught up on her e-mails. She had one caller, at eleven forty-five, asking for Cat Martin, and her short hairs stood up, but it was just Greta, her only female regular, calling to tell her that the explosion had been caused by the unquiet spirit of a slave girl who'd been murdered on the site in 1803 and that the only way to appease her was to go there immediately and perform the rite of extreme unction. Greta lived on Orchard Street, had been a seamstress for more than fifty years, had eight grandchildren, was probably a nice person.

We all want the same things. She kept hearing the kid's high-pitched, tentative voice, his strange courtliness. There was how to put it an innocence about him. Subject matter aside, he had sounded for all the world like a decent, ordinary kid. That was probably drugs, though. Or dissociation.

Pete stopped by periodically, bless him, to tell her they hadn't found anything, and at twelve-thirty to bring her a pizza from Two Boots.

'Seems like a good day to say 'screw the diet,'' he said.

Pepperoni and mushrooms. He knew what she liked. She offered him a slice, which he accepted.

'How serious you think this is?' he said. 'Not sure. What's your gut telling you?' 'That it's small but looks big.'

Cat folded the tip of her pizza slice, took a big voluptuous bite. Was there anything, really, as delicious, as entirely satisfying, as a slice of pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza?

She said, 'You think it's only these two kids.' 'Yeah. Think Menendez brothers.'