âSir, I was looking for you,â Howard said, staring at the back of the chiefâs neck. âWe got him.â He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6â2ââ, and still quite muscularâespecially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but heâd had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
âHim? Who is him?â Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
âHim,â Howard said, nodding toward the folder. âWe got him.â
âHim? Al? You got Al?â Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red âCONFIDENTIALâ was stamped across its front.
âWe did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what Iâm trying to say.â
âThe fuck is an arboretum?â
âSir, itâs a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,â Howard said. âItâs basically a forest.â
âWhere is there an arboretum in New York?â
âCentral Park. Does it matter? We got him.â
âWhere is he?â Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
âHeâs in the interrogation room.â Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
âHow do you know you got the right guy?â Chief asked.
âHe was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.â Howard paused. âYou know, bark: like a tree has.â
âMy god,â said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
âThatâthat wasnât all,â Howard said, stuttering slightly. âWhen I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.â
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
âWe got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?â
âNo, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didnât even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldnât stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didnât let up.â Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. âChuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.â Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. âHe said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldnât.â
âDear lord in heaven,â Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. âGod damn this monster. Iâm going to go in,â he said.
âChief,â Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
âNo, I have to do this. I canât send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.â
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
âTurn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is runningâwe canât let him go this time.â
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
âAl?â Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. âIâm Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why youâre in here?â
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
âThat,â Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, âover there.â
The chief turned around. âThe whiteboard? What about it?â
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Alâs pun.
âNothing remarkable about it.â
âThe whiteboard,â Al repeated, âitâs remarkable. Re-markable.â
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. âSeems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why youâre here?â
Al sighed. âLet me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?â
âWhat?â said the chief.
âThe string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.â
Chiefâs face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. âYou are here for your puns, Al. Youâve been on the pun,â Chief stopped, his eyes wide. âRun. Youâve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.â
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. âI know,â he said.
âYou think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?â
âIf you donât like it, then why do you do it?â
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
âA long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what thatâs like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said theyâd tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.â
The chiefâs eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits heâd not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
âGone!â shouted the recruit.
âHuh,â Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
âHeâs gone. He took the tapes and heâs gone.â
âCh-chief,â Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if heâd spent the past few hours lifting weights. âWhereâs the chief.â
âHeâs okay, weâve got him in the office. Heâs awake. Youâre both going to be fine.â
âAl,â Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. âWhere did he go?â
âHeâs gone,â said the recruit.
âWhere did he go?â Howard repeated, now shouting.
âGone, sir. He walked right out the front door.â The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasnât yet done speaking. âWe also have reason to believe the name weâve been calling him is fake.â
âWhat? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.â
âItâs just, his name. Mr. OâBye. Al OâBye.â
A stinging pain shot through Howardâs skull. Alibi. Why hadnât he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
âFuck me,â Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
âSir, thatâs not all,â said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. âHeâwellâhe left you a note.â
Howard stared at the paper. âDetective,â it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
âYou ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you donât even know who it is that I am. Perhaps Iâm simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe Iâm a forlorn banker, doing this because Iâve finally lost interest. Or maybe Iâm just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, youâre not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
Itâs been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.
