Witnesses for the Dead by Gary Phillips

Author:Gary Phillips
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press

KAREN MASSENGIL, NÉE PARSONS, didn’t seem surprised when she opened her apartment door to find Pete on the other side. Her eyes were red and she looked defeated. It was also only half past noon and she reeked of weed and cheap wine. Or maybe Pete was just projecting.

“Yeah?”

She lived on the third floor of an apartment building off Springfield and Clifford that had certainly seen better days. The exterior paint had long since peeled. The buzzer hadn’t worked in years, Pete guessed, too. Those were the surface things. But the building had an air of resignation and defeat he couldn’t put his finger on. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his brain was just not there. The vodka had faded, but the dirty, fuzzy remnants would linger until Pete could get another round of drinks in to smooth himself over.

“Karen Massengil? Pete Fernandez. I work for the Bergen Light newspaper,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“No, you cannot,” she said, tilting her head slightly to get a better look at Pete. “You aren’t a cop. I don’t have to talk to you.”

Pete nodded.

“That’s true, ma’am, but I think I need to talk to you,” Pete said. He felt hot and itchy, like he’d just worked out for hours. But he knew he hadn’t. He knew what he wanted. The next pull from the water bottle would have to wait. “That your LeBaron parked outside?”

Karen’s eyes narrowed.

“Come on,” she said, turning and walking into her apartment.

“Sorry for your loss,” Pete said as he sat on the dusty, gray couch.

The living room was cluttered and messy—plates of half-eaten food, unopened mail, an empty box of cheap wine. Despite it being the middle of the day, the blinds were drawn, giving the cramped space a claustrophobic, desperate air.

“My what?” Karen said, before stopping and realizing what Pete meant. “Oh, yeah, I mean—we were separated. Artie lived a hard life.”

He wasn’t alone, Pete thought. Then realized he could also be talking about himself. He flashed back to the call. His father’s call. The one he ignored. The sounds of the bar and the game on the television hovering over Pete as he ordered round after round pounding through his hungover skull.

He shook his head gently, trying to shake the memory loose. To send it away.

“You finalize your divorce yet?” Pete asked.

“This for a story?” Karen said as she took a seat on the couch. “’Cause I don’t see any notebook or tape recorder. Didn’t get any business card. Something tells me you’re not here on official business, either.”

Pete smiled. A dry, empty smile. Karen’s eyes widened.

“This isn’t official anything,” Pete said. “But I’ll cut to it straight, so you don’t feel like I’m wasting your precious time.”

Pete pulled out a thin envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the couch. Karen reached for it and pulled out a few photos. After he’d spoken to Ward, Pete had put in a call into his friend, Matt Wilhoite, a freelance photographer who worked the Generals beat.

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