Looming in a narrow alleyway with his back against the concrete wall of the building closest to him, Erik is a patient predator. Making himself at home in the shadows, he lights a match for his cigarette and pushes up the sleeve on his tweed coat to check his watch. 13:20. Mr. Bradshaw should be rounding the corner any minute now. Then, it will finally be time for Erik to shoot.
With his camera strapped securely around his neck, he turns his head and gazes across the street toward the entrance of Bedlam & Bradshaw Investment Center, a by-product of the business boom that seemed to produce the types of men who wear polka-dot patterned ties and buy their kids stock options for Christmas.
Yuppies, Erik thinks, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his aging face.
The building is a glass monolith that sticks out like a sore thumb on the hand of God amongst the grand Gothic architecture that Bedlam is known for. It's one of the many that were commissioned by the city during the business boom of the sixties, when new local businesses popped up on every street corner and new residents from all over the world poured into Bedlam to realize their dreams on the island of opportunity.
The new construction had mostly come as an unwelcome change for people whose families had been born and raised on the island like Erik. While the city commissioners shouted of progress, the natives cried of blasphemy. In those days, it was as if Bedlam were locked in an architectural war that left the skyline looking both haunted and hungry, like Bedlam couldn't decide whether to cling to its ghosts or rise above them.
Throughout this battle for the soul of the city, Bedlam had found a way to worship both God and greed, shadow and shine, holy and profane, and as the years drag on, it's becoming harder and harder for Erik to tell which side he's on anymore.
Back then, Erik had thought it was only natural to choose a refurbished stone cathedral to house his new private investigation firm, Fitz & Faye, after his twins were born in '64. Because somewhere between what was sacred and what was sold, Erik knew that Bedlam still breathed, beautiful and blasphemous, forever caught between resurrection and ruin — not too much unlike himself.
But things have changed since then.
Back then, fresh out of his role as a police detective, he had thought himself brave. Righteous even. He wasn't just any police detective, after all, but Bedlam's revered hero who had ended Nottingham's Nightmare, the reign of terror that had plagued Nottingham Island and captivated the media's attention for over a decade.
But now, as a private investigator, he knows that he has just become fluent in other people's lies — and all too familiar with his own.
He pushes the thought away as he leans his head into the concrete and takes a puff on his cigarette, waiting for his target to come dragging his secrets behind him like a corpse offered no remorse.
They all do, and Mr. Bradshaw is no exception.
Erik has been trailing Mr. Bradshaw for a week and has learned his routine like the back of his hand. According to his wife, he had started his day at 5 AM and would catch up with the news over a cup of coffee, black, with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, no toast, for the last ten years of their marriage. For the last few months or so, however, he had taken to going on a 30 minute run in the mornings before showering and putting on a new cologne he had bought for himself at the department store, but not the same one she went to.
For Mrs. Bradshaw, that had been the first sign that her husband was having an affair.
From his own observations while infiltrating Mr. Bradshaw's business disguised as an IT professional over the past week, Erik has learned that his target starts his day at work with a team meeting with the rest of the company's C-suite members. This includes Clara Matthews, the blonde little minx who had landed a rare paid internship years ago and quickly climbed the career ladder to her current position of Chief Operations Officer.
This was the woman Mrs. Bradshaw had named as her culprit.
When Erik had told his daughter, Faye, about his newest case, she had called Mrs. Bradshaw misogynistic for assuming that a woman couldn't earn a promotion without sleeping with her boss. But it only took one week for Erik to learn that Mrs. Bradshaw was right.
Mr. Bradshaw and Ms. Matthews would steal glances at each other during their morning meeting, and throughout the day they would sit in view of each other whenever they got the chance. Mr. Bradshaw would go to Old Peking and order Peking duck for lunch, and when he got back, Ms. Matthews would send a fax to his office. Then, they would fuck on his desk — bold, brazen, and shameless.
Mr. Bradshaw is careful not to take his affair with Ms. Matthews outside of the office, so Erik will need to catch them in the act inside the building. He knows that he will have to climb up to the fire escape on the eleventh floor of the building across the alleyway from Bedlam & Bradshaw Investment Center in order to get a good view of Mr. Bradshaw's office while still remaining out of his direct line of sight. He had climbed up there in the rain yesterday afternoon disguised as a painter to scope things out and discovered that Mr. Bradshaw left his blinds open halfway, enough to hide his illicit activity from the casual onlooker, but not enough to where a private investigator couldn't snap a few photographs.
