Larkin cocked his head at the swift and sudden change in Hernandez’s tone. “That’s correct. He was a part-time mentor at the Youth Empowerment Center.”
Hernandez motioned in a distracted manner toward the south as he said, “The YEC over on Fifty-Fifth. His poor mother. I had no idea it was still unsolved.”
“How was it you came to know Marco?” Doyle asked.
Hernandez quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I was a student at the YEC. From… I can’t remember when I started going, but I didn’t stay long… before junior high, anyway. Me and my best friend, Jay, we started hanging out there after hearing from some kids on the street that it was pretty chill. They served meals, which is what got us there, honestly. Jay and I liked the gym too, but I remember we were still dumb little shits and the high school boys monopolized that room. One day, we said, ‘Fuck, we’re already here, let’s hang out in the art room. We don’t have to do nothing if it’s lame.’ That’s how we met Marco. He was cool, you know? Older than us, but not an ‘adult’ who wouldn’t understand us kids and the kind of shit we dealt with. Real trustworthy.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” Doyle pressed.
Hernandez took a deep breath, then licked his lips. “Someone pushed him in front of a train.”
Larkin watched Hernandez’s face carefully, asking, “Is that before or after you stopped attending the Center.”
“I stopped after that. Wasn’t the same without Marco and Jay.”
Doyle picked up on that before Larkin could open his mouth. “What happened to Jay?”
A stray tear rolled down Hernandez’s cheek and into his beard. “Someone killed him, man. He wasn’t even thirteen. And then when Marco—all I could think was, I’m next. So I left. Never went back to the YEC.”
“What was Jay’s last name,” Larkin asked, watching from the corner of his eye as Doyle retrieved his notepad. “Was his murder solved.”
“Come on. A black boy from the projects? Do youthinkit was solved?” Hernandez shot back.
“No,” Larkin admitted. “Probably not.”
Hernandez took a big breath, his cheeks puffing as he let the air out. “Last name was Gibson. Joshua Gibson. He always went by Jay. Look, it would have been impossible to solve anyway.”
“Why.”
“There was no body.”
Confused, Doyle asked, “Then how did you know Jay was killed?”
But Larkin looked at his phone again, hastily scrolled through the files and scanned evidence, then pulled up a photograph—the one he’d found wedged in between the pages ofHamlet. He turned his phone toward Hernandez and spoke over the two. “Is this Jay Gibson.”
Hernandez glanced from Doyle to the phone, and then paled.
Doyle automatically reached for him. “Do you need to sit down?”
“No, I’m—where did you get that?”
“Is this Jay Gibson,” Larkin asked a second time.
“Yes, yes, yes. But where did you find that picture?”
“Among Marco’s personal effects.” Larkin lowered his cell. “You gave Marco that photograph, didn’t you. At first, Jay disappeared. And then you found yourself in possession of that picture. When you realized he wasn’t asleep, you went to Marco for help. You trusted him. Marco told you he’d take care of it, didn’t he.”
Hernandez doubled over, his hands on his knees. “Fucking hell….”
Doyle patted his shoulder a few times, instructing Hernandez to take deep breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Larkin squatted down in order to meet Hernandez’s torn expression. “How did you get the photograph.”
“I found it,” he whispered. “Jay’d been gone a few days. His mother didn’t have a phone—too expensive—so I couldn’t call him. Waited outside his school, outside his building, but he was nowhere. Checked with some of the boys at—” He faltered, backtracked, reworked what he’d been about to admit, “Some other street kids, but they hadn’t seen him.” Hernandez slowly straightened his posture, although he was still looking decidedly gray. “At the YEC, I didn’t want to take any classes that night, so I snuck into the janitor’s closet to smoke a joint. There was a windbreaker hanging on the back of the door, so I checked the pockets for cash. Found some developed pictures—remember the paper envelopes they used to come in? They were all of Jay. I freaked. I mean, I lost it. I remember puking into the mop bucket. I took one of the pictures and I found Marco and I told him. I told him everything I knew, and he promised he’d do something about it.” More tears welled in Hernandez’s eyes. “I killed Marco, didn’t I?”
Larkin narrowed his eyes. “No. You did not.”
“I didn’t trust the police. But if I’d told them instead… Marco was just a fucking kid. What was I thinking?”
