Exile

By William Theodore Clemmons

When John Klein returns to Detroit following his time in the Navy, he discovers his family is gone. While he searches for them, Klein takes a job at a mysterious factory called Phlogiston Fabricating. While working there, Klein meets and falls in love with the enigmatic Candice. Without warning nor explanation, she vanishes. Some time later, a second woman named Candice appears at Phlogiston Fabricating. She looks and acts and sounds exactly like the first Candice. But is she? Where did the first Candice go? What exactly are they making at Phlogiston Fabricating? The increasingly-desperate steps that Klein takes to try to learn the truth brings him to the attention of Detroit Police Homicide detective Christopher Garvin. Along with his long-time partner, George Hofmann, Garvin tries to piece the story together. WIth time running out, Hofmann and Garvin unravel the mysteries of the last case they will ever work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Theodore Clemmons
• Release date: Jan 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626600454

William Theodore Clemmons

Very little is known about William Theodore Clemmons. Many people believe he does not exist at all.

Book preview

EXILE – Book One

George Hofmann was surprised to hear from his last boss in homicide on a spring day in April of 1997. Dwight Palmer had taken over as inspector in 1994 after Nathan Cardiff left. Hofmann had only worked for Palmer for a couple years before Hofmann retired on the last day of 1995. Now, a year and half later, Palmer was on the telephone. Hofmann and Palmer made small talk for a while. Palmer asked Hofmann how he liked retirement. Hofmann asked Palmer when he planned to get out. Palmer told Hofmann that he needed to wait at least until 2000 because he had remarried a few years ago and his new wife had a daughter who was still in college. For several minutes, Palmer told Hofmann how bad things had gotten with the Detroit police department. Palmer told Hofmann that they had so little funding anymore that they did not have someone on duty twenty-four hours a day. If they had a homicide in the middle of the night, the cops who responded had to call a homicide detective at home. Hofmann listened but said little in response. Palmer explained to Hofmann that the city had bought computers for all the detectives but no one knew how to use them. And when they broke down, nobody could fix them. Hofmann had the sense that Palmer might go on for a long time about how things had deteriorated, so he interrupted to ask what it was that he could do for Palmer.

And these guys they send me now, Palmer said. It’s a wonder to me we solve anything anymore. These guys don’t know the first thing about police work. Not the first damn thing. I swear, they must not be teaching these guys anything. For a long time I tried to drill into these guy's heads, you know, to just cover the basics. Now they all want to be like cops on television. Some of these guys come in wearing suits that must have cost two weeks’ pay. You got out at the right time, George.

Yeah, Hofmann said. Is there something you need from me?

What’s that? Palmer said.

Hofmann could tell that Palmer was about to launch another tirade against modern police work. You called me about something?

Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry to run on like that. It’s just that there’s nobody, or almost nobody, left who knows how to do things right. If I could get a couple guys like you back here, we’d solve some cases.

Well, Hofmann said.

But, anyway, Palmer said. I know that’s not happening. You’re probably on your way to the golf course right now, huh?

No, Hofmann said.

Well, that’s what I’d be doing, Palmer said.

What is it that I can help you with? Hofmann said. Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. Sorry. I’m calling because I remembered that you and Chris Garvin used to be partners. Right?

Yeah, Hofmann said. A lot of years ago.

That’s what I thought. I was pretty sure you were. I figured that if anyone knew where he is, it would be his old partner. You know where we can get in touch with Chris?

Hofmann paused for a moment. No, he said.

No? Palmer repeated. I was sure you two would have kept in touch. He used to live right by you, didn’t he?

Sort of, Hofmann said. He was on the other side of the freeway.

Well, here’s the problem, Palmer said. We can’t get a hold of Garvin anywhere. I called the number we have for him, but it’s disconnected. I even sent a guy over to his house on McKinney there, but apparently it’s empty. I know he’s not dead because I checked with personnel, and they’re still depositing his retirement check each month into his bank. So, he’s out there somewhere, we just don’t know where.

I don’t know, Hofmann said.

You were my best hope, Palmer said. You got no idea where he is? Did he move? I mean, he’s too young for one of those retirement places, right? Is he out there in the suburbs somewhere? Florida?

I don’t know, Hofmann said.

Damn. Well, it’s not that important. It’s just that we got a case here he might have an idea or two about.

Hofmann did not respond.

You happen to remember a case that Garvin worked on when he first came to homicide? I mean, this goes back twenty years to 1979, almost twenty years ago.

No, Hofmann said. I didn’t think you worked with Garvin on this one, but it was worth asking about. It was a girl, just a kid, who disappeared one day. She worked with this guy John Klein. That name mean anything to you?

No, Hofmann said.

Well, it’s the same guy who looks like he did it again. Another girl is missing. Same deal, a co-worker, just like the first one that vanished. Does this sound familiar at all?

No, Hofmann said.

Klein grabbed this one right off the street in a car he stole. A Buick. One of these dicks assigned to me finally did a little detective work and started digging on Klein. When it turned out that he had done this once before, it started to make sense. Nothing came of it the first time. Garvin looked into it and was apparently after Klein hard to get him to admit what happened, but Klein just kept giving him the same old routine, that he didn’t know where the girl was. It’s a funny thing, Palmer said, pausing. I mean, you can just tell that Klein must have killed that girl. I mean, the way she vanished like that, there was no other explanation. Garvin was really closing in on this Klein, but he never cracked.

Yeah, Hofmann said.

Damnedest thing, Palmer went. The damnedest thing is, Klein came to Garvin. He came to us before we even knew what had happened. He told the police the girl was missing. No one else did. Can you figure that?

No, Hofmann said.

It’s like he wanted to get caught, you know? Palmer paused, and Hofmann stayed silent. I guess he did get away with it, too. But not for a lack of effort by Garvin.

Uh huh, Hofmann sad.

