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Part II: The Missing Link
OCTOBER 9, 2016
A PKK car bomb kills 17 people, injuring 27 others in the Hakkari Province of Turkey, in the latest civilian slaughter in a conflict between Turks and Kurds.
A Palestian gunman opens fire on a Jerusalem train station, killing two people, including a police officer, and injuring six others in the latest civilian slaughter in a conflict between Israelis and Palestinians.
An Afghan Armed Forces helicopter crashes in the northern region of that country. Nobody aboard survives.
The Ethiopian government declares a six-month state of emergency amidst violent protests.
A Chinese court sentence the Yunan province's former Communist Party Secretary, Bai Enpei, to death for corruption.
On that note: Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump conduct the second presidential debate of the 2016 U.S election season. Clinton suggests Trump is in the pocket of the Russians. Trump suggests her email account will be the death of America. A man in a red sweater becomes the star of the evening as further proof of the decay of American civilization.
And, in New York City, one woman wakes up to news that an old friend is dead, and must grapple with just what his death means.
We bring you, live, to Eliza Taylor with her story.
***
The coffee pot began chirring, right on time, at 5:30 in the morning. The electric tint on the windows began lightening at 5:40. Alexa by Amazon began singing Natasha Bedingfield's 'Unwritten' at 5:45.
'I am unwritten/Can't read my mind...'
Eliza Taylor didn't need the alarm this, morning though. For one, she no longer has a job to report to, and may not for the foreseeable future. For another, she hasn't gotten a wink of sleep all night.
'I'm undefined/I'm just beginning...'
Moving slowly across the smooth, clean to a fault (they can call her an emotional neurotic all she likes, but Eliza keeps a clean, damn house) floor, she looked down at the neighborhood waking up below.
'The pen's in my hand/Ending unplanned...'
"Alexa, stop," she told the confounded spy machine. It didn't listen.
'Staring at the blank page before you/Open up the dirty window...'
"Alexa...stop!"
"Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find..."
She hurled a pillow across the room. It missed flagrantly, accomplishing nothing but knocking askew a photograph of Eliza with Nancy Pelosi. Long story. Eliza's cry of frustration is drowned out by the chorus.
"Reaching for something in the distance/So close you can almost taste it..."
She goes through the remainder of her morning motions with a robotic dutifulness, preparing a cup of coffee and switching on the morning news.
"Release your inhibitions/Feel the rain on your skin/No one else can feel it for you/Only you can let it in/No one else, no one else/Can speak the words on your lips..."
She almost switched to her station, but given they appear determined on giving her a time ought, Eliza figured she should repay them the same favor. What better way to stick it 'hard news' than by putting on ABC 7?
Anyway, local telecasts felt more like home to her than posh and polished cable news ever would.
"Drench yourself in words unspoken/Live your life with arms wide open..."
The on-scene reporter is looking grimly into the camera, "I'm here at the 2 Train station at E 180 Street, in the Bronx..."
Eliza sat up with new attention, her grip slackening on the remote.
"...where a man fell onto the tracks last night."
She dropped the remote to the floor.
"NYPD is currently working to identify the remains, which appear to be of a Caucasion male in his mid-twenties. They ask that anyone with any information on the man or the manner of his death contacts the hotline at..."
Eliza switched off the T.V, leaning back against the couch, not even noticing her jaw has dropped.
"Today is where your book begins/The rest is still unwritten..."
"Alexa. Stop."
She stopped.
"Feelin' downtrodden/Fresh kid turned rotten..."
The other boroughs had their prestige and their legacies (well, except Staten Island, but nobody expected them to),but the Bronx was the home of hip hop, and they rarely let you forget it.
"I can't believe I'm like E then I'm cotton..."
The 2 Train station at E 180 was still closed, so Eliza had been forced to detour to 169th and Fulton via the 7 and, and then hotfoot it to the 44th Precinct, rap echoing up and down the street from some opened window somewhere.
'Over the years seems like I'm gettin' dumber/Reminiscing to a time when I was younger with a hunger...'
She strode up the stairs with a determined stride, aviators over her eyes, hair over her shoulders, arms on the recorder in her purse, and a purpose thrumming in her heart. In a way, it's all she's been doing her entire life. In another way, it's been too long.
