When All Light Fails

by Randall Silvis

  “I bet it can,” Jayme said.

  “You guys want a beer or something? Just help yourself to the cooler there. I’ll go see what Big Daddy is up to.”

  She hung the fork from the side of the grill and sashayed into the house.

  Jayme turned to DeMarco. “Big Daddy?” she said. “She’s his daughter?”

  “I suspect not,” he said.

  “Care to join me in a beer?”

  He gave her a look.

  She nudged him with an elbow. “Whatever you say, Big Daddy.”

  Morrison came out carrying a large bowl of guacamole covered with plastic wrap, followed closely by the woman and her jangling jewelry. She danced to the new song, “Any Way You Want It,” as she crossed back to the grill and took up the fork again.

  “Greetings,” Morrison said with a crooked smile. “I didn’t expect to see you folks today.” He set the guac on a table and approached DeMarco and Jayme. “Today is our annual Spring—”

  “Crawl,” Jayme interrupted. “For all of the Crawlers. We heard.”

  He was taken aback; looked to DeMarco.

  “Maybe we should walk around front for a minute,” DeMarco said.

  “Of course,” Morrison said. Then, to the woman, “Back in a minute, honey.”

  “Okay, pooches!”

  They allowed Morrison to take the lead and followed at his pace, which was slow but not faltering. He was dressed in blue Nike sneakers, pressed tan chinos and a Hawaiian shirt. Near the front porch he turned and asked, “This okay?”

  “It’s fine,” DeMarco said.

  Jayme smiled and asked, “How’s the myocardial infarction thing these days? You’re looking a lot more chipper than the last time we met.”

  “I’m on a new medication,” he answered, though his smile seemed, to Jayme, tentative.

  “How nice for you,” she told him. “Emma is dead.”

  He blinked. Leaned forward a little. “Say again, please.”

  “Emma Barrie?” Jayme said. “Your almost daughter? She and her grandmother died of carbon monoxide poisoning seven days ago. You didn’t hear?”

  He stared at her, motionless for a few seconds. Then one leg buckled. DeMarco reached out quickly to grab him by the arm and steady him.

  “Over here,” DeMarco said. “Come sit on the steps, Judge. Let you catch your breath.”

  He sat bent over, breathing hard. Jayme stood on one side, DeMarco the other. Neither spoke. A full minute passed before Morrison lifted his head, looked at DeMarco and said, “How could this happen?”

  DeMarco said, “Intentionally, we think.”

  “By whom?”

  Jayme said, “We need the names of your friends, Judge. The ones who submitted the DNA swabs.”

  “Why?” he asked. “You don’t think one of them could—”

  Again she interrupted. “Of course we think one of them could. Could and did. Who else would have done it?”

  He looked to DeMarco, was shaking his head back and forth. “It simply isn’t conceivable.”

  DeMarco told him, “We think we know who made it happen. And I’ve got to tell you, Judge, he isn’t the kind of person to protect his employer. So if you know anything…hell, you know the drill. Better we hear it from you now than in front of a jury.”

  “I don’t,” Morrison stammered, still shaking his head. “I swear to God I don’t. And I trust my friends. I swore an oath not to reveal their identities to anybody until the results were in. And even then…”

  “The results are already in,” Jayme told him. “And one of your friends provided a fake sample. One of your friends lied to you. Or else you are lying to us. Which is it?”

  His head kept moving back and forth, eyes on the concrete pad at his feet now, hands squeezing his knees. His voice was halting and weak, with no trace of the authoritative courtroom persona. “I just can’t process this. I can’t…get my head around any of it.”

  Jayme said, “Which part don’t you understand? That a little girl and her grandmother are dead, or that one of your trusty pals is probably involved?”

  Morrison looked up at DeMarco with pleading eyes. Jayme stepped in front of DeMarco. She said, “What are we looking at here, Your Honor? Aiding and abetting, conspiracy to commit murder? Obstructing justice? Concealing evidence? You’re the expert. How’s that going to look on your legacy?”