And in the end, the girl stayed missing and Garvin could never prove anything. Klein walked away. You’ve seen that happen a time or two, huh?

Yeah, Hofmann said. So that looked like that, except now, almost twenty years later, he did it again. Grabbed another co-worker. Now they’re both missing. Klein didn’t call this one in. So, it looks like Garvin was right after all. Makes you wonder who else he might have gotten in twenty years. You know? He could be one of those guys who just goes around making young women disappear. That’s why we were hoping to talk to Garvin, to pick his brain about this Klein guy.

Right, Hofmann said.

But you’ve got no idea where he is?

No, Hofmann said.

Damn, Palmer said. Neither man spoke for a moment. Well, if you hear from Garvin, would you tell him that I would like to talk to him? It doesn’t have to take up too much time. He doesn’t even have to come down here. If I could just talk to him for a little bit just to see if he has any ideas about Klein and that girl, it sure would help.

Yeah, okay, Hofmann said.

The line went still, and then Hofmann said goodbye and hung up.

* * *

The rest of that morning, Hofmann tried to put Palmer’s call out of his mind. It had bothered him more than he let on. When Angela asked who had called, Hofmann said it had been work. When she pressed for more details, Hofmann told her it had been the pension board asking him to update the information in their files. Angela accepted this story and went back to her routine. Hofmann was not sure why he had lied to Angela about the telephone call. He knew that if he told her the truth, she would want to know more. She had never been that interested in what he did for a living, but a call like this was news. It was something for them to talk about, and they rarely spoke anymore. Hofmann simply did not want to discuss the matter any further with Angela or anyone else. Hofmann had occasionally gotten calls about his old cases, especially when he first retired. Back then he did not mind helping out when he could. But the longer he was away from homicide, the more he wanted a complete break with it. The worst calls were the ones from eager detectives telling him that they had closed one of Hofmann’s old cases. Hofmann wondered if these detectives thought that Hofmann spent all of his time waiting for such calls, eternally restless until a detective assured him that justice had finally been done. But it was more than that. Had Palmer’s call been the only one that Hofmann had received in the past few weeks regarding Garvin, he knew he would not have been as bothered. To get Palmer’s call now was particularly bad timing because Hofmann had just managed to get Garvin back out of his mind after the first call. Now he wondered how many times someone was going to call to talk about Garvin or the past or obligations that remain unfulfilled.

Hofmann spent the rest of that morning trying to stay busy and not think about Garvin. But it did not work. Hofmann had never believed that coincidences had meaning or that things happened for a reason. He had seen too much to believe that. The fact that he got two calls so close together about Garvin after not thinking about him for years was not fate’s way of telling him something. Rather, it was more of an annoyance, a persistent reminder of something vaguely but ominously wrong, like chest pain or tingling in his feet. Hofmann knew what he was going to do long before he did. To comfort himself, he spent a few more hours denying it, but he knew.

After lunch, Hofmann went to his room and sat down on his bed. He pulled open the top drawer on his night stand and looked for a piece of paper. He shifted his wallet and keys to one side, along with the case for his old eyeglasses. When he found the paper, he pulled it out and read it. One habit that Hofmann had not been able to end after leaving police work was taking notes during telephone conversations. Hofmann still reached for pen and paper when he was on the phone. He had begun to take notes when Palmer had called that morning, but he stopped after he realized what Palmer wanted. His notes had read 1979, garvin, klein disappearance when he stopped writing. The notes that Hofmann held in his hand now said Zachary Ozga, Nurse. St. john’s hospital. first basement. Since 3/28/97 Room four. Cancer, stage four. Terminal. Needs visitors. The only other thing that Hofmann had written down was a telephone number.

Hofmann drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. As he exhaled, he reached for the phone and dialed the number on his notes. A woman answered, and Hofmann asked for Zachary Ozga.

When Hofmann finished his conversation, he looked at the clock on his bed stand. It was two-thirty. Hofmann thought about putting off going to St. John’s until the next day, but he knew it would be harder the longer he waited. If he left now and got there by three, chances were visiting hours would end soon after and Hofmann would have an excuse to leave. Hofmann had already told himself that if he did go, it would be a one-time thing. Given that, it was better that he get this visit done with and then he could begin to forget it.

I gotta go out, Hofmann said to Angela. Where are you going? Angela asked.

Hofmann tried to think of a short way to explain that his old friend, Christopher Garvin, was dying at St. John’s hospital and he needed to go visit him. No matter how he phrased it in his mind, it seemed too complicated to tell Angela.

Oh, a guy I worked with is sick and in the hospital. Chris Garvin, Hofmann said when he saw Angela’s inquiring look. He was relieved that the name apparently did not mean anything to her.

Oh, Angela said. Okay. Be careful.

I will, Hofmann said.

* * *

Hofmann drove through the parking lot at St. John’s Hospital three times before he found a spot he liked. Even after pulling in and stopping, Hofmann did not turn off his car’s engine. He watched as a young man left the hospital and stared out into the parking lot. Nothing about this man was noteworthy, but Hofmann told himself that if he had a parking space nearer to the door, Hofmann would move into that one. As Hofmann watched, the young man walked all the way through the lot, working his way to the east towards Mack Avenue. Hofmann was still watching when he disappeared completely. Hofmann finally turned the engine off on his car, but he did not get out. With his right hand, Hofmann brushed the dust off the dashboard. He adjusted the rear view mirror and then the mirrors on both sides of his car. Hofmann pushed the button on the arm rest on the driver’s side to make sure that all four windows were up.