'Full a dreams, determination, self-esteem/But now it seems they hesitate to be on my team...'
"Yes, hello," she leaned over the dispatch desk, removing her shades with a flourish, "I'm press."
She flashed her pass, hoping desperately the woman would be too starstruck to call the network and learn how tenderly they'd treated their rising star.
'You know the routine, when you winnin' and grinnin'/All up in your face, like they was wi'ch you from the beginnin'...'
"Eliza Taylor," said the dispatcher, sounding frighteningly unimpressed, "From the TV?"
"She wrote a book too," she told her, "I wanted to speak to the officer in charge of the 2 Train case?"
'But on the flipside/When you washed up like a riptide/Fools clown 'bout how you slipped and let shit slide...'
"I want to wake up next to Maurice Benard every morning," said the dispatcher bluntly, "But here I am. 47 and Benardless."
"You're saying I can't see him?"
"I'm saying we don't roll out the red carpet for every big-busted newshound who comes in here with a badge in her hands and her tits falling out. This isn't Manhattan."
'Who am I kiddin', who am I foolin'When they be like "What's up Fatlip?," and I say "Coolin'"...'
"And I'm not a newshound," Eliza has always favored lies touched with a hint of truth, "I'm a witness. And I can give you fine men and women in blue some tips that'll turn this case of yours inside out."
The dispatcher blinked at her, finally reaching for the phone on the desk, "You plant that ass right there."
"It's planted."
'Who am I kiddin', who am I foolin'/When they be like "What's up Fatlip?, " and I say "Coolin'"/Who am I kiddin', who am I foolin'...'
About 10 minutes later, Detective Peter Wilson came into the dispatch office and asked, "Are you the witness?"
Eliza narrowed her eyes at the young officer, "The best one you're likely to have. I have the dubious honor of being Eliza Taylor."
She wasn't about to give her resume. It was still early, but she was tired.
"You're pretty young for a mess like this," she noted, "I didn't think the Bronx was that hard."
"THE Eliza Taylor? Well this is a pleasure," Peter said with a smile, extending his hand.
"I'm Detective Peter Wilson. I...I actually just made Detective. It's my first case."
Ah, look. Someone who knew who she was, and wasn't an asshole about it. She'd have flipped the bird to the dispatcher, but that would be unprofessional.
"First case? Poor baby," she figured it might do to butter this one up. If the green boys at the NYPD were anything like the green boys in Lakewood, this would work wonders.
"I remember my first case. Caramel corn cart burst into flames at the county fair. They had me do a live spot from it. Smoke everywhere, and everything smelled like sugar. It was the talk of the town for days."
She cleared her throat prettily, "But of a difference in scope, I guess. But this the city ain't no playground."
"You ought to come to Queens some time," Peter smiled, before getting to business, "So, you said you saw what happened?"
"Oh, I go to Queens all the time," Eliza beamed, "The gay bar scene is no joke."
She only went to them because it was less likely she would be hit on, and also because she, for some reason, had a sizable following amongst cosmopolitan white gays. They called themselves the 'TayGays' and were wont to comment with delightsome GIFs and "YAAAAAAAS KWEEENS" to her show's Twitter feed, usually in posts criticizing Paul Ryan.
"No, no, I didn't see what happened. But I can tell you who your John Doe is. I mean, he is still a John Doe, or surely you would've put his name in the hotline info?" she batted her eyes prettily.
"It is. Met my husband there," Peter rubbed his wedding band with his thumb and replied, "And no, we haven't I.D.'d him yet. Who was he?"
"Greg Peters, he was a coworker of mine at Lakewood KLA, my..." she cleared her throat, "Last job. He was in town to visit me."
This was bound to come up eventually, she might as well air it out now.
"I didn't ask where he was staying, but you're the NYPD, surely you have more resources than I," another dainty smile, "I can tell you this much, he had no family and precious few friends. At least, none that I ever saw, and we were packed tight as sardines at that station, so I would've noticed."
