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It began with a manila envelope and a tape.
The envelope was sitting on Gil’s desk when he arrived at work that morning. It was the third Monday since Malcolm had gone missing.
No one spoke to Gil as he walked through the precinct. No one had tried to speak to him since last Monday when a stapler had been knocked off of Malcolm’s desk—his vacant desk, with dust building on the dark wood and his pen still laying next to his notebook—and Gil had shouted at Tim the new assistant until his throat ached.
Tim had profusely apologized and offered to polish off the stapler, but Gil had raised his hand to silence him. He liked the stapler the way it was. He liked that Malcolm’s fingerprints were still all over it, foggy streaks against the slick black surface.
Tim reminded Gil of Malcolm. He wore pristine suits and cufflinks every day. He had floppy brown hair that reached down to touch his eyebrows when he smiled. He had big blue eyes that glinted beneath the precinct lights.
Gil hated Tim.
He loved him.
He needed him.
Fuck.
Gil had pushed the manila envelope aside at first, placing his coffee mug down in its stead. Inside were most likely some photos from Edrisa or some files from JT.
Who cared?
He would get to it later.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Malcolm’s stapler sat next to his picture at the foot of Gil’s desk.
It was strange, though, because oftentimes JT or Edrisa would label their envelopes.
GIL, HERE ARE SOME BODIES. ENJOY.
GIL, THE FILES.
But this envelope said nothing. The paper was creased around what appeared to be a small box. He reached forward—
“I’m really sorry to bother you, Lieutenant Arroyo.”
Tim had a frown on his face.
Gil leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. He nodded, then cleared his throat before he spoke. Still, his voice splintered as he spoke. “What’s up?”
Tim crept only a few steps into the room, still hovering near the doorway. “It’s just that…” he trailed off and picked at his shirt cuff. He was wearing a brown suit. “Well, I was wondering if you opened the envelope yet.”
Gil frowned. “No, why? Did you put it here?”
Tim shook his head, then blinked a few times and nodded. “Kind of. I, uh, I mean, I put it there, but it’s not from me.”
“Okay. Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know,” Tim said. “It was on the front step this morning.”
Gil leaned over his desk, looking straight into Tim’s eyes. He made a point not to blink. Tim looked away.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Tim?”
Tim nodded. He swallowed. “It’s just that… I think it’s about Malcolm Bright.” After he spoke, he shrunk in on himself, as if expecting Gil to scream or throw something.
But Gil did nothing of the sorts. His heart had slid down to his feet and his blood was now pooling in his shoes. He drew in a short, shaking breath, and as calmly as he could muster, said, “And what makes you think that?”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t know. I just… have this feeling. I—”
“You can leave now, Tim.”
Tim blinked. “But, sir, I—”
Gil raised his hand. “Leave.”
Tim nodded and scrambled out of Gil’s office, shutting the door behind him. The air in the room seemed to gain weight, heavy against Gil’s tongue as he sucked in another short breath.
I think it’s about Malcolm Bright.
He reached forward and grabbed the envelope from his desk. The box sank to the bottom left corner. Gil tore open the envelope and reached inside.
Stupid, he knew. He was a lieutenant in a police precinct. He knew better than to open an unidentified package on his own, but he couldn’t stop his fingers from wrapping around the box and pulling it free from the envelope.
It was a tape with FRANKLIN scrawled across the front in messy black letters.
Franklin? What did that mean?
There was a knock at the door and Gil tore open his desk drawer, shoving the tape and the manila envelope inside. He felt guilt coil up in his throat like he was doing something wrong. Maybe he was.
“Come in,” he called.
JT pushed open the door. He held a coffee in his hand. He smiled at Gil, then let his face fall into a frown when he met Gil’s eyes. His mouth curled into a tight pout.
“I, uh—” he raised his hand with the coffee, “delivery.”
Thanks,” Gil said. He nodded to the mug that sat on his desk. “But I already got some.”
