Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 43

Frank put down the file and rubbed his eyes.

"You look like shit, Frank," Sergeant Harrigan said, stepping into the room.

Frank's back felt like a hunchback's, with large black bags hanging under his eyes.

What the fuck's he doing here?

"Forgot my wife's present. Had it wrapped up in my desk drawer... Rachel wrapped it for me," Harrigan answered the question that wasn't asked aloud.

"Okay," was all Frank could say, his head buried in the papers.

"What you doing here so late, Frank? It's Christmas."

"Look, just let me do my job. I'm having a breakthrough here."

"Breakthrough to what? The Crow case? What's there to breakthrough to? Once we get this Sanford Crow, the case will be closed. If you think you can just sit here and put in overtime for a case that's already solved, you're sadly fuckin' mistaken."

"That's not what—"

"I know what you and the men think of me," Harrigan said. The vulnerability behind his words made Frank cringe. "Sergeant Arrogant, right? Well, I may be arrogant, but I'm not all that dumb. You're trying to get those overtime Christmas hours! Fuck that! Now, I'm no Scrooge, so I'm telling you to go home to your wife on Christmas!"

Frank fell somewhat speechless.

"Sir... if you'd just look at what I found here. There's a chance that Sanford Crow isn't—"

"This discussion is over, Frank. There's no more taxpayer money going into this one. Case is solved, and like I said, once that sick fuck is in chains, the case is closed. Now, if you wanna entertain yourself with some of your bullshit theories, that's your business, and you do your business on your time, not ours. You understand me, Frank? So go home; that's an order."

Lava began to boil in Frank's gut. He closed his eyes and breathed in. There's no reasoning with the unreasonable, he knew that, and he knew it would be a waste of time—time which he didn't have to waste.

"Fine," Frank said, "I'll go home, I'm just gonna make a stop at Lucy Crow's house on the way to check on our guys. Is that all right?" Frank spoke at an even keel. Calm, as he seethed and roiled on the inside.

"Yeah, in fact, I'd prefer it. Consider that an order as well."

Frank knew the game; he was trying to test him, trying to break him. But he wouldn't bite, not tonight. There were far more pressing issues at hand.

"Sure."

The Sergeant studied him for a moment and turned out of the room, whistling Jingle Bells as he walked down the hall.

Frank sighed and brought his attention back to the files, gathering them up in a pile to clear out. One piece of paper fell free from the disarray of the table, gracefully floating to the floor and landing on top of Frank's foot. He bent low to pick it up and realized he had not yet read it. It was the doctor's recommendation from the Fairweather Institution. It was written in barely legible script, but just clear enough for Frank to read. Chicken-scratch, in fact, was his second language.

The doctor had quoted his patients, along with detailed anecdotes of their behavior. He thumbed back to where the directory was—a list of orderlies, nurses, and doctors, some with numbers attached.

What the hell, Frank thought; good things tend to come in bunches.

Frank picked up the phone and dialed a number at random. He didn't care about the time, or the fact it was Christmas. He'd wake the dead to get answers.

On the third ring, a female's voice answered.

"Hello?" the woman asked, groggy and confused.

"Hello, ma'am, I'm sorry if I woke you. My name is Frank Waters, I'm with the police department in Peekskill, New York."

"Huh? What? What time is it?"

"Uhh, it's early, or late, depending on how you look at it. This is Evelyn Amato, correct?"

She cleared her throat.

"Yes. Who is this again?"

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you Mrs. Amato, but I'm a homicide detective out of New York, and I wouldn't have called if it wasn't for the utmost urgency. If you don't mind I have a couple of questions for you about your time working at the Fairweather Mental Institution," Frank said and waited for a response.

"Homicide, you said?" Evelyn asked. Her voice now alert.

"Yes, ma'am."

There was silence for a while, the long droning kind, as if this call has been expected for quite some time.

Frank held the phone pressed against his ear. Finally, he heard her sigh.

"I think I know what this is about," she said.

"You do?" Frank said and leaned back in his chair. "How about you tell me then?"

She did, and Frank listened. He could tell she'd been wanting to tell somebody for a while.

The moment he hung up the phone he urgently gathered the papers in the file, hoping there was still time. The clock on the wall screamed at him, 2:44. His gun slapped against his protruding love handles as he swung his trench coat around his arms. What he'd uncovered was nothing concrete in the eyes of the law. But to Frank, it was the truth, solid as titanium.

Running out into the storm, pellets of ice stung his face like buckshot. He tried to shield it with his arm across his forehead and walked blindly through the iced parking lot. Frank slipped and fell to his knees, planting his hands in front of him and feeling the cold burn of ice as they slid against the slick gravel.

Carefully, he got up and walked to his car, methodically, as if he were on a tightrope, sliding until he gripped the door handle to his car. He got in, fired the engine, surprised that it kicked over on the first try, and threw the car into drive.

He weaved around the few cars on the road. Last-minute Christmas shoppers clogged the streets hours before in hopes of getting that perfect gift. Mostly men, he suspected, heading to the mall to buy something shiny for their wives. But now it was too late for any stores to be open.

What about Nancy? I didn't get anything for her.

There was no guilt in the revelation. After so many years of marriage, he figured she'd grown to expect such things. Their anniversary was a month before the murders began. The date passed with no more than an overcooked dinner he had shown up late for.

He brought his attention back to the task at hand and hoped he wasn't too late. But he had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how quickly he got there, it wouldn't be quick enough.