He imagines that Mr. Bradshaw enjoys the thrill of potentially being seen.
Throwing his cigarette into a puddle on the weathered cobblestone street, Erik straightens to stand as Mr. Bradshaw approaches the entrance of his building. Mr. Bradshaw gives a curt smile to the doorman and straightens his green polka dot tie before disappearing through the revolving door.
Erik waits a moment before heaving himself up the ladder of the fire escape, careful not to damage the camera hanging from his neck as he climbs. Erik's legs flex as he reaches the eleventh floor, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees that no one is inside the office on the other side of the emergency exit. That makes his job easier.
He brings his camera up to his eye and aims his sights on Mr. Bradshaw's office window, zooming in so that he can see inside of it better. The blinds are drawn down as usual, but he can still make out the shape of Mr. Bradshaw's body from the cracks between the shuttered blades.
Mr. Bradshaw lingers by the printer to the right of the room, gathering a stack of freshly spat documents before crossing the office to his desk. Erik steadies his camera, zooming in further as his target rummages through a drawer for a bottle of cologne, sticking the scent on his throat with practiced ease.
Click.
Moments later, Ms. Matthews slips inside. She wears a tight black dress and a smile made for sin, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that leaves her slender neck bare and vulnerable. She stands with her back against the flat surface of the door as she pushes it closed before traipsing over to sit on the end of Mr. Bradshaw's desk.
Click.
Mr. Bradshaw reaches his arm up and pulls her light blonde hair down from its bun to land in waves around her face. His fingers slide into the mess of her hair, his wedding band catching the light like a confession before disappearing completely.
Click.
Mr. Bradshaw's hands find Ms. Matthews' waist as he draws her down onto his lap. Their mouths collide, careless and hungry. Erik leans into the lens, capturing the fatal shot — one that could topple empires if caught on the wrong camera.
Click.
Just like that, Erik's job is almost over.
All he has to do now is walk back to Fitz & Faye to drop off his equipment and develop the pictures. He used to take his film to Walberg's to get it developed, but about eight years ago, one of his more wealthy targets had decided to pre-emptively pay off every location to destroy Erik's film in case he showed up there.
There really is a price for everything, Erik had thought after going back for the photographs and turning up empty-handed.
Ever since then, Erik has started to take his film roll back to his office to develop it himself.
Fitz & Faye occupies what was once St. Bartholomew's Cathedral, a Victorian stone masterpiece wedged between the newer glass-and-steel buildings like a relic that refused to be buried. Its exterior is impeccably preserved, with soot-stained limestone blocks, narrow lancet windows, and weathered statues of crying angels decorating its roof line. Only the modest brass plaque by the front doors — Fitz & Faye, Private Investigations — betrays the building's second life.
For Erik, Fitz & Faye is more than just a refurbished cathedral or an office — it's a fitting sanctuary for the broken and the damned. A place where truth is extracted, not forgiven, and where answers come at a price. The building may no longer serve God, but it still listens.
Erik walks up the outdoor stairs and steps through the arched doorway of his business. Inside, fractured afternoon light shines through stained glass windows, sending jewel tones to dance across the lobby floor. On the right side of the lobby, a woman sits behind a counter where an altar once stood with a phone up to her ear.
"Yes, Mrs. Smith-Adler, he should have those sometime next week," the woman says into the phone. She has a pen in her hand and a piece of paper on the counter before her. "Can you give me your callback number one more time?" As the woman starts writing, she looks at Erik and says, "Incoming," right before he disappears behind a door with OFFICES etched into its glass panel.
"Well?" Mrs. Bradshaw says almost as soon as Erik gets through the door. She's standing in a room full of glass cubicles and corkboards outside of the rooms that serve as individual offices. She's wearing a blue dress and has her bottle-blonde hair pulled back in a low bun. She would have looked pretty if it weren't for the awfully anxious, angry look on her face. "Is my marriage over or not?"
