Blunt Impact

by Lisa Black

  ‘I know that,’ she said, panting a tiny bit herself. ‘One time I responded to an industrial accident where guys were pouring a house foundation. The small crane they were using hit a power line and it wrapped around a guy, practically seared him in half. So we’re trying to process his body and his co-workers were out there with trowels smoothing the concrete. But they had to. It would have cost too much money just to show respect for the dead.’

  ‘You probably think that’s cold.’ They moved toward the center of the twelfth floor.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve learned one thing about the dead – they don’t care. Not any more.’ She snapped some pictures, catching Ian Bauer in one of them. ‘You don’t have to accompany me, counselor,’ she said as tactfully as she could.

  ‘I know. But I’d cleared my schedule for a complicated homicide trial and then the defendant pled as soon as he got a look at the jury. If I go back to my office, the county prosecutor will have piled five more on my desk since I’m “free”, quote unquote.’

  ‘Hence, a day of hooky?’

  ‘Just one, before I return to be enslaved in my tower of legal pads and fluorescent lighting. So I came here, to be enslaved in a different kind of tower. Are we almost at the top?’

  ‘Almost.’

  She examined the next ten floors, until the project manager and the prosecutor were red-faced and breathing heavy and not because Theresa’s presence got their juices flowing. And, as so often happened, she searched and searched and searched but did not find what she was looking for.

  She found nothing to indicate where Kyle Cielac had fallen into the elevator pit. As a method of murder, it was near-perfect.

  TWENTY-SIX

  She was worried sick about the kid, he could see that. Hiding it pretty well, but Ian Bauer spent most of every day being lied to and had thus become a pretty good judge of the difference between what people said and what they meant. So when she said she needed to get back to the office to observe Kyle Cielac’s autopsy, she really asked for a reason to stay downtown.

  So he gave her one. ‘I thought we could try out your theory.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The menu at Tavern on the Green,’ he said, trying not to hold his breath as he did so. The overcast sky had turned her eyes gray.

  She locked her camera bag and clipboard into the trunk of the county vehicle. ‘Oh, Samantha Zebrowski’s stomach contents.’

  ‘Yeah . . . not the most gastronomically conducive mental image, but it is lunchtime and you are hungry.’

  She waited, not even bothering to ask.

  ‘Your stomach’s growling,’ he explained.

  She did not seem to find this attention charming.

  He had gotten too cutesy, should have just asked her to have lunch with him – but had figured the chances were not good if he didn’t tie the idea to her work. Even then, chances were slim. Anorexic slim.

  It was pointless, he knew, to even try. The essential illogic of the world had been demonstrated to him since birth but most memorably during his early years of high school. He had wanted to join the basketball team, just once be able to do something from the center instead of the fringes of his society. It made sense. He was a head taller than the next-tallest kid and could dribble with the best of them. But a coach who believed in democracy everywhere except the playing field let the current players vote. And they did not want the school weirdo on the team.

  His parents had grown tired of explaining the basic unfairness of life to him, and he went in search of a fresh ear. The parish priest had listened with great sympathy, then told him that everyone had strengths. His task would be to discover his own. He might be a good basketball player but he might be much better at something else, something that hadn’t even occurred to him yet.

  Ian had accepted the wisdom of that and from then on focused on school work, since textbooks and standardized tests didn’t care what you looked like. But still it rankled. Because he could play better-than-average basketball. And he could – and would – succeed in a job where he had to convince twelve people not only to look at him, but to listen, to believe, and to act.

  So pointless, as a deterrent, did not always work in his case.

  ‘I need to get back to the office—’

  Well, it had been worth a try.

  ‘—so I can’t linger. But I am starving and my boss considers eating to be only for the weak.’

  Success!

  They walked around the outside of the site’s fence and crossed East Sixth. He left plenty of distance between them, didn’t crowd. Among the few late lunchers in the restaurant, she chose a booth next to the window where they had a good view of the building under construction, then told the waitress, very nicely, that they were in a hurry. She even ordered the nachos, which he thought took scientific investigation a bit far. How could you consume a dish that you’d last seen in a dead girl’s stomach? But all he asked was, ‘What do you make of the asbestos you found on the clothing?’

  She stirred her coffee, staring at the building. But then it must be easier to stare at than him. ‘It probably came from the site, left over from the destruction of the old building. The silica is used to strengthen the cement, so that’s not remarkable either. I also found a few tiny pieces of metal, some in spheres, some in what I guess I’d call chips.’

  ‘Probably slag.’

  Now she turned her face to him, and again the now gray-blue eyes sent a small jolt through his nerves. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the overspray from welding the joints of the beams and girders. It can spray out from the joint and then has to be chipped off.’

  ‘So it would normally be found all over a construction site?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. What do you make of Kyle’s body? I mean, did anything stand out, even without an autopsy? I mean, anything other than the iron spikes, um, driven into him.’

