The Artist

T

he rain fell endlessly. It had a harshness to it unlike any other night, unlike any other storm. The wind had started right before darkness fell, blowing in the menacing black clouds as the sun set out over the horizon. Now the night was nothing but obscurity and wetness as the water fell upon the city.

This made for a quiet night. It seemed as though not even the vermin wanted to brave the storm to scrounge for food. There was the rare bolt of lightning every now and again, but even the thunder that normally accompanied was kept at bay. These things have a powerful feeling to them, almost as though they are the lifeblood of a downpour. This storm had no life to it, like a blanket of death that had been draped over Boston.

Then a light. Settled deep in an alleyway in the South End, it shone dimly. The old Crown Victoria was nestled in behind an imposing dumpster, its slightly rusted, burgundy exterior being tested by the elements. The red interior light flickered, seemingly the only sign of activity out amongst the dreariness. If one looked very closely, a lone silhouette could be seen sitting in the driver’s seat. It did not move and had not for some time. The steam rose from a cup of black coffee in the cupholder directly beside him, dancing slowly under the illumination overhead. The man’s eyes were shut, set symmetrically on a weathered, emotionless face. There he was, perched solemnly, unchanging, yet still vigilant, listening to the rain beating down on the windows of his car.

There was a loud ding as his cellphone, which was laying on the dash in front of him, reacted to an incoming text message. His eyes opened and he stared at the phone momentarily before grabbing it. The time it displayed read 01:25. He gave the message a quick glance, the bright light of the screen bouncing off his tired brown eyes, before he threw the phone back on the dash, grabbing his coffee and taking a small sip. Putting the beverage immediately back in the cupholder, he took hold of the laptop mounted on the centre console to his right and rotated it towards him, opening the screen as he did so. It was as black as the night.

“Piece of shit,” he mumbled, slapping the side of the computer.

The screen flickered once, twice, three times, before bursting to life, the brightness completely filling the interior of the car and overpowering the red headlamp mounted above it. Momentarily blinded, he quickly struck a key on the keyboard repeatedly until the backlight of the monitor softened to his liking. A series of quick jabs at the touchscreen and a map of the city popped up in front of him. He ran his fingers along the display, dragging the digital map this way and that until he found what he was looking for.

A series of about ten to fifteen blue dots, each symbolising an individual police car’s GPS system, surrounded a large, beige square that was labelled as ‘BPD Precinct 4’ in large bold lettering. Just as the storm had driven the rats back into the sewers, so too had it sent every on-duty cop in South End back to the dryness of the office. In their defence, the radio had been deadly silent for hours, and there seemed not to be a single soul or vehicle on the streets. It was rare that South End was ever this quiet, yet here he was, quite possibly the only one out and about in some random alley, alone with his corner store coffee and the thoughts in his head.

“Fucking humps,” he groaned under his breath as he shut the screen. He took another swig of his coffee before leaning his head back against the headrest and shutting his eyes again.

A few moments passed before his phone intruded upon the silence a second time, vibrating off the dash and falling into the dark footwell below. He sighed audibly, shooting his hand down and groping around on the grungy floor. He pulled the phone up, now dripping with brown water specs smeared across the screen, and sighed again, doing his best to wipe it off on his pant leg. The screen displayed the new message as well as the one he had previously ignored. He unlocked the phone with his passcode and efficiently dialled a number from memory. He hated texting.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. The sound could be heard emanating from the small speaker, filling the silence in the car. The ringing stopped, cut short by a robotic female voice yelling harshly into his ear.

“You have reached the voicemail box of…” it paused awkwardly, and then a new voice, this one much sweeter and softer, full of life.

“Hey it’s Hailey, sorry I ca…”

He ended the call angrily.

“You just sent me two texts, how can you not answer your phone thirty seconds later?” he grumbled to himself. Tossing the phone back onto the dash, he again picked up his coffee. As he drank it, he gazed out the window to his left, peering through the onslaught of falling water.

A light in a window suddenly cut through the robust darkness that had settled over the alleyway. It was about a block ahead of the him, on the third and top floor of an old red brick building, and bright red curtains could be seen hanging in either corner of the pane. The rest of the building enveloped around the only lit window, encompassing it in cold, wet stone. The rest of the building melded with the darkness. The rest of the building was just there, its existence absolute but unrequired. The light itself was not warm, nor yellow, nor inviting. It was an icy white light, and although the only other sign of life in the wake of the storm aside from himself, it seemed, for some inexplicable reason, off-putting.

