‘Avenues’

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet.

Avenues

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Detective Hobbs knelt on the asphalt, his knee shaking with his weight. Rain beat on his umbrella, the patter filling the silence of the alley. He moved a flattened cardboard box from the vic’s face with a pencil, revealing the ghastly wounds.

“It’s a fresh one, alright,” he said, turning to the responding officer, “This sick son of a bitch.”

The officer covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow, blanching a bit. He turned from the scene, going back out to the street, leaving Hobbs alone in the alley.

“A fresh one, alright,” Hobbs repeated, “We must’ve just missed the bastard.” He shook his head. 

The bastard in question was The Alley Man, a force which the NYPD had never seen the likes of. Known for subduing women with a chloroformed rag and dragging them into alleys in the early hours of the morning, The Alley Man had been terrorizing the city for the better part of two months, much to Hobbs’s chagrin.

Now Hobbs stood, looking down the alley to where Chen and the rest of the forensics team were ducking under the tape. Hobbs pulled his raincoat closed.

“Another one?” Chen said.

Hobbs nodded, his ruddy face gleaming in the light. He said nothing but stood looking down at the body. This poor woman. Beautiful and placid in her deadness. She was raven-haired, pale, her blue eyes vibrant in their endless stare. Blood seeped down the side of her face.

“He’s escalating,” Chen said, “The others didn’t look like this.”

“Or a copycat,” said Hobbs, “God forbid.”

Chen tsked, clicked his tongue. He watched his team get her into a bag and zip it up, her beautiful face disappearing like a ghost in the wind. Then they were carrying her out, carefully loading her onto a gurney.

“Are you sleeping, Hobbs?” he said, “You look like shit.”

Hobbs shook his head again. “No time,” he said, “Not with this son of a bitch out on the prowl.”

“You can’t burn the candle at both ends. You’re no good to us if you’re killing yourself,” said Chen.

“Just get me the goddamn autopsy results,” Hobbs shouted. He walked halfway down the alley and stopped at the entrance. “I don’t want anyone in or out of here.” He was screaming into the street. “I don’t care if it’s your fucking mother, the queen of England, or the Chief of the NYPD. No one comes in here without me, you understand?”

The stunned officers nodded, their mouths half agape. He ducked under the tape and threw his umbrella at the wall as two beat cops made room for him to pass.

“What’s eating him?” one said, watching Hobbs walk down the street, swearing under his breath.

“You didn’t hear about his wife?” the other said, now that Hobbs rounded the corner.

The first officer shook his head.

“Cancer. I think it just about broke him.”

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Hobbs stood by the window, his forehead resting on his forearm. He dragged on a cigarette, releasing a cloud of smoke that drifted across the smudged pane and dissipated. A woman appeared behind him, dressed in his oversized shirt.

“It’s a goddamn dirty city out there,” Hobbs said, “A dirty, dirty city.”

She rubbed his back. “Come back to bed, baby.”

“I can’t sleep,” said Hobbs, “I can never sleep. This filthy city. That bastard out there, pulling girls into alleys. It’s a disgrace.”

“I’ll make you feel better,” said the woman.

“Not now,” Hobbs said, “You can’t help me. I’m sorry, Denise.” He stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the window ledge and turned to her, sweeping a strand of blonde hair from her eyes. “I’m going to get him. I’m going to get him and lock him up. This sick son of a bitch is going to pay.”

Denise took a step back. She wasn’t looking at him. She moved across the apartment to the kitchen, poured herself a drink, and threw it back hard. She grimaced.

“Come on, babe,” said Hobbs, “Don’t be like that. Don’t get all boohooey on me. I was like this when you met me. You knew what I was.”

Denise was looking at the crosshatch pattern in the kitchen floor. “You wouldn’t treat Esmerelda this way,” she murmured.

“What?” said Hobbs, “What did you say?”

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” She poured another drink, swirling it in the glass. Moonlight lit half her face, flooding in from the window, broken by Hobbs’ silhouette.

“Don’t give me this shit,” Hobbs muttered, “I don’t need it. I don’t want it and I don’t need it.” He was struggling to get into his pants, hopping to regain his balance. His phone was ringing. He picked it up, saying “Hobbs” in a curt, hard way. Then he stood listening for a moment. “Shit,” he said, hanging up.

“Another job,” said Denise.

“I’ve got to see Chen,” he said. He looked at her expectantly for a minute. “And I’m going to need my shirt.”

Ten minutes later, he was down in the cruiser, ripping toward midtown. He rubbed his face with his sweaty palm, the stubble scratching at his hands. His face was shiny with oil. He turned on the radio and listened.

“Reports for another Alley Man victim are pouring in,” it said, “Details are sparse, but there is an increased police presence in Harlem.”

