“Nothing,” he said. “Can I see the picture again?”
Duckworth took out his phone and brought up the photo. Gaffney stared at it and said, “I keep thinking it can’t really be there. That this isn’t really happening. That this isn’t a picture of my back. Who could Sean be?” He returned the phone. “I’ve been turned into some kind of freak.”
On the way to the hospital, Duckworth did a spin through a McDonald’s drive-through, buying Gaffney a coffee and a biscuit stuffed with egg and sausage. The man downed it nearly as quickly as he’d consumed the ripe banana.
The Promise Falls General ER wasn’t crowded. Gaffney was seen within ten minutes. Duckworth quickly briefed the doctor — a young Indian-looking man named Dr. Charles — and said he wanted to speak with him after the examination. Then the detective stepped outside where he could get a decent signal on his cell phone, and opened up a browser.
He entered the words “Sean” and “homicide” and waited. Over a million results, but the first few screens didn’t turn up anything that looked relevant. Some of the hits were crime books or newspaper articles about homicides, written by someone with the first name Sean. He narrowed the search by adding the words “Promise Falls”, but that produced nothing.
He went back into the ER and took a seat. A few minutes later, Brian Gaffney reappeared with Dr. Charles.
“May I discuss your particulars with the police officer?” the doctor asked.
Gaffney nodded wearily.
“Mr. Gaffney’s general heath seems to be okay,” Dr. Charles said. “He’s still a bit groggy from whatever was used to render him unconscious.”
“Any idea what that might have been?”
The doctor shook his head. “But I’d like to keep him here for observation and blood tests. Do you have any idea who tattooed him? If you did, we could find out about their safety precautions, if they used proper sterilization techniques.”
“We don’t know,” the detective said.
Dr. Charles made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Well, if the equipment used was contaminated with infected blood, Mr. Gaffney could be at risk of hepatitis B, hepatitis C or tetanus.”
“Ah, man,” Gaffney said.
“I’m around if you have any more questions,” the doctor said, excusing himself.
Duckworth put a comforting hand on Brian’s arm. “I want to take your picture,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I’m going to go to Knight’s, see if anyone remembers seeing you.”
Gaffney nodded resignedly. Duckworth took a quick head shot with his phone, glanced at it to make sure it was acceptable. “You want me to get in touch with your parents?”
Gaffney thought about that. “I guess,” he said finally.
“Why so hesitant?”
“I’m...”
“What is it, Brian?”
“I guess... I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed of what’s happened to me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Duckworth said, although he didn’t know that for certain. Maybe Brian had consumed far more alcohol than he’d let on. Maybe he’d allowed someone to do this to him, but had no memory of it. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.
Gaffney half shrugged. “I guess you should let them know.”
Duckworth had him write down his parents’ Montcalm Street address and phone number on his notepad. He decided he’d go there before heading to Knight’s. He was just pulling out of the ER parking lot when his phone rang. It was Maureen.
“Hey,” he said to her over the Bluetooth. “You at work?”
“Yeah. We’ve got a bit of a lull.” Maureen worked at an eyeglasses shop in the Promise Falls mall. “Am I calling at a bad time?”
“It’s okay.”
“How are you?”
It was an innocent enough question. She’d always asked how he was when she called. But now, when she asked, he knew she was asking him something more. She was really asking how he was doing. She was asking how he felt. She was asking how he was managing.
Even ten months after returning to the job.
Not that he didn’t ask himself every day how he was doing.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” she said.
But he could tell from her tone that it was something, and her most frequent source of worry, after him, was their son, Trevor. Twenty-five now, back living at home with his parents, and looking for work.
He’d had a job driving a truck for Finley Springs Water. Randall Finley, the owner, had been mayor a decade ago, but was voted out after his dalliances with an underage prostitute became public. He’d made a comeback last year, though, after becoming something of a local hero, and presided over city hall once again.
Wonders never ceased. Nor, Duckworth thought, did the public’s willingness to be conned.
Trevor — like his father — despised Finley and everything he stood for, and when he found another driving gig with a local lumber company, he quit the water bottling plant. But with the housing industry still taking its time to recover, and the demand for building supplies weak, he was laid off three months later. He kept his apartment another six weeks, but with money running out, he’d given his notice and moved back in with Mom and Dad while he looked for something else.
Of course, Barry and Maureen could have kept their son in his apartment by paying his rent, but that had struck both of them as an open-ended commitment they could not afford, so they’d offered him his old room. They had mixed feelings when he took them up on it, but as it turned out, even with Trevor living under the same roof with them, they saw little of him. He was out most evenings, and returned home after Barry and Maureen had turned out their lights.
Trouble was, they often lay awake until he came home, as if he were still a teenager with a curfew. When your kids no longer lived with you, Duckworth said, you didn’t care what their hours were. But when they were back sharing quarters with you, you couldn’t help but wonder, and worry, what they were up to.
“Is it Trevor?” he asked now.
He heard Maureen sigh. “He doesn’t seem himself these days.”
“Like how?”
“You haven’t noticed?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aren’t cops supposed to be keen observers of human behavior?”
Duckworth wasn’t sure whether she was needling him or being serious. Maybe both.
“We’re distant second to mothers in that area,” he said.
“Sure, patronize me,” Maureen said.
“I’m not patronizing you.”
“You are. You think I’m being overly concerned.”
“Tell me what you’ve seen that I’ve been too dumb to notice.”
“Okay, it’s not anything specific. But he seems more withdrawn, more to himself.”
“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Barry said. “He’s looking for work, and living with his parents. How much fun can that be?”
“He spends a lot of time on the computer.”
“He’s probably looking at job ads. It’s not like you can find them in the paper any more.”
“I suppose so.”
They’d both wondered if Trevor needed to go back to school. Learn some kind of trade. After traveling around Europe with a girlfriend, he’d gone to Syracuse University and taken political science, and done well with it. Graduated. No one expected him to become a politician, or work for one, but they’d hoped his field of study would lead to something more challenging than driving a truck for that narcissistic asshole who was now the mayor of Promise Falls.
“I wish I had some idea where he goes off to every night,” Maureen said.
“We never knew where he went at night when he didn’t live with us. He’s entitled to a personal life. What he does at night isn’t any of our business.”