He stared at the window curiously. There was no movement inside that he could see, just the light emanating from somewhere within, the red curtains hanging lifelessly at attention. Then a singular, powerful, bright bolt of lightning shot out of the velvet black sky directly overhead. It was ferocious, the intensity almost blinding and white as snow, exposing the entirety of the lane for only an instant. It took him completely off guard as he had been fixated upon the ominous window.

That is when he saw her, only for a second, exposed by the natural lighting of the storm. Standing in the middle of the alley directly below the thing that had caught his focus in the first place, she had long black hair that hung down between her shoulder blades. Absolutely soaked by the rain, it had a shine to it as the lightning broke the sky. Though a fair distance away, it appeared she was only wearing an apple-red sundress. Her arms were completely exposed as were most of her legs as the dress only came down to just above her knees, and although his glimpse was brief, he also thought he saw her to be barefoot. Perhaps most strange of all, he found, was simply, her. Despite the storm that extinguished the rest of life in Boston, there she was, not running for a dry and warm place, not trying to shield herself from the never-ending downpour, but simply standing solemnly in an alleyway in the South End of Boston wearing a garment intended for a much more pleasant time.

As quickly as the lightning had exposed everything it disappeared, plunging his world back into blackened damnation, and his view of the girl was gone. The heavy darkness that had once served as his own blanket of anonymity, the cloak of his presence, now served as an obstacle to his intrigue. The light in the window was still on, yet again seemingly the only sign of civilization.

The powerful rumble of the proceeding thunder shook the car just as his phone dinged a third time. He grabbed it and shoved it into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, not bothering to check the message this time. He turned a dial mounted on the dash beside the steering column and the yellow, faded beams from the old headlights of the car burst forwards, bouncing off the green dumpster in front of them. He threw the column-shifter into drive and heavily turned the steering wheel to the left as he emerged from his hiding place. The dry concrete that was shielded underneath the car was quickly drenched by the rain as the vehicle groaned forward, erasing any sign that he had once been parked there.

He proceeded slowly down the alley, the weak lights of the antiquated Ford barely carving a path through the night. In mere seconds he found himself sitting directly below the strange window. Looking out to his left, he could barely make out an old, grey door on the side of the building set just inside a small alcove. A faint glimmer of light could be seen creeping out from a crack under the door, but there was nothing else distinct about it. There was no sign at all of the girl in the red sundress.

He fastened up his standard issue jacket, the cheap fabric rustling audibly as his fingers struggled with the zipper, and popped the collar around his neck. He stuck his left hand into the pocket on the car door and pulled out a large black flashlight. In his head he had no idea why he was getting out of his warm car into the torrential downpour, but the girl had sparked his interest. Something about her was upsetting, a feeling he did not experience often.

“One, two, three,” he counted quietly to himself as he pulled the car door handle and promptly hopped out, quickly shutting it behind him. Instantly he was drenched, the wind pushing water at him from seemingly every angle. He turned and looked up at the old brick building in front of him. The light in the window was now out, and it blended in with all the other dark rectangles that lined the face of the structure. However, he knew it to be the third from the end as he had counted it out upon his approach.

He pushed the black rubber button on the butt of the flashlight and with an audible click a beam of white light shot out from the other end. Pointing it up the side of the building at the focal point of his curiosity, it revealed the red curtains still hanging unaffected on the outer sides of the pane, but he still could not make out any other details. He stared up at it for a moment, the rain drops pouring down onto his face. Nothing changed.

Turning his flashlight to the door, he saw it to be made of thick metal, tattered and crusted with spots of rust. He walked into the alcove and inspected the thing more closely. It was dry despite the weather, the inlet was somehow preventing the rain from touching it even with the harsh winds that accompanied. He stuck his hand out towards the handle but stopped suddenly. Several water droplets ran down the length of the handle, one slowly after the other, the rest of the thing completely dry. ‘Someone was just here,’ he thought to himself before he continued and grabbed the handle, pushing it down forcibly. It did not budge. He pulled it several times and the door clanged in its frame, but it did not move. He let go of the handle and turned back to his car, only taking a single step before shining his light on the door once more. Although it was securely locked, there was not a keyhole anywhere on its face. How had the girl gotten back in?

He gazed at the door quizzically for a period before the cold wetness that was now piercing him to his core brought him back into the moment, and he proceeded back over to his car and got back into the dry environment hurriedly. After he chugged the remainder of his coffee in attempt to warm himself, he threw the empty cup into the passenger side footwell and placed the flashlight back into the door pocket before peering up at the window again. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt uneasy. Not in a sickly way, but almost as though he was being watched, a kind of instinctual reaction of survival. Quickly, he grabbed the flashlight and shone it back up the side of the building, but the window was still empty save for the red curtains.

