A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Read online

  The open bathroom was to his right, but Brian continued down the hallway toward the open room. He followed the trail of blood. The bottom of the door looked clean. Brian entered the bedroom. He added to his map as the blood trail curved into the bathroom. But before Brian left the room, he studied a photograph on the nightstand. It showed a smiling couple in their fifties sitting on a picnic bench, the parents of the deceased by his guess, parents who just lost their daughter.

  Brian entered the bathroom. Blood smeared the floor and the counter. The white tile had become a canvas for the color of life and the color of death. Brian glanced at the spotless bathtub lined with body soaps, shaving lotions, and a razor. As he studied the place that had cleansed the lady of the house, the place of purity, a perfume penetrated him. Brian saw the source on the countertop next to toiletries. Colgate toothpaste, mouthwash, a curling iron, and tubes of makeup lined the countertop—all items that would never be used again.

  The two examiners filled out a “chain of custody” form answering questions about the collection of evidence. As they marked checkboxes, Brian wandered past them. He didn’t make any noise, as if he were guilty of a crime, and to a certain extent he was, but the badge that he displayed on his belt allowed him to move without answering any questions.

  Brian lifted the police tape. The dark hallway engulfed him. A busted light overhead explained the dimness. Brian’s pupils adjusted from the bright lights of the crime scene to the gloom of the area open to civilians. In fact, the hallway was off limits even to residents unless an emergency prompted their venture into the shadows. Brian scratched his head. His mind overflowed with scenarios—the suspect sneaked in through a window, through an unlocked front door, or perhaps he or she was invited. Brian liked the last scenario as the alcohol and the two glasses supported it.

  He removed a Maglite Solitaire from his suit jacket, a small flashlight powered by a single AAA battery. He screwed the lens cap, igniting the light, and kept twisting until the beam concentrated into a circle. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. The place resembled an abandoned prison, the rooms representing the solitary confinement wing. Brian crept through the darkness, his movements catlike. His shoes shuffled on the carpet as he shined the light on the floor. He was looking for something, a treasure buried in plain sight, a key that would open the door to the police file.

  The dark stripes covering the hunter green carpet played with Brian; they teased his logical mind with a sea of randomness. A small circle of dark gray grabbed him, but he realized it was only fabric. Then, he saw another spot, and then another. Possibilities overwhelmed his brain, a position for a man to go from sane to insane, but for Brian, he was already the latter. As his flashlight swept the hallway, the beam hit metal. Brian had made it to the elevators.

  He squeezed his cheeks as he contemplated his next move. He knew the examiners were still compiling information. He figured the best move was to head back to the precinct to get a baseline. Brian sheathed his light and pressed the down arrow. He waited alone, but a sudden movement at the corner of his eye startled him. Brian turned as he placed his right hand on his gun. He locked eyes with a man holding a weapon with his left hand. The man wore a suit with his tie undone. A layer of oil covered his face, filling out the wrinkles on his brow just below his hair, which was parted to the left. The man had a distinct look about him, an all-too-familiar look that could turn one’s glance into a stare. The man was Detective Brian Boise, and he was reflecting back in the mirror.

  A ding resonated behind the hypnotized detective, a sound that he registered yet failed to connect to his muscles. The doors opened. Brian tried to turn away, but the man in front of him inside that mirror was a treasure chest filled with enigma. Finally, Brian killed his trance. He dashed toward the elevator, but as its doors started to shut, he stuck his foot forward. The metal pressed against his brown shoes, which triggered the reopening mechanism.

  Brian entered the brightly lit elevator as he turned and faced the seventh floor hallway. He glanced at his shoes, and then at the bottom of the elevator doors. He bit his lip as all of his blood rushed to his brain. A new door had opened, a door that could lead to a room filled with gold, but it could also lead to a space filled with nothing.

