End of Watch

'Satan comes in many guises, Detective. For our family he came in the form of white powder. I wish you could have met him before the drugs. You couldn't have helped but like him. Ask anyone. He was a good person until the drugs took him.'

'Drugs don't take people. People take drugs.' Hearing the hypocrisy in her anger she changed the subject. 'What did he take with him when he left? Besides money.'

'Nothing. He came in through the fire escape. I knew because the window was open and all the cold air was blowing in. Then he left the same way after I gave him the money.'

'Why didn't he use the door?'

'I don't know. Maybe he heard the TV on and didn't want my mother to see him.'

'Who was watching TV?'

'My mother had it on. She was asleep on the couch with my sister.'

'So who else saw Pablo that night?'

'Nobody. Just me.'

'What did he look like?'

Cammayo closed his eyes. 'Scared. Sick. Junkie sick. He was sweating and shaking. He smelled. He was dirty. He was sick.'

'What was he wearing?'

'I don't know. Dark clothes, maybe. I can't remember. Nothing stands out.'

'How was he wearing his hair?'

'I don't know. He had a cap on. A ski cap.'

'Anything unusual about his face?'

'Yes,' Cammayo answered right away. 'His eye was swollen almost shut.'

'Which one?'

Cammayo touched his face. 'The right one.'

'From top to bottom, tell me everything you remember about that night.'

Cammayo cooperated. His story was consistent with his statement. Unwavering. Frank had hoped to find some inconsistencies and her frustration turned to anger.

'Do you think your brother loved you?'

'What does this have—'

Holding up a palm, Frank interrupted, 'Yes or no. Did Pablo love you?'

'Yes.'

'And his mother?'

'Yes.'

'And his sister and his other brother.'

'Of course.'

'Then explain to me, how in all this time, your brother hasn't once contacted you or Flora or your mother or Edmundo. Can you explain that?'

'No. I can't.'

'You must have wondered about it.'

'Every day,' he admitted.

'So what's your best guess?'

'I already told you. My brother was a junkie. He's probably been dead a long time. I hate the idea but I take a pitiful comfort in it.'

'How so?'

Cammayo shrugged. 'I hate that his life was wasted on poison. He was a wonderful young man. He was kind and generous and he loved to make people laugh. I hate to think the gift of his life was taken so early. But then I find comfort in that as an explanation for his absence and silence. Surely death could be the only thing keeping him from us. If he were alive he would certainly have reached out to one of us by now. I like to think it would be me. That he trusted me before he left, and that he would trust me again. That he would know how well I'd kept his secret. For all these years. Until you came along.'

'Tell me about Leavenworth.'

'Leavenworth,' Cammayo repeated.

Frank lied, 'Pablo called you from there. We have the phone records.'

'You have phone records of Pablo calling from Leavenworth}'

She nodded. 'What did he want?'

Cammayo was either completely dumbfounded or a great actor. The way he held Frank's stare indicated the former. 'Pablo was in Leavenworth?'

'What did he want?' Frank asked again.

Cammayo sputtered. 'When was this?'

'You're telling me you don't know?'

'Of course I don't know. He never called me from anywhere. I've told you! I haven't heard from him since he left. When was he in Leavenworth?'

'You tell me.'

'I don't know!' Cammayo bolted off the couch. 'Why are you doing this? For God's sake, woman, when was he there?'

Frank relented. ' 'Seventy to 'seventy-three. On possession. Busted in Topeka.'

'Topeka}' Cammayo marveled. 'He said he was going to Panama. What else do you know?'

Cammayo had come alive, hungry for more than Frank could provide, and suddenly she felt sorry for him. 'That's it. Paroled in 'seventy-three and then he disappears off the face of the earth.'

'What about before that?'

Frank shook her head. 'Nothing between here and Topeka.'

'What about cellmates? Surely you can get records of that. We can talk to them. Maybe he told them where he was going.'

'Yeah. Maybe. But this is hardly a high-priority case for anyone but me. It'll take time. Mostly my own.'

'I can help,' Cammayo insisted. 'I have connections in prisons. Surely between us we can find him.'

Frank nodded. 'He's gotta be somewhere. Even if it's in a shallow grave at least we'd know, right?'

Cammayo crossed himself, dipped his head. 'Yes. I'd rather know even that than not know. Please. Help me find him.'

'I will,' Frank said. 'One more time. Tell me everything about the last time you saw him.'

Cammayo retold the story, but this time with animation. Frank saw him grasp for each detail but his story was identical to the others.

He finished with a sigh. 'You'd have liked him. I know you would. Everybody did. He was just that kind of boy.'

Crossing the room, Cammayo offered one of his rare smiles. He pulled a wooden crucifix from the wall and handed it to Frank. It was heavy.

He explained, 'Pablo made that for me. For my thirteenth birthday. He hid it from me, working on it when I wasn't home and late at night. He was brilliant with a knife. He could make anything. My mother has a collection of statues he made for her. Over twenty saints. Twenty-two, I think. He had so much talent.'

'Who taught him?'

'My father. He carved, too. He taught Pablo the basics, but Pablo was better than our father ever was. God definitely gave that boy a talent.' Cammayo burst out with vehemence, 'I hate drugs. I hate how they cut down God's flowers just as they're blooming.'

'I know,' Frank commiserated. 'I know.'

She admired the forlorn Jesus carved into the cross, handing it back to Cammayo.

'Let me ask you, you being a priest and all, why is that good people like your brother get taken so early? Why does God do stuff like that?'

'No one can know God's ways. He is a mystery and none can fathom mystery's reason. We must accept what God delivers, having faith that His reason is just, though to our simple human eye it appears anything but.'