And, according to several sources within the NYPD and FBI, neither will New York’s finest.
Said Kelly at an early morning press conference, “This city will not rest until Officer Fredrickson’s killer is found. This investigation will be the very definition of swift justice.”
The local branch of the FBI has been called in to aid in Parker’s capture. The Assistant Director in Charge of the New York City FBI branch, Donald L. West, said his agents would receive special jurisdiction to cross state lines if found that Parker has fled the state.
Detective Fredrickson is survived by his wife, Linda, and two children.
The pounding blood in my head slowly came to a boil.
He hit me, she said.
Christine Guzman lied to the police. So did Grady Larkin, the superintendent, a man I’d never met. The world had collapsed onto itself, and I was caught in the middle.
It had to be a dream. I was a college graduate, had just started my dream job at a respected newspaper. I was supposed to do great things, accomplish my goals, all the good stuff that would secure me respect and money, and give my reputation longevity. And now I was accused of killing a policeman. A husband. A father. A man who protected the world from criminals. Like me. How was this possible? John Fredrickson-a fucking cop-had nearly beaten two people to death, almost killed me in the process, and now I was facing the vengeance of an entire city.
Drugs. A heroin deal. That’s what the paper said. That’s what Fredrickson must have been looking for, and what the papers assumed I stole. But why would a cop go to such brutal lengths to retrieve drugs? And why did Christine claim they didn’t have it, risking all three of our lives?
And why would a cop, with a family no less, risk everything by beating two unarmed people nearly to death?
I didn’t have the answer.
And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.
I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.
Ironic. I’d always wanted to be Bob Woodward. Pete Ha-mill. Jimmy Breslin. Recognized. Now, my only hope was that the world would see right through me.
I stopped at a thrift store and bought a pair of crappy warm-up pants and a white T-shirt whose collar had already begun to fray. My sneakers I threw into a mailbox, replaced them with a worn pair of Sambas. A cheap pair of sunglasses hid my eyes. But these were only stopgap measures, using bubble gum to plug a ruptured dam.
There were few people in New York I could turn to for help, and if they came up empty…I tried not to think about it.
I walked quickly toward the subway, keeping an eye out for lurking transit officers. I felt light-headed, searching amongst unknown faces for any hint of danger. My hands could be shackled before I knew what happened, I could be beaten to death in my cell, either by cops who thought I’d killed one of their own or by criminals who’d consider it a feather in their cap to kill a man who’d taken a policeman’s life.
Stepping onto the uptown 6 train, my legs felt weak, rubbery. It was all I could do to support my own weight.
The train chugged along, and at each stop I scanned the new passengers, watching intently for the royal blue dress of the NYPD. My life, it seemed, was now entirely up to chance.
I exited at 116th Street and found the nearest pay phone. It killed me to call him after this. I had to hope he’d believe the truth.
My fingers trembling, I inserted a quarter and dialed. The switchboard operator picked up, a woman’s superficially perky voice on the other end.
“ New York Gazette, how may I direct your call?”
“Wallace Langston, please.”
“Just a moment.” I heard a click, then ringing as my call was put through. I chewed on a fingernail, then stopped. Can’t draw any attention. Must act normal. Just another guy on the phone.
A guy with a murder charge hanging over his head. A dead man haunting his thoughts. An entire city turned against him. A whole life…
“Wallace Langston’s office.”
Shit. It was Shirley, his secretary. She’d recognize my voice. And once she did, I’d never get through. She’d call the cops in the blink of an eye.
I raised my voice an octave and gave myself a slight lisp. Thank God my chosen profession wasn’t acting.
“Yes, Wallace Langston. Is he in?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
“Um…this is Paul Westington calling from Hillary Clinton’s office. Mrs. Clinton is ready to give the Gazette an exclusive on her presidential aspirations.”
Silence.
“Sure…just a moment.” Another click, more ringing. Then Wallace picked up.
“Hello, Mr. Westington, is it?” He sounded rushed. Excited for the story. Sorry, Wally, Hillary couldn’t make it, instead you’re on the line with a wanted criminal.
“Wallace, it’s me.”
Beat. I held my breath, pulse quickening.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Henry. Henry Parker.”
There was a moment of silence as I waited for a response.
“Henry. Oh, Christ, Henry.”
“Yeah.”
“Henry, what have you done?” His voice was sad, ashamed.
I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. Wallace believed it, believed what they were saying.
“Wallace, please,” I said, choking back a sob. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it. Nothing in the papers is true. I…”
“Henry, I can’t speak to you. You need to go to the police. You need to turn yourself in.”
“I can’t turn myself in!” I cried. “I’ll be dead before I make it to trial! I can’t do it, Wallace. I need your help.”
“I can’t help you,” he said softly. “The only advice I can offer is for you to turn yourself in. Please, Henry, that’s what’s best for everyone. If they find you before you do that, I don’t know what will happen. God, Henry, how could you do this?”
The muscles in my jaw tensed. My outlets had just diminished by fifty percent.
“They won’t find me,” I said, and slammed down the receiver. Wallace. Jack. Could Jack have known about Luis Guzman? He was a lone beacon in the sea of journalistic turmoil, the man whose allegiances could never be bought, whose opinion never corrupted. But now I wasn’t so sure.
Wincing, I glanced around. Nobody seemed to have noticed the outburst. Shaking, my throat dry, I took another quarter and slid it in. Dialing the next number, the last number, I said a silent prayer. After three rings, a voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Oh, thank God. Mya.”
“Henry.”
“Mya, listen to me. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but none of it’s true. I need to see you. I need to talk to your father. He can help me.”
“Henry, I…I saw the newspapers. It’s all over the television. I don’t think my father can speak to you unless you go to the police.”
“I can’t do that, Mya. I can’t…”
“Wait one second, Henry.” I heard a soft clap-her hand covering the receiver-then a shuffling sound in the