Outside his car, Hofmann stood up and examined the scene. He looked in every direction, taking in the medical complex in front of him, the stores to his left fronting Mack Avenue, and the roofs of homes peeking out through trees that were just starting to refill with the buds of leaves, behind him. Hofmann realized that he was making mental notes about the location, and he told himself to stop. He realized that he would not have to prepare a report about what he was about to see. He had no need to start sifting through the facts looking for conclusions. Hofmann stood next to his car for a moment. He was still standing there when a woman came by. She was wearing some sort of a uniform, though it did not appear to be a nurse’s uniform. When she came near to Hofmann, she paused and asked if he needed help. Hofmann told her no and then pointed to the back end of the hospital.

Is that the entrance? he asked. Yes, the woman said, looking at Hofmann as if evaluating him. That’s not the Emergency Room. Is that what you need?

What? Hofmann said. What? No, no.

Are you all right? the woman asked. Do you need help?

No, I’m fine, I’m fine, Hofmann said. I’m here to visit a friend of mine.

Oh, the woman said. Oh, okay. You know where he is?

Yeah, I do, Hofmann said. That’s the entrance?

Right there, the woman said. She paused, taking in Hofmann’s look as if looking for a pattern in the details.

Hofmann walked all the way to the entrance of the hospital without looking back to see if the woman was still watching him, or worse, following to make sure he did not fall over before he made it. Just before Hofmann reached the glass doors that swept open for him as he approached, he had the sudden sense he had forgotten something. He looked at his empty hands and knew that he had made a mistake. He should be carrying things like a flashlight and a notepad. Hofmann stopped where he was and coughed until the thought passed.

Having collected himself, Hofmann strode into the hospital. He knew he had done this hundreds of times when he was still working, and he felt silly for turning this trip into an event. Hofmann looked both ways in the foyer where he stood until he spotted a guard station down near the elevators. Hofmann walked quickly over to where a guard sat behind a small desk that looked out of place.

Can I help you? the woman asked. She looked up at Hofmann and then squinted. You all right? she asked.

Fine, Hofmann said. I just need to know where the hospice is.

This whole thing is the hospital, the woman said. She was looking at Hofmann now as if he were a very interesting case of the sort she had studied at guard school.

Hospice, Hofmann said again. Not hospital, hospice.

Hospice? the guard repeated, implying that Hofmann had just made up a new word. Yes, Hofmann said, hospice.

Oh, the woman said, the hospice. Where them people are at the end? Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir. The hospice. I thought you said hospital, and this whole thing is the hospital. Kinda hard to find the hospital when you already in it.

Uh huh, Hofmann said.

Oh, well, the hospice, that’s down one floor. Well, except you can’t take this elevator. I know that don’t make no sense, but that’s how it is. This elevator don’t go down like that. You got to take that one. See it?

Hofmann turned to look where the woman was pointing. Yeah, I see it, Hofmann said.

That’s the one. Go over there, and then when you in, go down one floor. When you get off, go to the right and there you are. Don’t go to the left, though, because that’s where they store all the old files and stuff like that. Go to the right.

Hofmann thanked the woman and started away. As he did, he heard her say, I thought you said hospital. Can’t find the hospital when you already in it.

Hofmann stood in front of the elevator and waited for the car to arrive. The other elevators in the foyer were larger, some much larger. This one looked as though it was the first one in the building, maybe the first one in the city. Hofmann had an idea that when the doors opened there would be an operator there, an old man leaning on a large wooden shaft that would pull the inner door closed before the outer doors clanged shut. Hofmann noticed as he waited that this elevator only went down. He had never seen an elevator in the foyer of a building that only went down. When the car did not arrive, Hofmann thought to push the down arrow again, but he did not. Eventually, the doors opened and Hofmann got in. There was no operator and no inner door. The two doors slid towards each other slowly, and as soon as they touched the car dropped as if the cable had snapped. The car descended one floor and stopped with a lurch that pushed Hofmann forward. When the doors opened, Hofmann stumbled out. He was straightening up when he realized how dark it was. Hofmann looked to his left and saw a thick metal door with a small pane of safety glass in the center at eye level. Stenciled in red letters beneath the glass were the words Authorized Personnel Only. Hofmann looked to his right and saw double doors that blocked the way to a distant hall. Each door had a window in it, and Hofmann could see the white light in the hallway beyond.

Hofmann took a moment to make sure that he was set before starting towards the double doors. Just before he got there, he paused again. He was now close enough that he could peer through the windows. He was surprised by how short the ward was. From where he had stopped after getting out of the elevator, he was sure that he was outside a very long hallway, a ward that extended as far as the end of the hospital above it. But now he could see that there were only about a dozen or so rooms. From these double doors to the far end of the ward was only a matter of fifty or sixty yards. Hofmann was still standing outside the doors in the dark when he heard the clanking arrival of the elevator car. Hofmann drew in a deep breath, held it, and pushed through the door on his right.

The light inside the ward was so bright that Hofmann had to blink several times while his eyes adjusted. Hofmann realized that he was standing just inside the door, and he expected someone to come in behind him at any moment. But no one did. Hofmann moved forward, feeling more misplaced than he ever had in his life. He had no idea where to go. He wanted to turn and leave, and he knew that if he were to push back through the doors behind him and get into the elevator he could be back outside in two minutes. Hofmann was considering doing that when a man dressed in a pale blue scrubs came out from a room on the right, halfway to the end of the ward. The man looked at Hofmann as if he were not going to acknowledge him further, then he turned and walked to wear Hofmann stood.

Zachary Ozga, the man said, offering his hand to Hofmann. I’m the charge nurse here.

Hofmann started to say his name, but he had to cough first to clear his throat. Ozga looked at him as if he were not well. Before Ozga could ask him if he needed medical attention, Hofmann coughed again and said his name with authority. Ozga frowned as soon as he heard the name. He looked at Hofmann and seemed to ask if they knew each other.

I’m here to see a friend of mine, Hofmann said.

Ozga was still looking at him as if he were waiting for a missing connection to settle into place.

Garvin, Hofmann said. Chris Garvin?

Of course, of course, Ozga said. Chris Garvin. You’re Hofmann. You’re George Hofmann.