  Brian flipped the elevator’s stop switch, which kept the doors open. The bell pierced the air. Brian kneeled. Although he never polished his shoes, a small scuff of grime had transferred from his withered manmade material to the rubber seal on one of the elevator doors. He removed his flashlight and used it to check the door. Stones and yellow goop stopped his scan, as he didn’t find the particular color he craved. Brian looked at the elevator across from him. He stood from his spot and pushed the same switch again, bringing the elevator back into use. He pressed the highest number on the list, 29, and then jumped out of the box. The doors slammed shut, and then the elevator ascended to the roof at 5.7 miles per hour.

  Brian pressed the down arrow as he moved to the other elevator. He waited, but the seconds seemed like hours. Impatiently, he removed a small pocketknife from his pocket and jammed it into the metal crease. He twisted the blade and sent the doors open. Inside he saw a bare shaft. Brian tried to orient himself. One step and he would face a drop down seven stories. Suddenly, the elevator screamed. Brian rocked back as the guillotine arrived.

  Checking his head, he entered the elevator and flipped the stop switch, which awakened the buzzer. This one sounded louder, angrier, as it filtered down the elevator shaft and into his spine. Brian concentrated his light on the ground. This elevator had a one-inch gap between the elevator and the floor, which Brian analyzed. After a moment, he repositioned the light and checked the rubber seal. Exactly thirteen inches up, something caught his eye. Brian kneeled and looked closely at the something that had dilated his pupils. It was a discoloration, an obvious presence of something foreign. It was a smudge of gray.

  Brian jumped to his feet and darted down the hallway. His heart raced; his breathing intensified. He burst through the doorway, tearing the yellow police tape.

  “Hey! I found something!” Brian shouted at the two examiners who were still wielding their pens. “Come on!”

  Brian turned as both men followed his hustle. The group ran toward the bell that was ringing uncontrollably. Brian used his light and kept it on the smudge. He gestured to his colleagues.

  “I need a full analysis of this. See if it checks out as shoe polish.”

  The two men used their own flashlights to cover the area.

  Brian watched them work, as the buzzer seemed to strengthen. The detective observed the “CSI” on their jackets shift around the item of interest. Brian felt alive, as he had walked into the open door, but no gold was inside, just a large safe that was empty.

  Chapter 15

  A classic episode of Seinfeld displayed on a Sony 55” LCD television. Jerry sat at a table as his date, a buxom blonde, opened a bottle of beer with her “man hands.” Trevor and his family burst out laughing on their couch. The Malloys sat together as one before bed, wearing their pajamas. Trevor put his arm around Laura as his cotton robe massaged her neck. He squeezed her tightly, just enough to let her know that he loved her. Katie snuggled next to her mom. Kevin nestled between his parents on the floor. Jerry’s date on screen cracked open a lobster with her hands, which sent more laughs from the Malloys.

  Beyond the serene suburbs and into the confused city, the tenth floor on one of the oldest city high-rises housed a similar family. The 26” CRT RCA television engrossed Jonathan Boise with a video game. He played alone, unemotionally, and without a warm hand on his shoulder. Anne Marie Boise sat in the cramped kitchen writing in her diary. The pages were filled with synonyms for the words “disappointed” and “unhappy.” The Boise residence lacked the energy of that of the Malloys, but there was an even greater difference between both homes—the father of the Boise house was not present; he was off in another life.

  Two hours later, after the kids of the Malloys and
the Boises slept in their beds, Detective Brian Boise sat at his desk with a barrage of mess. Papers, old food wrappers, and Post-it notes attacked him as he stared at his computer screen. He did not wear a handsome robe, warm flannel pajamas, or even feathery slippers; rather, he wore a white dress shirt caked with the stench of stale air.

  As the moon rose to its peak over the slumbering city, Brian’s desk was empty. The janitor might have mistaken the absence of the desk owner to mean he was gone, but at further inspection, the orange light on the sleeping computer monitor and the open manila folder would suggest otherwise. The owner of the desk, Detective Brian Boise, stood at the window, the same window he often had stared through as he reflected.