Erik sighs as he crosses to the right of the room and places the camera from around his neck onto a small desk outside of his office door."Hello, Mrs. Bradshaw. I apologize. I wasn't expecting to see you so soon," he replies, trying to mask his annoyance behind a polite tone. He'll have to remember to talk to his receptionist about how his clients kept managing to get past her desk. "Why don't you step into my office."
Erik opens a door with Erik Hawthorne etched onto the outside of it. In the center of the room sits a large mahogany desk that's littered with photographs and documents that Erik hasn't had a chance to file away yet. On the wall behind the desk is a window that overlooks the city below them, and on either side of the window hang mementos from Erik's previous careers.
My past lives, Erik thinks as he holds the door open for his client.
Mrs. Bradshaw slips inside the small, beige office and takes a seat in one of the mahogany chairs across from Erik's desk. Her eyes soften as she glances over the framed Purple Heart ribbon to the left of the window. "Korean War?" she asks.
Erik's pacemaker shifts beneath his shirt as he sweeps the mess on his desk into a drawer. "Battle of Heartbreak Ridge," he offers in explanation.
Mrs. Bradshaw laughs bitterly under her breath. "Heartbreak," she says almost to herself, and then to Erik, "Thank you for your service." She says it absentmindedly, her eyes already squinting at the newspaper clippings to the right of the window as she waits for Erik to sit down.
As Erik settles into his desk, Mrs. Bradshaw's lips move along with the words as she reads the headlines from the newspaper clippings. Killer Clown Goes Down. Kid Killer Dies in Disguise. Knight of Nottingham Ends Ten Year Terror.
"I guess I have more than one service to thank you for," Mrs. Bradshaw says as she tears her eyes away from the wall and onto Erik. "I remember what that man did to those kids. It's just awful."
"Yeah, well," Erik says, clearing his throat, "don't thank me yet…"
Even after all these years, he still hasn't mastered the art of breaking the news to the wife. To Erik, murder suspects and kidnappers are much easier to deal with than a scorned woman. There's always a different response, and none of them are ever easy — the crestfallen faces, the angry tears, and of course, the shouting. Some of his clients aren't too keen on men after hearing of their husband's infidelity, either.
Mrs. Bradshaw's eyes well with tears. "Oh, I just knew it!" she cries, grabbing a tissue from the end of Erik's desk and dabbing at her eyes. "It's that Clara Matthews, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," Erik replies, trying his best to sound comforting. "They've been having an affair for about a year from what I've gathered." Mrs. Bradshaw erupts into a fit of sobs, and Erik shifts his gaze downward as he continues. "I was able to get some photographs today, but I really don't recommend that you confront your husband until I've had a chance to develop them. It's always best to approach a situation like this with evidence."
"Well, when is that going to be? Can you do it now?" Mrs. Bradshaw fires back rapidly. "And what am I supposed to do until then?"
Erik picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it between his fingers to help calm his nerves. "I'd recommend just carrying on with business as usual. I should have the photographs developed within a few days," he says. "What do you say you come back on Wednesday to pick them up?"
"You know, I met this woman at Ted's office Christmas party this past year. Clara Matthews," Mrs. Bradshaw says, ignoring Erik's advice and leaning forward even further so that her hands are pressed against the surface of his desk. "She's not married, is she?"
"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that," Erik sighs. "I'm more than happy to case the mistress for you, but that typically requires an extra fee."
"Oh, no, I don't want to know. I can probably find out from Martha, anyways," Mrs. Bradshaw huffs, pushing herself up to stand. "Oh, this is just so rich! Alright, I'll see you on Wednesday."
Mrs. Bradshaw turns to exit Erik's office. "Fifteen years!" he hears her shout as she disappears into the lobby.
Erik's partner, Jean La Plante, lets out a low whistle from the doorway. "You look like you've 'ad a long five minutes," he says in his thick French accent.
Jean La Plante is Erik's oldest and best friend. He had grown up in Paris, France, and moved to Bedlam permanently on a visa after graduating from Bedlam University with his Master's in Criminology. Erik had recruited Jean from Bedlam's police department after he had decided to open Fitz & Faye. Somehow, working a kid killer case together was enough to convince them both to retire their badges in favor of private investigation when the opportunity arose.
Jean is tall with skin as black as night and has a bald head with a healthy shine to it. Today, he's wearing a gray suit with a white undershirt and a dark blue tie. His teeth gleam as he smiles down at Erik.
