Albertson in a world-weary, now-I've-heard-'em-all voice.
The subject shook, clutching the thin gray blanket closer around his pale
and undernourished frame. "No," he half-whispered, "I only hope I was."
Albertson sighed, leaning back against the chair. He let his eyes wander
over the faded, water-spotted wallpaper of the young man's living room.
As he did so, he remembered the greasy appearance of the upholstery
and moved forward again to perch himself on the edge. His partner,
Dale, stepped closer to the young man. He braced himself for the
inevitable: Dale's interest.
"What else are you afraid might have happened?" Dale asked. Yep,
thought Albertson, to me it's psychotic; to him it's intriguing.
The young man, one David Crodin, rocked slightly in his spot, crouched
miserably on the footstool in front of the dingy sofa. His head seemed
disproportionately large, his body short and wasted. His skin was sickly
pale. Hopeful green eyes blinked up from beneath his dirty brow. He
said, "I'm afraid I'm repressing. You know, purposely forgetting what
really happened.”
"We're familiar with the term," Albertson said.
Dale shot him a look. “Go on, Mister Crodin."
"Well, I was sitting right here, on the couch behind me. I was reading
the newspaper." He indicated the paper on which Albertson sat. "There
was a story about the Mars landings in it. So I'm thinking maybe I
could've just imagined the aliens, you know, for my mind to protect itself
from having to remember." He flashed another hopeful glance at Dale.
Albertson thought he looked like a kid awaiting the approval of a father
or favorite teacher.
Dale crouched down, putting himself more on Crodin's level. Albertson
saw a roach skitter by the toe of Dale's left shoe, but his partner held
firm. Dale had tact, all right, Albertson noted with admiration.
"Do you think you could go over what happened for us?" Albertson
asked.
"With the aliens," added Dale, ignoring the look Albertson shot him.
Crodin looked at them, wide-eyed. "I'm not sure it happened, though."
"That's okay. We'll see how much we can figure out, but we need all the
information."
"Okay," Crodin said. He took a deep breath, the movement throwing his
rib cage into sharp relief. "Okay. Well, I was reading the newspaper,
and I heard a noise outside. I got up from the couch and went to the
window. I was sure to stay behind the curtain, because this isn't such a
great neighborhood, and I didn't want anyone outside to see me."
Albertson grunted his comprehension. Crodin went on.
"When I looked outside, there were these three guys right in front of my
window. They were really tall and strong-looking. I wished I wasn't
home, because I was just sure they'd turn to the side and see me there,
seeing them, and they'd kill me. For being a witness to whatever it was
they were doing. You know, that stuff happens a lot."
Albertson and Dale exchanged a look. As cops, they had an acute
awareness of onlooker crimes. Crodin was still talking.
"But it was like I couldn't look away, much less get out of the room. I
know I should hide in the bathtub whenever it looks like there's gonna be
shooting, but this time...I don't know. I couldn't look away. And as I just
stood there watching, I noticed what was strange. See, those guys were
right outside the window. Their heads were above mine. But I live on
the second floor."
Albertson restrained a laugh. This one was a no-brainer. "They were
standing on the fire escape, Mr. Crodin."
But Crodin shook his head. He pointed to the window. After a second,
Albertson dutifully stood and went to the window. He looked down. The
fire escape was rusty and full of holes. One man could maybe stand out
there, if he dared. Two at the same time couldn't even find adequate
foot-room, and they'd almost surely bring the whole structure down if
they tried. And three? Forget it.
"Okay," Albertson said, turning back to the subject. "But-"
Crodin leaned forward and retrieved the paper from Albertson's chair.
Great, the detective thought, now I have to stand. There was no way he
was sitting directly on that grimy fabric. Crodin shook open the paper
and called their attention to the article he'd been reading.
"Life on Mars Is Confirmed," read the headline.
"Jesus, what you miss when you don't read the paper regularly," said
Dale. "Last I knew they were just testing the soil up there."
"That was a long time ago," Crodin said. "Now they're certain of the
existence of Martians, but they know that Mars has been uninhabited for
a long time. The question is, what happened to them? Did they die out
like the dinosaurs, or did they find themselves a new home?"
"This a subject you're interested in, Crodin?" Albertson said sardonically.
"Yes," replied Crodin meekly. "That's why I think I might've I invented
some of this."
