Vigilante Suspected
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 8: The Case Begins at Home
The apartment was quiet except for the dull hum of the fridge. Amir sat at the kitchen table in gym shorts and a hoodie, a cold protein shake untouched beside his laptop.
He had been staring at the manila folder for fifteen minutes.
Romano had handed it to him like it was nothing. “A few notes. A name.”
That was two days ago.
Amir had left it on the counter, unopened, like it might contaminate everything else. The folder was thicker than just a few notes and a name. Amir estimated perhaps 15-20 pages worth of information.
15-20 pages that may potentially change his life.
The IAB officers’ words hung in his ear like a clump of wet earwax. “You know his father’s history.”
Was he about to learn more than just his father’s history? Amir had always known Karam had served as a police officer in India, but this felt like something else.
He’d never know unless he looked. So he looked.
Amir watched as his own hands opened up the folder as if he had just unlocked the code in a video game and was anticipating the exact reward. Instead, in this instance, it wasn’t about a reward.
Inside were photocopies. Black-and-white reports, redacted pages, and old NYPD memos with the following:
Task Force 17 – Surveillance Priority Log
Subject: Karam Kashyap
Flag: Elevated Risk – Civilian Actor / Vigilante Suspected
A single photo fell out. Blurry. Zoomed-in. A man is exiting a mosque, surrounded by a small group. Karam’s face was just barely visible, caught in profile. Amir traced the edge of it with his thumb.
His father had always looked taller in his memories.
He kept reading. Memos. Notes. One handwritten, on a piece of torn legal pad paper. Slanted script that Amir instinctively recognized—it was Karam’s.
Junaid – missing 2 months. Picked up by ICE? Sikh kid at 74th precinct – assaulted? Call Ibrahim.
Pattern forming. Keep notes separate. Don’t trust digital.
Below that, an address scribbled in rushed handwriting: Voice journalist? Safe?
There was a short article clipped from the Village Voice, dated 2004:
“Unseen: The Other Targets of Post-9/11 Surveillance”
The byline belonged to someone named Miriam Elbaz.
Amir kept flipping through the information. Another note:
They’re not just watching the mosques.
That line stopped him cold.
This wasn’t about vigilante justice anymore. His father was working on a case. As a civilian. Still a cop, in his way. But with no badge and no backup.
Amir leaned back in his chair. Now with the folder open and truth bleeding out, he couldn’t unsee any of it.
He slowly stood and walked over to the window. He glanced outside as he worked through the shock of the information that he had just consumed. The city outside hadn't changed—trash still piled near the curb, a halal cart packed up for the night. But through the glass, Amir felt like a ghost watching a world that no longer included the version of him from ten minutes ago.
Aside from a few scattered stories, Amir had never known much about his father.
There were no medals displayed in their home. No framed certificates. No photographs of a young Karam in uniform. Just a handful of faded snapshots from the dojo—his father in a black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, standing beside teenagers with taped wrists and nervous grins.
The dojo had always smelled of sweat and bamboo polish. It was a place of rhythm, repetition, and silence between strikes. A place of control. Of discipline.
But now Amir wondered if it had been more than a school. Maybe it was a front. Or camouflage…for whatever Karam was up to.
His mother once said Karam had “seen too much back home.”
That was the whole story. One line. Full stop. She never said what he saw. And never, not once, did she say what he’d done.
Amir remembered how his father would flinch at loud bangs, even from fireworks. The way he’d instinctively place a hand on Amir’s chest when crossing a street, like a man expecting something to come from the corner. Not fear. Tactical alertness.
When Amir was seven, a fight broke out near their apartment—two drunk men shouting in Punjabi, tension crackling in the air.
His father didn’t flinch. He stepped between them, calm and efficient, and within seconds had both men pinned against the hood of a car. No punches. Just precise movement, quiet authority.
Later that night, Amir asked, “Was that police training?”
Karam gave a small smile and said, “It’s all Karate. That’s all.”
But even then, Amir wasn’t sure if that was the whole truth.
One summer afternoon, while rummaging through old boxes in the dojo’s storage closet, Amir found a patch tucked beneath a stack of worn towels—dark navy, frayed at the edges, the Hindi lettering barely legible. It still carried the scent of sweat and something else—smoke, maybe.
His father spotted it in Amir’s hands and froze. Then, without a word, he took it—gently, but with urgency.
He didn’t explain. Didn’t meet Amir’s eyes.
Just folded the patch once, tucked it into his pocket, and locked the closet behind him.
That was the last time Amir saw it.
He never asked. And his father never offered.
But even at that age, Amir understood—there were some things that his father didn’t want to revisit.
Amir returned to the folder on the table and sat down. He looked at the report again, this time understanding more than just the words:
Task Force 17 – Surveillance Priority Log
Subject: Karam Kashyap
Flag: Elevated Risk – Civilian Actor / Vigilante Suspected
All these years, Amir had chalked it up to the martial arts.
The discipline. The reflexes. The way Karam moved through the world with quiet authority.
It made sense—his father ran a dojo. He taught kids how to strike, block, and breathe under pressure. And yes, he’d once been a police officer in India. So of course, he knew how to de-escalate a fight with surgical precision. Of course, he had fast hands, a low center of gravity, and that unnerving ability to read people before they moved.
But Amir had always seen those things as part of who his father used to be—nothing more than muscle memory, a life left behind.
Now, with the folder open in front of him and that line staring back—Elevated Risk – Civilian Actor / Vigilante Suspected—he saw it differently.
His father hadn’t retired from that world. He’d just taken it underground.
There was only one person who would tell him the truth. But would she open up about this?
Amir sank into the chair, the folder heavier now. He gripped his temples, like pressure alone might force clarity.
A breath trembled out of him—half sigh, half sob. He stared at the open file, at the black ink branding his father a threat. A civilian. A vigilante.
Who were you?
He wiped at his cheek, only realizing then that he was crying. Not from sadness. From the ache of not knowing, from the sudden fear that he’d built his life on the shadow of a man he didn’t understand.
His phone was cold in his hand. Amir didn’t remember picking it up.
His thumb hovered over the screen. For a second, he considered putting it down. Maybe even letting it all stay buried. Because if he took this next step, he would have to follow through.
Amir closed his eyes and pressed the dial button.
The line rang. Once. Twice. His chest felt like it might split open.
“Ma?”
There was a pause. Then, softly, she answered, “Hi, beta.”
Her voice was tired. It always was.
Amir swallowed. “I have a few questions.”
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