Erik looks up at him from his desk and rolls his eyes. "I should have expected more cases like this when I opened this place," he says.
"You deserve a drink, non?" Jean asks, nodding his head toward the exit in an invitation to leave.
"I sure could use one," Erik replies. "Let's get out of here."
The two men make their way through the lobby and exit the building onto the busy streets of Downtown Bedlam. The smell of fresh pizza from Ristorante Bellavita across the street wafts through the air as fine dressed men and women pass by in a rush on their way to run errands or get back to the office from a late lunch break.
Jean stands on the edge of the street and reaches out his hand to hail a cab to their usual haunt, a bar in the middle of downtown called Beer Necessities. A dark green cab pulls off to the side of the road, and Erik opens the door for Jean before sliding in after him.
"Are you doing okay today, mon ami?" Jean asks him, his eyes full of concern that goes beyond his recognition of Erik's rough end to his workday.
"I'll be alright," Erik responds, shrugging his shoulders before turning toward the window to signal the end of that particular conversation.
They arrive at the bar approximately fifteen minutes later. Erik hands the driver half of the cab fare before exiting the back seat into the dark parking lot.
The bar is small, the kind of place you would go if you wanted to grab drinks with a few friends instead of dance until the early hours of the morning like most bars downtown. A neon sign with the word "open" blinks in the window out front, and a small group of casually dressed thirty-somethings stand outside smoking cigarettes and chatting amongst themselves.
Inside, there's a couple playing billiards at the center of the room, probably on a disappointing first date by the look of the way the woman is pulling away from the man as he tries to help her with her shot. Even more people are standing by the back wall practicing darts for the weekly competition that's held every Friday night. Usually, Erik and Jean would be joining them, but they had been disqualified the week before after Erik had one too many drinks and kept hitting the outside of the board, that is if he didn't miss the board altogether.
"Well, well, well, look who decided to show up," the bartender jokes as Erik and Jean take their seats at the bar. He's already filled two glasses with a strong draft lager and slides them in front of the two men. "As always, boys, your first drink's on the house," he says, offering a lazy, civilian salute in Erik and Jean's direction.
"Thanks, Jerry," Erik says back, taking a long drink from his glass. "You want to let us back in the tournament?"
"In your dreams, Hawthorne," a woman's voice says from behind them.
Erik turns around to be greeted by Grant and Greta Hamilton, the brother and sister duo that he and Jean had faced off with the week before. They're wearing matching red T-shirts they had gotten made for the darts tournament that say "Darty Dancing" in cursive black lettering across the front. They had been coming to Beer Necessities every Friday night for three months now and were one of the best teams in the tournament. Tonight, they'll be playing the Darty Rotten Scoundrels for first place.
Greta's blue eyes twinkle kindly as she flashes her wide smile at Erik. "I'm glad you made it home safely after last week," she continues more softly as she rests a hand on his shoulder.
Erik laughs shyly.
When Grant and Greta had first started coming to play in the darts tournament at Beer Necessities, he had thought they were dating. Unlike his two kids, Fitz and Faye, they aren't twins. In fact, they don't look much like each other at all. Grant is slightly shorter than the average man with dark, curly hair and light brown eyes, while Greta is tall and lean with red hair and eyes like sapphires that are often gleaming with laughter.
When he had learned that Greta had recently broken things off with the man she had been seeing, the empty space on Erik's ring finger felt a little less hollow for the first time in years.
"So I was a little off my game," Erik says, raising his arms up as if in surrender.
"Off your game?" Grant says, letting out a billowing laugh. "You were off the board!"
"Amusant!" Jean quips, nudging Erik with his elbow. "What do you say we play you after you lose tonight?"
"Oh, don't be a sore sport, Jean," Greta teases. "We're happy to beat you anytime."
"You better go practice," Jean says. "The Darty Rotten Scoundrels won't be such an easy feat."
Like Erik and Jean, the Darty Rotten Scoundrels had been coming to the bar to play in the darts tournament for years, and they were one of the best teams in the game. Two local bank tellers in their upper forties, they not only played darts at Beer Necessities, but they seemed to compete at every other dive bar you could find downtown, too.
