Long Bright River(48)

—That, says Nguyen, rewinding to the girl, is Katie Conway.

—That, he says, pointing to the man, is a person of interest.

He pauses, zooms in. The man’s face is grainy. It is difficult to discern much about it. Race uncertain, to my eyes. He seems big, though it might also just be that the girl is tiny.

His sweatshirt, the hood of it pulled up to obscure his hair, seems to give us the most information: it says Wildwood right across the front of it, the Wild on one side of the zipper, the wood on the other.

Wildwood, a shore town in southern New Jersey, is a common enough destination that it won’t be terribly helpful. I have been there once, with Simon, one of the few weekend trips we ever took together. Almost everyone in Philadelphia, I think, has been to Wildwood. Still, the specificity of that sweatshirt offers us a glimmer of hope.

—Anyone seen this guy around? Nguyen asks. But his voice isn’t optimistic. Around the room, a shaking of heads.

—We’ve already sent the image down to Wildwood’s PD. They’re asking around, says Nguyen. In the meantime, check your phones. We’ll send the video to you today. Keep an eye out, ask about him whenever you take someone in.

Ahearn thanks him, and Nguyen turns to leave.

Before he goes, another cop, Joe Kowalczyk, says, Question.

Nguyen turns around.

—If you had to guess, says Kowalczyk. Race? Age?

Nguyen pauses. I almost hesitate to say, he says, because I want you guys to keep your eyes open for everyone. And that tape wasn’t clear.

He looks up at the ceiling. Continues. But if I had to, he says, I’d say white guy, forties. That’s the profile, anyway. That’s who usually does this kind of thing.





Today, the streets of Kensington are quieter than normal. The cold spell hasn’t snapped. It’s freezing, and the sky is stark white, and there’s a terrible wind at face level that leaves me breathless each time I have to step out of my vehicle.

Only the hardiest, or the most desperate, are outside today.

I turn the cruiser down a side street and pass six boarded-up houses in a row. Abandos, they are called here. Forgotten, condemned, some of them containing within them, no doubt, several poor souls who’ve made a shelter of them. I think of the drafty insides of these houses, the furniture left behind, the pictures on the walls. I think how lonely it must be for their new inhabitants to look upon these possessions, the remnants of the families who lived there in decades prior. Textile workers. Metalworkers. Fishermen, if the houses are old enough.

Two winters ago, there was a terrible fire in an abandoned factory nearby. It began when two occupants, desperate for warmth, started a blaze in a tin trash can, right there in the middle of the factory floor. A firefighter died trying to put it out. This has become the latest in the long list of things we are to be alert for on patrol: the smell of wood smoke from any unknown source.



* * *



—

No calls in my PSA for an hour. At ten I park the car near Alonzo’s and go in for a cup of coffee.

As I come out, cup in hand, two young girls I’ve seen around the neighborhood, sixteen or seventeen years old, approach me, chewing gum, walking slowly. They’re both wearing canvas sneakers with no socks, which makes me shiver a little in sympathy. I can’t tell if they’re working.

When they approach me, I am surprised. Typically, regulars simply ignore uniformed police officers, or stare at us defiantly and wordlessly.

But one of them speaks.

—Do you know anything about the murders, she says to me.

It’s the first time I’ve been asked. Rumors are spreading, it seems.

—We’re working on it, I say. We’re getting close.

My standard answer whenever anyone inquires about an open case. I feel I should say this, even though I don’t know much more than they do. Sometimes, at work, I feel the way I do when I’m talking to Thomas about his father: a little bit guilty for lying, a little bit noble for upholding a pretense that will ultimately preserve his feelings. I’ll bear the burden of the lie, for my son, for these girls.

I remember then about the video.

—Actually, I say, could you take a look at something?

I produce it on my phone: the short clip that Homicide sent to us this morning after roll call. I play it, and then pause it on a still frame that shows the POI.

—Does he look at all familiar? I ask.

Both girls look intently. Both shake their heads. No.

I go through these motions a few more times throughout the day. But nobody seems to recognize him. A couple of women make little murmuring sounds when Katie Conway crosses the screen: recognizing her, perhaps, or recognizing their own fragility, how easily it could have been them.



* * *



—

Just before four o’clock, as my shift is winding down, I see Paula Mulroney for the first time in a while. She’s off crutches, finally, leaning up against a wall outside Alonzo’s, holding a cigarette in one hand.

I stop the car. Get out. I haven’t seen her since Kacey went missing. I’ve been wanting to talk to her.

Paula has never let my falling-out with Kacey affect her friendliness with me. That’s between you guys, she said to me once, confidentially. Normally, when she sees me, she greets me with a smile and with some good-natured ribbing. Here we go, she often says. Here comes trouble.