Chapter 39
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
CINDEL
The drive held three files inside a folder named, “un.” UN? What did that stand for? United Nations…?
Inside the folder are two text documents as well as a video.
I start by selecting the one named, “I’m Sorry.
” It looks like it’s a letter…. to Eamon.
Theo’s always been an eloquent writer, earning a few of his papers to be published in the local paper, even before graduation.
This letter, however, feels rushed, containing words out of context and minor spelling errors.
It’s still a heartfelt apology, nonetheless.
Theo goes on to admit he hasn’t been working as an intern but following someone of interest for many weeks.
Could this person be the one responsible for my brother’s untimely death?
! I read through the entirety of the letter but not once is the name mentioned.
Minimizing the letter, I opened the next file.
This one has dates, followed by brief descriptions. It’s a log.
November 11th: Person of interest meets with Boston PD.
I skipped a few entries that have similar descriptions.
November 18th: Person of interest meets with the now named Officer Kent.
Hold on. That’s the name of the officer who came to my apartment. Alarm bells commenced blaring in my head. I press on.
November 29th: Person of interest has frequent meetings in abandoned warehouses in the bay area. Associates unknown. Keeping distant for now. Eventually I need to record interactions.
December 7th: Person of interest has breakfast at Benny’s.
Oh great, now the person he was following frequents at my breakfast spot too? Super.
December 10th: Person of interest meets with new man.
December 13th: I have learned that the new man is affiliated with the Irish gang family, known as the Murray’s.
December 16th: Person of interest meets with Officer Kent. The meeting seemed informal and hurried.
December 20th: After inquiring, with my source. The Murray’s are unaware of any infiltration at the present.
Fuck me sideways. The person of interest is in cahoots with a rat! Are they still around? I should tell Eamon.
December 22nd: Person of interest meets Officer Kent at new location. The Murray family faces another raid at their Boxing Club.
December 29th.
What?
That’s… the day my brother died.
Person of interest meets with accomplices at a warehouse. I believe the older man, has wormed his way into the Murray family. The younger man is someone I’ve never seen before. The newcomer leaves prior to recording.
The words: See Recording are bolded next to the date’s entry.
That’s it. The last date he wrote in this log was the same date he was pronounced dead.
I do as the note says, switching over to the little reel icon in the file. It’s the only video on the microSD card.
“Please,” I whisper toward the glowing screen on my lap. A silent plea to find something, anything that can shed light on this entanglement of information.
Double clicking on the icon, I take a deep breath, as if to brace myself for whatever I may see.
The video begins with a jostling picture.
It appears the video is being taken with a phone; someone attempts to steady the camera.
As if a loose thread has been tugged from the stitches holding my heart together, I catch a brief glimpse of my brother.
Theo accidentally flipped the camera. Just as swiftly as he appeared, he was gone again.
Finally managing to reverse shot, he presses the phone to the glass.
It appears he was trying to see into another building.
Through the smudged window, he zooms past bricks, beyond panes of glass, and into the residing empty warehouse.
It’s too blurry. The camera struggles to focus on the dirt upon the window versus the far-off subjects.
Coming in and out of focus until eventually the image becomes clearer, as the lens is ultimately able to pick up movement in the distance.
I check the sound to make sure my computer has its volume turned up, but I hear nothing.
The movie is silent, everyone is so tiny, I’m forced to zoom in closer.
Two men take center stage. One of them has their back to the camera, while the other mystery man is speaking.
There may be no sound, but I can already tell by the man’s face and body language he is frustrated, even nervous.
I’ve spent most of my life reading people.
Observing them while picking up subtle details that others may miss.
The man’s fists clench often while he talks; his posture rigid as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.
When you're unable to rely on hearing, it’s important to hone in with your other senses.
I study the squirrely man, watching his thin lips form mumbles of speech.
I have no idea who he is, but I feel like I’ve seen him before.
He speaks quickly, but I can make out a few words like, she knows and it’s time to do something.
