The Innocents: a cop pursues a violent felon to avenge his father Read online

  THE INNOCENTS

  A cop pursues a violent felon to avenge his father

  Nathan Senthil

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in US English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  For Dr. Aarthi,

  a rockstar surgeon who saves babies for a living.

  You are a hero in its truest meaning,

  and my inspiration to live with purpose.

  To ignore evil is to become an accomplice to it.

  - Martin Luther King

  Contents

  Part I: Lolly

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II: Joshua

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part III: Gabriel

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

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  Part I: Lolly

  Chapter 1

  July 27, 1967. 02:01 P.M.

  A determined kick thumped inside Iris Durant’s stomach and rescued her from a near-death state. As her eyes fluttered open, she discerned that she lay on her side, facing the caved in head of a man she had lived with for a decade. The gash, deep and messy, exposed pink brain within the crushed cranium that oozed dark viscous blood.

  Another kick pushed her into reality even further—a reality filled with a myriad of unpleasant noises: the distant sounds of assault rifles being fired, military men barking orders, sirens wailing, glass shattering, and people yelling.

  A deafening boom stunned her already feebly beating heart. The explosion not only reverberated through her shop, but also shook the very ground she lay upon.

  It’s the tanks.

  When the electricity still powered their TV, the news had reported that the forty-ton war-machines had arrived to finish the job which men from the National Guard failed to.

  Witnessing the carnage, a stranger would have been forgiven for assuming he was smack-dab in the middle of a battlefield. In a way, he would have been correct, but this was not Vietnam or Stalingrad. Iris’s ransacked shop, along with her dead husband, was located on the 12th Street, Detroit.

  Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What had started as a relatively simple raid in an unlicensed bar on the West Side turned into a full-blown riot between the blacks and Detroit PD. Though skin color played a vital role in inciting the incident, the riot later became a free-for-all plundering fest. Iris’s store, ‘Goodwill Electronix’, was in fact robbed by a variety of criminals, including whites. Together.

  And the victims weren’t of one particular ethnicity either. Iris was white, and Lawrence was black. Both of them were thrashed with baseball bats wielded by browns. Thankfully, the hooligan who’d hit Iris was only a boy, barely out of adolescence. He had swung the bat from an awkward angle with little force and a lot of hesitation. She just hated it when kids were forced into a life of crime.

  Iris moved, trying to get up, but the bump in her stomach prevented her from turning over. Getting her bearings, she planted an elbow and then a hand. The billing counter provided help; she grabbed its ledge and heaved herself up. Her knees shook and threatened to collapse. When she stood straight, her world slipped under her feet. If not for the grip she had on the table, gravity would have triumphed.

  Dizzy, while hammers battered within her temples, Iris reckoned her vision was completely black on the right side. She dared to peel a hand from the table and brought it to her head. Trembling cold fingers traced her face. There was a craggy lump, where the eye should have been, but she felt no pain. Hand still holding the table, she stumbled to her left and looked into the shelved mirrored back wall behind the counter, where the radios used to be. The lump was her right eye bulging out of proportion; the blood and vitreous fluid ran down her dust-covered cheek.

  As Iris digested the horrible image in the mirror, something tinged in her lower abdomen. Before she understood what happened, warm liquid ran down her inner thighs.

  No, no, no!

  Accumulating all her strength, she cried out for help but her voice failed, and the desperate scream came out with a gasp of air. Did it really matter, though? She knew no one would come to her rescue. Good people had already fled the neighborhood, leaving it to the mercy of wolves.

  The shortage of options disheartened Iris, and the grim situation sank in: she must deliver unassisted.

  She bent down, pulled up the hem of her long skirt, and secured it in her mouth. Locking a thumb on the strap of her underwear, she shoved them down but couldn’t get them past the knees. So she stood up, wriggled them further down, used her feet to remove them completely and flung them across the floor with a toe.

  Something happened inside, and she felt the contents of her entire body being vacuumed out. Her throat let out another groan, and this time there was no air. It was all pain.

  The contraction eventually unclutched her from its stinging grasp, and her heartbeat decelerated, blessing her with the few moments of clarity she needed in order to plan.

  She doubted that she could be in the second stage of labor, not having been conscious except for the last phase of dilation.

  Pursing her lips and remembering to use her lungs, she waddled to a corner peppered with shards of a broken beer bottle, remnants of a Molotov the rioters had thrown. The walls were burned, and soot covered the ceiling.

  Iris neither had the energy, nor the audacity, to walk to any of the other corners. So she swiped the glass pieces with her feet, and when it was relatively clean, she held her knees and slowly sat down.

  Okay. Now to the next step.