Again extinguishing the light, he threw it on the passenger seat this time. Slowly, he put the car into drive and began down the alleyway once more, staring in his rear-view mirror as he rolled forward. The car reached a point where the alley came to a T, and he had to go either north or south. Stopped at the intersection, he was still watching his mirror, but there was nothing behind him but darkness and wetness. For reasons inexplicable, he expected to see the girl come running back out into the alley, possibly being chased by a second figure. Her despair would be apparent and he would be forced to jump back out into the storm and intervene, perhaps drawing his gun on the violently maddened attacker. As the daydream played out his head, more and more it became obvious that nothing was going to happen.

“Sorochinski, you out there?” The voice shattered the silence in the car. He jumped, his heart skipping a beat.

“Jesus, that’s loud,” he growled as he reached out and turned down the volume on his radio. He grabbed the grey microphone off the cradle on the dash and held it in front of his mouth, depressing the small black button on the side with his thumb.

“Go for Sorochinski,” he said into the mic, sounding somewhat vexed. He let go of the button and dropped the mic onto his lap. The response came seconds later.

“It’s Skippy. Come back to the office, I need to talk to you,” the crackling voice replied.

“Just fucking call me,” he grumbled, again to himself, as he picked up the mic.

“Roger, on the way.”

He placed the mic back into the cradle with a sigh as he looked back up into the rear view. The alley still lay behind him unchanged, but perhaps more wet. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen, but a strange feeling still hung over him. Taking one last glance, he angled his car north in the alley towards the office. As the old Ford rounded the corner, the light in the window turned back on.

***

Victor Sorochinski spoke with an accent. It had been many years since he had lived in Moscow, and almost equally as long since he had spoken with anyone in his mother tongue, but the accent would probably always be there. When he got mad, he still swore in Russian, but that was about it. Every once in a while he would venture to a more ethnically inclined area of the city where he was likely to run into a few people who shared his language, but other than the odd greeting and polite response, English was all that he spoke nowadays.

He was not a small man, coming in at six foot two and weighing just less than two hundred and fifteen pounds, but he dressed somewhat cheaply, so his clothes made him look more overweight than muscular. His features were distinctly Slavic, his chin and nose somewhat sharp with a pronounced brow. He more or less blended in with a crowd, although one could probably peg his origins if they took a good look at him. The only overly unique feature was a long scar that ran along the right side of his head, slightly visible amongst his short, black hair.

He had come to Boston almost fifteen years ago from Russia, and as soon as he had attained the citizenship requirements, he had become a member of the Boston Police Department. During his early years as a rookie, he quickly garnered a reputation for being hardworking and honest, and he spent most of his time deeply involved and focused on his cases. Despite this, he was fairly quiet, keeping mostly to himself, and he didn’t spend a whole lot of time socializing with his fellow brothers and sisters in blue. Truth be told, he didn’t really like people all that much, no matter which side of the thin blue line they stood on, and he preferred to work alone. He felt as though people just got in his way and complicated things, but when he did become friendly with someone, he had all the time in the world for them, as select few as they were.

Over the years, the nature of his introversion began to lend itself to rumors about him and why he had come to the USA. Whenever the question arose in his presence, he gave the customary and somewhat vague answer that he had just needed a change of scenery, and that the USA had seemed as good a place as any to have a fresh beginning. Of course, the Russian conspiracies surrounding the presidential election and other matters of global politics being what they were, stories had made their way around about him being an old spy, or defecting to the USA for political asylum, and all other sorts of Tom Clancy type fantasies. Eventually, the fibs all made their way back to Victor’s ears, and the odd time he chuckled at how creative some of them were. Ultimately, he never gave any validations to anyone asking the questions. Most of the time the inquiries seemed jovial in nature, but every so often he ran into someone that gave the air of ridiculous belief. Regardless, inside his head he now considered himself an American, and he didn’t really spend much time dwelling on his Russian past.

The rustic chain-link gate creaked and moaned as it opened for the Crown Victoria. It clanged to a halt as the car pulled through the opening, the entire fence swaying in the wind. He pulled around the backside of the building and took up his usual stall in the far corner of the lot.