My brother’s vantage point can’t change, so I anxiously wait for the conversing party to pivot, so I can read the other person’s lips.
At long last, the other figure turns. Ice floods my veins. That confusing grin. Those somber eyes. It’s… our uncle. I pause the video. Considering the name of the file, “un.” Uncle Nicholas. He’s the person of interest? But… he’s family.
I tap the cursor to continue the video. Transfixed on each man’s mouth, I dare not blink.
My chest aches, as though the ice is expanding inside my lungs.
Unwavering, I decode my uncle’s steady words.
“I’m relying on you to feed me information about the Murray's. Keep close to Mary… I don’t want her talking.
” The other man waves his arms, firing back insults at my uncle.
Both men appear to be at a standstill, frustrated and unwilling to budge.
The unknown man speaks again, quickly. Either he says, she’s known the new kind of sin, or she knows the new kid’s your son. Neither make sense.
I replay the video multiple times for clarity, but the last part has me stumped.
My uncle had no children. He never married either.
I go back to the beginning. Skimming the letter then rereading the log.
In an attempt to de-ice my core, I check the side table drawer.
Rogue Twizzlers from Andrea’s incredible skeleton candy board sit in bags.
This is exactly what I need at this juncture.
Staring at the screen, I gnaw on the waxy treat, rewatching the video. I hope the sugar can kickstart my tired brain, aiding in rationalizing everything I just saw, in conjunction with what I already know. My brother was watching… no, not watching; following my uncle.
Nicholas is a Lombardi. That means… Nonno and Nonna brought these questionable traditions over from their home country.
My father became a part of this family as a baby, back when my grandparents adopted him.
So… was my initial analysis wrong? Was Nicholas the one who ran the Mafia all along?
Are my parents aware of this? For the past three years, he’s been the only family I’ve relied on.
Leaning heavily on him when I felt as though my parents wouldn’t listen to me.
I used to look forward to our monthly breakfast. He let me vent, never interrupted me when I talked about my brother.
I can’t say the same about my parents. Always switching subjects as soon as I uttered his name.
How could he just sit there and say nothing?
Month after month, year after year, impassively listening to me pour my heart out. What was the point? Why bother?
Unless… I think the copious amount of candy just hit me. He was monitoring me.
Theo went to school to be an investigative journalist. All of this can’t just be by coincidence.
One time, he told me that journalists follow a code, sticking to the truth, reporting accuracy, offering fairness, and being completely transparent.
I can’t accept that anything my brother logged is fabrication.
In fact, now I’m suspecting he went into this field on purpose.
Did he have a hunch about Nicholas, even before the log was started?
There’s no real way of telling. He’s not here.
I’ve laid over his grave crying enough times to know, the dead don't talk.
I knew my brother well. Clearly not everything, but he was never unhappy.
He loved music, was within reach of his dream job, and had a committed partner...
Theo did not take his own life. This I know to be true, with every bone in my body.
At the end of my rope here… licorice that is, I switch to picking at the edges of my nails.
When my thumb slips off the nail bed and skims my ring finger, I feel the tiny scar from childhood.
One of the few parts of me I adore, because it reminds me how we only grow through pain.
Theo taught me that. Glancing through the log again.
I review each entry with more consideration.
November 15th: Person of interest visits business just past Flaherty Way.
“Flaherty Way?” I feel like I’ve been down that street recently.
Opening the web browser, I type in the road name.
Dropping down to street-view, I stroll down virtually.
Townhomes, a few restaurants, and a mail store.
Mail Haven. I went there to drop off the embroidery hoops, after some lady bought all of them.
I never expected to sell anything on the way home from the Craft Bazaar, but then she handed me an envelope full of money and the address, which led me there.
Holy crap… it’s like the waterlogged, symbolic puzzle has inevitably dried up and the pieces are fitting together!
This time when I rewatching the video, I have a notepad, ready to record every word I can make out from my uncle and his accomplice.