The Catalog of Wounds: How a Con Man Turned Loneliness Into $1.92 Million

Catalog of Wounds

The fluorescent light in the interrogation room had a blackened section at one end. It hummed. The detective laid four transfer screenshots out like playing cards. The top one: seven thousand dollars. Memo: Mia art camp.

He glanced at it. His throat moved.

The detective asked, “Do you know her?”

He said, “Rosa.”

“What is she to you?”

“A client.”

The detective laughed once. “You call that a client?”

He didn’t answer. The paper cup crumpled in his hand. Water ran through his fingers onto the table.

Yvonne’s shop was on the third floor by the escalator. The mirror had peeling paint. One tube in the light fixture was dead. She opened at ten, shut the gate at nine. For lunch she ate a sandwich from the diner downstairs. She squeezed half the ketchup packet and saved the other half.

The first time he walked in, he touched the cuff of a shirt and said, “That color looks good on you.”

Yvonne said, “I’m over forty.”

He said, “So what?”

She didn’t say anything else. She pushed a rack aside and made room for him to stand.

After that he came every day. Sometimes he bought socks. Sometimes he didn’t. Yvonne poured him water. The cup was a giveaway from next door, with a chip on the rim. He drank from it every time.

One day he said, “I don’t come here every day to buy clothes.”

Yvonne asked, “Then why?”

He looked at her. She was still holding a price tag. The edge had curled. She waited three seconds. The phone rang. It was the supplier. She turned to flip through the order book. When she came back, he only said, “You’re busy.”

She smiled and put the price tag in her apron pocket. In that pocket were half a pack of tissues, a ballpoint pen, and a photo of her daughter when she was little.

At dinner at Yvonne’s house, her father set a thermos on the table. The lid was cracked. The old man said, “It doesn’t keep heat. I pour coffee in the morning, and by noon it’s cold.”

The next day, a thermos arrived. The delivery slip had Yvonne’s father’s name on it. The old man held the cup and looked at it for a long time. He said, “This is too much.”

He waved it off. “It was nothing.”

More things arrived. Later, a refrigerator. Yvonne’s mother said the fridge was too small. The Thanksgiving turkey wouldn’t fit. The next day a refrigerator arrived at the door. Yvonne stood in the hallway, wiped her hands twice on her apron, and said, “Why did you spend that kind of money?”

He said, “It’s the holidays.”

She gave him the key and told him to come up and sit when he was tired. A plastic rabbit hung from the keychain. One ear was chipped.

The massage parlor was below ground. The hallway was covered in red carpet. The edges were pilled. Rosa carried a basin. The skin on the back of her hands was cracked. Her daughter Mia studied art. The teacher sent a drawing: three people holding hands. A corner of the paper had been rubbed through with an eraser. Rosa kept it behind her name tag. The plastic sleeve had gone white with wear.

He asked for her. She rubbed his feet. He looked at his phone.

She asked, “What do you do?”

He said, “Construction contracting.”

She said, “That’s good. Busy.”

He said, “Your daughter draws?”

She turned her name tag over and showed him the drawing.

He said, “She’s good.”

She said, “The teacher says she has talent. It’s just expensive.”

Later he borrowed money. The reason was urgent. His voice on the phone was low. Rosa walked back and forth in the staff hallway. The light was motion-sensor. One step, it lit. One step, it went dark. She had seven thousand in her account. She transferred it in two parts. Five thousand first. Then two thousand. When it was done, the light went out. She stood in the dark. The phone screen lit her face.

The detective found him in the lobby of the massage parlor, drinking tea. The TV played silent news. He wore a black jacket. There was a grease spot on the cuff.

The detective said, “Yvonne. Rosa. And two more.”

He set the teacup down. The bottom knocked against the glass and made a sound.

“How much did you take?”

“One million nine hundred twenty thousand dollars.”

“Where is it?”

“Spent.”

“On what?”

“Renting cars. Eating. Gifts. And then he stopped.”

The detective pushed the phone across the table. On the screen was the message Rosa sent after the transfer: “Mia’s art camp. I can pay next month.”

He didn’t open it. He pushed the phone back. His finger scraped across the table and caught a dried crumb of fries.

The detective asked, “Did you have a standard for picking people?”

He said, “Yes.”

“What standard?”

“The eyes.”

“What about them?”

“Whether they look tired.”

The detective stopped writing. “Say that again.”

“Whether they haven’t been seen in a long time.”

The detective capped his pen. “Are you picking people, or picking wounds?”

He looked down. The light hummed. He picked up the paper cup and drank. The water was cold.

After sentencing, Rosa came once. She didn’t cry. She didn’t yell.

Through the glass, she said, “Mia didn’t study art after that. She joined the math team.”

He opened his mouth.

Rosa said, “The math team is free.”

She stood. The chair legs scraped the floor. She put her bag on her shoulder. She pulled the zipper halfway. It stuck. She bent her head and worked at it for a long time.

On the other side of the glass, he put his hand on the counter. The chain of the handcuffs hit the metal with a small clink.

She got the zipper up and left.

He sat there. The light still hummed. A water stain on the table slowly dried.

The detective came over and said, “Sign.”

He signed. The last stroke of his name dragged long.