No family, no friends... Eliza hadn't bothered to think on it before, but she was much the same. This was a lonely job, endlessly busy and perpetually unfulfilling. Maybe that was why Greg had been so attached to her. She'd rarely paid him more than simple courtesy, and had often done worse than that.
Still, she was all he had.
"If he was staying anywhere at all, it would have to have been in Manhattan. We only ended up on the 2 because I thought..."
Well, there was no way to make this sound sensible.
"I thought I was being followed and tried to shake him off. I was being followed, of course. But by him."
Peter wrote it down in his notepad and looked up, "Why was he following you? What did he want to talk about?"
"Oh, well, as to that..."
But Eliza stopped herself.
He wanted to talk about a murder. About Lakewood. Tried to heft you back into the saddle.
And she'd said no, and he'd been killed right after.
"Just catching up," she said at last, "We hadn't spoken in so long, more than a year! I...I promised to take him to the Top of the Roc."
This time, she didn't have to affect a tightened throat and the threat of tears. Something about that recollection made her heart twinge.
"Detective, may I ask you..." she leaned in, "Are you investigating this as an accident...or a homicide?"
"At the moment, I can't really answer that question," he truthfully replied, before looking up, "Why do you ask?"
"I'm sorry, I forgot myself," she smiled, "You know, bigshot reporter, asking questions is in my nature. Of course, you're the one to answer questions..."
She tossed her hair adding, in a somewhat cooler voice, "But it isn't every day that someone just falls onto the tracks. It begs questions."
"It does," Peter nodded, "Can you think of anything else?"
"Oh, nothing, I'm afraid..."
Nothing I'd tell you.
She'd learned on the job that trust was a fickle thing, and dangerous, and harmless idiots were more dangerous by far than lying cretins. This imbecilic slip of a youth would crack this case when the Arctic froze over. And Liz wasn't sure she cold wait another two Astrological ages.
She shrugged sheepishly, "Some reporter I am, right?"
Self deprecation was disarming in correct doses.
"I guess I'm not as helpful as I thought I'd be. You must have heard much better off the people on the platform when it happened."
"You'd probably be right." Peter closed his notepad, and shook her hand again, "Thank you for coming by, Ms. Taylor. And I am sorry for your loss."
"As sorry as I am," Eliza inclined her head respectfully.
You'd have been better off flashing the dispatcher.
This was a total bust. This guy was green, but he had the sense not to go flapping his lips to anybody who walked in.
The sense...or the requisite stupidity not to know what he was sitting on.
"It...it wouldn't be exactly professional of me to tell you this, but..." she paused, "Well, Greg was my friend, and I've been in this business long enough to know what's going to happen to him. I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of my colleagues descending on this like vultures. And between you and me..." she leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "I've got it on good authority, some representatives of a certain local paper's Metro desk are going to be sniffing around here...you know how they are, whenever anything happens on the subway, it becomes a transportation story, a civic story, a political story, a crime story, and a conspiracy...
"They're going to milk this for all it's worth, and I know they'll descend on the other witnesses you've rounded up."
This was a moment of intense significance she knew, "They're already got names! I've got no idea from whom... Perhaps some loose-lipped dispatcher. In my experience, it's always dispatchers..."
She sighed, "It's a shame what's become of our professions, isn't it?"
"It is..."
Peter looked around. He really shouldn't be doing this. This could cost him his badge. Hell, Maybe even his freedom. But every Cop needed a reporter they could trust, right?
"Can I trust you?"
Obviously not.
But Eliza wasn't going to tell him that, And, anyway, it was all in pursuit of the Truth, which was a hot commodity.
"As far as I trust myself," which was by no means a lie.
Peter sighed.
He had one last question. And it would determine what he did next.
"Was your friend a good man?"
Eliza gave a start at the question.
"Greg?" she asked quietly.
He was annoying, he was an idiot, he was in over his head...
He was the only person she'd left who had gone after her.
Eliza had spent so long ruing how she'd been cut loose from KLA once she'd started going somewhere. She'd blamed herself for dropping the Maddox story, rued the thought of Brooke Maddox sitting back home and knowing she couldn't be trusted, spent idle hours wondering if any of those stupid not-so-incompetent teenagers were wondering about her, if they still thought her competent, if they still believed she'd wanted to get to the truth...
