Specimen Days

The call came a little before ten-thirty. It was patched directly to her caller had asked for Cat Martin. She figured it was one of her regulars. She had a handful who called at least once a week, and twice that many who called sporadically, when they went off their medication or the moon was full or the papers (they were readers, these people) had featured something doomish that could conceivably have been somebody's fault. Antoine always called about anything that inconvenienced commuters (automotive industry's conspiracy to eliminate mass transit); Billy could be counted on whenever anything appeared about hostile conditions on other planets (ongoing attempt to disguise the fact that the aliens have been here for decades and are being tortured in government internment camps). Antoine and Billy and the others had been checked out long ago. Antoine lived on monthly disability in a rathole in Hell's Kitchen; Billy was a sanitation worker on Staten Island. The regulars tended to love patterns. They scanned the news every day for further evidence. She couldn't blame them, not really. Who didn't want more patterns?

She picked up. "This is Cat Martin."

"Hello?"

Adolescent white boy. Her synapses snapped.

"Hello. What can I do for you?"

"Did you talk to my brother?"

Cat pushed the green button. The readout was a 212 area code.

"Who's your brother?" "He told me he called you."

No, not adolescent. This kid sounded young, nine or ten. His voice was serene, even a bit aphasic. Drugs, probably. A few of his mother's OxyContins.

"What's your name?"

"Did you talk to him? I'm sorry, but I need to know."

"When would he have called?"

"Last week. Tuesday."

Shit. This was something.

"I'd have to check the records. Can you tell me his name?"

"We're in the family. We don't have names."

Keep him talking. Give the guys as much time as you can.

"What family are you in?" she said.

"He told me he talked to you. I just want to make sure."

"Are you in trouble? Can you let me help you?"

"I was wondering. Can you tell me what he told you?"

"If somebody's hurting you, I can make them stop."

No, no statements. Phrase everything as a question. Keep him answering.

"I didn't know."

"What didn't you know?"

"I thought he was just going to put the bomb somewhere and run."

"Can you tell me about the bomb?"

"Did you tell him not to do it?"

"Who's your brother? What do you think he did?"

"I shouldn't have called. I'm just scared. Sorry."

"Won't you tell me what you're afraid of? Won't you let me help you?"

"That's nice of you. But you can't." "Yes. I can." "Are you happy?"

What the fuck? No one had ever asked her that particular question.

Cat said, "I think you're un happy. Is somebody making you do something you don't want to do?"

"You'd do the same thing. Wouldn't you?" "What is it you think you and I would do?"

"We're all the same person. We all want the same things."

"Can you let me come meet you? Don't you think we should talk in person?"

"Nobody really dies. We go on in the grass. We go on in the trees."

He was spinning out. Cat kept her voice calm.

"Why do you think that?"

"Every atom of mine belongs to you, too."

Click.

She paused a moment, to be absolutely sure he was gone. By the time she'd risen from her chair, Pete was in her cubicle.

"Fucking A," he said. "What the hell? Brothers?"

"He was on a pay phone. Way the hell up in Washington Heights."

"Are they there yet?" "On their way."

"Mm."

"There's that line again. 'We're in the family.'"

"Is it from some rock band?"

"Not that we can find. We're still on it."

"They're checking movies, TV shows?"

"They are, Cat. They're good at this."

"Right."

"What was that he said at the end?"

"I'm not quite sure. I think it was from Whitman."

"Say what?"

"I think it was a line from Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass."

"Poetry?"

"That would be poetry, yes."

"Fuck me. I'll check in with you later," he said. "Right."

Pete barreled off. Cat had to stay put in case of a callback. No other calls for her unless she was specifically asked for.

Thirty minutes passed. This was part of what she hadn't expected the downtime, the hanging around. When she went into police work she'd seen herself careening around in unmarked cars or touching down in helicopters. She hadn't anticipated so much waiting by the phone. She hadn't pictured a life that would so closely resemble working for a corporation, dutifully performing her little piece of it all.

Every atom of mine belongs to you, too. That wasn't quite right, but it was close enough. A kid who quoted Whitman? Cat was probably the only department member who'd recognize it; she was without question the only one on the premises who'd read Winnicott and Klein, Whitman and Dostoyevsky. For all the difference it made.