I had studied my son’s killer for months before making my move, his routine consistent, predictable. While checking his phone, Tristan Aguilar would step out from his mother’s trailer shortly after eight-thirty in the morning—right on time. Even his attire was consistent. Where my son Leandro used to sport a flamboyance of bright fleece, Tristan kept an inconspicuous appearance, wearing a faded Sox cap, an Edelman jersey over a grey long-sleeve and baggy jeans. He would scrape the ice from the windshield of his red pickup before reversing from his mother’s driveway and heading to Dunkin Donuts for his large hot regular.
I kept my distance, always, remaining patient.
Tristan didn’t work a day job or go to classes but would make two-hour trips to Worcester, Massachusetts that turned into three when it snowed. He would make his rounds in the downtown area near Becker College, stopping at different corners—my son’s corners before Tristan murdered him.
“It’s like I told the cops,” Tristan said on Christmas when Leandro went missing. “I dropped him off at Cumberland Farms before two and he said he was getting a ride home from there.”
Which made sense to me in the moment. Leandro’s curfew was two a.m. and the kids had a system going at Cumberland Farms where they exchanged cash with locals for getting the drinkers home, the rates cheaper than Uber’s.
The part that left me uneasy, and then burning inside was how Tristan handed me a card with a number to call if I had more questions. He’d lawyered up. This kid was supposed to be Leandro’s friend, never once offering to do anything and everything he could to help find Leandro, and never once asking me to please let him know if I did. Showing no emotion or concern whatsoever.
Linda Ortiz was lead detective on the case. She confirmed foul play was suspected and that Tristan was a person of interest.
“But it’s an ongoing investigation,” she said, “and you know I can’t go into details.”
“Cut the shit, Linda. We’ve known each other for over twenty years. What are you afraid to tell me?”
She hesitated.
“My wife’s not eating much these days,” I said. “How’s your family doing?”
“Okay,” she said. “Tristan shared a text from Leandro before asking for his attorney.”
“And?”
“And it’s not good, Nestor. It’s looking like Leandro was mixed up in something and confided in Tristan before they went out.”
“You’re talking about drugs.”
“Looks that way, and I know that’s hard to hear. I’m truly sorry.”
Didn’t make sense. Why would Leandro get mixed up with drugs? He held a steady job at the Worcester Palladium and made good grades at Becker. He had a girlfriend, a plan to move in with her, but looked too skinny when coming home on Christmas Eve, having lost twenty pounds—down to one-thirty from one-fifty. His excuse was that the food on campus sucked.
“Can I smoke?” I asked Linda, squeezing the arms on my chair.
“Well, you know you’re not supposed to,” she said, pulling a glass ashtray from her top drawer.
“So, you’re thinking custies?” I asked, lighting up.
“They’re not named, and Tristan’s not talking,” she said. “Believe me we’re doing all we can, but with attorneys involved? Becomes a waiting game at this point.”
***
“Doing all they can?” my wife asked at home. “Which is what?”
“Watching Tristan,” I said, standing over the sink and staring into our backyard, “but it’s looking like Leandro was in trouble.”
“You mean drogas,” she said.
My attention fell to the sink. “Be patient, MaryAnn. It’s a waiting game at this point.”
“For you it is,” she said, refusing to hug me.
“MaryAnn.”
She stormed into our bedroom and locked the door.
“What about church tomorrow?” I asked, knocking.
“What about it?” she asked from the other side.
“We should go and pray. No?”
“If that’s your only course of action,” she said—right to refuse me. I no longer felt sincere praying to a god that allowed the malicious to roam free while the benevolent were punished—an all too common reality around the world He supposedly created.
I gave MaryAnn her space, putting my coat on and stepping out to smoke.
Inhaling the soothing crawl of nicotine, I stared at the blackness of my backyard, waiting for my eyes to adapt. The Eastern White Pines served as a fence to our property, the countless trees covering Maine, and just as mankind had failed to find a single sign of life among the billions of bright stars in the sky, so too had they failed to find my son’s body in the White Pines. There were too many places to bury a body if someone wanted it to disappear, and I accepted reality: my son was dead, murdered and disposed of, but was a chance to recover his body too much to ask for? Was a chance to honour him among family and friends too much to ask for?
In the backyard where MaryAnn couldn’t see me, and hopefully where Leandro could, I shed my tears.
I spent my days tailing Tristan when I should’ve been relaxing as a retired lawman, dedicating my free time to his every move. He lived less than ten minutes away, and while watching him one day, a thought crossed my mind: I should set his mother’s trailer on fire, shooting anyone and everyone who tries to come out with my Sig Sauer.
“No,” I told myself, punching my dashboard and radio—again and again—feeling nothing when seeing my knuckles bleed.
MaryAnn needed me to stop, to breathe, to turn the key in the ignition and drive home for dinner.
So, that’s what I did.
We used to watch Dateline while eating, but murder shows were unwatchable, now. More painful were the shows where people smiled so much. We were left with commercials that I flipped through while failing to find something that we could stomach.
MaryAnn had become a borderline vegetable, no longer speaking, barely eating. She would sit on the sofa with her quilt all day, staring at nothing until I came home and prepared dinner. She moved only to go to the bathroom or bed, locking the door and leaving me to take her place on the sofa.
Like Leandro, she was no longer able to function in the living world. I had given up on trying to engage her, but if not for MaryAnn needing me to fake strength, I would’ve fallen into the same hole that had swallowed her sanity.
