The Death Agreement (5 page)

A pounding on my door snapped me
out of the trance. "Randon! Commander Litwell says to keep it down.
If you don't, some goons are going to escort you to psych." The
soldier stomped away before I could reply.

After that, I was okay–in shock,
and the world felt surreal, but I felt well enough to do what
needed to be done.

***

I spent hours trying to reach
anyone in Jesse's family. First I tried his father and mother, then
his sister and brother. Like Detective Yang, I wasn't able to reach
them. I called friends, employers, and anyone else I could think to
call. No one had seen or heard from Taylor or his family for over a
week.

Having exhausted all other
resources, I dialed information and asked them to connect me to
Howard Taylor, Jesse's estranged grandfather.

The phone rang twice, then someone
picked up, and a pained voice said, "Huuuh?"

"May I speak to Howard,
please?"

His words dragged out as if he
were gasping for breath. "Whaaat dooo yooou waaant?"

"I'm a friend of Jesse, your
grandson. I have bad news, sir."

"Whaaat baaad neeews?"

"I'm sorry to tell you but Jesse
passed away."

The man went into a hacking cough
for several seconds.

"Sir?"

He gave a pained sigh.

"Are you all right?"

"Nooo."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in
person. From what Jesse told me, you're not very close with your
family."

"Mmm."

"I called because I'm having
trouble reaching his parents and siblings."

The man went into another coughing
fit. I listened to his discomforting grunts and wheezes. The
agonizing sounds reminded me of the time Taylor had told me his
grandfather was a worthless drunk. He had spoken of how the man had
abandoned Jesse's father when his father was just a boy, leaving
him alone to care for his mother who suffered from
tuberculosis.

Years later, Jesse's father had
tried to reconcile. By that time, he had a wife and three kids of
his own, and he thought the kids should know their grandfather. The
reunion went poorly. Jesse had not talked to him since.

"On the off chance that a family
member still keeps in touch…" I wiped my hand down my clammy face.
"Have you heard from any of them?"

He didn't respond right away.
Sobs, stifled screams, and more coughing punctuated the
silence.

Finally, he managed to say in a
wobbly drawn of rasp, "Ooover the yeeears. Biiits aaand
pieeeceees."

"I understand. If you hear
anythi—" The call disconnected. I tossed my cellphone onto the bed
and kicked my dresser with my prosthetic. "Well, fuck you,
too."

I sat for a while, wondering what
I should do. I dialed Yang. Forty-eight hours of nonstop amateur
detective work had led me to very little. All I had managed to do
was verify the grim news that Jesse's family couldn't be
located.

"Detective Yang speaking," he
said.

"Please say you've reached them."
I heard papers shuffling, then the phone went quiet as if Yang had
muted his side of the call. "Detective, can you hear me? I need to
know if you've gotten in touch with the family."

The ambient noise returned, and
Yang said, "No. Nothing yet."

"This is wrong." I clenched my
hand around the phone. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anything
at all that might help?"

"We don't have anything
new."

"With nothing else to go on, can't
you at least open an official missing persons report?"

Yang breathed deep, then said,
"Not at this time."

I gritted my teeth. "I thought you
wanted to solve this case."

"I do. We can't talk about it over
the phone. Would you mind coming down to answer a few
questions?"

"Fine. I'll take a
cab."

"We can pick you up. It will be
faster."

"Okay, let me give you my
address."

"We already have your
address."

"Tell me
something
," I said. "I'm losing my
mind here."

Yang just breathed into the
phone.

"Detective…please?"

Yang clicked his tongue. "There is
something. We found Mr. Taylor's car."

"Found it? I didn't know it was
missing."

"Neither did we. It's what we
found in the car that has me worried."

My heart skipped a beat, and I
swallowed hard. "What?"

"Industrial-sized trash bags and a
hacksaw. Your ride should be there soon. We'll talk more when you
get here." Yang hung up.

The news hit me like a bat to the
ribs. A sick, helpless dread washed over me and vomit rose in my
throat. I covered my lips with my hand, retching. Puke filled my
mouth, drops of acidic slime slipping between my fingers. I ran for
the toilet…but didn't make it.

***

I took a scalding hot shower
hoping to restore my wits. I hopped out of the specialized tub,
reattached my leg, then wiped condensation from the mirror. I
inspected my bloodshot eyes. After squeezing out a few drops of
visine, I stepped from the steam-filled bathroom.

"What the fuck!" I screamed,
covering myself with my hands. Two uniformed officers stood in my
living room, each resting a hand on the butt of their holstered
service weapon. They looked at each other, back at me, then their
eyes dropped to my prosthetic leg.

The larger cop said, "The door was
cracked open. We let ourselves in."

The short, brawny cop added, "Hope
you don't mind."

"What are you doing in my
room?"

The brawny cop said, "Oh, we
wanted to make sure that—"

"That you weren't in danger," the
larger cop finished.

"Well, I'm not, and I would
appreciate it if you would kindly wait in the hallway."

They looked at each
other.

"Let me try it this way," I said.
"Unless you have a warrant, I'd like you to get out of my living
room."

"Technically," the brawny cop
said, "we wouldn't need to give you a warrant as these are
government quarters. That would go to the base
commander."

"I'll be talking to Commander
Litwell myself, trust me." I pointed to the open door. "Now, if we
understand each other, I'd like to get dressed."