The building itself was non-descript; a giant beige rectangle lined with a series of rectangular, one-way windows, and a sign that read ‘Boston Police Department’ in black steel letters mounted on a rectangular concrete slab just to the right of the main entrance. The grounds of the building were surrounded by a grey and weathered chain-link fence, and within that lay the rectangular concrete parking lot, lined with a variety of personal and police vehicles. The overall architecture was uninspired and generally, well, rectangular, lending itself to the stereotypical appearance of most government buildings.

Victor threw open the door of his car, hopped out, and quickly slammed it shut behind him. He jogged over to a set of grey metallic doors on the backside of the building, the rain still pouring down around him. He produced a black leather wallet from his pant pocket and swiped it over the card reader mounted on the wall next to the doors. There was an audible click as they unlocked, and he gave the handle a hefty pull, quickly stepping into the dry interior.

Inside, a long beige hallway lined with doors lay before him, with a tile covered staircase on his immediate left. A young cop was seated on the bottom step, his uniform nice and dry with his glimmering golden badge mounted on his chest, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hands.

“Hell of a storm out there, huh?” he said in a friendly tone.

“Yeah, no shit,” Victor replied, not even bothering to look at the rookie. Without giving him a chance to respond, Victor proceeded down the hallway, glancing left and right into the open doors on either side of him as he went.

He soon found himself at the end of the hall which opened up into a vast room filled with cubicles, chairs, computers, and a plethora of other office essentials. Every seat in the room was occupied by cops both in and out of uniform, all of whom were laughing, swearing, chewing, and drinking coffee. Victor stood in the entry up against the wall, observing the scene. Most of them had not noticed him walk in until the officer in the cubicle closest to him turned in his chair and saw him standing there awkwardly.

“Hey Sorochinski,” he chuckled. “You look wet.”

“Well have you looked outside Jimmy? Or have you sat here humping the dog all shift like the rest of these goons?” he retorted, a faint hint of a smirk revealing itself on his windswept face.

“Fuck you too,” Jimmy replied as he leaned back in his chair, putting both his hands behind his head. “I don’t remember the last time we’ve had a night this quiet around here, and I’m taking full advantage of it. Besides, there hasn’t been a call on the board since briefing, and if I went out there into that shit for no good reason, I’d look about as miserable as your sorry ass.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, scanning the room. All the other cops were still caught up in whatever story one of the more senior officers was regaling them with in the far corner. He looked back down at Jimmy.

“But you know what they say, crime never takes a holiday,” he smirked.

“Whatever Magnum PI,” Jimmy laughed.

Victor liked Jimmy. They shared a similar sarcastic sense of humour, and Jimmy, for the most part, had a good work ethic. Jimmy was ten years his junior on the force in terms of service, but was more capable than most cops senior to him, which Victor appreciated.

“Have you seen Skippy? He said he needed to talk to me.”

Jimmy turned in his chair and took a quick look around the room.

“Nah man, I think he’s in his office approving reports or something,” he said, turning back around. “I haven’t seen him all night.”

“Alright thanks pal. Don’t work too hard,” he responded, turning back down the hall towards the stairs.

“Never do buddy!” Jimmy called after him.

He continued down the hallway, keeping his eyes forward. He reached the stairway at the far end and turned right, starting up the stairs two at a time. The young rookie was still seated in the same spot, only he didn’t say a word this time, giving Victor a half-hearted glance as he took a sip of his coffee.

He quickly found himself at the top of the stairs with another hallway laid out in front of him, a twin to the one downstairs. He sauntered halfway down the hall and instinctively cut to his right through one of the many open doors, stepping into a dimly lit room. Right in the middle was a large wooden desk cluttered with a plethora of papers, file folders, and documents. To the immediate right of the entry was a large, cherry wood bookshelf lined with many large books and volumes. The walls of the room were covered with a variety of plaques, diplomas, certificates, and the odd photograph, all framed in seemingly identical black frames. The lights in the room were off, the only luminescence being cast by a small red lamp on the corner of the desk and a computer screen on the opposing end. The desk itself was fairly typical, but it had been elevated so that its occupant could stand and work as opposed to sitting. Behind it stood a surly man in his sixties staring into the computer screen, vigorously clicking away on the mouse, a large mustache on his upper lip twitching in concert with each click.

Sergeant Wes Sciparello, who had been dubbed Skippy at the onset of his career due to his positive attitude and the skip in his step, was dressed in a standard police uniform pressed far more professionally than most were capable of. The perfectly ironed seams ran from the shoulder patches down the length of his arms, cutting precisely through the center of the sergeant chevrons displayed proudly on his sleeves. He had a wide nose with an even wider face, his aforementioned mustache matching his greying, peppered hair, which was neatly combed over, swaying slightly as he promptly looked up from the monitor at his guest. Despite his age, his eyes had a youthful sparkle to them, appearing full of pep and vigour.