Bottom line: I missed Leandro dearly, fond of every memory. While smoking in the cold, I could still feel his genuine warmth toward others. His smile that never seemed to quit.
Linda Ortiz had fallen short. Weeks and then months had gone by without an answer, or an arrest, proving Scarborough PD to be incompetent.
Justice for Leandro was left in my hands.
Tristan Aguilar learned of his ex-girlfriend’s pregnancy that following spring and moved out of state to Rhode Island, now working as a retail manager in the Providence Place Mall.
He entered his upstairs apartment in downtown Bristol shortly after eleven on a night that required him to turn on the window unit—right on time. Leaving his keys on the console, he entered the living room and took off his tie before getting down to business.
Tristan cut the white lines on his coffee table with a razor blade and used a rolled-up five to snort one. He flinched when his phone rang, ignoring the call. He brought his nose back down and stopped to wipe his nostrils, to feel his gums.
It was then I decided to reveal myself, pulling my Sig 226.
“Don’t move,” I said.
He almost didn’t, raising his hands.
Still aiming at Tristan, I circled the couch and dug my fingers into his collarbone.
“Ow, man. Fuck.”
“Congratulations,” I told him. “I hear it’s a boy. So, tell me. Parent to parent. How can you live with yourself? And who murdered my child?”
He broke, Tristan crying and burying his face in his hands.
“Get your shit together,” I said, nodding toward the coffee table. “Come on. Pick up that pen and pad.”
“What?” Tristan asked, sobbing. “Why?”
“You’re confessing tonight.”
“Fuck that,” he said. “Why should I? You’re here to kill me, right?”
“Just do it. Or I’ll visit your ex-girlfriend next.”
“Okay, man. Just—What do you want me to write?”
“Everything that went down, and then an apology to Leandro’s mother.”
***
Behind the Cumberland Farms where Tristan claimed to have last seen Leandro were cracked roads ascending through steep hills of red pines—not their usual place for conducting business—but smarter to meet in a new location that cops weren’t aware of.
Tristan had taken a right between two pine columns before lighting a smoke and encouraging Leandro to do the same.
“Are they really that unhappy?” Leandro asked. “Because I swear. I sold those guys the same stuff that Jason gave me.”
“They want their money back,” Tristan said, “but I’ll make it up from my end like the last time and we won’t deal with those amateurs again.”
They rolled up on the Eagle Summit belonging to Jason Boltz—their supplier who approached Leandro in a Brady jersey.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Fucker isn’t taking us to the Super Bowl this year, so why am I wearing this?”
“No,” Leandro said, smiling. “I—”
Jason slapped Leandro’s hand for a quick finger-snap, bumping shoulders.
“What up, man? Hear you’ve been stepping on our product.”
“For real?” Leandro asked. He turned to Tristan, and Jason wrapped a chicken wire around Leandro’s throat, pulling him to the dirt.
Tristan dug a knee into Leandro’s chest, focusing on the red pine trunks and pretending not to hear Leandro’s last breath.
“Can you handle this?” Jason asked, Tristan wiping his sweat and tears.
“What—What, now?” he asked.
“Told you. I’ll take care of it. Now, grow some balls. Get going.”
***
“So, that’s it?” I asked Tristan. “Not even a warning?”
“Man, he had plenty of warnings,” Tristan said. “Told you. His stuff was stepped on. For like, months.”
“Pick up the razorblade,” I said.
“Wait—What?”
“Go on. You look like you could use a bump.”
“Seriously?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Tristan took the razor blade in his hand, and I took hold of his wrists.
Startled, Tristan didn’t fight back when I used his hand to slice through the veins beneath his other.
***
Jason Boltz was next on my visiting list, but an undercover cop had gotten to him first.
According to the news, Jason had made a run for it in a food court when the badge came out during a deal. He’d knocked over a bystander in his way but was tripped and detained by a second undercover. An ounce of cocaine was found on his person. Charged with possession, assault, and resisting arrest, Jason pleaded guilty in exchange for two years in Walpole.
Two years. There was no way on God’s green earth that I could wait that long.
Frustrated, I stood to go out for a smoke.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” MaryAnn said from the sofa—the most she’d said to me in months.
In shock, I couldn’t move until she stood with me, reaching for my hands.
“Your patience paid off,” she said, and then kissed my lips. “It’ll pay off again.”
She kissed me a second time.
“MaryAnn, I—”
“Don’t stay out too long,” she said. “You need to cut down.”
“I—I will.”
She left the bedroom door open, and I stepped out to smoke just one cigarette while trying to admire my backyard, waiting for my eyes to adapt to the darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans and lives in the Tampa area with his loving wife after sharing a close friendship as residents of Massachusetts. Recent stories have appeared in “The Year” Anthology from Crack the Spine and Switchblade Issue 12. Other stories have appeared in Stoneboat, and the Nasty: Fetish Fights Back anthology from Anna Yeatts of Flash Fiction Online, which was spotlighted in a 2017 Rolling Stone article. His story “The Queen of the South Side” was recently named Honorable Mention in the Genre Short Story category for the 88th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition, while his story “Dog Killer” was named among the top four finalists in the Writer’s Digest 8th Annual Popular Fiction Awards for the Crime category. Other genre stories have appeared in the award-winning pages of Thuglit, and at DarkMedia.com. Visit Nathan on Twitter @NathanBorn2010.