  The judge’s eyes were clouding over, his shoulders slumping. DeMarco laid a gentle hand on Jayme’s arm; when she turned to look at him, eyes full of fire, he whispered, “You’re going to give him a stroke.”

  She glanced at Morrison, then blew out a little breath.

  Some of the rigidity went out of her then, and DeMarco stepped to the side a little to address the judge. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll talk again soon. The state boys are likely to call in the FBI on this, so be prepared for an interview. Until then, sir, you need to keep this conversation to yourself.”

  Morrison said nothing for a moment, then looked up at Jayme. She saw desperation in his eyes. “The little girl?” he asked. “What kind of man…?”

  Jayme left the question unanswered. “Enjoy your Crawl,” she told him, then turned and crossed to DeMarco’s car.

  Seventy-Three

  And the Oscar goes to…

  “I still smell barbecue,” DeMarco said as he drove.

  Jayme pointed through the windshield at a bright orange food truck parked in the library’s lot. “Where did that come from?”

  “It’s a Christmas miracle!” he said, and put on the turn signal.

  “An illegal one maybe. Not to mention a few months late.”

  “So let’s grab something before the law sends them packing.” He parked within a few yards of the truck. Six people were already queued up at the open window. As he was hurrying to unbuckle his seat belt and climb out, his cell phone buzzed. He snatched it out of the cup holder and, standing up outside his door, looked at the screen. Bowen. He punched the Answer icon and said, “Hold just a second, Cappie.”

  He spoke to Jayme over the hood of the car. “Get me the brisket and a kielbasa if they have it. Plus some mac and cheese?”

  “Really?” she said. “Mac and cheese too?”

  “I won’t eat the bun.”

  She shook her head and crossed to get in line.

  “Top of the day to you,” DeMarco said into the phone.

  “You’re calling me Cappie now?”

  “That’s how I always picture you. A little boy in his police pajamas. What’s happening?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “I will be soon.”

  “Guess whose body was just pulled out of the Shenango River.”

  DeMarco’s left knee went weak. “Do not say Benny Szabo. Please, Captain. Do not say Benny Szabo.”

  “Okay, I won’t. Oscar Szabo.”

  “Oscar? Is that his old man?”

  “It’s his old man’s brother. Benny’s uncle.”

  DeMarco let out a long breath. “Okay. That’s interesting, but…”

  “But how is it relevant?” Bowen said. “Maybe it’s not. The coroner is calling it an accident. They figure he took a header off either the Route 18 bridge or the old railroad bridge just off the Trout Island trail.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s a drunk. Hasn’t been sober, I’m told, since the Bicentennial.”

  DeMarco watched Jayme moving up in the line. He hoped she remembered to ask for extra sauce. “Okay,” he told Bowen. “Does seem something of a coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “Which, as I recall, you don’t believe in anymore.”

  “I’ll contact the coroner.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “And don’t ca
ll me Cappie anymore.”

  “It’s an endearment. Because I’m so fond of you.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Bowen said, and ended the call.

  Seventy-Four

  The contents of a dead man’s pockets

  The Mercer County coroner’s office was in Greenville, fifteen miles north. DeMarco would have preferred to speak with the coroner in person, but there was the brisket to consider, charred black and shiny with sauce and piled high inside a bun soggy with grease. Plus it was a Sunday—all day long, as DeMarco’s mother would have said—so he and Jayme left the car at the library and walked toward the courthouse square a three-minute walk away.

  “Turns out that the food truck was headed to a gig in New Castle when some kind of transmission problem popped up,” she told him as they walked. “Can’t get out of second gear. So now they have a hundred pounds of barbecue to sell at half price before it goes bad.”

  DeMarco stopped in midstride, turned and looked back. “Half price? Let’s go buy up the rest of it.”

  “Keep moving,” she told him with a nudge. “We haven’t even tasted it yet.”

