Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 41

Sweat stains pooled in Frank's armpits and down his back. The police station's heat was cranked up enough to thaw an iceman. The bright lights above him made it worse. He was in the Interrogation Room, being the room with the biggest table, and the least distractions. The large two-way mirror reflected his frustration. Frank scratched at his scalp while reading file after file, hoping to dig out a decent thought that would weave it all together.

It was already a long night. The coffee tasted as stale as the air around him, but he gulped it down relentlessly. In front of him, the table was covered with photos and files. Some were of a warehouse fire not so long ago, where Eric's body had turned up. Others were of Jonathan Crow and Sanford.

"Merry Christmas, Frank, or is it Ebenezer now?"

"Huh?" Frank responded, annoyed, and looked up to see Detective Cohen, the only other detective in the department worth a damn—in Frank's eyes.

"It's past midnight, it's Christmas. Don't you have a wife to get home to?" Cohen said, happy to have struck a nerve.

"What? Oh, she's sleeping now anyway. This is urgent. Why are you here? It's Christmas, don't you have a family to annoy instead of me?"

"I do, but we're Jewish, so fuck Christmas," he said and laughed. "Look, I just got in to wrap up a few things, but I saw this on my desk." He waved a file in his hand. "It must've gotten mixed up, cause someone left it for you."

Frank finally gave his full attention.

"What's that? Give it here."

"A please wouldn't hurt."

"I could make it hurt."

Cohen chuckled and threw the thick file onto the table. It made an audible thump. Frank saw his stenciled name and tore into it like a starving dog.

"Does Sergeant Arrogant know you're here?"

"Pssh," Frank responded, "He wouldn't know if he was here."

"Good point," Cohen laughed. "Hey, seriously, merry Christmas. Don't ruin the holiday by being here too long, huh? Give Nance my best."

"Yeah," Frank said, flipping through the pages, barely paying attention. "Same to you."

What he came across stole his breath. There were two stacks of files within the folder, and he had put them side-by-side in comparison. They were detailed medical records conducted for a research paper; it all stemmed from the Fairweather Mental Institution outside of Portland, Maine. The information was concerned with two subjects, both unidentified by name, but brothers, deeply affected by the same traumatic event.

Each sentence he read opened a new tunnel in which he found himself burrowing deeper, expecting some form of light to emerge on the other side. But the files were too massive; he couldn't risk skipping a syllable. He got up and poured himself his sixth cup of coffee; his hands shook as he poured.

The end was near.

He could feel it.

He kept on reading.

* * *

"Deck the hall with boughs of holly. Fa la la la la la la la la! 'Tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la la la la la la la!"

The family sang along joyfully. Even Joy sang, who had been Sadie's neighborhood friend for as long as she could remember. The father wore a sweater too ugly for words. The mother kept her wine glass full with the sweetest of white wines, puckering her cheeks every time she sipped, and she sipped it often. The younger brother clapped along off tempo, decked out in his Christmas pajamas. Even the family dog, Charlie, sat there with antlers over his ears and a miserable look on his face.