  ‘No, they pretty much grab your attention and hold it.’ The waitress fumbled with their plates, and Theresa waited until she left before adding: ‘I didn’t see any signs of assault as with Samantha. It’s so frustrating. It’s possible neither one is a purposeful murder. Samantha might have gotten in a fight and fell, or jumped. No struggle with Kyle, but he could have fallen through a simple misstep in the dark. The outside edges of the building are easy to see, but the interior is not. Both of them could have been intoxicated and that screwed up their balance, and they fell. I’ve seen bigger coincidences.’

  ‘Maybe she fought with Kyle. He blames himself for her death, decides to check out the same way.’ Possible, but he didn’t really believe it . . . and he knew Kyle much better than he could let on at the moment. At some point in the future he would have to explain his lies of omission to this woman, and he did not look forward to it.

  ‘No scrapes or bruises on his knuckles as if he’d beat someone up. But he is a lot heavier than she is, so he could have done damage to her without much to himself. And if he would commit suicide in grief over Samantha – whether he killed her or not – isn’t it more likely he’d jump from the same outside edge, try to land on the same concrete pad as she did?’

  An orderly mind. If he wasn’t careful he’d fall in love right there over the Formica, to the sound of a dropped plate in the kitchen and the smell of fried appetizers.

  He shook it off. This was simply an afternoon’s diversion, after all.

  Pointless.

  ‘So if it wasn’t suicide due to either grief or guilt,’ she went on, ‘then what was Kyle doing there at all?’

  Ian looked into the beautiful eyes of this beautiful woman and took a deep and regretful breath, preparing to lie through his teeth and say he had absolutely no idea. Instead he diverged: ‘And where does this kid fit in, this little girl? Her presence indicates suicide to me, that Samantha jumped off that building of her own will, but then where did she get all the bruises?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ She told him about Ghost’s visit to the lab the previous day. ‘Ghost could hav
e told the complete truth, that she went there on her own. She got to the medical examiner’s office from East Thirty-First like it was nothing. Maybe she does roam the city on a regular basis. Is that even legal? I mean, it can’t be all right for an eleven year old to be walking around by herself.’

  ‘At that age, curfew begins at sunset, so if she’s running around at night that’s definitely against the law. In daylight, she has as much right to stroll down the street as you or I.’

  ‘But she couldn’t be home alone. So how is it all right to be out alone?’

  ‘Actually, Ohio does not have a minimum legal age for a child to be home alone. They just have to be mature and capable enough to handle any reasonably anticipated problems. Most states consider twelve old enough, whether the law is written or unwritten. Even if we had a law – trying to clamp down on unescorted children would invariably wind up interfering with kids getting to school, and we don’t want to do that. It’s hard enough to get them to attend as it is,’ he said.

  Her expression bespoke such misery that he covered her right hand with his own. ‘We’ll find her.’

  She held his gaze, direct and unhappy, for so long that his lungs tightened up. Then she tried to smile, tilted her head in a tiny nod.

  He removed his hand. Reluctantly.

  ‘Thanks for not telling me I’m acting like an idiot,’ she went on. ‘If Frank were here he’d tell me that Ghost isn’t my responsibility and I shouldn’t get attached.’

  ‘Oh. Detective Patrick.’ He used the moment to compose his face into the most casual arrangement he could muster, to school his voice not to betray the slightest untoward interest. ‘You two been together long?’

  Then he braced himself for the firm yes, a long time, meaning I’m very taken so don’t even think about it you odd-looking thing, or even the glow of actual happiness which equaled the same result.

  ‘Together? Oh – together. No, Frank and I are cousins.’

  ‘Cousins?’

  ‘Cousins. Mothers are sisters?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ He took several gulps of coffee to cover his reaction; he could feel his cheeks flaming from his nose to nape of his neck. OK. Breathe. Regroup. Not the homicide detective. That only leaves the rest of the males in this county to eliminate, and how to do that without turning the conversation too personal too fast? He had gotten her there with the case, but once that was dealt with—

  She went on: ‘He’d be right, of course. But that hasn’t stopped me yet.’

  ‘What’s life for,’ he said to her, ‘if not to get attached?’

  The curve of her lips deepened, warming him to his toes.

  Then, unsurprisingly, she got back to business. ‘But even if Ghost got to the building on her own, it still wouldn’t disprove suicide. Samantha could have gotten into a fight earlier, which made her feel hopeless and suicidal. But, especially in light of Kyle’s death, I’m going with murder – though in that case why didn’t the killer notice Ghost? She says she saw him. Why didn’t he care about that?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t see her. It’s a huge site and she’s a little girl.’

  ‘She says he did. What if he knows he left a witness? What if he comes after her?’

  ‘Why would he? It was dark, no one was around. He could have easily killed her then. In fact that would have been even better for him – Samantha killed herself and took her child with her, and the bruises were sustained in the fall.’

  She pondered this. It didn’t seem to reassure her much.

  He asked, ‘Are we sure we’ve gotten every detail from her?’

  ‘Angela took her statement. But she might tell me more. We sort of bonded over my microscope.’

  ‘Because of your father?’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘How did you know about him?’

  Oops. ‘The Plain Dealer profiled you.’

  ‘That was a year or two ago.’ After the Torso Killer re-emerged.

  ‘I was cleaning out a file cabinet last week and ran across it,’ he stammered, not wishing to confess to Googling her. Way too stalkerish. ‘You’re right, the little girl does need to be questioned again, more extensively. That almost always produces a new detail or two.’