  Panting, she propped herself on the nook and tilted her hip upwards so that the path for the baby was clear of the floor. She didn’t know when she had last eaten or how long she’d been out cold but she definitely didn’t feel dizzy, not one bit, not anymore. On the contrary, every element of destruction around her was crystal clear.

  She waited for the next contraction, and when it came, she grabbed the dirty rug, her fingernails breaking off.

  And began counting.

  Her i
nsides hurt as if someone had inserted a hot knife into her and twisted it. Whenever a grunt or a scream broke through her, she added five additional seconds to her count. The final number, when the contraction gave her a breathing space at last, was fifty-seven.

  Iris relaxed and rested her head back against the wall. Her heart burst in agony, body screamed in pain, and mind in fear, but she would not succumb. She needed to deliver the boy. An overwhelming sense of responsibility enveloped her and gave her the strength to brave through the scariest hour of her life. Alone.

  She began counting again. Just as she reached two hundred and forty-two, the contraction returned. The world around her slowed, as if she was underwater, and small stars danced in front of her eye. But when the last thread of consciousness was about to slip and let her drown, she held it tightly and pulled herself back up to the surface.

  She slapped her swollen cheek and bit her tongue, the pain bringing in the adrenaline she needed to stay awake.

  Another minute of pure hell and the contraction subsided. Maybe the boy had had enough of loafing inside and wanted to come out. Iris felt a teardrop escaping her good eye, warm and pure, dissolving grime on its way.

  It could be hours, or days, since Iris had made this corner her delivery ward. Contractions came and went, each spaced out between four to five minutes. She didn’t force herself to push. Her mother had given birth to two of Iris’s older brothers at home. Apparently, the midwife had always advised her to resist the urge to push, and only when the urge was unbearable did you push and everything happened naturally. Your body knew what to do as evolution had been doing it for thousands of years and ingrained the techniques in every woman’s DNA.

  After experiencing every second of what felt like a thousand contractions, she sensed the crowning. She reached in between her thighs and felt around. Her heart fastened when her fingertips found a foreign body there, yet so intertwined. The slimy, hairy protrusion gave her the kind of hope she didn’t know she had in her. She just knew that the next few contractions were more important than anything in her life.

  Her hands, which were first trembling, were now as controlled as a veteran surgeon’s. Steadfast purpose infused her with the power of concentration and calm. When she couldn’t resist the urge to push, she gave in to the feeling and the baby’s head slid out into her cupped hands. On the next contraction, the boy’s shoulders wedged out. She held the baby and gave one final push as the placenta and the remainder of his body were ejected. It didn’t hurt that much anymore.

  Iris closed her eye and a flood of relief and euphoria washed over her, giving her goosebumps.

  Finally, she pulled the baby out from under her. His body was covered in fluid, his face pale and bloody. The most striking feature about him was his eyes: they were sparkling blue.

  And composed.

  So it didn’t surprise Iris that he did not cry. Instead, he wrapped his tiny fingers around his mom’s thumb.

  Wild energy burst inside her and she shot up to her feet with one goal in mind: comfort the baby from the cold—he would have been cocooning in the warmth of his mommy until now.

  Carrying the boy, she limped over to an empty cardboard box. In one quick motion, she yanked the bubble wrap out, upending the box. This new invention would provide the necessary warmth and protection for the newborn, but would not scrape his tender, wet skin.

  She wrapped the sheet around the little bundle of joy, leaving only his head out. Lacking the means to snip the cord, she carried the baby to the street, determined to find some help. As she crossed the glass window, she glanced at her face in it. Even though it was purple from fighting the impossible battle alone, it flashed with pride, and a victorious smile hid at the corner of her lips.

  The smog assaulted her as soon as she stepped into the world outside. Rubble was strewn across the tarmac, and the opposite building, Leroy’s furniture shop, was now just a charcoal monstrosity. On her left, a gang of rowdy misfits were hurling stones at the shop next door, the second-floor windows of which were spewing fire, and a column of black smoke raged over it, hiding the sun and sky. To her right, a group of infantrymen shot at a bunch of rioters. In spite of hating them to the core, she hoped they were shot with rubber bullets, not lead.

  She looked around and then glimpsed back at her dead husband and the obliterated shop. Clenching her teeth, she sniffled and stopped herself from crying. But it was not the isolation that brought tears to her eye. As soon as she had delivered successfully, all by herself no less, her courage had quadrupled. If she was able to give birth alone, then she could fight the devil himself.

  No, what pricked her eye was the smell of tear gas, burning tires, and gunpowder. Utter chaos hung thick in the air, and her gritty newborn was breathing it all in. In a flash, Iris had an epiphany. She knew what to name her tough blue-eyed angel, a name that would never let her forget what kind of hell they had both survived this day.