Yeah, Hofmann said. Terrific, Ozga said. Well, like I said, my name is Zachary Ozga. Nobody ever calls me that, though. Not since I was a kid. I’ve always been Ozzie. Everybody in my family is called Ozzie. Even the women. You should see the confusion when we’re all together.

Uh huh, Hofmann said.

So, please, just call me Ozzie. If you call me anything else, I probably won’t pay any attention. I’ll think you’re talking to somebody else.

Uh huh, Hofmann said.

So, you worked with Chris, huh?

Yeah, Hofmann said.

Wow, the stories you guys must have to tell. Chris has told me some already. Boy, I would love to just sit and listen when you guys get going.

Yeah, well, Hofmann said. It’s not that interesting.

Wow, Ozga said. The stories you guys must have to tell. Homicide in Detroit, are you kidding me? They could have made a movie about you guys.

Well, Hofmann said.

Anyway, we can talk about all that later. You haven’t been here before, right?

No, Hofmann said.

Well, listen, Chris is sleeping right now.

Oh, okay, well, I can come back, Hofmann said.

No, no, he wouldn’t want to miss this. You’re going to make his day. But I did want to spend a minute with you to kinda get you ready for this. It can be sort of hard if you haven’t done it before.

Hofmann nodded, and the two men started across the brightly-lit hallway to the nursing station near the doors where Hofmann had come in. That’s funny, Ozga said as he passed into station, going by the desk with a telephone and two computers on it. Ozga continued into a small back room, where he sat at a small plastic table of the sort that old women play cards on. He pointed to one folding chair and then sat in another across from it. I said, that’s funny, Ozga said, forcing a slight laugh.

Hofmann sat down and looked around the cramped room. The walls were painted white and had no pictures or anything else on them. The fluorescent light overhead was too bright for the small enclosure, and Hofmann felt as though Ozga had aimed the light at him.

It’s funny, what I said to you, Ozga said. You know, about how this can be hard if you haven’t done it before.

Hofmann looked Ozga and nodded. He noticed how clean Ozga’s uniform was. The top he was wearing looked as though he might have pressed it before he came on duty. Above the pocket, stuffed with medical supplies that Hofmann did not recognize, Ozga had his name stenciled onto the cloth in block letters. Hofmann saw that Ozga kept his hair short, almost as if he had to face an inspection of the kind Hofmann had endured for so many years when he first joined the police department. Hofmann could not see Ozga’s shoes, but he guessed that Ozga had polished them, perhaps that day.

Don’t you think that was awfully stupid of me to say something like that to you, of all people? Ozga was saying when Hofmann started to listen again. It’s just that I’m used to people coming in here who have no experience with death at all, you know? I read something interesting once, after I started here. This guy said that a hundred years ago, or even fifty years ago, by the time people got to be say eighteen or twenty, they would have seen a half-dozen or more people die, including their own siblings and people their own age. Because there was so much disease back then and people worked in really dangerous jobs, that kind of thing. But now it’s possible for people to get old themselves without ever knowing anyone who died. You know? It’s like we’ve turned death into something mysterious instead of a part of life. I get people in here who come to visit their aunt or grandfather, and they just panic. Honestly, they just panic. I’ve seen grown men go into a room and turn around and run, I mean run, out. I don’t blame them or anything, but after seeing that once or twice it occurred to me that nowadays people have to be prepared to see dying people. So now whenever I see someone new here, I always make a point of sitting down with them to talk to them a little bit about what they are likely to see and let them know not to be afraid. I give them a little speech I’ve put together about death and all that. The funny part is, I was getting ready to give that speech to you until I remembered that when it comes to death, probably nobody’s seen more of it than you. Ozga paused and looked at Hofmann. Yeah, Hofmann said.

I mean, I try to get Chris to talk a little bit about his experiences. I’ve found over the years that most people, when they get to the end, they really want to talk about their lives. For a lot of people, that means talking about work. Chris has told me some things, but he’s at the point now where he’s on so much medicine that his mind wanders. So when I hear his stories, I can never be sure, you know.

Uh huh, Hofmann said.

Maybe sometime when you’re visiting, I can hear one or two of those stories from you.

Hofmann moved his head somewhere between a nod and a shake but said nothing. He was sure that in a moment Ozga was going to tell him that he had wanted to be a cop when he was a child.

Anyway, so I apologize for talking to you like you were some wide-eyed innocent, Ozga said. I’ll skip all those parts of my speech that have to do with how death is a natural part of life and nothing to be feared and just give you some more practical advice. Okay?

Hofmann nodded.

Because it can still be a shock to see a loved one at the end. But you know all about that. The main things I wanted to tell you are this. First, most people, when they get close to the end, they tend to get fearful. No matter how long they’ve had to think about dying, when it gets close, people still get afraid. Right at the end, I think, most of them are glad when death comes for them. It seems that way, anyway. But they all have that fear to deal with. So I always ask visitors to try to comfort the patients as much as possible. The best thing, I think, is just to go with what they want to talk about. If they don’t want to talk at all, don’t force them. This is their time, and they should spend it the way they want, you know? Also, it doesn’t do much good to tell someone he looks good or that he is going to beat this thing or that he will be up and around in a week. These people are not going to beat death, and most of them don’t look good. They aren’t in hospice to get well. They are here to die. It’s just human nature to tell a sick friend that he’s going to get better, but this time it’s not true and it just makes things harder. It makes them have to tell you that they are not going to get better, and I don’t think they should have to do that.

