The Grimm Tale of Leonid | Meet Detective Grimm

While any conversation about the life of Leonid Grimm requires a healthy suspension of disbelief, his journeys – on and off the force – have been no fairy tale, although there was a beautiful princess. The teenage Leonid bloodied his share of noses and bruised his share of knuckles. Being the “ex-con’s” kid requires more heavy lifting than any kid should be allowed to undertake, but, burly – physically and mentally – from birth, Leonid held his own, and then some. After school, he’d head home to see to the raising of his mother, in a constant effort to elevate his and her situation, the epic battle to get her to choose him over the liquid and powdery vices that had replaced his father.

He was an overachiever, an athlete, the kid who caught the passes and set the curve. His only childhood wish was to escape becoming a second-generation inmate. But, by high school he’d already been mentally incarcerated by the unsolicited prophecies of both students and teachers. But just when he’d begun to weigh the pros and cons of entering the family business, Silke had looked down at him from beside Mrs. Klager’s desk in first period German class, junior year.

“Class, let’s all greet our newest student,” said Mrs. Klager. “She’s just moved here from Seattle.”

“Guten Morgen, mein name ist Silke.”

Everything after that had been drowned out by the sight and scent of her. He’d nearly lost himself in her waist-length, visibly unruly hair and she smelled like fresh brötchen, a scent he remembered from his Grandmother’s kitchen in that brief, romantic time before Oma had died. Morning by morning, Silke passed his desk on the way to her own and the smell of bread rose to greet him, giving him hope that there was something about Silke that could sustain him.

By senior year, he’d grown accustomed to the touch and taste of her, as well – having been allowed, finally, to place the occasional arm around her incredibly narrow waist, or plant the rare and hurried kiss upon her cheek – when he walked her home from ballet classes evenings after school. Having developed a taste for manly things, he liked her lightly-salted, the back of her neck still moist from cursive arm motions and exclamatory leaping; her hair bridled, interlaced in skeins above her head.

It was her father, Mr. Kreisel, a retired police officer, who had encouraged Leonid to pursue both college and the police academy. No one could deny Leonid college. He’d earned the grades to attend and as the valedictorian of his class, he’d further proven his right to be there, but the academy . . . had been about another kind of belonging.

Corrupt as BCPD was and had always been, its brotherhood had been suspicious of Leonid Grimm’s pedigree. But once he’d beaten down new bullies and again, taken his rightful place at the head of his graduating class, it was Herbert Kreisel to whom he tipped his hat, and having asked for her hand in marriage, he crossed the stage and assumed the position, family ring in hand — It was her grandmother’s — at Herbert’s insistence. That day, Leonid walked away with a wife-to-be and a father in so much more than law. To this day, he wishes that his mother had lived to see it, all of it.

He’d been blessed and he set out to prove his worthiness. Within a year, he’d made his presence known to the department brass and two years later, just after he and Silke had celebrated the first birthday of their son, Hermann, he had been promoted to detective within the homicide division. There were plenty of murders to go around in Beacon and Detective Grimm became well-known for solving them. Herbert couldn’t have been more proud.

He and his late wife, Brigitte, had had Silke later in life, and had worried that neither of them would live to see her grown and married, and happy. He was even more delighted at living to see a grandchild and being invited to live with Leonid and Silke in their little colonial “gingerbread house.”

What Herbert  and Leonid didn’t understand was that in Beacon there is a unique ecosystem, a persistent underground – some of which shouldn’t and even can’t be disturbed, without dreadful consequence. Beacon is not Seattle. Rife with potential, Leonid tried to rationalize some of the things he saw in his first few years on the force – the bribery, the ambivalence, the casually turned heads and averted eyes, but they were the police, the law, right?  But there are times when even the law names its price. In Beacon, all too often, the mob wields a badge as cheap jewelry to compliment sheep’s clothing.

To this moment, Leonid wishes he had learned to look the other way, but twenty-two years ago – on a Monday, working a crime scene, he’d walked around the wrong corner at the wrong time and locked eyes with one of the biggest baddest wolves on the force. In an instant, Grimm’s fairy tale ended. With a reputation for being a straight arrow, he was never asked for his loyalty or his silence. It was just made clear that his silence was the only option.

By the time he’d returned to his desk that Monday evening, his phone was ringing – Silke screaming on the other end of the line. “I can’t find him,” she’d screamed. She’d put Hermann down for his nap and returned to find an empty crib and an open window. Neither she nor Herbert had heard anything.