Hobbs struck the wheel with the heels of both palms. He shouted an obscenity to no one in particular, cutting through the streets toward headquarters. Finally, he pulled to a screeching stop and got out, hustling toward the entrance.

In Chen’s office, he found the good doctor halfway into an autopsy, his white coat starkly lit in fluorescence. Chen didn’t look up when he came in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Hobbs said, “your moment of intimacy here.”

Chen closed his eyes for a moment, hugely magnified by the surgical glasses affixed to his head. “Fuck you, Hobbs,” he said.

“Only after you’re done with her. So let’s see it.”

Chen turned and took a stainless steel dish from the counter behind him. “Put on some gloves,” he said, “You’re going to need them.”

Dutifully, Hobbs took two extra large gloves from a container on the wall, slid them on, and took the dish. Then he slowly unfolded the tiny square of paper that sat on the floor of the bowl.  “Wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch,” he read aloud.

“Richard III,” Chen said, still leaning over the corpse.

“They covered this in medical school?”

“It’s called culture, you swine. I found that in her throat.”

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Hobbs was standing over the latest vic. Beyond the mouth of the alley, a swarm of reporters was trying to snap pictures, talking to passersby, altering the composition of the scene. Hobbs was fuming.

“Fucking jackals,” he said, under his breath.

He was studying the vic’s face, trying to make sense of the pattern, of the shape of the wounds inflicted. This was a break in the perp’s modus operandi, a complicating factor in the victimology. This woman was blonde, middle-aged, upper crust, her face littered with abrasions, cuts that did not come from the same knife.

“No rest for the wicked,” Chen said, approaching.

“This sick bastard is certainly that.”

“This one’s different.” Chen pointed at the body.

“How astute of you,” said Hobbs, rising. “I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

“I didn’t even have to go to detective school,” said Chen.

“But why change now?” Hobbs said, crossing his arms, standing.

“Wrens make prey, et cetera.”

“What does that even mean, Chen?”

“And now we truly see the practical value of an education.” It was Chen’s turn to kneel. With a gloved hand, he turned the vic’s face. “She’s pretty,” he said.

“They’re all pretty,” Hobbs said. He turned back toward the crowd and found a beat cop walking down the alley. “Stay out of my scene,” he shouted.

The beat cop stopped. “I-I was canvassing,” he said.

“You want a fucking award?” Hobbs shouted.

“I think we have a witness,” the cop said, “and she says she got a look at the guy.”

“Take her downtown,” Hobbs said. He watched the cop hustle away from the scene. Then he turned to Chen. “What do you see, doc?”

“Lacerations from a smaller knife, here. Definitely not the bowie knife of the last few. This almost looks like a kitchen paring knife.”

“You got to be shitting me,” Hobbs said.

“I shit you not,” said Chen, “but I’ll take a closer look when I get to the lab.”

Hobbs said nothing, but started walking toward the street. He ducked under the tape and found the beat cop standing with a young woman. Their voices were hushed, conspiratorial.

“I thought I said downtown,” Hobbs said.

The woman shook her head. “I don’t want to get involved. I don’t want no part of no police business. I just want to tell you what I saw and get out of here.”

Hobbs grimaced and looked at the beat cop expectantly. Then back at the woman. “Shoot,” he said.

“He was a tall guy. Real tall. It was dark, but I think he was blonde, maybe. He was wearing a real nice coat. You should’ve seen it. Man, this coat. I only saw the back of him, but even in the dark, I could tell this wasn’t no off-the-rack coat. He went in the alley ‘round eleven and just waited. He waited for hours. I heard half a scream at like three, maybe. I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I look out at the alley when I can’t sleep. Anyway, I saw him walking away, real slow-like. Then he was gone.”

“So you didn’t see his face?” Hobbs said.

“It was dark, like I told you,” the woman said.

“Anything else about him? Did he have a limp or something?”

“Just looked like one of those Yupper West Side guys. You know, them finance guys. It was dark, alright? Can I go now?”

Hobbs shut his eyes and ran thumb and forefinger over his eyebrows. “Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

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Chen found him at O’Donnel’s, sitting in his usual booth, holding a beer loosely by the neck. He walked to the booth and sat across from him, folding his hands on the table. Hobbs did not look up, but took a sip from the bottle. 

“It was a paring knife,” Chen said, in a low voice.

Hobbs nodded, but still said nothing.

“I have a theory,” Chen said.

“He wanted to inflict maximum pain. There’s no theory about it. He wanted to see death by a thousand cuts. He’s a sick son of a bitch.” Now Hobbs looked up. “You know what I did today? I interviewed fifty Wall Street douchebags. Fifty interchangeably privileged faces, little blonde trust fund babies turned into sociopathic monsters. I’ve got nothing, Chen.”

Chen smirked.