Okay, Hofmann said. He rubbed the back of his neck and was surprised to find his hand damp. He looked up at the fluorescent light and then back at Ozga. I don’t mean you have to go in and talk about death or ask if you can have the bass boat after he’s gone. A lot of these people keep their sense of humor to the end. I’ve seen guys leave a roomful of visitors in stitches just before they die. But be honest, I think that’s the main thing. All right. Well, you already know what death looks like and what it smells like, so I can skip that part. A lot of people who have not seen someone since they got sick and only remember them as well are shocked to see someone near the end. It’s not pleasant. A lot of these people have lost control of their bowels or bladders. A lot of them are throwing up from reactions to their medicine. But again, I don’t need to tell you about that sort of thing. Boy, I really want to hear those stories one day. Anyway, be prepared and keep the stiff upper lip, as they say. No need to make people feel worse about themselves. Believe me, they notice if you are repulsed by them. And that doesn’t make their last days any better, does it?

No, Hofmann said. He rubbed the back of his neck again.

"In Chris’ case, he is a very, very sick man. I won’t bore you with all the details, but he doesn’t have long. It’s cancer. He told me he smoked all his life, so it’s not too surprising. The doctors think it started in his lung, actually his trachea, then spread to his spine. It’s called Pancoast Syndrome, or secondary bone cancer. There’s nothing to do now. I must say, he’s been brave about it. From what I can tell, he did a little chemotherapy and then gave it up. I admire that. So many doctors now think they can cure everybody, so they will just keep blasting people with chemo and radiation long after it makes any sense. So I think Chris did the right thing. But make no mistake, he’s at the end. There’s nothing left for medicine to offer him now, except to make him comfortable.

This is one of those diseases that even if you catch it early, it doesn’t make much difference. Still, it doesn’t hurt to find out. You spent a lot of time with Chris, huh?

Yeah, Hofmann said.

Was he smoking most of the time?

Yeah, pretty much all the time.

I don’t want to scare you, but you ought to think about getting a chest X-ray, make sure nothing is going on. There’s a lot of literature out there about second-hand smoke and cancer.

I’m not sick, Hofmann said. Okay, okay. I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying, you know, with that sort of exposure, you should think about getting checked out. Any weight loss? Shortness of breath? Chest pain?

I said I’m not sick.

All right, sorry I brought it up.

Hofmann felt uneasy, and he drew in a breath to calm himself. As he did, he felt the air catch in his throat as if it would not go into his lungs.

Anyway, one of the nasty features of this sort of cancer is that the tumors actually leach the calcium out of the bones. This can lead to exhaustion and confusion. He can’t move much because his spine is pretty well eaten away with cancer. So, he won’t be getting up to shake your hand or even sitting on the edge of the bed. Chris is on a lot of medicines to combat the effects of the disease. We’ve got him on morphine for the pain. We give him injections, but he also has an epidermal that delivers the morphine right to him, around the clock. Naturally, we’ve had to keep upping the amount the worse his pain gets. We’ve got him on other drugs, too, like antivan and klonopin and prednisone and other things. But the morphine is the main drug.

Hofmann nodded.

Morphine is a wonder drug, Ozga said. It really works. But it has side effects. It makes Chris’ breathing labored. You might hear him gasping for breath, and that’s just one side effect from taking this much morphine. The main thing, though, is that he is going to be confused a lot. Anyone taking this much morphine would be. You are going to hear a lot of things that don’t make a lot of sense. I always tell people to just go with what they hear. A lot of people near the end will disappear into their memories. They are kids again or they are just married or something like that. I think people go back to the time when they were most happy. I always say, don’t interfere. If they are off somewhere in a world gone by that makes them happy, so be it. No harm is going to come of it now. So, listen a lot more than you talk, and don’t offer any corrections unless you really need to. It just makes them more confused. Chris might think you are somebody else, one of his sons or even his wife. She died a long time ago, huh?

Pardon? Hofmann said. Oh, yeah. It’s been a while.

Pity. Do you know what happened to her? No, Hofmann said.

Ozga looked at him for a long moment, then went on. Basically, that’s it. I know you will do fine because this is not going to come as a shock to you. Just sit with Chris as long as you can, and even if it seems like he doesn’t know who you are, just go along. Being there makes all the difference. Chris really likes visitors, though he doesn’t get them often. Okay? Questions?

Hofmann tried to think of something to ask Ozga, but the enormity of what Chris faced seemed to render everything else meaningless.

All right, Ozga said. Let’s go see your old pal. How long has it been?

Uh, it’s been a while, Hofmann said. He was still sitting at the little plastic table when Ozga stood.

You all right? Ozga asked.

Sure, sure, Hofmann said, turning away from Ozga as he stood. Let’s go.

Back out in the hallway, Hofmann looked first to the double doors to his right. Having oriented himself, he stood next to Ozga, who was gesturing to another nurse. Ozga nodded a few times and then looked at Hofmann. Room four, he announced with a misplaced enthusiasm. Hofmann waited for Ozga to lead the way, and then he followed him down the hall a few paces.

Chris, are you awake? Ozga called out as he entered the room. Chris, you have a visitor.

Hofmann stood just outside room four, waiting for Ozga to tell him it was all right for him to enter. From inside, Hofmann could hear Ozga moving around in the room and calling out Garvin’s name. Since there was no response, Hofmann assumed that Garvin was sleeping. Hofmann went to the doorway to tell Ozga not to wake Garvin up and that he could come back another time.

Look who it is, Ozga said, his voice loud. Recognize that guy, Chris? Hofmann looked at Ozga for as long as he could without turning his attention to the bed in the center of the room, pushed up against the far wall. Hofmann saw that on the near side of the bed was a pole with a hook at the end of a loop at the top. Hanging from the hook, apparently upside down, were three clear plastic bags. Small tubes ran from the bags back towards the bed. Halfway down the frame of the bed, a large plastic bag was affixed with a large tube that disappeared into the blue bed covers that hung unevenly on that side. Hofmann drew in a breath and held it.

Say hello, Chris, Ozga said.