  ‘I could do that.’

  He needed to pick his words carefully with this. ‘You could, but – no offense, but have you ever questioned a child witness?’

  ‘I’ve never questioned any witness. That’s not my job.’ Theresa crunched a chip, putting him again in mind of Samantha Zebrowski’s stomach contents. He put down his fork.

  ‘It’s a science unto itself. Children are highly susceptible to suggestion, as I’m sure you know, so you have to keep your questions extremely neutral and open-ended.’

  ‘Don’t ask, “Did you see the man?” Just ask, “What did you see?”’

  ‘Yes. With smaller children we have to establish that they know the difference between truth and falsehood, and also that they know the difference between right and wrong. We don’t accept testimony from children under five in general, but the maturity of the child is more significant than their actual age. A mature four year old may be much more reliable than an immature seven year old. Anyway, I’m lecturing.’

  She used a chip to dig out the last of her cheese. ‘No, go on. As I said, I don’t usually have anything to do with witnesses in general, certainly not very young ones.’

  Sincerely interested or just being nice? He opted for sincere, given how seriously she took her job. ‘This girl is old enough to know truth from a lie, but she’s been traumatized. It will be difficult finding out exactly what she saw without leading her. If she has bonded with you then you may be the one person who shouldn’t question her.’

  ‘Because she’ll tell me whatever she thinks I want to hear.’

  ‘Quite possibly. We have child victim assistance counselors at the office who usually take the lead with questioning kids thirteen and under. They can – um, Theresa?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t that her?’ She turned to look behind her and they both sat in shock for a moment as Ghost Zebrowski climbed up on a bar stool and handed a piece of paper to the bemused bartender. He wiped one beefy hand on his pants before accepting it, lips parting in surprise at either the request or the requester.

  Without another word Theresa stood up. So of course Ian Bauer followed.

  She slid on to the stool next to the child, put a gentle hand on her back and asked what she was doing there. The girl’s face lit up when she saw Theresa. ‘I’m retracing my mother’s last steps. This man says he saw her here.’

  ‘Ghost, where have you been? The whole city’s looking for you. Your grandmother is worried sick.’

  The girl could not have looked more surprised if Theresa had produced a live rabbit. ‘Why?’

  The man behind the bar with his single earring and indie-rock T-shirt two sizes too small had already lost patience with this particular set of patrons. ‘Look, does she belong to you? We don’t really allow unaccompanied minors in here.’

  Theresa identified herself and Ian silently flashed his Justice Center I.D. Not that it really meant much, but it calmed the man enough for him to confirm that yes, Samantha had been a familiar face in the restaurant.

  ‘When did you—’ Theresa began.

  ‘What about him?’ Ghost demanded, holding out another photo. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Glance, negative shake of the head.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the little girl persisted, standing on the stool in a way that apparently worried Theresa.

  ‘He said no, Ghost. Please get down, you’re going to fall.’

  ‘I’m not going to fall!’

  ‘Can you get her out of here?’ the bartender asked of Theresa, or Ian, or whoever might be most likely to accomplish the removal of this suddenly very noisy small child.

  ‘Ghost, you really can’t be questioning—’

  ‘Yes I can!’

  Ian stepped up. ‘Why don’t you come join us in o
ur booth, Ghost, and we can—’

  The girl took one look at him, nearly eye-level from her pedestal. Then she leapt to the ground, landing on the linoleum hard enough for him to feel the vibration through his feet, and darted out the front door before the stunned bartender could even set down the photograph of her mother.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ian said to Theresa. ‘I have that effect on children.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Frank and Angela surveyed the eleven rather plain stories of the National Terminal apartment building, then, as one, turned to the patrol officer.

  ‘You said follow him.’ He shrugged. ‘I followed. He walked. And walked. Tried someone on his cell phone who didn’t pick up. Walked some more. From the site he went down to Public Square and kept going. He went down the hill, down to the Flats, which I don’t need to tell you guys is a ghost town these days, right? Do you know how hard it is to tail a guy when there isn’t another person on the entire street? Luckily for me he never turned around. He didn’t know I was there, he didn’t know he was there, because he walked around in circles. Back up the hill at the other end of the Flats, wandered over to Lakeside, started to head toward the Square again, somehow wound up here. Went inside.’

  A Waterfront Line rapid transit train rattled up the track behind them, its station still looking shiny and new years after the rails had been added, back when the Flats would teem with hundreds of people every weekend. Exactly why did that stop? Frank wondered. Did we all grow up, or did we simply run out of money?

  He heard the rumble of a train, or perhaps it was thunder.

  ‘I already checked,’ the officer went on. ‘He lives here, the building manager says. Fourth floor. It’s his official address. So my nature hike wasn’t so much necessary, I’m thinking, but ain’t all’s well that ends well?’

  ‘Good job,’ Angela said.

  ‘Thanks ever so much. Kudos mean the world to me, but lunch means even more and mine is two hours overdue. You need anything more from yours truly or can I get out of here before the heavens open?’

  ‘Nope. We can take it from here.’