"You're probably right," Greta says to Jean before turning to address Erik. "What do you say you buy us a drink after we win?"
Erik takes another long pull from his beer. "How could I say no to you?" he asks.
The competition is fierce, and by the end of the last game, Erik and Jean end up owing the Darty Dancers a celebratory round of drinks.
The crowd in the bar erupts into cheers after Greta makes the winning bullseye, not only winning the tournament, but also breaking the Beer Necessities' record for the number of bullseyes thrown in a row. Jerry unleashes confetti onto the crowd to mark the end of the tournament before bringing out free pitchers of beer for the winning team. Erik calls him over to buy a round of shots for himself, Jean, and the four competitors.
"Make it a double for the Darty Dancers," Erik calls out to Jerry as he fills a tray with shot glasses. "And for me."
"A double shot?" Greta says as she slides onto a barstool next to Erik. "What kind of girl do you take me for?"
Taking note of Greta's teasing tone and the way her hand lingered on his shoulder when she playfully pushed him, Erik wonders if Greta is flirting with him. Back in the day, when Erik was still living through his fifteen minutes of fame as the Knight of Nottingham, women had thrown themselves at him left and right. But those days are long over. Besides, Greta doesn't strike Erik as the groupie type. She's too good-looking, and too self-assured.
He can't imagine a single thing that a woman like her could see in him now.
"If I'm being honest, you're a little intimidating with the way you throw darts," Erik admits, heat rising beneath his collar. "It makes me wonder how you'd handle a gun."
"I wouldn't know," Greta replies, grabbing a double-shot of whiskey from the tray Jerry had placed on the bar in front of them. "I'm against firearms. Now, a pool stick on the other hand…"
Greta downs her double-shot of whiskey and gets up from her seat, grabbing Erik by the hand and leading him over to an open pool table in the center of the bar. She's walking slightly off-kilter, and her red-orange curls sway down her back. She racks the balls with ease and delivers an expert break shot, pocketing two striped balls in the corner pockets of the table.
Erik lets out a long whistle. "Well, I can see this is going to be a quick game," he says. "Who taught you how to play like this?"
"My dad, before he died," she replies, making two more balls in one shot, this time in two different corner pockets. Then, seeing the look of curiosity mixed with condolence flash across Erik's face, she continues, "Lung cancer. Happened a few years ago. We had a table at our house growing up, and a dart board. Grant and I used to play with him on the weekends if we could ever get him to leave the bar."
Erik's chest tightens with guilt as he thinks of his own daughter, who often accuses him of falling off the wagon now that she and her brother are out of the house. Erik had suffered from his own drinking problem back when he was a police officer, but he had tried to clean up his act for the sake of his children after he separated himself from the darker and more dangerous aspects of law enforcement.
"That must have been tough," Erik says as he aims for the three at the center of the table. Miss.
"It was. It helps that Grant and I are so close, though," Greta responds. She pockets the eight and eleven in one shot. "What about you? Are your parents still around?"
"No," Erik admits reluctantly. He doesn't talk about his parents much, if at all. He'd much rather talk about the family he created than the one he was born into. But there's something about the way Greta is looking at him with her rhinestone eyes that make him want to open up. "No, they both passed away years ago. Before my kids were born."
"I'm so sorry…" Greta's eyes are full of sympathy, and for once, Erik doesn't want to run away from it.
"My dad was on the force with me," Erik explains, "and he was gunned down during a convenience store robbery gone wrong." He tries to steady his hands for his next shot, but he misses anyways. "My mom was diagnosed with early-onset dementia a few years later."
"Your kids must mean a lot to you," Greta says, clearing the rest of the stripes on the table with one shot. Erik hates to admit it, but he's happy for an excuse to end this conversation.
"They're my world," Erik says, stepping over to the wall so he can hang up his pool stick with the others. "Thanks for the game, but I should probably get home."
Greta walks over to Erik to put away her pool stick, and Erik notices that she's standing much closer to him than she needs to. He can smell her flowery perfume and make out the smile lines around her eyes.
"Listen, I hope I didn't ruin the mood," she says, leaning in to Erik so that her face is just inches away from his.
"No, no," Erik places a hand on her shoulder. "I've just had a long day."