  “It’s barbecue. Even bad barbecue is good.”

  “After we eat maybe. But only one more serving each. For tomorrow. Not a freezer full. You know what too much meat does to you.”

  He conceded with a huff. “You are a hard taskmaster, Mistress Matson.”

  “Bet you can’t say that three times fast.”

  “I’d rather eat,” he said. “Let’s grab this bench.”

  The courthouse was quiet that afternoon, its only day of full rest, both parking lots empty but for a few cars. The grayness of morning had broken up a little but the patches of blue overhead were sparse. They settled onto the nearest bench and set the foam boxes between them.

  DeMarco allowed himself two forkfuls of the shredded brisket, then pulled the coroner’s number on his cell phone. The call went to voicemail, so DeMarco tried the home number. It was answered on the third ring.

  “Mazzoni residence,” the coroner said. He had a fairly high voice for such a tall man, at least six foot three when he stood plumb line straight, which he didn’t often do these days. Thin, red-haired, and brittle-looking, but always cheerful, a quality DeMarco found fascinating in light of the man’s line of work.

  “Hey, Connie,” DeMarco said. The full name was Conrad but he had always been Connie to those who knew him. Connie the coroner. “Ryan DeMarco here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”

  “Been expecting your call,” Connie said. “Oscar Carl Szabo.”

  “You mind if I put you on speaker? Jayme is here with me.”

  “The Dynamic Duo. Good afternoon, young lady.”

  “Hey, Connie,” she said, her mouth full of pulled pork.

  “The late Mr. Szabo,” Connie said, getting right down to business. “You know him?”

  “We do not,” DeMarco said.

  “Five seven, 163 pounds, a good portion of that weight in the breadbasket. Seventy-two years old but with the organs of a man twice that age. Nice thick beard and head of hair, though—bountiful, in fact. Both as white as snow after a dust storm, the hair held together in a ponytail with a red rubber band. Reminded me of Jerry Garcia. I kept hoping he would break into a few bars of ‘Tangled Up in Blue.’”

  DeMarco smiled; he always enjoyed the coroner’s descriptions. “I prefer the Dylan version,” he said. “But please continue.”

  “Lifelong smoker of Pall Malls and his lungs showed it. Cirrhosis, atherosclerosis, early signs of congestive heart failure. Triglycerides off the chart. Blood alcohol content at time of death is approximate, 178, sample taken from the vitreous humor. What put him out of his misery, though, was a blow to the head, frontal calvarium. Consistent with a fall from an elevated position.”

  “He didn’t drown?” DeMarco asked.

  “Negative. Took a dive into the shallows is the way I see it. Should have worn his water wings. A helmet wouldn’t have hurt either.”

  “The captain said either the Route 18 bridge or the railroad bridge. Based on what?”

  “Educated guess. He didn’t fall from a kneeling or standing position, that’s for sure. Opened his skull up like Gallagher with a watermelon.”

  “There are fairly high walls on both of the bridges, Connie.”

  “Not so high that anybody with sufficient intent can’t climb up over them.”

  “My money is on the old railroad bridge. Route 18 is too well-trafficked. Somebody would have seen him.”

  “That supposition is favored all around. But, since covering our asses is always SOP, I’m including both possibilities on the report.”

  “And you’re calling it suicide?”

  “Yeah, probably not. Forty-sixty, I’d say, in favor of accidental death. Anybody who knows those bridges knows they aren’t high enough to do anything but cripple and maim. Remember that drunken kid last August? Thought he was doing a cannonball but forgot to check the water level first and stretched out too soon. Ruined his ankles and knees instead of his noggin. Our Mr. Szabo, as it turned out, was no Greg Louganis either. Went headfirst into six feet of water.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean it was an accident.”

  “Like I said, forty-sixty. Seeing as how his zipper was down and his wingwang was hanging out.”

  “Huh,” said DeMarco. “So you figure he climbed up on the wall to take a leak in the river.”