  The morning sun rose over the city. Most of its residents still slept, waiting for their alarm clocks to wake them to a new day. But for Detective Brian Boise, his night had never ended. He went back to his desk with a layer of stress painting his face. The small wrinkles on his brow seemed to deepen as he willingly, yet unwillingly, prevented a night of rejuvenation. His computer monitor reflected off his red eyes. Brian scratched his cheek with his left hand as his nails agitated his growing stubble. Brian’s right hand scrolled through the windows on his screen as his brain processed the information at a quarter of its clock rate. Page after page of shoe polishes consumed his screen. Light gray, silver, slate gray, cool gray, ash gray, arsenic, dim gray, cadet gray, timberwolf, platinum, battleship gray, and charcoal displayed in over twenty brands.

  Brian paused as his eyes rejected the commands from his brain. He rubbed his face and closed his eyes. He saw nothing, the void of blindness that we all see when we choke our eyes of light. However, there was a bright intensity of light that he couldn’t remove. No matter how he moved his eyes, the light followed him. He knew he had to rid himself of the desk, to try another avenue in a city with a thousand avenues. Brian opened his eyes and refocused on the sunrise through the window. He stood up and paused for a moment as his bones cracked. Brian grabbed his keys.

  The city flowed with the morning traffic jumpstarting their attack on the new day. Cars lined the roads; business professionals paraded with newspapers. Brian drove his SUV behind a Toyota compact car. It offered a bumper sticker to the world that said, “Well, this day was a total waste of makeup.” It was a joke that gave nearly everyone following a chuckle, but this particular driver reading the sign was not nearly everyone.

  The traffic light up ahead turned yellow as the Toyota’s four cylinders barked from its driver’s punch. Brian, on the other hand, decided to play it safe. He stopped. His V8 calmed to an idle as he sat with a weariness flowing over him. Even though his mind knew where he was going, it couldn’t process any other information.

  The crosswalk sign illuminated a white stick figure. The mess of pedestrians marched across the street. Brian stared at them as they moved with a purpose in life. He lowered his eyes to the concrete as the shoes of the crowd captivated him. Brown loafers, abused tennis shoes, polished black dress shoes, and red stiletto heels all trudged across the street. Brian tried to track them, but they all seemed to blur together.

  The light turned green. Brian accelerated. Suddenly, a teal minivan sped past and cut in front of him. He hit the brakes.

  “Asshole!” Brian yelled.

  The van tailgated another car. Brian sped up and followed. He watched as the minivan’s lights flashed the innocent vehicle. It pulled over as the van rocketed forward.

  Brian grabbed his red light and placed it on the roof of his SUV. He punched the gas and reached the teal minivan. Now, Brian tailgated it.

  Seconds passed as the minivan kept up its speed. Brian inched closer. Finally, the minivan pulled over.

  Brian stopped and burst forth from his SUV. He moved with conviction as he neared the teal-colored vehicle. The paint was faded. A hubcap was missing. The windows were all blacked out. The vehicle was…Brian.

  He banged on the opaque glass, his mug reflecting back at him. Finally, the window rolled down as a middle-aged man with a crooked nose stared back.

  “What’s the fuckin’ hurry?” Brian said.

  “You’re not a cop. You look like a bum,” the man replied.

  Brian flashed his 9mm. He patted his other side searching for his badge.

  “Yeah. Where’s your badge, huh?” The man rolled down the other window. “Someone help! Get the cops! There’s a crazy dude with a gun here!”

  Brian looked back at his SUV. Then, he bit down as he grabbed his 9mm and smacked the driver in the face. Blood gushed from the man’s nose.

  “Listen, asshole,” Brian said. “I’m very fragile right now. So please, get the fuck out of here…slowly.”

  The minivan crept away, the window still down.

  “And use your signal!” Brian shouted.

  The man turned on his signal and drove cautiously away.

  Brain holstered his 9mm as several business professionals gawked. Others took cover. Brian stomped back to his SUV. He looked on the seat, and then bent to check under it. On the floor next to a Wendy’s wrapper, he found his badge.

