Chapter Text
It all started with the old, empty revolver hidden in the drawer under the kitchen sink. The last object between my father and his, retrospectively, inevitable demise. At the time, I couldn't imagine what it'd been doing there, or that it even existed in the first place. I ducked into a closet, sheltering my sister under one arm, and watched the commotion through a crack in the door. I watched my father pull the trigger, once, twice, three times. But the barrel just spun uselessly. I watched as one, two, three bullets penetrated his chest. Even after the last gunshot fired, neither of us emerged from behind the closet door. We stayed there huddled together for hours, until the harsh glow of police flashlights brought us out.
"We have one adult male and two minors here, a boy and a girl," one of them reported into a radio. "The former seems to be deceased while the children appear to have sustained only minor injuries."
"Hi," a second voice whispered. A pretty young woman with red hair and a lightly freckled face knelt on the ground beside me. "My name's Rachel Johnson. I'm a detective," she said, gently.
"Daniel," I replied. It occurred to me she might have been mostly addressing my sister, but her patronizing tone still annoyed me. I was almost sixteen, after all. But I figured in situations like the one I was currently in, it was probably best to be polite.
"And she's Nicole," I added, pointing to my sister. Rachel smiled and took Nichole's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"There's nothing to worry about. You're safe now," she assured her, placing her other hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to find the person that did this. I promise." I looked passed her, squinting as I watched two men hoist out a long black bag.
The detective put her hand up against the frame of the door. She tried to make the gesture look natural, as if she was preparing to get up, but I could tell she was trying to block my view of the body. I turned away, letting out a low growl from deep in my throat. Nicole let out a whimper and dove towards the woman's shoulder, dripping tears onto the lapel of her coat. I watched her in silence, back leaning against the inside of the closet.
Rachel, along with several other officers, led us out of the ruins of our little apartment, past the dozens of empty bottles of liquor strewn across the living room floor, and onto the streets were a small crowd of neighbors had gathered. Some looked more horrified than others, but none seemed too surprised. Such events occurred far too frequently, and had were an excepted part of life in the Bronx.
As we waited alone in the back of the police car, a man with brown hair and a dark hat walked over to Rachel. He was wearing a suit underneath a long overcoat, and had his hands shoved stubbornly into his pockets.
"The father was killed with three shots from a semi-automatic," he reported in a whisper. "One to the kneecap, then the stomach and the chest." He probably didn't intend for me to hear, but I did anyways.
"Dan?" Nicole murmured.
"Um?"
"W-what was that guy doing in our house?" she asked. I turned my head to the window and watched Rachel get into the passenger seat in front of us, and the gelled man in the driver's seat next to her.
"I dunno," I sighed, though it wasn't too difficult to imagine. You didn't shoot someone three times to kill them. You did it to watch them suffer. "Let's just let the police figure that out, alright?"
The two detectives were silent the entire ride to the station, giving me time to stare out the window and wonder why this kind of thing couldn't have happened to someone who was rich. Someone who could afford to have life punch them in a face a few times. Life's only has good as you can afford for it to be, I guess. When I was younger I would imagine what it would be like to grow up and get fantastically rich, see the world and have no problems.
When we arrived at the station, the detectives lead us inside and up to the third floor. As soon the doors slid open, the clinging of typewriters and shuffling of papers filled the room. There was a dozen officers at desks and walking in and out of the room. Several of them looked up for a moment as we walked passed, but quickly went back to their work.
"You'll have to stay here for tonight," Rachel said. "There are a couple of beds in the back. Fortunately, they aren't as uncomfortable as they look." She looked at her partner. "Marty?"
Her partner ushered Nichole in a room at the end of the hall. Nichole started to follow him, but turned back as she realized Rachel was leading me in the opposite direction. She clung to my hand and shook her head when Marty tried to lead her away.
"Daniel won't be long," Rachel told her. "I just need to talk to him for a few minutes, ok?" She opened a steel door leading to a vacant room, safe for a pair of rickety chairs and a desk.
"It's ok," I assured her. "I'll see you in a bit." Nichole nodded, before letting go.
I entered the interrogation room and sat down on one of the chairs while Rachel took the second. There was a mirror which stretched along one wall and was too big to have any sort of purpose in the room. I glanced at it for moment before shifting my gaze forward. Looked like we were going to have an audience.
"Are you ok?" Rachel asked. I nodded. "I'm sorry. It must of have been a terrible thing to see."
"Don't be, it ain't your fault," I replied. "Besides, I didn't really see much." The detective nodded sympathetically, though I hadn't given her any reason to.
"Do you have an idea about who might want to hurt your father?" she asked slowly. I shrugged.
"No."
"Think harder," she urged. "I want to help you find his killer, but I can't without your help." I didn't reply. Instead by stomach did.
"I'll go get you something from downstairs," Rachel replied with a smile. "Do you have any allergies?" I shook my head. When she left the room, I sat quietly, alone, tapping my worn out shoes rhythmically against the concrete floor.
...
I shut the door of the interrogation room behind me, about the take the elevator downstairs when my partner turned the corner. Martin's dusty oak hair was combed neatly towards the back of his head. He'd been watching the interrogation through the one-way window around the corner. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed impatiently.
"You think it was one of them?" he asked.
"Isn't it obvious?" I replied, folding my arms and letting out a deep breath.
"What are you going to do?" I shook my head.
"I can't ignore it. Not this time. Not again," I muttered.
"The chief won't be happy to hear it." Martin sighed. He sat down on a bench stapled to the wall, slouching and staring up at me with a bored, yet contemplative expression.
"He doesn't have to know." Martin handed me a folder he was carrying under his arm.
"One of the officers tracked down the mother. Lilienne Duncan; married to Emil Duncan. Died of TB in 1950," he reported. "Sad..."
I opened the file. It was a death certificate with a photo of the deceased pasted prominently on the top left. She was a young woman with dark hair and tired eyes. She wasn't especially pretty, but her the smile on her cheeks was kind.
I thought of the girl, her life hardly begun, and both her parents already gone from the world. The boy, trying to be strong, but just as helpless as his sister.
"I want to help these kids," I announced. "They deserve justice done."
"They deserve a home, a family, schooling. Maybe counseling," Martin reasoned. "They'll be better off forgetting this as soon as possible, than learning two cops got shot by the mob while trying to avenge their drunkard father."
"You really think there's nothing we can do?"
"Rach," he said. "In a perfect world, the force would have ten times as many officers and there wouldn't even be a mob, but unfortunately, that's not reality."
"Because it's up to us to make it a reality." Martin shook his head.
"I haven't slept well in days, and neither have you," he groaned. "Get the boy some food, and we'll call it a night. Just try to forget this whole thing."