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ten years younger as well. Clearly he wasn't the kind

to show up in a lot of photographs, and I had a feeling

combing through MySpace and Facebook likely

wouldn't yield many, either.

The article was brief. Though it did mention my

father.

Stephen Gaines, 30, was found shot to death in his

Alphabet City apartment late Monday night. At this

time one arrest has been made in the killing, one James

Parker of Bend, Oregon. Parker is alleged to be the es

tranged father of Gaines, though the police have not

made any comment on Parker's motivation or why he

was in New York City the night of Gaines's death.

Referred to Detective Sevi Makhoulian of the

NYPD, the officer said simply, "I have no doubt that

the district attorney's office will be prosecuting Parker

to the fullest extent of the law. As for details of the case,

those are pending and will become available as the

trial progresses."

There was no photo of my father, and the snippet did

not mention me. I wondered if the paper should have

done so, or if this was another example of Wallace pro

tecting me. I only hoped he knew I'd repay the effort.

I ripped out the picture from the Gazette and tossed

the rest of the papers in the trash.

I was no detective. My career thus far had progressed

almost solely on instinct. Seeing a thread, no matter

how thin or frayed the strand, and pulling on it until

98

Jason Pinter

something larger unspooled. At this point, though, I

had no thread. There was nothing to pull on. No leads,

no witnesses. Nothing.

So I started where any reporter or cop would when

they had nothing.

When in doubt, talk to everybody.

I walked straight into Tompkins Square Park looking

for young families and older pedestrians. I figured those

were people most likely to come to the park because

they lived in the vicinity. And if they lived nearby, there

was a greater chance they might have seen Stephen

Gaines at some point.

But what if they had seen him? That hardly meant they

saw him being killed, or even knew who he was, what he

did, or anything about him. Still, it was the best shot I had.

Walking around, I noticed a couple in their early

thirties sitting on a bench. A baby stroller sat in front

of them. I hated bothering nice people who looked like

they just wanted to spend their afternoon relaxing with

loved ones, but I hoped they'd understand.

Of course not too many people could sympathize

with trying to hunt down the man who'd killed your

brother, while your father sat in prison.

I approached the couple in as nonthreatening a

manner as possible. Smiling, even. They paid no atten

tion to me until I got closer and it was clear they were

my targets. The husband looked up at me, and I noticed

his hand slowly plant itself on his wife's leg. Guarding

her. Nobody trusted young people these days.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," I said, putting my hand

out in apology. "I was wondering if you happened to

have seen this man in the area."

The Fury

99

I showed them the picture from the paper. They

looked at it long enough and with enough confusion to

show they didn't know him.

The wife said, "No, I'm sorry."

I thanked them for their time. Then it was on to the

next stop.

I approached an older black man sitting at a chess

table. The other seat was unoccupied. He was studying

the board, perhaps planning out moves in his head. I

crouched down at the other side of his table, cleared my

throat awkwardly.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Have a seat, young man," he said, his mouth

breaking into a smile. He reached into his briefcase and

pulled out a cloth containing numerous chess pieces.

"Pick your poison. Speed chess? I've got a killer Danish

Gambit, so hold on to your hat."

"I'm not looking for a game," I said somewhat apolo

getically. "I was wondering if you might have seen this

man before."

He looked at the picture, a blank expression on his

face. He said he'd never seen Gaines, and I believed

him.

I spent the rest of the day questioning every person