  Brian pulled into the parking garage for Janice’s condo building and into the first of three spots labeled “Police Vehicles Only.” He slammed the door shut, the sound filtering throughout the concrete, and checked his weapon and his badge. He walked down the sidewalk toward the towering building as the brisk morning air enveloped him. Brian’s breath steamed from his mouth. It seemed to flow lower in the air than the breath from the other passing people, lower because he was already cold. Brian hoped to find the familiar doorman, the same man who had helped him the other night. If he weren’t at his post, then that would mean more time trying to track him down. But as Brian approached the glass facade, the portly doorman greeted him.

  “Hello, sir,” the doorman said.

  “You and me should get a job with more hours,” Brian joked.

  “Tell me about it,” the burly doorman returned with a chuckle.

  “I know you’ve been interviewed before, but I have a question for you.”

  The doorman closed the door and stepped closer to the detective. “No problem, sir. Anything I can do to help. Miss Davis was such a nice young lady.” The man shook his head. “She would always go grocery shopping Monday evenings.”

  “Shoes. Do you remember the shoes of anyone around the time of Miss Davis’ return?” Brian asked.

  “Shoes? I can’t think right now.”

  “Please.”

  The doorman looked off into the distance and focused on a dog leading a blind man. The overworked door holder chewed the detective’s query with his mind, chewed it over like salt-water taffy.

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Men’s dark gray dress shoes, nearly black. He would probably be dressed professionally,” Brian clarified.

  A man dressed in a black pinstripe suit with a newspaper under his arm walked in front of the two men.

  “Ninety percent of the people walking in and out of here are dressed professionally. I need a picture or something.”

  “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything, please give me a call,” Brian said as he handed him his business card.

  Brian shook the man’s hand, and then staggered into the building. He made it to the elevators and pressed the up arrow. Brian waited for the machine to respond to his command. He took a deep breath as the warm, filtered air felt good deep inside his chest. A rack of newspapers caught his attention. Brian tilted his head to read the bottom half of the newspaper—“…The City To Be Safe.” He reached to flip over the newspaper, curious to the beginning half of the phrase hidden by the fold, but the elevator dinged and stole his focus.

  The elevator opened as a rush of cool air rolled over Brian. It felt brisk to him as if he were outside again, but the air had an odor to it, an odor that caused the detective to breathe through his mouth. As he entered, he looked down and saw the gap between the elevator and the floor. Then, he looked at the rubber that was on
e foot above the ground. It glistened under the fluorescent lights. The place once the focal point of an entire Crime Scene Investigation team was now nothing more than a rubber seal protecting the metal doors. As the elevator closed, the detective knew the box that he stood in had housed the killer that he so desperately sought.

  On the seventh floor, a ring sounded. The elevator opened. Brian walked off and moved toward the room that haunted his mind. He saw the shadow of the man in the mirror out of his peripheral vision, but this time the detective kept moving. The hallway was now lit as the broken light appeared fixed, but the quietness was still eerie. Doors lined the area as Brian stepped on the zebra-patterned carpet. All of the rooms appeared identical, part of the condominium’s association, except for a door down the hall on the right. Yellow tape, plastered with the word “crime scene,” decorated it.

  Brian stopped at what appeared to be the entrance to a twisted Halloween party. A sheet scribbled with police jurisdictions was stuck to the door offering a drifter with a list of reasons not to enter. Suddenly, the sound of metal reached Brian’s oversensitive ears. The detective turned as an elderly woman filled his bloodshot eyes. She stepped from the door to her condo, but at the sight of Brian lingering at the entryway—the entryway that had kept her awake at night, had kept her contemplating whether she should move—the woman turned the other way and decided to take the stairs. Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing a key to the room that had also kept him awake at night. He pushed the metal into the cylinder and twisted, the sounds of his subtle movements stabbing through him.

  The door creaked open. The smell of death stewing inside hit Brian’s nostrils. He stood motionless at the door trying to adjust to the place limited only to individuals who had taken an oath. The morning sun tried to penetrate the condo, but the heavy drapes absorbed it. Brian stepped into the tomb. A ray of the sun, still pristine from its 93 million-mile journey, sneaked its way through a crease between the drapes and cut through the condo. Specks of dust scared from Brian’s presence swirled in the sunlight.