“Oh.” JT shifted awkwardly on his feet for a moment, hovering in the doorway much the same as Tim had. “How are you… uh… how are you doin?”
Gil shrugged. “Fine.”
“It’s Monday,” JT said like Gil didn’t already know.
“The third Monday of the month.”
JT took a sip of the coffee. He looked down at his hands. “Hey… who were you talkin to earlier? Any… you know… updates?”
Gil shook his head. “No. It was just Tim.”
JT frowned. “Who?”
“Tim. The new assistant.”
JT’s expression didn’t change into one of realization. His eyebrows furrowed and he inched forward. “There’s no Tim,” he said. “I think you should go home.”
But Tim had just been right there. He had been in the doorway. He had arrived at the precinct the three Tuesdays ago, one day after Malcolm had been taken.
“...Gil?”
“I’m not going home.”
JT sighed. “Just go.”
“I have work to do.”
“Come on, Gil. One day off won’t hurt.”
“No,” Gil said. He wrung his hands together. “I can’t.”
“You can. You have to. You’re exhausted.” JT had sat down across from Gil, his arms folded over his chest. “We both know you haven’t done anything since—” he cut himself off and took a long breath. “One day off won’t hurt.”
Gil shook his head. “This is my precinct,” he said. “I’ll say what I can and can't do.”
“That’s not what I was—I’ll keep looking for him.” He looked down at the coffee cup in his hands. “You know I will.”
“I know you’ll try. But trying isn’t good enough. Not when it’s my kid.”
JT nodded curtly. “We’re doin everything we can—”
Gil slammed the heel of his palm into his desk. Then, he drew his hand back and let his gaze drop to the stapler and the photo of Malcolm. “Well, it’s not good enough,” he whispered. Malcolm smiled at him, his hand frozen in a memory as it held up a soft-serve chocolate ice cream. He must have been fifteen at the time.
For a moment, the words simply stewed in the air, before JT stood, his chair screeching across the tile. “I’ll keep looking,” he said. He stared deep into Gil’s eyes through thick, tired lashes. “I promise.”
Gil watched him shuffle across the office, toss the empty coffee cup in the recycling bin.
“Wait, JT,” Gil said. He opened up his desk drawer and pulled out the tape. “I need a VHS player.”
JT frowned. “Why? What’s that?”
“A tape.”
“I know that. I mean, who’s it from?”
Gil shrugged.
“You don't think it’s about Bright, do you?”
Gil shrugged again.
“Shit.” JT ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “Where the hell am I supposed to find a VHS player?”
“I’m so happy you called me,” Edrisa said as she burst into the conference room. She held a briefcase.
Dani rolled her eyes. “I’m not.”
Edrisa ignored her in favor of placing her briefcase on the table and zipping it open. “My obaasan has had this lying around in her attic for years and I’ve been dying to use it.” She sobered up at her next words, pushing her glasses up. “Of course, given the circumstances, I—”
“What circumstances?” Dani asked. “What’s going on?” She was sitting on the back tables, the place where Malcolm sat left empty.
Where Malcolm used to sit.
Gil took a long breath. He twisted the tape in his hands.
FRANKLIN
What did that mean?
“I got this today,” he said. “In an envelope on my desk.”
“What? You opened it?”
Gil nodded.
“But, that’s dangerous—”
“We think it’s about Malcolm,” JT said.
The color bled from Dani’s cheeks. “Oh,” she said. She shifted on the table. “How do you know?”
“I said, we think.”
Dani sighed. “I know. Why do you think?”
“Not sure,” Gil said. “Just a feeling.”
“So it was on your desk? Who put it there?”
“I did,” Gil said.
Not Tim. There had never been a Tim. He knew that, but it was easier when Tim was around. It was easier to scream at Tim when he knocked Malcolm’s stapler off his desk than to scream at himself. It was easier to pretend Malcolm was still there—at least, someone like Malcolm—than for him to be wholly gone.