“Hey Victor, come on in,” he said, smiling. His voice was deep and authoritative, yet simultaneously warm and jovial. He looked back at his computer screen and resumed clicking away enthusiastically. Victor entered the room and took a seat in the left of two red office chairs placed at opposing angles in front of the desk.

“What’s up Sarge?” he asked, fidgeting in his seat as he tried to get comfortable.

“Just trying to get these reports approved while I have some down time,” Skippy replied, not looking up from the screen. He made a few more imposing jabs at the mouse before pushing it away and leaning back in his chair, looking at Victor again.

“The paper never ends once you’re a sergeant, especially when half of these nitwits can’t write a report to save their ass,” he sighed.

Victor chuckled. “Does that include me Sarge?”

“Fuck no,” replied the Sergeant, grinning. “You’re one of the few whose paper I don’t even read anymore because I know it is done properly.”

“I try my best.”

“I know. While you’re fishing for compliments you humble asshole, I’ll admit that’s why I called you in here. I’ve got a file I want you to run with, if you’re willing. It’s a missing person file, but before you start your bitching and moaning, hear me out.”

“Don’t we have a Missing Persons Unit for these bullshit files Skip?” he groaned.

“Fuck sakes, I said hear me out. It’s a twenty-year-old girl that has been missing since yesterday afternoon,” he began, grabbing a red file folder and throwing it across the desk to Victor.

“She was last seen by some barista at a coffee shop, and other than that, the info is limited. There is absolutely nothing missing from her residence according to her roommate who called it in, and her car is still parked in her driveway at home. Her cellphone is turned off so we can’t track it, and there has been no usage of her bank cards since she’s gone missing. She has never done this before, has no addiction or financial issues, and was doing well in school. Truth be told Vic, we don’t have much to go on, but that being said, something seemed off to me as I read the file. A pretty young girl goes missing without a trace on the first of April as soon as the snow melts, a year to the day from the Rodriguez case?”

Victor had been skimming through the contents of the folder as he was listening. He stopped and looked up at his Sergeant. The Rodriguez file in question alluded to a murder from the year prior, right on the first day of spring. A promising, young, and athletic boy, Guillermo Rodriguez, had gone missing from his family home under similar circumstances. He had been found a week later, nailed halfway up a tree in a local park, stark naked. Somehow, despite being in the heart of a bustling suburban community, nobody had seen a thing, and due to lack of any evidence, the case had gone cold. After that, several other people had gone missing under similar circumstances, although none of them had ever been found.

“You think this is related to that string of twenty-two’s from last year?” he asked. “Then why are you giving this to me? This is definitely over my head.”

“I’m not saying it is, but something seems off to me. And I’m giving it to you because it’s a lot easier for me to hide a twenty-two file from the lazy bastards in Missing Persons than it is for me to hide a body from Homicide. You need an example for your promotion package and I’m throwing you a big, juicy bone here. If this turns into something big, you own the file and it will be a fucking cake walk to get a secondment to the fancy unit of your choosing, and that will be example city for your resume. If it turns out to be nothing and she shows up back at home after a weekend of drinking with her heels behind her ears, then you did me a solid and I’ll owe you one.”

“Alright,” Victor replied, looking back down at the picture he had found buried in the centre of the file. She was a very pretty girl, with long jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and porcelain smooth skin. In the photo, she was smiling modestly as she leaned up against a tree, wearing a bright red dress.

“I’m assuming the initial report is done already?” Victor inquired.

“Yeah, Fronterack started it up and attended the house to speak with the roommate. Knowing his work, he probably did the bare minimum, so if I were you I would just treat it as though nothing has been done.”

“Alright, sounds good Skippy,” he said as he got up from the chair, clutching the file folder in his hand. “I’ll keep you posted.”

He headed back down the hallway and descended the staircase. Pushing through the double doors, he tucked the folder under his jacket to protect it from the falling rain and bee-lined it for his car. He climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and flicked on the red overhead light, withdrawing the folder from under his jacket simultaneously. He opened it again and found the photograph of the girl sitting on the top of the pile, and he picked it up and examined it more carefully under the light. The girl in the alley had been facing away from him and he had only caught a glimpse in the flash of the lightning.

He put the car into reverse and aggressively tore out of his parking spot. The storm had not let up and the rain continued to beat down on the car savagely. He flicked on his wipers as he sped out the front gate, bound for the alleyway for the second time, back out into the abyss.