Erik lingers there with his hand on Greta's shoulder for a moment and steals a quick glance at her lips. She's wearing a pink gloss that matches her rosy cheeks. He leans in slightly, his eyes locked on hers, but at the last moment, he lowers his hand back to his side and turns away.
"Will you be back here, now that the tournament is over and all?" he asks her.
"Yeah, we should be. I like it here," Greta says as she twiddles with the pool sticks on the wall. "Besides, where else would I find you at?"
There's no question about it now — Greta is definitely flirting with him.
Erik clears his throat. "Well, you could always hire a private investigator," he jokes, smiling in a way that he hopes doesn't look as awkward as it feels.
"I just might have to do that," Greta replies, laughing. "Anyways, I'll see you next weekend."
"See you next weekend," Erik says, waving goodbye to Jean and Grant at the dart boards before walking toward the exit of the bar.
Erik gets into a cab that's lingering outside in the parking lot and is greeted by a rough looking man in his forties. He has the kind of raspy voice of a person who's been smoking for a long time when he asks Erik where he should take him.
"24/7," Erik replies, giving him the name of Bedlam's famous all-hours convenience store that has locations scattered across downtown.
He asks the cab driver to wait on him before walking inside of the store and making his way toward the flower aisle. A young, pimpled cashier stands between the register and the barred-up window behind him, scanning the store with his beady eyes. There aren't many customers at this time of the night, but the ones that are there are dressed in white t-shirts and baggy pants and browsing through the liquor aisle.
Erik searches through a variety of fresh-scented bouquets before settling on a nice arrangement of red and white roses. He walks up to the register and asks the cashier for an expensive pint of brandy they hold behind the counter before paying and making his way back outside.
"Where to now?" the driver asks when Erik gets back into the cab.
"Old Bedlam. St. Claire's Cemetery," Erik replies, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's my anniversary."
It only takes them about thirty minutes to get to Old Bedlam from downtown. The traffic was light for that time of night, and thankfully the driver had the sense not to disturb Erik's silence during the drive there. Technically, the cemetery is closed, but Erik likes to visit after dark to make sure he can be alone.
He takes a long pull from his pint of brandy, and the cab driver doesn't say anything as Erik hands him a twenty dollar bill and stumbles out of the cab.
The air outside is cooling down from the darkness, but still humid enough from the rain they had gotten the day before that wisps of fog linger by the gravestones, collecting light from the crescent moon shining down from above. Erik makes his way haphazardly toward the back of the cemetery, making sure to take a sip of his brandy every so often and allowing a numbness to wash over him.
After a few long minutes, he comes to a stop at a rectangular gravestone with a picture of his wife inside of a heart-shaped piece in the upper right hand corner. The words Lucida Hawthorne are etched into the bottom of the gravestone in swooping calligraphy, and a poem written by Lucida's grandmother, Urania, is written down the left-hand side.
Fitz and Faye, don't cry because I've left.
I'll be with you in memory, you see.
And kids, please remember, you must not be sad.
I'm as safe and sound as can be.
I had only laughter and gladness
With you through my stay.
My only sorrow is I had to go
And leave my precious little children this way.
Kids don't cry and be sorry life's done.
I think you both are grand.
And don't worry about your Mommy,
Because God's got ahold of my hand.
Keep me in your memories,
And talk to me in your prayers.
And know I'll always be with you both,
And you'll always be in my loving care.
To the left of the gravestone stands the tree that Erik had planted with Fitz and Faye when they were young, a Silver Maple that has since grown tall enough to provide shade for any day-time visitors. Its springtime leaves are just now starting to grow back from the end of winter. On the ground in front of the gravestone is a plaque with the words "If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again."
Erik kneels down and lays the bouquet of roses on top of the plaque, a single tear dropping from his eye. "I'm sorry," he mutters over and over again. "I'm sorry."
A chill wind cuts through the night air, and the sound of branches swaying and twigs snapping in the distance surrounds him. Erik takes another long pull from his pint of brandy, and then another, allowing the warmth from his drink to shield him from the cold wind. The words on the gravestone get blurrier by the second as he kneels down on the ground, sobbing and sipping straight from the bottle.
He gets so drunk that he doesn't even notice the dark-robed woman lurking behind the wide trunk of an Oak tree nearby.