“You ever just feel like it’s hopeless? Like it’s all stupid and pointless and it’d be easier to just escape. Sometimes, I want an out, Chen. Sometimes I want to stop engaging with the world, fighting the good fight. I’m just so goddamn tired. I’m tired of showing up every day and investing myself and paying attention. Most people, they don’t really have to pay attention. You know that?”

Chen got out a single consonant before he was interrupted.

“Most people fill their heads with this bullshit, Chen. They escape and escape and ply themselves with simple, mindless things. They live lives that only serve to propel them into their escaping. They stare at their phones or watch TV or read fantasy novels. They don’t have to keep doing this, day after day.”

“Hobbs,” Chen said, trying to break him from the trance.

“I’m just so damn sick of it. I’m sick of the trying, the striving all the damn time. The working so hard to come up short again and again.”

“Hobbs, shut up,” Chen said. “We don’t have time to dissect your maudlin whining.”

“Maudlin?” Hobbs said.

“He fucked up,” Chen said. “He made a change and he fucked up.”

Hobbs looked up now, a hopeful look gathering on his face.

“Our guy, he slipped. He slipped and we have two DNA profiles, Hobbs. One is the vic’s.” Chen produced an envelope from the pocket of his coat and slid it to Hobbs. “The other is his.”

Hobbs clawed the envelope open and took the photograph out. “Son of a bitch,” he shouted, standing and finishing off his beer.

“What?” Chen said, following him out of the bar. 

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They were down in Chelsea, the lights of Midtown twinkling behind them. Chen was following Hobbs on the street, taking shuffling steps to keep up, while Hobbs walked with the aggressive panting required to propel his husky body forward.

“We can’t just storm in like this, Hobbs,” Chen was saying, “We need to wait for backup. This is against protocol.”

But Hobbs wasn’t listening. He flashed his badge at the doorman and walked quickly and silently over to the elevator, where he got in and pressed a button for the seventh floor. Chen dawdled in just in time, just as the doors were closing. Then he turned to Hobbs.

“Just calm down,” he said, “This isn’t the right way to do this. You do this and the case will get thrown out faster than you can say Alley Man.”

Hobbs was breathing hard, not looking at Chen. He tapped his foot on the carpeted floor of the elevator, watching the numbers of the dial overhead climbing. “Call backup now, Chen,” he said. He was speaking to the dial.

“Hobbs, just wait, please,” Chen said. “This is how people get hurt.”

“I don’t need a eulogy,” Hobbs said, “Remember that.”

Then the elevator doors were cracking open, and Hobbs was pushing his way out. Chen followed at a distance, watching Hobbs pull his gun from his hip and stop at the door. It was silent for a moment. A stillness unusual and eerie in this city. Hobbs knocked.

“Police,” Hobbs shouted. “Come on out, DuPree.”

But the eerie stillness remained, and Chen looked at Hobbs with a concerned look, one full of pathos and anguish.

“DuPree,” Hobbs shouted, “We’re not fucking around.”

More silence. Then, suddenly, an explosive impact on the fire escape, a rattling, ringing sound. Hobbs said nothing, turning to kick in the door, which did not move initially, but folded in slightly, as if it were struck in the stomach. And so actively angry now, Hobbs kicked again, sending shards of wood spiraling into the dim. They waited a beat, then Hobbs lead the way with his gun, moving swiftly through the spotless rooms in a half-assed way, through the luxury adornments, the accumulations of wealth. He rushed to the window, the curtains blowing softly in the breeze and looked down into the alley, where he spotted a figure rapidly descending.

“DuPree, stop,” Hobbs shouted. He started out the window but was stopped by Chen’s sage hand. “Put out a fucking BOLO,” he said to Chen, dashing out of the apartment to the stairwell, where he rushed down the stairs, winding through the building at a dangerous speed. On the street, he ran to the alley, scanning for any sign of DuPree.

“I’m going to find you, you sick bastard,” he was screaming.

He paced down the street, then broke into a jog, coming around the corner, expecting to see him there, to find him in plain sight. But he was lost to the city. The dirty, dirty city.

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They were standing over yet another vic, the rain coming down hard again, the darkness overwhelming. Hobbs held no umbrella, the rain running down his face, feeling a palpable sense of déjà vu. Chen stood on the other side of the body, holding his own worn one just overhead, waiting for Hobbs to say something. Then he did. 

“Don’t say it,” he said.

Chen just shook his head.

“You told me so. I know,” Hobbs said.

“You’ll hear less than nothing from me.”

Hobbs stared down into the woman’s face, the youth stolen from her. It had been less than a day since DuPree had fled, and now it appeared that they might never find him again. That he might terrorize the city indefinitely, maddeningly uncatchable. His apartment sat vacant since that night, with plainclothes officers planted outside for every minute of the day. Additional officers hung around Bartolini and Moore, roaming the polished marble floors, menacing the girl at the front desk, making all the suited men uncomfortable.

