“Fucking idiots,” David sighed as the loud crackling and popping sounds from the high-performance engine exhausts and flashing brake lights of the two cars racing gradually faded ahead of them.
Ten minutes later, Jennifer’s father pulled his car into an empty spot outside the 109th police precinct in Flushing. John followed him inside and watched as he introduced himself as David Miller to the desk sergeant and asked for Detective Williams.
He was told to sit and wait on a wooden bench. It was unoccupied and he sat down, with John sitting about a foot away from him. For a moment the lobby was quiet. There were just the three of them, including the desk sergeant. However, the lingering smells of old coffee, stale sweat, and cologne suggested this was just a pause in a high-traffic area. Seconds later, the external doors burst open and two cops dragged in a man, possibly in his thirties, proclaiming his innocence regarding a drug possession charge. His appearance––all sinew and bone with deeply socketed eyes and yellowed teeth—suggested his record was not entirely clean. Directly behind him was the spirit of a woman of similar age, with the same haggard look. They might have been a couple, might have taken drugs together, but only he had survived the habit so far. Perhaps she had stayed on Earth to wait for him so they could move on together, John thought.
As the officers pulled the man toward the desk, John’s gaze was drawn to their holstered guns. Back in Dublin, the police, or Garda, as they were known, didn't carry guns. They had to call upon a special, armed-response unit for assistance. He understood why it was different here. This was New York, after all––different country, different level of danger and different gun laws—but after two months, he still couldn’t get used to seeing officers bearing arms. Not that a stray bullet could harm him now.
As the group around the arrested man disappeared through a set of internal doors, John recognized a figure now approaching David Miller. It was the detective he had seen the previous evening in the hospital.
“Hi, David. Sorry you had to wait. But I’ve got some good news. Since sending you that text, we’ve had another walk-in witness, someone answering one of the flyers we handed out in the neighborhood asking for help. She didn’t recognize the attacker from any of the pictures of known muggers that we have on file, that live in the area, and match the general description provided by witness statements on the night of the incident. But she did sit down with one of our technicians and we now have a facial composite. Pretty good, too. If the first witness, who works at the bar, recognizes him, we’ll canvass the immediate neighborhood with this picture and send it to other precincts. So, we’re just about to start. I can’t let you sit in, of course, but you can look in on the meeting through the viewing-room window. This is a favor, David. You can’t say anything. You can’t do anything.”
This was better than John had expected. He eagerly followed them out of the lobby and past two large pens containing several desks, one populated with uniformed officers and the other with what he assumed were detectives in plain clothes.
Detective Williams showed David Miller to a door marked Observation Room 1, which was right next to another bearing a sign that said Interview Room 1.
John followed Jennifer’s father in a dimly lit and cramped room of which half of one wall was one-way glass looking into Interview Room 1, where a thin man was slouching in a chair at a table. He was in his thirties with an embryonic beard and scruffy hair, and his hands were hidden in the pockets of his hoodie. John realized he had seen this guy before, during practice sessions with his band or while doing various jobs around O’Donnell’s. There had always been a nervous energy about him. He figured he must be an employee of Donovan’s—and the first witness to the stabbing.
Not content with observing at a distance, John passed through the wall into Interview Room 1 and stood behind the employee. He turned to see Detective Williams enter the room with a large pile of mugshot printouts, which he spread out over the table. There must have been about fifteen. The O’Donnell’s employee sat straight and examined them one by one. They were head shots of men of various ages, ranging from a few that looked almost respectable, to others you wouldn’t trust with your cat.
The employee looked at them all, and finally came to the last one. “Can’t see him anywhere here,” he said with obvious relief.
There was a knock at the door, and the detective beckoned in a female assistant.
She handed him an iPad in a robust case. “Detective Williams, here’s the composite you asked for.”
The detective looked at it quickly and slid it along the table so that it came to rest in front of the man from O’Donnell’s. Startled, John instantly recognized the deep-set eyes, bulbous nose, and full lips before him. Up until this moment, he could not recall seeing the attacker’s face. But now he realized he must have seen it––if only for a second––just enough for the image to get imprinted deep within his subconscious.
In that instant John heard, “Not him.” The words came from the employee, his voice weak and unconvincing. Clearing his throat, he repeated more forcefully, “Not him.” He took his hands out of his pockets and rested his elbows on the table with his mouth hidden behind clasped hands.
“Are you sure, Mr. McGinty? I’ve been doing this a long time. I think you recognized him.”
The