Hi, Chris, Hofmann said, finally allowing himself to look. Garvin was resting against the headboard of his bed, his shoulders about halfway up. The blue covers on the bed were drawn up to about mid-chest. Garvin’s right arm was resting on top of the blankets, and his left leg, from the knee down, emerged from the blankets and seemed to point towards something interesting on the far wall. Hofmann dwelled on these details, noting how thin and wasted Garvin’s arm and leg were. His biceps were no bigger around than the handle on a push broom. The skin on his arm was so mis-colored that it looked as though someone had beaten him until bruises emerged. The skin on Garvin’s leg was pale and yellow, and it looked as if it would come loose if anyone were to touch it. Hofmann looked away and pressed his lips together. He shook his head slightly and reminded himself that he had seen much worse than this in his years of going into houses and apartments and hotels to find the dead waiting for him, and not those who had gone peacefully, taken by a stroke or a heart attack, but those who had died violently by a gun or a knife or even by fire. Hofmann had stood over bodies in every possible condition for a large part of his adult life and not flinched once. He told himself that this was not the time to go soft. When Hofmann was ready, he told himself to turn back and look Garvin in the eye and say hello.

It’s your old pal, Hofmann, Ozga said. Remember him?

No, Garvin said. His voice was surprisingly strong.

Sure, you do, Ozga said. You told me about him.

Hofmann expelled all the breath he had left in his lungs and turned.

Well, Chris, Hofmann said, it looks like you’ve got yourself in a mess this time.

You hear that? Ozga said. You’ve got yourself in a mess now? That’s sure true, huh? Hofmann looked at Garvin, hoping that Garvin would soon recognize him. It was clear that Garvin was studying him, and Hofmann could not look away. Garvin’s face was so gaunt that it looked as though a makeup artist had merely painted skin onto his skull. Garvin’s lips were dried and cracking. His eyes appeared set too far back into his head, and they seemed to move too slowly, as if they were not tracking anything at all. Hofmann saw that Garvin’s neck was so thin and the muscles in his shoulders were so emaciated that he would not be able to hold his head up any longer. Still, Garvin continued to stare at him and Hofmann had the sudden desire to turn and flee this place.

Hofmann thought back to a scene he had made years ago, a suicide in a rundown motel on the west side. An old guy whose wife had died had killed himself with a shotgun. He had loaded both barrels and was apparently aiming at himself when he pulled the trigger. The blast had mostly missed his head, taking off large chunks of his shoulder and neck. According to the coroner, the guy had done enough damage to kill himself, but not immediately. With the last of the strength he had, buoyed by adrenalin he had run around his small room, spraying blood everywhere. He died next to the door, and from the blood on the handle it looked as though he were trying to leave to get help. The landlord heard the shotgun blast and called the police. When Hofmann arrived, the first officers on the scene had pushed the door in just far enough to get a sense of what lay beyond it. They then waited for Hofmann to arrive so he could be the first one in. Hofmann had strode past the onlookers and the police officers lingering in the lobby and walked up to the guy’s room. He pushed the door open, sliding the corpse to the side. When he got in, the light of the afternoon sun was filling the apartment and the drying blood reflected everywhere. Hofmann had not thought it particularly gruesome, but the officer who followed him to the room had taken one look at the dead man with a part of his head missing, along with most of his shoulder and neck, then saw the trail of blood and brains everywhere and panicked. He fled the room and literally ran back outside. Hofmann went to the window in the room and saw the officer still running when he reached his patrol car. For years afterwards, Hofmann had told that story, always making a point of what a useless piece of shit that cop had been. Until now, he had never considered how that officer felt and the terrible, urgent and relentless fear that drove him to flee that scene, even knowing that everyone else would mock him and tell stories about him for the rest of his career.

Well, Ozga said. I’m going to leave you two alone to get caught up.

Hofmann nodded at Ozga.

Say hello to your old pal, George Hofmann, Ozga said. As he passed where Hofmann stood, Ozga pointed at a chair on the far side of the bed. Hofmann nodded again. After Ozga was gone, Hofmann walked slowly over to the chair and sat down. Garvin moved his head slowly as he watched. Hofmann had the sense that if he sat down, he might never stand again. He wanted to avoid looking at Garvin, so he took in the details of his surroundings. It was small, about the size of a room in a budget motel. On the wall opposite from Garvin’s bed, a painting was affixed to the wall. Hofmann saw that it showed flowers of some kind in a field of green. The flowers were moving away from the viewer, pushed by an unseen wind. At the very back of the scene sat a house that was barely visible. On either side of the bed were night stands. Hofmann saw that these did not have the institutional look of hospital furniture. The stands appeared to be made of real wood, perhaps oak or maple. The frame on Garvin’s bed matched the two night stands, as did a chest of drawers that stood on the far side of the room, across from where Hofmann sat. This all seemed curious to Hofmann, and he wondered why St. John’s had decorated the room this way. Hofmann looked more closely at the covers on Garvin’s bed and saw that they had an elaborate pattern on them, some sort of interlocking triangles and squares. A small television rested on a shelf in the corner of the room nearest to Hofmann, to the right of and above the painting of the flowers in the field.

Hofmann turned to face Garvin. He was going to tell him how nice the room looked. Garvin had fallen back asleep, but he was restive. Garvin drew in a ragged breath and then chortled, as if his lungs had rejected the air. Garvin’s chest barely rose as he inhaled, and Hofmann wondered how he could be breathing at all. Hofmann then noticed a green plastic tube that appeared to be pumping oxygen into Garvin’s nose. Hofmann wondered how it was that he had looked at Garvin just a moment ago and not seen something that obvious. Every few moments, Garvin shuddered, his head twisting slightly from side to side as his shoulders twitched towards his ears. After waiting for a moment to make sure that Garvin would not hear him if he left, Hofmann got up to go. He looked back at Garvin lying in the bed, almost vanished from life completely, tethered only by what remained of his shrunken and wasted body. Hofmann waited for some emotion to fill him because he did not intend to ever seen Garvin again. But Hofmann felt nothing, save for the desire to be outside once more.

