Infinite(27)

Dylan Moran, who held a bloody knife in his hand.

My fingers opened wide, and the knife clattered to the floor. I grabbed my head in wild despair and realized that I needed to get out of this house. To leave. To escape. To never come back. I ran from the bedroom, but as I did, I saw that I was already too late.

Sirens wailed. Flashing lights lit up the windows from the front and back.

The police were here.





CHAPTER 11

I met them at the building door.

Two burly Chicago cops stood on my front step, their squad car parked diagonally at the curb, its lights flashing. One had his hand close to the gun in his holster. The other was talking on a radio to another team of officers who’d obviously arrived at my house via the alley.

The cop who looked ready to shoot was six inches taller than me and about the size of a Hummer, with mottled black skin, a thin mustache, and hair trimmed on the top of his head to look like a skullcap. His eyes gauged whether I was any kind of threat.

“Sir? We received a 911 call from this address.”

I did the only thing I could think to do. I lied.

“911? From here? I’m sorry, officer, it must be a mistake. I’m the only one here, and I didn’t call about any emergency.”

“Can you give me your name, sir?”

I hesitated, and the cop obviously noticed. “Dylan Moran.”

The two officers glanced at each other. “Well, sir, that’s the name we were given on the 911 call.”

“My name? I don’t know what to tell you. It must be someone playing some kind of trick. I’ve heard about that kind of thing—you know, where people send the police to somebody’s house. What do they call it? Swatting?”

“Do you have some kind of identification, sir?”

“Of course.”

I dug into my pocket and found my wallet. I pried my driver’s license out of the slot and gave it to the cop. I’m sure he saw that my hand was shaking. When he handed it back to me, I needed a couple of tries to get the license back into my wallet.

“We’d like to take a look inside your apartment, Mr. Moran.”

“I understand, Officer. I know you’re just doing your job. But I don’t know anything about a 911 call, and I’m afraid I’m not prepared to let the police search my home for no reason. I’m sorry.”

I could see him looking over my shoulder through the open door, no doubt hunting for some kind of probable cause that would give them an excuse to come inside without my permission. Then he glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Is there another apartment upstairs?”

“Yes. My grandfather lives there. Edgar Moran.”

“We’d like to talk to him,” the cop said.

“Well, he’s ninety-four, Officer, and not in good health, so I’d really prefer if you didn’t bother him. As I say, this whole thing has to be some kind of weird joke.”

“A joke,” the cop said, chewing on the word like gum.

“That’s right.”

“The 911 caller said his name was Dylan Moran, and he was ready to confess to murder. That doesn’t sound like a joke.”

I didn’t have any trouble summoning anger to my face, because I was angry. Angry and desperate and losing my grip on the world I was in. “Well, that’s crazy, Officer. I’m not a killer. Obviously, I would never call the police and say anything like that.”

The cop was silent for a while. He didn’t believe me, but he also didn’t have any evidence to back up the 911 call. On the other hand, a bloody knife was still sitting on my bedroom floor, and I wasn’t going to let them inside to find it.

“Why would someone make an accusation like that against you, Mr. Moran? That’s a pretty serious thing to do.”

“I have no idea. All I can tell you is, it wasn’t me, and it isn’t true.”

I tried to hide my impatience. I needed the police to go away, and then I could take the knife and find somewhere to dispose of it. I could wipe down the entire apartment, not knowing what other evidence my double had left behind.

The two cops exchanged nervous glances. I could see them wondering if they’d made a mistake, but my hope that they would leave me alone didn’t last long.

On the street, a gray sedan pulled to a stop behind the squad car. A tall, emaciated man in his sixties got out and grabbed a bulging leather briefcase from the back seat. He wore a loose-fitting white dress shirt and pleated brown slacks, and I could see the gleam of a badge clipped to his belt. His thinning gray hair was as tangled as a bird’s nest, and his face had a cadaverous appearance, sunken around his eyes and hollowed out under his cheekbones. He looked as if he should be lying in a hospital bed instead of walking around the Chicago streets. But his unblinking eyes sized me up like a hawk as he came closer, and his mouth bent into the tiniest cocky smile.

“Guys, I’ll take over,” he told the uniformed cops. “Stick around, though, okay? I may need you.”

The two cops deferred to him as if he were a Mafia don. Without another word, they retreated to their squad car, where they leaned against the doors and watched us. The newcomer extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was limp, and his skin felt as dry as dust.

“Mr. Moran? I’m Detective Harvey Bushing. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”