  Iris gently brought the baby’s face close to her lips. “You and I are gonna brave this big bad world together.” She kissed his soft cheek and whispered, “Ryatt.”

  Chapter 2

  September 18, 1977. 03:27 P.M.

  Iris watched Ryatt heaving himself out of the pool, his broad and chiseled shoulders gleaming in the afternoon sun. He took off after another boy, screaming, “Nick!” As the jubilant child rounded the corner, his left leg glided sideways, threatening him with a headfirst plunge into the turquoise water, making Iris skip a heartbeat. But he recovered effortlessly, giggled, and resumed the chase.

  “Y’all don’t be running now!” shouted Loraine, Nick’s mom, who sat beside Iris. Loraine wore a leopard skin coat over a pink tank top. It hovered a few inches above the hem of vivid blue bell bottom pants which were squeezing the doughy postpartum belly that she never really cared to tame. Iris had on a well-ironed beige shirt dress. Indifference to trendy clothes wasn’t the only thing distinguishing Iris from her friend. While Loraine slouched on a poolside chair, Iris sat with her back straight, her clasped hands resting together in front on her lap. Her ramrod posture was however a stark contrast to the kind smile that always reached her eyes, one real and one glass.

  As the boys sprinted the last stretch and halted before their moms, they shook water off their bodies like wet puppies. Iris took out a towel from the bag and dried the panting Ryatt off. Loraine did the same to Nick, who was a year older than Ryatt but smaller.

  Ryatt and Nick were having a serious dialogue about who superseded who, Batman or Superman, as they all ambled to the parking lot. Iris sauntered to her decrepit Plymouth, while Loraine got into the shiny Chevrolet that belonged to her drug-dealing soulmate.

  Iris pinched her key and twisted it in the ignition, and the car coughed before jerking to a stop. Grunting, Iris leaned out of the window. “Mind giving me a boost?”

  “Not this again,” Loraine replied and proffered a contrived exasperation. “You have to change that old piece of shit, darling.”

  “I know, I know, I will.” Iris pressed the clutch and put the car in gear as she pulled her head back into the car. “As soon as I buy insurance.”

  Loraine shook her head in what Iris assumed was pity but could easily pass for disdain as she drove the Chevrolet forward. Iris didn’t wince when the front bumper of the Chevrolet scraped against the rear of the Plymouth’s; she never did after the second time. She got used to the minutiae of being poor.

  Iris had opened a new business with the money her late mom had borrowed from a local loan shark. She was behind in paying her dues, knowing full well this was not something she should let grow. But what else could she do other than work her back off? Iris had already sold everything in her house, even the bed and the couch, to keep pace with the speeding interest rate that only the Mafia could justify. They didn’t even own a fridge as she had sold it last month along with her husband’s old rifle that he had loved so dearly.

  Loraine pushed her for several yards and then braked while the Plymouth continu
ed to roll over the tarmac smoothly, until Iris released the clutch. The car jolted and skidded before roaring back to life. With the wet sniffle of a geriatric, of course. As she drove onwards, she put an arm out and waved to Loraine who honked an adieu in return.

  Iris cruised down the M-3, colloquially known as Gratiot Avenue. The radio was playing The Beatles, her favorite band, and Ryatt hummed along. Seemed like he was having a hard time leaving his eyes be, squeezing the eyelids shut and opening them rather than blinking effortlessly. Must be the chlorine.

  Then the DJ talked at length about a new space probe the Carter administration had pelted through the skies. Named Voyager 1, it had been launched into the unending void a couple of weeks earlier.

  Iris shook her head, definitely not in pity but in disdain. She loathed technology. Gone were the days where you could just lie back and enjoy a nice book on a quiet Sunday afternoon without the prattling of a radio or a TV. Nostalgia was not the only reason why she hated technology though; her justification was more practical. Because of technology, people in Detroit were losing their jobs. Motor city didn’t need the manpower it did back in the 1920s. The war and the Great Depression had only made it worse, what with the factories abandoning the city for the suburbs. Combine that with the climbing crime rate and a slowly growing drug problem, you got what the papers not-so-colorfully named ‘White Exodus’.

  But Iris couldn’t leave the inner city. It was all she knew. Though it transmuted into a place that was gaining notoriety for violence, Iris would never give up on it. Home was not something you could forsake, even though it was sick. You tried your best to heal it. Her love didn’t germinate so much from loyalty but more from her natural tendency to remedy the ailing. Motherly care, although not a totally altruistic one; this was not the world she wanted her survivor son to live in. Ryatt didn’t rescue his mommy and fight his way out of her womb to come to this disgusting place. She promised herself that she would do everything in her tenuous power to make their community a better place to live in.