  “Either that or to show the world what he had. Which, in my honest opinion, wasn’t worth the price of a ticket.”

  Again DeMarco smiled. “No indication of foul play?”

  “Zippo. No signs of struggle, no defensive wounds, torn clothing, zilch. Sharpsville police went over both venues, didn’t find diddly-squat.”

  “How long do you think he was in the water?”

  “Half a day or so. Hard to tell, though, thanks to the water temp. As cold as brass titties. Whoops, sorry there, Jayme.”

  “No problem. I imagine brass ones are fairly cold.”

  DeMarco asked, “Where exactly did he end up?”

  “Across the river at the campground. A bunch of Boy Scouts were having a powwow or something. I wonder how many corpses you have to drag out of the drink to get a merit badge?”

  “The campground, that’s what—maybe a quarter of a mile from the bridge?”

  “Give or take. The currents are tricky, though. Not to mention all the snags this time of year. He could have drifted right over, could’ve gotten hung up a while on the bottom and spent some time counting fishies.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you found anything interesting in his pockets,” DeMarco said.

  “Actually, I did. Forty-two cents in change, a St. Christopher metal, one of the small Altoids tins filled with what turned out to be baby aspirins, half a pack of soggy Pall Malls, and a book of matches from the Marigold.”

  “Whoa,” DeMarco said. “A matchbook from the Marigold?”

  “Do you find a matchbook illuminating, young man?”

  “I visited the Marigold yesterday, trying to drum up some intel. Dropped the Szabo name and everybody looked at me like I was speaking Sumerian.”

  “Well now. That paints an interesting scenario, doesn’t it?”

  “You bet it does.”

  Jayme leaned toward the phone and asked, “Have you talked to the relatives?”

  “Relatively speaking,” the coroner said, “no. He and that boy you’re after appear to be the end of the Szabo line.”

  “Interesting,” DeMarco said. “How did you know we’re looking for Benny?”

  “Trade secret. Sorry.”

  “Somebody from the Greenville hospital, I assume.”

  “When you assume you make an ass out of u and me. Even when you’re right.”

  Ja
yme asked, “Do you have Oscar Szabo’s address? It might be interesting to talk with the neighbors.”

  “I do, and it is a very simple address to remember. Address unknown.”

  “He was homeless?” DeMarco asked.

  “So saith the thin blue line.”

  DeMarco blew out a breath. “I appreciate this, Connie. Good stuff.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Anything else I can do for you two?”

  “No, sir. We’re all set. You have a good evening.”

  “Vaya con dios, amigos.”

  Seventy-Five

  Can 1+1 ever = 1?

  After Jayme had unbuckled her seat belt, then popped open the door to climb out in DeMarco’s backyard, he said, still behind the wheel, the engine still running, “I think I’ll drive over to Trout Island and sniff around that railroad bridge a little.”

  She turned in her seat. “The police already went over it, right?”

  “Yep,” he said, his right hand still fingering the key, left hand at ten o’clock on the steering wheel.

  “You have a feeling?” she asked.

  “I guess I do. It will give me a chance to work off some of that mac and cheese.”

  “Okay. I’ll grab Hero and be right back.”

  “You know…” he said, which was enough to signal what he was thinking.

  “No problem,” she told him, and swung her feet and legs outside the car.

  “It’s just that I can—”

  “Baby,” she interrupted, “it’s okay. I could use some downtime with my hairy little boy.”

  DeMarco had always gotten hunches, gut feelings, a sixth sense, whatever you wanted to call it. So did she. So did all investigators. But since his NDE he had been more reluctant to ignore them, to talk himself out of them. She appreciated his efforts to not revert fully to the lone wolf he had been when they first met, but by now she had spent enough time around him to know that he still preferred to be alone sometimes. Not always, but especially when some thought or notion was gnawing at him. He had a way of talking to himself when he worked alone. “Hearing myself think,” he called it. “Getting the ducks in a row.” A second person made him too self-conscious to do it.