“It was on the front steps this morning.”
Dani nodded. Edrisa clamped her hands together.
“Gil?” she said softly. “We’re ready.”
Gil handed Edrisa the tape with a sense of reluctance he hadn’t expected. What if this tape showed Maclom’s dead body? What if this showed him being shot or stabbed.
Or, what if, perhaps worst of all, this tape had nothing at all to do with Malcolm?
“Who’s Franklin?” Edrisa asked.
Gil shrugged. “Hell if I know.”
Edrisa stuck the tape in the recorder, which she had connected to the roll in TV. The screen buzzed to life with horrible static, and Edrisa shouted an apology over the racket, covering her ears and slinking forward to push a red button.
A man appeared on the screen. He wore a clown mask with blue hair and a sinister, yellow smile. He was crouched, consuming most of the screen, but Gil could make out dank concrete behind him.
There was a large PAUSED on the top right corner of the screen.
“Are you ready?” Edrisa asked.
“No,” Gil said, but he nodded. He sighed. “Do it.”
She pressed play.
The man came to life and he howled a laugh. He waved.
“Lieutenant Arroyo,” he said, “long time, no see.”
Gil ground his teeth. He didn’t recognize the man’s voice.
Franklin. Who was Franklin?
“You know him?” Dani asked.
Gil shook his head.
There was a strangled whine from behind the man, followed by the sound of metal against concrete.
“That’s your boy,” the man said.
He didn’t need to, Gil knew.
Dani gasped, and Edrisa put her hand to her mouth, chewing on her fingernails. JT stared forward, clenching his fists.
“I’m gonna hurt your boy just like you hurt mine.”
Franklin.
Franklin Fernandez.
“I know this guy,” Gil said. “I arrested his son a couple of years ago.”
Franklin grabbed the video camera and spun it around to show Malcolm.
“Oh, my God,” Dani whispered.
He was tied to a chair by his wrists and his ankles, his blood dripping from the chains to land on the stained concrete floor. The room had a single hanging light directly above Malcolm, the background colored in dark shadow. It looked like a cellar.
Malcolm’s head hung limp to the side, his hair matted with… with blood. A lot of blood. It oozed from a gash on his forehead, right above his eyebrow. He was dirty and his clothes were torn. His pajamas. Franklin must have taken him in the night.
He had found Malcolm, knew where he lived.
“Is he—” Edrisa started, but she cut herself off when Franklin panned the camera back to face himself. He pulled off his mask to reveal his face. He looked just like his son, with black, scraggly hair and dark eyes.
“Leo was killed this year,” Franklin said. “He was stabbed in his cell.”
“Leo’s his son?” JT asked.
Gil nodded.
“He died scared and alone. I want the same thing for Malcolm.”
Gil wanted to vomit. He sucked in a sharp breath and tightened his hold around the table.
He was going to kill Malcolm.
He was going to kill his kid.
Gil couldn't help the sob that tore from his throat. JT put a hand on his back.
Franklin turned the camera back around to face Malcolm. Two men wearing clown masks were now in the frame, on either side of Malcolm. They were—they were untying him. Why were they untying him?
One of the men wrapped his hands around Malcolm’s hair and pulled his head up, while the other pried him up from the chair. Malcolm didn’t stir. The two men hung onto his arms as his head dangled on his chest.
Gil couldn’t see Malcolm’s face. He needed to see Malcolm’s face.
“I’m not gonna kill your boy, Gil,” Franklin said from behind the camera. There was a palpable sense of relief in the air that seemed to freeze time. It was quick to thaw. “Not yet.”
The two men pulled Malcolm back, stretched his chest open. Franklin set the camera down and walked over to Malcolm. He grabbed his hair, pulled his head up, and slapped him across the face. When Malcolm didn’t wake, he slapped him again.
Malcolm groaned and came to life. He didn’t struggle in the men's’ hold. His face was gaunt, pale, and bruised above his cheekbones. His eyes were half-lidded and dull, his lips cracked and flakes with dry blood.
