Going Back Again

"The past is never quite as finished with you as you think you are with it."

- Anonymous

My little sister was killed when I was just twelve years old, and she is the reason why I do the work that I do now. Stephanie exited the school bus at the corner just down the street from our house one Thursday afternoon, but she never made it home. The New York State Troopers found her body in the woods somewhere near Armonk about a week later. I was at basketball practice that day, otherwise I would have been there on the bus with her and maybe things would have been different. Her killer just dumped her there and never even bothered to try to bury her. I guess I understand that much, if nothing else. It was winter and the ground was cold and hard.

My parents were mentally fractured and they never really recovered from this. Maybe I didn't either. I don't know. How does one even take the measure of such a thing? It's like trying to make sense of a random lightning strike that kills your best friend and your dog at the same time, but leaves you standing. I don't really know how to get past it. It's just...it's always there.

I work for the New York State Department of Social Services now and my job is to provide care and assistance to the victims of childhood abuse and violence. When I arrived at work that Monday morning, I found a new case file waiting in my inbox.

Victim: Jennifer Corning

Age: 12 years

Last seen: Yorktown, NY, December 14, 2024

Assigned Detective: Daniel Bardoni, NY State Police. Full case file attached.

My job was not to find her. That was up to law enforcement. I didn’t know Detective Bardoni but that was his remit. I just needed to be prepared to provide immediate medical care, psychiatric treatment and various other necessary services in the event that she was found alive. (As I first learned in my little sister's case, this was highly unlikely. The 72-Hour Rule. After three days with no kidnapping demands, she was almost certainly dead.)

I read the case file and looked at the photos of Jennifer Corning from Yorktown; a pretty young girl with long brown hair, braces and a semi-awkward smile. I focused on the photo for a while and before long, I was dozing off at my desk. This had never happened before. I had just finished off a large cup of strong black coffee.

And then there I was, in the backseat of a Honda Civic that was being driven by a man who I did not know. A large man with thick black hair and an unkempt beard. I spoke to him but he could not hear me. I touched him on the shoulder but he could not feel me. He just kept driving north on the Taconic Parkway. When we reached Yorktown, he exited at Mohansic Avenue.

He drove a bit further down the road and then took a few rights and lefts through a residential neighborhood, and then he parked the car near the curb on a quiet, leafy street and waited. I tried to speak to him again, I shouted at him even, but he still couldn’t hear me. It wasn’t long before the school bus pulled up to the intersection across the street from us and I saw the face of little Jennifer Corning as she stepped off the stairs and started walking down the block with a purple bookbag slung over one shoulder. The man behind the wheel stepped out of the car and I followed him.

He opened the trunk and removed a small black duffel bag. Before he could close the trunk I reached in and grabbed the tire iron. Then I followed him as he followed Jennifer Corning down the street.

I saw him looking around as he drew closer to her and then he unzipped the duffel bag and donned a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a cap down on his head, added a pair of dark sunglasses (despite the cloudy day) and slipped on one of those light blue Covid face-masks. As we approached a wooded area with no homes in direct sight, he picked up his pace and began moving up faster towards the young girl.

I ran up and smashed him in the back of his head as hard as I could with the tire iron and he went down. Somehow, I materialized in true corporeal fashion in just that moment. He felt me then. Little Jennifer looked back in horror for a second and then ran down the street to her house. I hit the man three more times and caved in his skull with the tire iron, then I suddenly awoke at my desk. The case file for Jennifer Corning was no longer there.

I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and when I looked in the mirror I saw that I now had about three days growth of beard, despite the fact that I had just shaved that morning.

********************

The following week I received a new case file for a missing child. His name was Nicholas Portier and he was last seen in North White Plains shortly after leaving his middle school a week earlier. His parents were deceased and he lived with his grandmother, who was apparently suffering serious cognitive decline and didn’t report him missing for two days. I read the case file and looked at the pictures of Nicholas, a cute kid with dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Soon I was dozing off at my desk again.

And there I was, walking down North Broadway behind a tall, thin bald man with pocked facial skin. Just ahead of us a small child wearing a dark blue Yankees jersey was walking slowly. When he looked back for a moment I recognized Nicholas right away. The man walking in front of me increased his pace rapidly as the boy crossed the street. I moved up quickly behind him and shoved him hard in his lower back, dropping him beneath the wheels of a city bus that was just then crossing the intersection.

