Long Bright River(69)

I try then to pull myself together. I look up at the cold gray sky until my tears freeze. Then I sniff and wipe my nose once, roughly, with my gloved hand.

—Things started between us when I was very young, I say, by way of explanation, or excuse.

—No kidding, says Truman.

I look away. My face reddens: that old terrible tell. My downfall on the job.

—Hey, says Truman. Hey. What do you have to be embarrassed about? He’s the asshole. You were a kid.

But his words only serve to make me feel worse. I dislike the idea that I am a ‘victim,’ in any sense of the word. I dislike the attention, the sympathy, the hushed tones it elicits. I would prefer, in general, not to be spoken about, by anyone, in any way. And the thought of my colleagues in the PPD gossiping about me and Simon, rolling their eyes and slurping their coffee as they elbowed one another in merriment, makes me want to disappear into the hard earth of Truman’s backyard.

Truman is still watching me, measuring his words, assessing the weight of what he wants to say. He puts his hands on his waist. Looks down at the ground.

—You know he’s got a reputation, he says, hesitantly.

—Simon?

He nods.

—I don’t mean to make you feel bad, he says, or to talk out of school. But you’re not the only one. Rumor is there were other PAL kids he targeted. Seems like there was a pattern, but no one ever confessed, or registered a formal complaint. He was suspended for a while, after enough gossip, but they could never nail him on anything certain.

I open my mouth. I hesitate. There’s so much more about him, I want to say, that you don’t know. But I stay silent. It’s all too embarrassing. The father of my son.

We look at each other.

—What were the ages of the victims? says Truman. In Kensington.

—The first was unknown, I say. The second was seventeen. The third was eighteen. The fourth was twenty.

—Mickey, says Truman. Do you still have that video on your phone?

I nod. I don’t want to watch it. My stomach feels tight.

Silently, Truman holds his hand out, and at last I bring it up on the screen.

Together, we watch it. It’s as grainy as ever, an optical illusion. The figure who crosses the screen first is a shape-shifter, his face inscrutable. And yet—in the figure’s height, in his gait—I can imagine Simon.

—What do you think? I say, unwilling to make the pronouncement myself.

Truman shrugs. Could be, he says. You know him better than I do. I’ve always steered clear. He’s a scumbag.

—No offense, he says, glancing up at me.

We watch it again and again.

And then, finally, Truman takes stock of our evidence.

—Listen, he says. The good news is you’re free tomorrow. I’m free tomorrow. What leads do we have at this point? Who are our suspects?

—Connor McClatchie, I say. And Simon, I guess.

—We’ll split up, says Truman. I’ll take McClatchie. I don’t want you going near him after what he said to you. You take Simon, he says.

We plan to switch cars, since Simon knows mine. I’ll leave my car in Mount Airy, and drive Truman’s home to Bensalem. I apologize, preemptively, for the mess.



* * *



—

Before I leave, Truman puts his hand on my shoulder one more time.

—We’ll find her, he says. You know, I actually believe that we’ll find her.





It is odd to be spending the first day of my suspension engaged in police work.

When I wake in the morning, I put on a dark sweater and a plain baseball cap. When Thomas sees me, he looks suspicious.

—Why are you wearing that, he says. Where’s all your stuff?

—What stuff?

—Your bag, he says. Your duty belt.

—I’m off today, I say.

I still haven’t determined what, exactly, to tell Thomas, and I need to buy a little bit more time until I decide. I don’t know how long my suspension will be, so I can’t tell him I’m on vacation.

—No Bethany! says Thomas. But he knows better.

—Bethany, I say.



* * *



— After Bethany arrives and takes over, fifteen minutes late as usual, I drive toward South Philadelphia.





There was a time in my life when I was frequently a passenger in Simon’s personal vehicle. In fact, if I try, I can still imagine myself inside of it: it smelled of leather, and faintly of cigarettes, which Simon smoked only occasionally, but usually on nice days, when he could roll the windows down. He kept it clean and polished it on the weekends. The Caddy, he always called it, with affection. He liked cars: his father had taught him about them, he said, prior to his death.

Now, regarding it in its place outside the headquarters of the South Detectives, I am reminded, against my will, of the many times we were intimate together in that car. Just as quickly, I turn my thoughts away.

In Truman’s car, I park not far away. I lower both visors. I need to stay alert, so I have brought an audiobook to play: this way, I can keep my gaze on the door of the building. I’ve also brought along some food and water. The latter I’ll ration very carefully to avoid the need for a restroom.



* * *



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