Hofmann was going around the foot of the bed and heading towards the door when Garvin suddenly awakened. What? Huh? What? he said.

Hofmann looked at Garvin, and he could see Garvin trying to understand. His color looked better, and his eyes seemed to focus.

George? Garvin said. Is that you? Hofmann stopped where he was and looked at Garvin. He was trying to think of the best thing to say when Garvin moved, apparently trying to sit up. Garvin tried to push backwards but moved only slightly. Garvin winced as a shudder passed through him. Hofmann did not know what to do, and he thought to go find Ozga. After the expression of deep pain passed from Garvin’s face, Hofmann nodded at him.

You need something? Hofmann asked.

No, Garvin said. I’m okay. He looked at Hofmann, blinking. What are you doing here, George?

Oh, Hofmann said, I thought I might just come by for a visit.

Oh, Garvin said. He seemed to lose focus for a moment, and Hofmann wondered if he was all right. Garvin looked to the side of his bed, at the chair sitting there. It seemed to Hofmann as if Garvin were orienting himself. He looked back and Hofmann.

Any more, I’m not sure what I’m seeing, Garvin said. He sound confident, but tired. Sometimes I see things, you know, or people, and the next time I look over they’re gone again. It’s the medicine, I guess. That nurse told me that would happen.

That Ozga guy? Hofmann asked. Is he your nurse?

Who? Garvin said.

Never mind, Hofmann said. He was still standing at the foot of Garvin’s bed, and it suddenly seemed awkward. Hofmann thought he should either tell Garvin he was just leaving or sit down. Hofmann looked at Garvin, then looked away. He was thinking of something to say when he looked down at Garvin’s leg, where it emerged from under the blankets. This is a nice room, Hofmann said, still looking at Garvin’s withered leg. When Hofmann looked up at Garvin to emphasize what he had just said with a nod, he saw Garvin turn away. He seemed to be struggling with something, and Hofmann thought to go get Ozga. Then Hofmann heard something move, and he looked down to see that Garvin was struggling to pull his leg back under the blanket. Hofmann saw the bone in Garvin’s shin move, but the skin and the flesh around it were limp. Garvin had no muscle tone in his leg at all, and he could barely move it. Hofmann understood suddenly that Garvin was embarrassed that Hofmann should see him this way. Hofmann dropped his chin towards his chest and excoriated himself for the staring at Garvin’s leg. Now he wanted to offer to help pull the covers over the leg, but he knew that anything more he did now would add to Garvin’s discomfort.

Hofmann turned away from Garvin and pretended to be interested in the painting on the wall. When Hofmann did not hear the sound of Garvin trying to move his leg anymore, he turned back around.

I like that picture, Hofmann said, going over to sit down beside the bed. Once he was seated, he glanced over and saw that Garvin had managed to get a small section of his leg under the covers. Most of it was still exposed, though and Hofmann looked away quickly.

So, Hofmann said. You’re not feeling too well, they tell me.

You can say that again, Garvin said. He smiled at Hofmann briefly, but his expression phased into a frown as he apparently felt a pain somewhere.

It’s, uh, cancer? Is that right?

That’s what they tell me, Garvin said.

How long, uh, how long has it been since you found out?

Oh, it’s been a long time, Garvin said.

Years? Hofmann said.

Oh, yeah. I think so. What year is this?

Huh? Hofmann said. Oh, it’s 1997. April 1997.

Garvin looked at Hofmann as if he had just told an offensive joke. 1997? he said.

Yeah, Chris, it’s April 1997.

Garvin looked at Hofmann and then shook his head. For a long moment, it seemed he was debating with himself as to what to believe. Well, Garvin said, then I don’t know how long it has been.

You, uh, are the doctors, are they still trying, you know, to do something for you?

No, Garvin said, sounding distracted. No, that’s all done now. Now they just got me here, you know, just holding me and billing my insurance company for room and board. Are you sure it’s 1997? What? Oh. Yeah, I’m sure. Today is April 19th, 1997.

Garvin shook his head slowly. He looked at Hofmann and gave him a grim smile. Garvin looked down, and Hofmann could see that not knowing what year it was had left Garvin anguished.

So, Hofmann said, trying to distract Garvin, you like it here?

Garvin looked at Hofmann and smiled for just a moment before another wave of pain passed through him.

Dumb question, Hofmann said. Never mind.

It’s not bad, Garvin said. It’s not bad. I mean, if you gotta be here, it’s not bad. They treat me all right.

Hofmann nodded before the two went silent again. Hofmann was trying to think of other questions to ask, things like whether or not the food was good, but he knew how absurd those queries would be. Hofmann did not want to ask Garvin any more questions about his cancer. Hofmann knew that a lot of sick people become obsessed with their illnesses and turn into experts within their own realm of knowledge. Hofmann was concerned that if Garvin got to talking about the cancer and how it had started and how it had spread and what it was doing to his bones and his blood and his organs and how it was slowly pulling the life out of him, Garvin might never stop. It might comfort Garvin to tell Hofmann all about this disease that had nearly run its course, but Hofmann did not want to hear it. Hofmann thought about anything else they could talk about, but the only other thing would be work, and Hofmann wanted to talk about their time together in the Detroit Police homicide squad even less. From the time he had retired at the end of 1995, Hofmann had seldom talked with anyone about what he used to do for a living. He never even thought about it, not even in idle moments when his memory sought a place to light. Hofmann knew that if he didn’t talk to Garvin about his illness or about work, they would not have anything to discuss. Hofmann looked at Garvin, who was looking back at him, apparently waiting for Hofmann to say something.

So, Hofmann said. He stopped while he searched his brain for something to say.

How’s your wife? Garvin said. What’s her name?

