by Warren Adler
She followed him across the parkway onto the marshy grass to the edge of the creek, unable to shake the eerie emptiness inside of her. She was steadier than her last visit here, as if she had got the hang of it.
"Naturals again," Cates had muttered, ignoring her silence. "He's being a shit."
There had been another teenage girl murdered and the eggplant had been up all night. They had caught the briefest glimpse of him that morning, barely visible in the clouds of smoke that filled his office.
"Sorry," the lieutenant said, handing them the assignment. "You're the jumper squad."
The ground was especially soft from the long week of rain. This time it was Cates who slipped and Fiona who had to help him up. When they got to the body, the officers gave way to give them a better look.
"My God," Cates said, turning away.
The body of Jason Martin lay broken and sprawled obscenely on the creek's edge.
"They always do it the hard way," one of the uniformed men said. She scanned the body perfunctorily and waved to the medics peering down at them from the parkway.
Cates leaned against a tree. He looked like he was about to be sick. After the technicians bagged the body, they carried it back to the ambulance.
"I don't believe it," Cates said, when they got back into their car. He was in no condition to drive. She headed back toward the office, but seeing his condition, she stopped at Sherry's instead.
Near the counter was a newspaper vending machine, filled with copies of the Washington Post. She put a quarter in the slot, took out a paper and brought it to a booth. Sherry, sweaty and fat in her dirty apron, came by and poured out two cups of coffee.
"'nother one," Sherry said, nodding to the banner headline about the new murder. "Some crazy," she sighed, moving on.
Fiona's eyes drifted to other headlines. Orson Strauss's resignation, Tate O'Haire's declining to run again, the Czech ambassador's defection.
"We seem to have made all the news today," she said wryly. His brooding look was impenetrable. "Drink your coffee."
"I don't know how I can live with this," he said, shaking his head.
"Don't," she snapped. She felt a sudden jolt as feeling came to life inside of her again.
"Don't what?" He looked at her helplessly. "I pushed him hard. I drove him to it."
"Bullshit," she shouted banging the table. A few of the other customers turned to look at them.
"I feel..."
"Feel?" She glared at him. "You're a cop." She pointed a finger at him. "Once you start identifying with the victim or feeling guilty about him, turn in your goddamned badge."
He was startled by her vehemence, but it had helped calm him.
"I feel like I murdered him."
She reached over and grabbed a handful of his shirt.
"You ever give me that again, I'm going to ask for a divorce. I want a partner, not a crier. He was a jumper. Case closed. A jumper. A damned fool jumper."
Cates lowered his eyes in acknowledgment and she released him. Picking up her coffee cup, she scanned the paper. There was a box in the center of the story on the new murders.
"Son of a bitch."
The curse seemed to shake him out of his brooding and he looked down at the paper, turning it to see. A drop of coffee had splattered on the box. He read the headline aloud.
"Anonymous Donor Gives Victim Fund $115,000." He looked up at her. "Is that it?" he asked, confused.
"That self-righteous bastard."
"Who?"
"The captain."
"Captain?"
She smiled. She had never called him captain before.
EPIGRAPH
The ice was thin, they all fell in
They all fell in, they all fell in
The ice was thin, they all fell in
--from an old nursery rhyme