“This one’s another paring knife. Look at the size of the wounds,” said Hobbs.

“I noticed that,” Chen said, “He’s dedicated, if nothing else.”

Hobbs’ expression was bitter as he rose. “I’ve interviewed everyone who’s ever known him. This guy’s a fucking ghost. I’m not even sure if DuPree is his real name. Can’t find parents, school history, nothing. The only people who seem to know him are those Wall Street assholes.”

“Well, we know he has a criminal history,” Chen said, a glimmer of hope in his voice, “and violent tendencies.”

“And that helps us how?”

“The past often informs the future. This is a known fact in criminology.”

“So, what, we just go back and study a fourteen-year-old assault case?”

“We study the motive. We study the ideology. We create a more nuanced profile. All we have now is that he comes out of alleys, stabs girls, works on Wall Street, and is maybe named DuPree.”

Hobbs nodded and rose. “Alright, bag it and tag it. I can’t look at her anymore.” He was walking out to the street, Chen following close behind. He said nothing to the uniformed officers when he turned onto the sidewalk, but just ducked under the tape and got into the cruiser. Chen sank down into the passenger seat.

“Hobbs, how are you doing?” Chen said after a minute.

“Chen, shut up,” said Hobbs.

Then they were at the precinct, moving down the hall to the bullpen. Hobbs sat at his desk, pulling the old file out a drawer. It was thin.

“This is it.” He cracked it open. “A brunette, early twenties, yada yada yada, an alley, she fought him off, the end.”

“And we’ve followed up with her?”

“She lives in Montana. By all accounts, she’s fine, though severely traumatized.”

“Did she know him? What was their relationship? We all know the first one is never random.”

“They were dating, I believe. Then one day he just came out of an alley and attacked her. She never saw it coming. She said he seemed like a normal, respectable guy. A little quiet, but nothing too concerning.”

Chen looked down at him. “Hobbs, you idiot.”

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Sirens blared. In the failing light, flashes of red and blue cut a glowing path against the face of the terminal. Hobbs and Chen were rushing out of the cruiser, throwing the doors open as they screeched to a stop. Hobbs drew his badge and started waving it around, screaming unintelligibly. Passersby ducked and made a path for them, huddling up against the walls, parents clutching their children’s heads to their stomachs, their chests. Hobbs looked at the flight display, followed by Chen, and they took off toward terminal two. Hobbs was drawing his gun, holding gun and badge out in front of him now, shouting “police” over and over again.

It was a rush of faces, text, information, an overwhelming mélange of data points, things the human brain filters without conscious thought, now rushing at them. Their breath held in the diaphragm. Bodies scurrying out of the path, human beings reduced to only bodies that could be mowed down in an instant.

Finally, as they neared the gate, they saw him. He stood against the wall with a ballcap pulled down low, a heavy coat on, just staring down at his phone, another traveler on the road. He looked up and gave them a mirthless smile, a hollow expression of recognition.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said, “I’ve got a bomb.” He held up his backpack.

Then people were screaming, running, terror painting their faces in strange hues, shapes, expressions. Hobbs was inching laterally to him, the gun still drawn, the badge still up.

“DuPree, give it up. There’s no bomb.”

“Wait and find out,” DuPree shouted, “You want to test me? Let’s see, huh?”

“Put the backpack down,” Chen said softly, placatingly, “Let’s talk about this.”

But it was too late. Hobbs fired two shots into DuPree’s chest, watching DuPree’s body falling limply to the ground. A woman screamed. The terminal emptied. There was nothing but the silence left, Hobbs and Chen inching closer to him, watching the life leave his eyes.

Then they waited. They waited for the sound to return, for the screaming to stop, for EMS to arrive, for the reports to be filed. They watched as emergency personnel filed in, taking the body away, leaving just Chen and Hobbs to explain themselves. Which they did. Over and over again. Hobbs believed DuPree had a weapon. Chen thought so too. He fired to protect civilians. It was a good clean shot. It was necessary force.

And many hours later, they were released. It was full dark and the city felt deserted somehow, even with the masses of people. Hobbs dropped Chen off at home and Chen started to say something but stopped and simply got out. Hobbs watched him walk to the door, turn on the light in the foyer, and stand for a moment. Then a light went on upstairs, and he saw a figure move by the window and reappear in the foyer. They embraced. Hobbs drove off.

Back at home, Hobbs stood in the kitchen, drinking a glass of scotch. The apartment still smelled of Denise somehow, the floral, impressionistic smell of her. Something that made him feel lonely. He drained and refilled the glass.

Then he went to the couch and turned on the TV.

Matthew Wood is a cum laude graduate of CSULB’s creative writing program. He has had fiction published in Heartwood Literary magazine, Chapter House, carte blanche, Washington Square Review LCC, and El Camino College’s Myriad, where he was awarded the Tom Lew Prize for Fiction