Angela, Hofmann said. She’s fine. A little hard of hearing these days. Aren’t we all? Garvin said.

Hofmann knew he should mention Garvin’s late wife Anita, but he did not. Hofmann was too embarrassed to say anything about that.

You still living over there on the west side? Garvin asked.

What? Hofmann said. Oh, no. I’m still in the same place. On Balfour and Warren. You remember.

Yeah, Garvin said. Sure. I haven’t forgotten everything.

Hofmann sat next to his moribund friend in silence until the weight of the stillness seemed oppressive. Hofmann knew that he either needed to come up with something they could discuss or leave. Sitting here not saying anything was absurd. Hofmann tried to think about what he and Garvin might discuss if he had run into him at the supermarket and Garvin was in perfect health. Hofmann realized that they would probably spend a minute or two getting caught up and then part. They would have fallen into silence there just as quickly as they had here. Garvin and Hofmann had spent a lot of time together over the years. They had seen a lot of awful and inexplicable things and gotten a long look at aspects of human nature that most people don’t know exist. But for all of that, they had nothing to talk about, nothing to discuss superficially to let a little time go by.

Well, Hofmann said. It looks like you could use some sleep. Maybe I ought to get out of here and let you rest.

Garvin nodded for a moment, conceding that Hofmann was about to leave. But then he looked at Hofmann and said, That’s all I do is rest. That’s all I do is sit in here all day. I don’t even have a window. I don’t know when it’s day or night. The only way I keep track of time is when that nurse comes in to give me more medicine to keep the pain down. I don’t eat anymore, I can’t get out of this bed. I can’t do anything. I don’t need anymore rest. Hofmann looked at Garvin and settled back into his chair. He understood what Garvin had just asked of him. Hofmann sighed and thought through some of the things that he and Garvin had done together. He tried to think of a funny story or two they could rehash and maybe laugh about. But as Hofmann thought back over all the things he and Garvin had done, nothing amusing came to him. Instead, Hofmann recalled only dark moments, dead bodies and ruined lives and anguished families and terrified suspects.

When Hofmann looked up again, Garvin was staring at him, waiting. Garvin was so fragile now that it seemed he could die at any moment. His breathing was uneven, and Hofmann could almost hear the ragged beating of his heart as it strained to carry on.

So, Hofmann said, I heard from Dwight Palmer.

Yeah? Garvin said. Who’s that?

Oh, he was the inspector in homicide.

Oh, yeah, sure, sure, Garvin said. Sure. I remember him. Real jerk, huh?

No, not really, Hofmann said. We had worse.

But he really jammed us on that one case, right? I remember you and him fighting all the time.

I don’t remember having any fights with Palmer.

Sure, sure. When that rich kid got killed. You remember. Her father was some rich guy or something, and he knew the mayor.

Hofmann paused for a moment, looking at Garvin. He seemed more alert than he had since Hofmann had arrived, and Hofmann wondered if it was his memory that was failing this time.

Oh, oh, Hofmann said. No, I know who you’re talking about. That wasn’t Palmer. He came after that guy. That was Cardiff.

Cardiff, Garvin said. Nathan Cardiff, right? He had a huge desk, filled his whole office.

That’s right, Hofmann said. Until now, he had forgotten that detail.

He really jammed us up on that case, huh?

I guess, Hofmann said. I don’t really remember.

That was why I quit, Garvin said quietly.

Anyway, Hofmann said, this was Palmer, not Cardiff. Palmer is okay. After that, I knew I had enough, Garvin said, looking at Hofmann, as if waiting for him to confirm this announcement. How long did you stay after that?

Not long, Hofmann said. Just another year or two.

Neither man spoke, and Hofmann looked around the room. When he looked back at Garvin, he remembered what he was talking about. Anyway, Palmer called me because he was looking for you.

Me? Garvin said. What does he want with me?

I don’t know exactly, but it has to do with one of your really old cases. This goes back to 1979.

1979? Garvin said. I can’t even remember yesterday. I don’t even know what year it is now.

I figured that, Hofmann said, but I thought I would ask you about it.

Go ahead, Garvin said. He shifted slightly in bed, grimacing as he did. Garvin glanced up at the plastic bags on the metal hook dripping medicine into his arm. With his other arm, weak and tremulous, he pulled on the line going into his arm. The bags hardly moved. Garvin put his arm down on the bed and sighed.

Anyway, Hofmann said. Palmer told me that way back in 1979 you looked at a kid named Klein, John Klein. He had a girlfriend he worked with at some factory. They were supposed to get married, but then she disappeared. This sound familiar?

Garvin shook his head as he grimaced. He looked back at the plastic bags on the hook. Sometimes those things get stuck, he said to Hofmann. Can you take a look?

Yeah, Hofmann said. He got up and went around to the other side of the bed, stepping around the chest of drawers. Hofmann squinted at the bags and saw that the clear fluid in each was dripping steadily, if slowly. Looks all right, Hofmann said. You want me to get the nurse?

No, Garvin said. When I complain, they just give me more. I can’t think as it is.

Hofmann decided that since he was already standing, this might be a good time to leave. He looked at Garvin and nodded. Hofmann was accustomed now, mostly, to Garvin’s appearance. He could look at Garvin without feeling anxious.

Well, I’ll tell Palmer you don’t know anything, Hofmann said. About Klein. Not unless he can get me more details, Garvin said. Did this guy kill the girlfriend, is that it?

I don’t know, Hofmann said. I guess. No, actually, I think that Palmer said she just disappeared. But the way it happened was so strange that the only one who could know about it would have been this Klein guy.

You know the name of the girl?

I don’t, Hofmann said. But apparently Klein did it again, disappeared another girl from the same factory, so they are starting to think it’s a pattern, you know.

Yeah, Garvin said. "Probably. It would be a hell of a coincidence, huh? Girls