Oliver pulled something from his pocket and walked to my desk. He slid his phone across. I grabbed it, my memory recalling a completely different phone when we had done this the first time.
“Did something happen?” I asked, dialing my number into his contacts.
“Yes, the absoluteworsthappened. I dropped my phone into the sewers right before I got on my flight back home, and nothing was backed up. I definitely mourned the loss of my Leaning Tower of Pisa photo—I mean seriously, I got the anglejustright—but I’ve got to admit, I was the most disappointed about losing your number.”
So that explained it. He didn’t ghost me; his phone literally ghostedhim.
“So I’ve been talking to a London sewage rat these entire past three weeks?”
Oliver jumped on the joke. “You’ve been catfished. Ratfished? Catrat? Sorry, Beckham.”
“We exchanged pictures…”
Both of us broke into an easy laughter. It felt like pushing an old VHS tape into the VCR, one holding the memories from a close family gathering, your body suddenly flooded with warmth and love. That was how it felt hearing Oliver’s laugh again. The high-pitched, no-care-in-the-world kind of laugh that could spread through a room in seconds flat.
“Perfect,” Oliver said, grabbing his phone back. “You’ve got any crazy glue?”
“No, I don’t think so. Holly might. Why?”
“Good, I’ll ask on my way out. Just want to spread some on my palm and smack this baby on there.” He pointed at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket, both of us still chuckling. This was certainly starting off as one of my most memorable client meetings yet. And considering how the past week had been going for me, this was much needed.
I still can’t believe I lost it…
“All right, wow, I can’t believe you’re the detective I’m hiring, but okay. Let’s do this.” Oliver put a hand on the binder that was now resting in front of him. “Beckham, this is partly inspired because of you. I’ve been dealing with some trauma for six years now. It’s just an open, pus-filled wound at this point. I’ve been able to ignore it for the most part, but that night out with you, it brought everything rushing to the front. The wound was like a truck-sized gash down my chest.”
“Can I?”
Oliver nodded as I reached for the binder. There was a name written across the black cover. It was in silver marker and a shaky script.
Derrick Silva.
“That binder holds everything I’ve been able to put together about the murder of Derrick, my boyfriend.”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
He inhaled deeply. “Don’t be sorry, Beckham. Just be determined. Find the fucker who did this. Find the monster who took a life and broke another.”
I opened the binder, and the first thing I saw were photos. Not of the deceased victim. They were photos of Oliver. He was wearing a white sweatshirt, except the entire front was soaked in dark red blood. Hands were coated in dried crimson. There were bruises underneath his eyes already forming from the hits. Blood dripped from his left ear. A slash went across his shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his sweater, revealing blood-soaked skin underneath.
My heart broke.
As a detective, I’d seen shit that would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. It was part of the job. At some point along the way, I’d gotten desensitized to some of the darker aspects of life. It was a necessity if you wanted to close a case. Getting stuck on the gruesome wasn’t an option to consider.
This, though… these photos… they were making my hands shake. I set them down before Oliver could notice.
“How badly were you injured?”
“I was beat pretty bad, and they tried to stab me but only got my shoulder. Derrick was stabbed to death. Six times they stabbed him. Two guys came up to us, wearing black ski masks, and they started beating us up. Said they didn’t like two guys holding hands. I’m the type to turn to Jell-O at the first sign of conflict, so naturally, I was already playing dead and hoping they went away like two dumb bears. Derrick, though, he was my opposite. He fought back.”
Oliver was squeezing his hands in his lap. The pain twisting in his expression was clear, but I needed him to tell me everything he remembered from that night.
“Do you know which of the two masked men did the stabbing? Were there any identifiers you can remember? A tattoo, an accent, a limp?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that the shorter of the two men was the one who killed Derrick.”
“And you heard voices. Did they speak a lot?”
“Well, one did. He was the one yelling the homophobic slurs at us while he beat us. The other one wasn’t saying a word. I think… I don’t even remember him landing any kicks now that I think about it. He was a lookout, maybe?”