They still did not
move.

"The way you're staring at my
prosthetic leg," I said, "I'm guessing you'd like a good look at my
naked ass, too."

"We'll wait outside," the larger
cop said.

The brawny cop said, "Sorry for
the inconvenience." The tone he had used translated the words into:
Screw you, buddy.

The cops stepped back into the
hallway, but left the door wide open.

***

When we reached the police
station, the cops passed me off to a man wearing a button-up white
shirt and an ugly green tie with a yellow mustard stain down the
center.

"This way, please," the man said.
When he turned to lead the way, I saw the badge clipped to his
waist. He led me to a door marked: Interrogation Four. The walls
were white-painted cinderblock, bare, except for what I assumed to
be a two-way mirror on the far wall.

The detective motioned to the
metal desk and chairs. I took a seat, glancing at the mirror on my
right. "Just a moment," he said, smiled, then closed the door as he
left.

After fifteen minutes, I got up
and tried to door handle, finding it locked. I knocked twice but no
one came to let me out. Without any other options, I sat back down
and waited. Over an hour later, an Asian man dressed in a brown
suit and worn tennis shoes came in carrying two cups of
coffee.

"Detective Yang?" I asked, rising
from my seat.

The man set the cups on the metal
table and extended his hand. "Thanks for making the
trip."

I refused to shake his hand but I
took the coffee. "Thanks for making me sit here like I'm some kind
of criminal."

"Lieutenant Randon." Yang sighed.
Then he sat down across from me. "May I call you
Jonathan?"

"Jon."

"It isn't like that, Jon. You're
not a suspect."

"What's it like then?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep
you waiting. This case is spiraling out of control, and you're the
only person close enough to Mr. Taylor who can give us insight into
his motives. Unfortunately that leaves us with a
problem."

"Which is?"

"Trust," Yang said. "New evidence
has surfaced, evidence the police department would never share with
the public. I've convinced my supervisors this information may
help
you
help
us
."

"I'll do everything in my power.
All I want is to track down Taylor's family, make sure they are
safe."

Yang's eyes narrowed and his jaw
tightened for a split second before he smiled slightly. "That's all
we want, too."

"I know what you're thinking," I
leaned back and crossed my arms. "He would never hurt them. Not in
a million years."

"I understand your dedication to
your friend. Believe me, I do, Jon."

"Good, so where do we
start?"

Yang stood. He crushed the empty
paper cup in his hand, then said, "The morgue. I need you to
identify the body before we can release it to the funeral
home."

***

The sun set as we left the
station. Yang climbed in behind the wheel of a white Crown
Victoria, and I jumped into the passenger seat. As we drove, he
asked about my life, time in the service, and plans for the future.
I answered his questions and asked some of my own. I learned he had
been a cop for thirteen years, that he was married, though his wife
had run off with his brother, and now he looked after his young
nephew, and his nephew's mother that his brother had left
behind.

"Sounds like you do understand
what I'm going through," I said.

Yang nodded as he pulled into a
parking spot. After he shut off the engine, he looked at me and
scrunched his eyebrows together. "By the way," he said, "when was
the last time you heard from Mr. Taylor?"

"Um, well…I saw him a few weeks
ago. The last I
heard
from him though, he left a message on my phone about him not
seeing me somewhere, but that's it."

"Not seeing you? Did he expect to
see you?"

"I don't know. It was strange. I'm
not even sure he was talking to me. It sounded like the call was
accidental. Like maybe he was talking to someone else."

"Oh." Yang opened the car door.
"Can I listen to it?"

"Sure."

I pulled the phone from my pocked,
navigated to voicemail, and pressed play.

—
Jesse Taylor Voicemail
—

We sat in silence after the
message finished.

"I don't know what to make of it,
Detective."

Yang bit his lip. "Interesting.
Odd, but interesting."

"What is?"

"If Jesse Taylor that left that
message, my job just got easier. That's all."

"Of course it's him. But I don't
see how that's important," I said, confused.

"What if that isn't him?" Yang
narrowed his eyes. "Maybe
someone
left that recording so we would think it was
him."

"What are you getting
at?"

"Nothing."

"Besides, even if this was some
kind of prank, it wouldn't have anything to do with Jesse's
death."

"You're right, it's nothing." Yang
stepped out of the car. "Come on, let's make this
quick."

Stepping from the car, I shook my
head, wondering what the fuck he was talking about.

"This way," Yang said.

Instead of going in through the
front door, Yang and I walked around to the rear of the building.
Graffiti covered the red brick and metal door. A security camera
perched above the top right corner of the doorway peered down at
us. Yang flashed his badge. The door buzzed and we walked into a
dimly lit hallway.

"I hate this place," Yang said as
we made our way through the maze of grey cinderblocks. We turned
another corner and the area opened up into a waiting room where
twelve foldable brown chairs were lined up in three rows of four.
Dusty inspirational posters plastered the walls. In one corner, I
noticed a display shelf filled with brochures about dealing with
loss, all of which looked as though they had been printed in the
seventies. One in particular showed a hand holding out a plain
cardboard box with red packing tape. The caption read: Don't Pack
Pain Away. Another showed two men with long hair and even longer
sideburns, their faces pressed together and wet with tears. The
caption read: Time Heals All Things.