I immediately woke up at my desk and the case file for Nicholas Portier was gone. I went to the bathroom. I had the beginnings of a full beard and my teeth felt like they had not been brushed in some time. I sent my boss an email saying that I had a family issue that required me to leave early that day, and then I went home and tried to make sense of things.

********************

About two weeks later I received a new case file; a nine year old boy from Yonkers named Rafael Santiago whose body was found along the banks of the Bronx River. This one was a cold case from 13 years ago but new evidence was recently brought forward by the family indicating that an uncle might have taken her and she might still be alive. I didn't believe it. The 72-hour rule was long past the statute of limitations.

I was chilled. 13 years. Before looking at the image of Rafael, I spun my chair around and took a quick walk around the office. I got a cup of coffee. I thought about the price of this, and what I would have to do afterwards.

Then I returned to my desk and sent a brief email to my supervisor saying that I would again need to leave early that day due to a family matter that I had to attend to. (No one ever asks for details when you have a “family matter” to attend to. They don’t really want to know. It’s invariably awkward.)

Then I pulled up the image of Rafael Santiago and I stared into his eyes. It didn’t take long.

Suddenly, I was sitting there in Johnny’s Pizzeria in Mount Vernon with a slice and a soda on the table in front of me. It was mid-afternoon and there was only one other customer there at the time, a stocky man who looked to be about 40 years old. I thought it was odd that he wasn’t eating any pizza, just drinking a bottle of Coke and staring at the door every so often. He didn't seem to notice me, despite the fact that we were sitting less than ten feet away from one another.

After a few minutes Rafael came through the front door, purchased a slice and left. As soon as he did, the only other patron in the restaurant stood up and walked out. I also stood and walked out behind him, discreetly clutching his empty glass Coke bottle on my way.

He followed Rafael for a few blocks and I followed him from a suitable distance and I waited for what I knew was coming. Once I saw him pick up the pace to move up behind the boy I broke into a sprint. Again I materialized just as I got to him, and I smashed the coke bottle over the back of his head. He went down. The boy looked back for just a moment. I waved him off and he just ran. Then I cut the man’s jugular with the broken neck of the Coke bottle, and then I woke up at my desk. I immediately stood up and left the office.

When I got home, I looked at myself in the mirror and I could see that I had clearly aged by over a decade. My head hurt.

I was starting to feel depleted.

Faded.

Diffused.

********************

The next day was a Saturday and I went out to Starbucks for a cup of coffee and then I took a long walk through the park. I thought about my sister for a while. Stephanie died when she was just ten years old. My birth certificate said I was 37 years old, but I knew I was older than that now. Somewhere right around 50. I didn’t feel so well. I went back home and drank some vodka and watched some football, then I took a nap.

When I awoke that evening I opened the drawer in my nightstand where I keep my snubnose .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. Then I took out a picture of my sister from the drawer below and I stared into her eyes for a while.

And then I was right there, sitting on the school bus in the seat directly behind Stephanie. I called her name and placed my hand on her shoulder, but I already knew that there would be no response. When the bus stopped down the street from our house I followed her off and I quickly took notice of the white utility van parked by the corner. I pulled my hood over my head, walked slowly and kept my eyes on the van. My little sister skipped across the street and I just wanted to pick her up and hug the air out of her until she squealed with laughter.

The rear door to the van opened. A man in dark blue coveralls stepped out. He was wearing gloves. I saw him look around for a moment, then he began moving towards my little sister. I pulled my .38 and shot him twice in the chest and once in the neck. As he dropped, Stephanie looked back at me for just a second. She smiled, and then she ran.

When I awoke I was in a hospital bed at Westchester Medical Center. My little sister Stephanie was there at my bedside. She took a picture of us together with my iPhone. She still looked like she was ten years old. I looked to be in my late-eighties. We were both smiling though. Somehow, she understood.

I saved four kids, including my sister. None of them ever had a chance at a life. The best thing I ever did. I did what I set out to do. I only wish that I had saved more. I just couldn’t leave Stephanie behind. It came with a heavy price, but I just couldn’t do that.

THE END