Shallow River

She crosses her arms defiantly and snipes, “I’d like a lawyer if you’re going to keep questioning me Detective Fitzgerald.”

Yeah, saw that one coming.

“FITZGERALD!”

I turn my head from my computer to see Amar coming towards me, his face set in stone.

“Yeah?”

“Man’s here. Claims he witnessed Greg Barber’s murder.”

I stand so fast, the chair I was sitting in nearly topples to the ground. Disregarding it, Amar leads me to what could possibly be our biggest lead yet. If this man witnessed Greg’s murder, then there’s a good chance he’ll be able to identify the Ghost Killer.

The witness is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an anxious look on his weathered face. Dude looks like he’s been through a war or two. Ragged, dirty clothes filled with holes and reek of stale piss and sewer water.

I note each feature on his face, my eyes lingering on his own. Something about them gives me pause. He’s shifting on his feet anxiously, glancing around the precinct like he’s waiting for Freddy Krueger to pop out. Usually the case when civilians find themselves in a building full of law enforcement officers.

When he sees me, he stills and slips a hand from of his pocket and holds it out to me for a handshake. I pause. Witnesses don’t usually try to shake my hand. Reluctantly, I slap my hand in his, the motion sending chills down my spine as I stare into his eyes. His squeezes my hand once before letting go.

“Benedict Davis,” he introduces, his voice higher-pitched than I would’ve guessed.

“Detective Fitzgerald. Follow me,” I say, nodding towards one our interrogation rooms.

Benedict settles in across the table from me, linking his trembling fingers loosely. Amar resumes his position behind me, per usual. Something about sitting at the table makes him feel restless.

“Alright, Mr. Davis, I hear you witnessed a murder. Can you tell me about it?”

He clears his throat and shifts again. “I was on my way to the gas station for some cigs on 3rd street when I heard a commotion. Now usually I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but the screams coming from a kid were hard to ignore. Four men were huddled together under the train tracks. Two men were holding him down while another hooded man stood before them with a gun in one hand, a bloody knife in the other. Looked like some type of hunting knife or something.

“I couldn’t see much, but I could see that the screaming man was covered in blood and pleading for mercy. The hooded man said something I couldn’t hear, raised his gun and shot the young male in the head. I ran after that, before they could spot me.”

His shaking hands run across his head nervously, much like my own tic when I’m frustrated. His body and arms are constantly shifting, and several times he lifts his ass off the chair like he’s getting up, but then just sits back down nervously. It’s physically impossible for this man to sit still.

“Why did you wait so long to report this, Mr. Davis?”

He scoffs, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his head. If he wasn’t wearing a light jacket, I bet I’d see pit stains on his t-shirt. “Because I was terrified, man. I ran back to my house and basically waited for someone to come find me and kill me next. I was so paranoid; I didn’t leave my house until now. I figured if they were coming for me, they would’ve already popped me. So, I came straight here.”

I mull over his story for a second. It’s consistent with where we found Greg’s body, and also how he was murdered. If the witness saw Greg’s body on the ground and bloodied, he must’ve caught them right after the Ghost Killer carved the word into Greg’s chest.

“Can you tell me anything about any of the men? Features, what they were wearing, tattoos, any of the sort?”

He swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, flinging off sweat in the process. “Uh… uh, yeah. The one guy holding down the… the victim was bald with some sort of tattoo on the back of his head,” he stumbles, his hands shaking. “I was too far away to see exactly what it was, but it looked like some sort of bird.”

I grab the pen and pad from the table and jot down notes.

“And the hooded man? Anything about him?”

“It looked like he was wearing a silver watch. But I can’t remember m

uch else than that. He was dressed all in black and the hood covered his face.”

Frustration bubbles inside me. It can never be as easy as seeing the killer and being able to identify them in a line-up. Being able to identify his minions is at least a start, though. Better than nothing.

“Anything else about the other men?” I ask, glaring down at my notepad until the words blur.

“The other guy was blonde and had a heavy gold chain around his neck. Like something you’d see on a gang member. He was…” he trails off as nerves seem to overwhelm him. He squeeze his eyes shut tight and runs a hand back and forth on the top of his graying hair in a panicked gesture.

“Hey, hey, Mr. Davis. Relax and take your time. You’re safe here, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”