"So you were looking out the window, and these guys were on your level,
which I'll admit they shouldn't have been," Albertson prompted.
"Yes. I realized they had to be standing on something. So I looked
down, and they were just floating. In air. On air, I guess. I don't know.
And I looked back up, and they were staring right at me. All three of
them. They looked like people, I guess, but more powerful, taller, more
there. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yeah," cracked Albertson. "You're describing guys on PCP."
"Shut up, Jim," said Dale. "Go on."
"They were just staring at me, and I guess I was staring back, and then I
– I don't know why I did this – I opened the window. I let them in."
"Good thing they were just aliens, not Dracula," Albertson said.
Dale just looked at him. Crodin went on.
"They climbed inside. I don't know, I thought they'd fly in, but they
looked as if they were stepping in off the ground. And there they all
were. These three identical men in my living room."
Albertson felt himself do a doubletake. "Wait, you're saying there were
three identical men outside your window, and the first strange thing you
observed was their height?"
“Officers, there were just so many strange things about this that I—“
"Okay, okay. What happened?"
"I sat down on the couch, and they all stood in front of me, and they
started talking. Only one of them moved his lips, but there were three
voices coming out. I mean, it was the same voice, but, like in chorus.
And they were telling me my services were no longer needed, and that I
would remember nothing of my mission, and that my life would end at
thirteen o'clock. But, now do you see why I must have imagined all of
this? It couldn't have been real, cause what would that mean about me?
I'm here, aren't I? I'm really here, and people, people just don't end.
These strange men think I provided them with some service that could
get me killed! What does that mean? What happened to me? What
happened?"
Dale moved to Crodin's side to comfort him. Albertson took a second
look at the newspaper.
They asked Crodin a few more questions, but on every subject of his life
he was vague. The only thing he seemed to remember was his encounter
with the three men. His life before it was sketchy and miserable-
sounding. It seemed to consist of only a few hours. His usefulness had
been exhausted, as far as Albertson was concerned. They promised to
get back to him, and they left.
They finally got back to the case which had brought them down to this
miserable side of town in the first place, before the kid had sidetracked
them. On the floor above his shoddy apartment was a place only slightly
less dingy, made homier by the actual family living within. They had
called the police that morning after the rape of their adolescent
daughter. The father seemed frightened, and Albertson thought he knew
why; these people, with their accents and poor circumstances, were
almost certainly illegal aliens. He felt for their kid, though, and he
wouldn't go out of his way to prove his suspicions about their citizenship.
They finished their canvassing of the apartment building, held up so long
by David Crodin's interesting but unrelated story, and went out to talk to
the people on the street who may have seen or heard something,
although it seemed to Albertson that anyone who could see or hear a
twelve-year-old girl being attacked and not try to help didn't much
deserve to be called a person.
They got a few closely matching descriptions of a man who checked out
as being a previous offender. They decided to catch up to him later, at
one of his known haunts. The investigation well underway, they went for
lunch. Albertson noticed that Dale was being unusually silent and broody.
"What's the matter?" he wanted to know.
Dale chewed thoughtfully before saying, "I'm thinking about that poor
confused kid. He didn't seem too sure of anything."
"Dale, he was talking about aliens. A story like that he's not gonna
sound sure of."
"But that's just it. The part with the aliens was the only thing he did
sound sure of. When we tried to get an idea of who he was, what his life
was like leading up to that encounter, there was nothing. His answers
were like the painted walls on a movie set that are supposed to be whole
buildings. Good enough until you try to get inside."
"The kid lives like an animal in one of the poorest slum sections of the
most overpopulated city in the country. A place where he'd never get
noticed by anyone who could possibly get him out. He works a crappy
anonymous job cleaning up that sewer we call a subway. He seemed
intelligent, which makes it that much worse. He's alone. I'm him? I'd be
pretty reluctant to talk in depth about my life too."
"Okay, but that's not all. Did you look around the apartment? It didn't
look lived in at all."
"Sure. I thought about that too. Seems that even on as pitiful a wage as
he must make, he'd try to make his home more pleasant. But maybe he's
saving every spare dime to try to get out of there. I know I would."
Dale looked irritated. "Stop trying to put yourself in his shoes. There's
more going on here than we're getting. I'm trying to figure it out, and
your goddamn logical explanations are driving me up the wall."
"All right. Can I give you one last thing?"
"What?"