Edrisa whined. “Gil,” she whispered. “Can I…?”
Gil nodded. “Go.”
She left quickly, wiping at her face as she closed the door behind her.
“Say hi to Gil, Malcolm,” Franklin said. “He’s watching.”
Malcolm looked up, eyes darting around for a moment before they locked on the camera. His entire face seemed to drop even further, and he let out a wet sob. He turned away.
Gil put his head in his hands for a moment and breathed out. He felt tears sting at his own eyes.
Dani had shifted over so that she was sitting in Malcolm's spot, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs.
JT’s fists were still clenched.
“Well, that was a little pathetic, don’t ya think?’ Franklin said. The two men in masks laughed. They pulled Malcolm’s arms tighter.
Franklin lunged forward at once and punched Malcolm in the gut. Malcolm grunted, tried to curl in on himself, but the men only tightened their grips around his wrists. Next, Franklin kicked Malcolm, once, twice, three times. He smiled.
He actually fucking smiled, and JT punched the table.
Franklin left the screen for a moment and Malcolm sagged in the men's hold. His shirt had scuff marks on it, and he tried desperately to bring his hand to rub at his stomach, but the men wouldn’t allow it. One of them tugged Malcolm’s arm forward so hard Gil thought his shoulder would pop out of place.
Dani sniffled but kept her face hard nonetheless. “Who are those guys?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I don’t know.”
Franklin returned with a crowbar. He raised his arm above his head, and—
“Turn it off, Gil! Please, turn it off!”
—and the crowbar rattled off of Malcolm’s ribs. Malcolm shrieked, writhing in the men's’ hold as Franklin went in for another hit. And another. And another.
Gil was sure each of Malcolm’s ribs had shattered. He could hear his bones breaking, watching the agony twitch across Malcolm’s face, but he couldn’t look away.
He couldn't. This was his kid.
Dani left the room next. JT stayed.
Malcolm was kneeling the next time Franklin left the screen. He panted. The men had let go of his wrists, and now they simply hovered over him. Watching. Waiting.
Malcolm brought a shaking hand to his torso. He looked into the camera with grey, dark eyes for a long moment.
Franklin returned again and a boulder of dread shattered in Gil’s stomach. He stifled a gag.
“They’re gonna kill him,” JT was saying. His voice quivered. “Gil, they’re gonna kill him.”
Franklin came first to the camera. “My son was stabbed in a cell,” he said, “because of you.”
He pulled a knife from his pocket, aked across the small dank room, and lifted up Malcolm’s chin.
“Look into the camera,” he said.
Malcolm only blinked.
“I said look into the camera!”
He did.
Franklin crouched in front of Malcolm, whispering something in his ear. Malcolm’s eyes widened, and in that moment, Franklin raised his hand and thrust the blade into Malcolm’s stomach. Malcolm gasped, then coughed. He looked down at his bloodying t-shirt and put his hands over the wound. Blood spilled through the cracks of his fingers.
JT stood abruptly and left the room, punching the wall hard on his way out. He slammed the door shut behind him.
Malcolm gurgled and sunk to the floor. The men behind him disappeared out of scream and appeared a moment later with a white case.
A first aid kit.
They were going to tend to Malcolm’s wound.
But why would they do that? He didn’t understand.
Franklin picked up the camera and turned it to himself. “It’s the third Monday of January, Luteninet Arroyo,” he said. “My son has been dead for thirteen months.”
Gil’s veins ran cold.
Franklin needed Malcolm alive. He needed him alive for twelve more months.
They would stitch up Malcolm’s wounds only to inflict them again. Franklin intended to send Gil a tape every Monday for one year.
Malcolm hissed and whimpered in the background.
“My son died alone,” Franklin said. “And your son will die alone, too.”
Malcolm screamed as Gil flicked off the TV.
Franklin came again the following Monday.