If they thought about her at all.
"He was," Eliza nodded, "One of the best I know."
And wasn't that sad enough on its own?
He hated seeing GOOD people hurt. Killed...
"I can give you one name. But it has to be off the record. Understand?"
"The old boys at the station won't hear a word of it."
Also not a lie. Those reptilian cynics thought she was too emotional for her job? Fine. Her more emotional impulses had always served her better than the rational ones in the past.
"Were they on the platform?"
"Yeah," Ted pulled out his pad again, flipped to a fresh page, and wrote down a few lines.
He tore it out, and placed it in her palm.
"Burn it when you're done."
Eliza gave the paper one look, forcing herself not to smile, or quip 'Pleasure doing business with you'.
"Every time I worry about the state of humanity, someone comes along to restore my faith in it."
Hopefully, you don't get thrown in front of a train too, she thought, saying aloud, "Good luck with the case, Detective. I'll keep you posted."
That one may or may not be a lie. Eliza wouldn't know until she'd done some detective work of her own.
"Good luck, Ms. Taylor." Peter nodded, before he turned on his feet and walked away.
THAT AFTERNOON
***
The bodega was on the upper end of the Grand Concourse, at a juncture between E 199 Street and Jerome Avenue. Eliza had had more than enough of the Bronx by this point in her day, but if Detective Wilson hadn't just been blowing smoke up her ass, this was the most cogent lead she had.
The shop was a little hole in the wall between a Mexican bakery and a Korean fish market that smelled exactly how you would expect. Though the day was chilly, locals were huddled outside on the sidewalks, in hoods and Yankee caps. She passed some old men playing Mah Jong at a folding table, a young man loudly (and poorly) freestyling as he walked. Nobody catcalled her, though one or two high school aged youths in football jerseys snickered as she passed.
Eliza zipped up her jacket to the collar, ruing her bust yet again.
There were baskets and crates of produce outside the shop. An old woman in a head wrap was sniffing a gnarled, warty root that the crate it came from proclaimed to be a 'Yuca'. She shook her head and muttered something derisive in what Eliza suspected was a Barbadian dialect, tossing the thing back into the basket.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
"Yes, darling?" the woman asked, looking her up and down, "The college is just up the road."
"Oh, I'm not here for the college," explained Eliza patiently, wondering of the assumption should be taken as a compliment or a jibe, "I'm looking for somebody. An Artie Beauchamp."
"Artie?" the woman shook her head, "Why you asking for him?"
"Oh, I just want to talk..."
"He's a good yute, and he doesn't need more trouble."
"Ma'am, I don't want to give him any trouble. Is he a...relative of yours?"
"A neighbor, and a good boy. He doesn't go making trouble with those other hooligans..."
"Would it give you any peace of mind if I told you I'm not with the cops?"
The woman narrowed her eyes, "Then who are you with, and what are you after?"
"The truth," Eliza replied simply, "I just want to ask Artie a few questions. Nobody else ever needs to know I was here."
"We get trouble enough in this neighborhood," muttered the woman, "We don't need more."
"I promise. It'll be like I was never here."
The woman considered, "No getting rid of you anyway. You'll find him in the back."
Eliza smiled, "Thank you."
A fluffy gray cat looked up at her as she entered the bodega. It studied her with weary, reproachful eyes, as if expecting her to steal something. Eliza didn't look at it any longer than she needed, turning to find the young man she had come to ask after.
"You must be Artie," she approached the lanky youth idly picking through the freezers, "I'm Eliza Taylor."
Artie was browsing the freezer aisle for an Arizona when some lady approached him.
He tensed when she said his name, a thousand fears rushing through his head. "Eliza Taylor?" Art grabbed a can and headed for the counter, avoiding looking at the counter. "That name supposed to mean something to me?"
"Only if you watch CWBC weeknights at 9:00 PM/8:00 PM Central," she replied swiftly.
"If it eases your mind any, I'm not here as a reporter. At least, not a TV reporter. But I do want to ask you a few questions..." she inclined her head, "About what happened at the train station last night."