"I don't know what fruitcake is responsible, whether it's the kid or
someone he knows or just some weirdo running a scam, but that paper
was a phony. It looked real enough, and the print seemed fresh, but I
read the papers, so I can tell you there's been no confirmation of Martian
life. Beyond the microscopic scale, that is. That article was about 'little
green men,' my friend, and ain't no such thing. At least not as far as the
papers will tell you. Besides, the date on that paper was March fourth,
nineteen-forty-eight. It's probably a joke. Forget about it."
"I don't think I can," Dale said. "I think there's something I'm not seeing.
Something that if I did see it, you wouldn't be able to put one of your pat
theories on it. There's some serious shit here. That kid's so scared he
won't step two feet out his front door, and he begged for our help like his
life depended on it." He slouched back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and
loosened his tie. "I want to go see him again when you're done with your
sandwich, Jim. Even just to get that paper and have a second look at it.
I wish you'd taken it before."
"It's nothing, Dale. But if it takes another visit to that hole to prove
that, then gladly."
At one-thirty, they were standing again in front of Crodin's building.
Albertson started up the front steps, and Dale called to him, "Wait, let's
talk to the manager first."
They went down the side stairs instead, and at the bottom was a heavily
barred window beside a door with eight locks. On the door was written
"Dooley, Manager."
Dale knocked. A man's voice called out, "What?"
"Mister Dooley? Police. We'd like to have a word with you."
"Badges to the window," the man demanded.
After a moment, during which Dooley presumably studied the badges,
the locks began clicking and creaking. They heard Dooley muttering, "Oh
Christ, what now?" as he undid the last one.
"Don't worry, Mister Dooley. We just have a couple of questions about
your tenant in 2F, Mister David Crodin."
"No, no tenant in 2F. Wrong building," Dooley muttered, and he began
to close the door.
"Mister Dooley, we were in that apartment this morning. You say there's
no one renting it?"
"No. No one on the west side of the building right now. The fire escape
is a hazard. Everyone had to move to the other side."
"Still, we were in Apartment 2F this morning. Perhaps we'd better have
another look in there."
"Just as well," Dooley said, closing and locking his door behind him.
"You can toss out whoever he is for squatting on my property. I'd a had
to call you anyway when I caught him."
Dooley proceeded them up the steps, muttering all along how the
neighborhood hadn't always been this bad, and he was expecting one of
those tall guys to kill him one of these nights.
"Tall guys?" Dale asked.
"Yeah, three of them. They've been hanging out in front of the building
a good week now. Been waiting to catch them at something so's I could
call you people. Turns out the only time you come here is when an
illegal tenant has a problem. Well, it figures."
Behind Dooley’s soft, padded back, Dale and Albertson exchanged a look.
At the building’s main entrance, Dooley produced a key. He offered it
to Dale.
"Here. I'm not going in. Jesus only knows what goes on in there."
Dooley stayed by the doorway, and they went the rest of the way up
alone. Dale slid the key into the lock and opened the door slowly.
"My God," whispered Albertson, "it smells even worse than it did this
morning."
The door opened further to reveal the body of David Crodin.
They rushed in. " I was afraid of this," Dale said.
Crodin was leaned back on the filthy couch, gray blanket still gathered
around his pitifully thin form. His body was shriveled, dried-out. Had
they not seen him alive that morning, Albertson and Dale would have
guessed his time of death to be days ago, rather than mere hours. His
face was gray. He resembled an unwrapped mummy more than a man.
His eyes were closed and sunken-in. The sockets seemed unusually
large.
Don't think about it, Albertson cautioned himself.
"Jim?" Dale said.
"Yeah."
"If I had to guess, I'd say this happened at one P.M."
"Thirteen hundred?"
"Yeah."
And were his fingers, now shriveled to bone-width, of an unorthodox
number?
"Don't think about it." This time he said it aloud.
From the hallway downstairs, Dooley's voice floated up. "What is it?
Someone up there?"
"No, Mister Dooley," Dale called back. "Nothing at all." Turning to
Albertson, he said, "You know, Jim, I have a feeling that if we were to
leave this right as it is, it wouldn't be here much longer. No one would
ever know."
Albertson looked over at his partner. Dale was white-faced but still
looked strong. He nodded. "Probably better that way."
They turned to go. Albertson took one last glance back. No
newspaper. Pile of dust in front of the couch, but no newspaper.
They locked the door behind them.
