Ch. 12 / Pt. 1 : When They Wear the Mask
Squatter City wasn’t just condemned houses and foreclosures nobody had ever picked up the bill for. A tent city had developed along the attenuated avenues veining the area’s northwestern fringe. More endeavoring indigents had built shacks or other makeshift structures in the broad overgrowth that had once served as yardland. Between the few dozen hollowed-out homesteads and the numerous jerry-rigged shelters, somewhere just over three hundred people lived there at any given time.
The city of Oceanrest had made it as easy to ignore as possible. They’d rerouted two major roads, dividing Main Street from Old Main Street, and had added unnecessary lanes to Grant Avenue on Baldwin’s north side and Lafayette Avenue on Squatter City’s south side. They’d even moved the railroad station, despite the fact that it serviced only twelve trains per week—ah, but sixteen during bed-and-breakfast season.
On the other side of the under-trafficked drive across Grant and Lafayette Avenues, things fell apart pretty quickly.
Booker parked next to one of Oceanrest’s only remaining payphone banks and climbed out of the car into humid afternoon. His lenses automatically adjusted to the new light. Putting on his facemask, he waited while Castellanos exited the other side of the vehicle.
“How long do you think it’ll be before we start raiding this place again?” Castellanos asked, donning her own facemask.
Booker winced. He’d never enjoyed Castellanos’ use of the word ‘we’ to attach them to the actions of the department in general. He might have been a fackin cahp, but he was a fackin cahp who solved murders. “What do you mean by that?”
“Before Virgil took reins, Denver had badges rustling people out of here every month.” Before Chief Virgil LeDuff, Oceanrest had had a Chief Denver, and before him, a different Chief LeDuff. Thus why everyone called the man ‘Virgil.’ “Trying to keep the property values from collapsing. But they collapsed anyway.”
They started walking, scanning the rubbled sidewalks.
Castellanos continued, “But Oceanrest’s been recovering. Before, well, before the fucking plague, Oceanrest saw six years straight economic growth. The median income’s up five thou a year from 2015.”
“We’ll see if it stays that way,” Booker replied.
“Sooner or later, this land’s going to be worth something again, and every bank snarling over its dead investment is gonna show up asking how many people it has to sacrifice to turn it into profit."
Booker peered over at Castellanos, brow creased. He understood her point, but she’d said it in such a strange way… Then again, Alejandra Castellanos was a strange woman. “And what are we supposed to do about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Yet.”
He chuckled, head shaking. “Alright, alright. So how about for now we keep that big brain of yours focused on the case, then?"
“It’s already solved,” she answered. “It’s just a matter of getting the cuffs on. Besides, you disagree with me?”
“Oh, no. I just think we’ve got better things to do today than preach to the choir.”
“And we kick the can down the road, we kick the can down the road again…”
Cracked and potholed, Lafayette Ave represented Squatter City at its best. They stopped in front of a two-story house with no visible collapses and boarded windows only partially covered in spraypaint. The front porch stank of piss. Booker knocked on the door and felt its age beneath his knuckles. If he put his shoulder against it, he’d win. “Anyone home?”
He waited for a reply. Knocked again, more loudly, and waited again, too.
Still nothing.
“It’s gonna be a long afternoon,” he said.
And it was.
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