Hands warm and slippery with sweat, Leonid pulled clumsily into his own driveway behind four police cruisers – each filled with faces that, due to so much “looking the other way,” he’d only ever seen from the side. He knew their profiles and sideways glances by heart and instantly recognized their presence as part of the consequence of having been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The crime scene — the one in his own home — had been contaminated. No prints, other than those of the “officers” on the scene, had been found. The case dragged on until it didn’t. The shelf-life for Beacon cops is shorter than average. Unbeknownst to most young cops, the oldest, coldest case in Beacon, is that of the disappearance of two-year-old, Hermann Grimm. Body never found. At least, in exchange for limbo, Grimm had been spared the heartbreak of watching a tiny box descend into the ground.

Though he confided in Herbert, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Silke that what he’d seen that day, had snatched their son from his crib. He knew that she was already being haunted by the empty space her soul inhabited, somewhere between Hermann being dead and alive – a lesson in expanse and suspense. It was an imaginary place where dreams and nightmares collide, nightly. The daily crawl around that space, every inch of it, had left Silke devoid of will.

She’d even given up dancing — her own, and the instruction of her regular students. And then, six months later, on a Sunday night, he’d come home to see her dancing, swaying in the moonlight, her outline captured by his headlights as he pulled into the driveway. Delighted and not wanting to disturb her, he entered through the back door, on tiptoe. He knew instantly that he must have missed her by mere seconds; because she was still swinging, dangling, toes pointed, just shy of the ground. By the time help arrived, the only thing left was not to be said, but pronounced.

Leonid and Herbert locked eyes, perhaps because neither of them could bear to look at the pile of curls and bed-sheets that lay crumpled on the living room floor, her eyes wide open, as if she’d prayed for a glimpse of Hermann, in this life or the next. Leonid hoped that she had gotten her wish. She deserved to have her wishes come true.  She’d been his — a brave princess who had saved her knight.

Now, only Leonid and Herbert remained — Herbert the only father Leonid had ever known and Leonid the only son that Herbert would ever have; two widowers under one roof and cloud. Each blamed himself.

“If I’d never pushed him into the Academy,” thought Herbert.

“If I hadn’t been so focused on work instead of my own family,” thought Leonid.

The house has never again smelled of brötchen. The attic is filled with boxes marked “Do Not Open” and filled with the remnants of two past — and abbreviated — lives. Dinners are mostly quiet and the words are few, each man trying to climb out of his own thoughts in order to be “pleasant.” What is there to talk about? What’s left? What cases can Leonid share with his father-in-law, when the most important one to each of them remains unsolved? The job is now just a job, anyway – something to do, motions to go through, something from which to retire. His disillusionment has earned him the nickname of “open and shut.” Ironically, the brass still loves him.

Never corrupt, but now perceived by up-and-comers like Demetrius Jones as incompetent, Leonid Grimm was planning to coast to the finish line, maybe retire himself and Herbert to someplace with a little less rain. No sense in getting what’s left of his family killed with any crazy ideas about finding out who kidnapped his boy. That is until Frank Folds started showing up at crime scenes, doing real police work — and without a badge. The “Paper Detective” may be a Peculiar, but he’s no wolf.

Grimm doesn’t care one way or the other about Peculiars, but Frank’s self-righteousness and dedication to the cause rub him especially raw. Maybe because deep down Grimm still wants to be “that guy.” Somewhere inside there is a man who wants to do right, avenge his angels, put up a fight, but he’s biding his time.

For now, he’s allowing Jones to leak information to Folds. No harm, no fowl. Real crimes are getting solved in the process, and his reputation isn’t hurting for it. I’ll let Jones think he’s smarter than me, for now. But while the crooked cops are watching, he’s got to play it close, keep Jones and Folds on the defensive. No need for them to know he’s on the same team and occasionally, unbeknownst to them, calling the plays. But he touches my “tummy” one more time and I’m punchin’ him into the third dimension.

For now, for everyone’s protection, he’ll keep Jones and Folds a little off balance. He’s gotta find out exactly what and how much Folds knows about Beacon’s underbelly.  Does Paper Boy know the identity of the Information Broker?  When the time is right, in exchange for Folds’ help (and because it’s the right thing to do), Leonid will tell the Paper Hero what he knows about . . . the Origami Man.