—Miss, said the white cop, glancing balefully at his partner. Why don’t you finish getting dressed and give us a minute with your friend?
I thought Leonie was going to say something smart. Instead she walked away and shut herself in Carter’s room. What could I do but comply? I sat down at the table and answered their questions. The short cop was angry with his partner for embarrassing him, so to compensate he went in hard. Why was Carter at Hunts Point? Did I realize it was a known haunt of prostitutes? A “known haunt of prostitutes,” a period phrase, strange out of his mouth. I told them that Carter didn’t use prostitutes. I basically told them the truth. They pressed and the short cop raised his voice, maybe for his partner’s benefit, maybe for Leonie, hiding in the bedroom. When I told them about the money, they thought they’d made their case. Did I understand there was a possibility that he was targeted because of the cash he was carrying? Who knew about it? Cornelius. Leonie. Who else? I must have mentioned it to someone. I needed to think. Was his understanding correct that we were in the music business? A moment of hesitation. We probably socialized with—he hesitated again, hunting for the delicate term—hip hop guys.
How could I tell them what I really thought? The money wasn’t the reason it happened. It was bad luck he had it, but whatever happened to Carter had to do with the song, with the three minutes of darkness we had released into the world. That’s what I believed, but I had no justification for it, nothing I could put into words. Just my fear, the acid knot in my gut that had persisted for days and would not go away, no matter how much stomach medication I poured on top of it.
—Just to refresh my memory, sir, where were you that night?
—Here.
—All night?
They mentioned phone records, a search of the apartment. I told them I had nothing to hide.
Just then, Leonie appeared in the living area, dressed for the road, carrying her bag.
—I’m going now. You should tell them about the guy, Seth. The record collector guy.
—He’s downtown.
—But you said you thought Carter might have gone to see him.
The detectives looked concerned.
—He intended to visit someone? Sir, I think you need to be more frank with us.
Leonie left. They made no attempt to stop her. I wondered if they had instructions not to bother Carter’s family. Reluctantly, I told them about JumpJim. I said nothing about “Graveyard Blues” or about the fact that I’d met him. I just said that he was a person Carter had met on the internet, that in my opinion he had no records to sell.
—And you think Mr. Wallace may have gone to meet him?
—It’s possible.
—You never found out his name?
—I guess not.
—Or where they were going to meet?
—No.
—We’re going to need access to his laptop, if he had one. We have his phone. What email system did he use?
They took down details. I told them I couldn’t give them his possessions without permission from the family. They weren’t happy about it and the Latino detective went into the hall and made a phone call. They left, saying they would be back with paperwork.
As soon as they’d gone, I got on my bike and cycled over the bridge into Manhattan. I don’t know if I was tired. Perhaps I made some kind of mistake. I took the same route as I’d taken the previous day. I chained up my bike to the same lamppost. But though I walked that stretch of 14th Street several times, it seemed confusing and unfamiliar. Between the dollar store and the dry cleaner, where the bar ought to have been, was a clinical white space selling frozen yogurt.
THE LANGUAGE. Blunt force trauma. Bradycardia and hypotension. Impairment of neurological function secondary to mechanical impact. They had surrounded Carter with this language, lowered it over him like a wire cage. Later the police came back with a warrant to search the apartment. By that time I’d collected anything that had to do with drugs and thrown it in a dumpster behind a nearby restaurant. They found the old laptop he used to check and send mail, and took it away in an evidence bag. After a cursory look at the walnut box of records, they left it alone.
Then Leonie texted me. If I wanted to see Carter, I should come by the hospital. She was going over there. She would sneak me in.
It was hard to look at him like that, attached to a ventilator, his hands a mess of tape and plastic vents and drains. His head was tightly wrapped in bandages and the few exposed sections of his face were horribly bruised. Both eyes were closed up, puffed out by fluid. Plugs of blood-soaked cotton stuffed his nose. Something else had happened, some indefinable sliding of his features, as if they’d been smeared, pushed sideways. Sensors were taped to his chest and clipped to his finger to monitor vital signs. The audio output on the machine by the bed was turned up high, presumably so staff could hear alerts when they were outside the room. Inside, the volume was punishing, the thump and squelch of his amplified heart an industrial bassline, some other parameter indicated as a high-pitched pulse, like a car alarm.
I held his cold hand, stained orange by some kind of antiseptic, trying not to cry at the sight of the plastic tags circling his thin wrists. The previous summer, he’d collected festival passes like fluorescent friendship bracelets. I wanted to play music to him but they said I couldn’t use my phone, so I sat there, listening to his amplified vital signs, watching paper scroll out of a plotter onto the floor.
—Did they find his car?
Leonie shook her head. She was leaning over the bed, stroking her brother’s matted hair.
—I still can’t believe what an ape you were. Going up there in that stupid fancy car. Bright red. I mean, Carter, come on. You’re supposed to be the streetwise one.
A nurse passed the door and frowned. Visitors were only allowed on that floor by special permission.
Carter wants to trust people, I said.