The Ashes of an Oak

by Bradbury, Chris

Steve took out a cigarette and lit it to get rid of the taste and smell. ‘That’s just very unfuckingnecessary,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to stab someone, do it, but don’t stand in the middle of Pitkin and play doctor.’ He gagged and turned away.

  Before Frank dropped the blanket he took a look at the face. Not even his own mother would recognise the man now. His thin, bloodless lips fell across his teeth, which suddenly seemed too big for his mouth, like slugs, while his half-closed eyes saw nothing and gave nothing out. His pinched nose was as waxen and pale as the rest of his face.

  ‘I’m willing to bet nobody saw it either,’ he said. He went back to Jim. ‘Anybody come forward?’

  An ambulance pulled up. The paramedics climbed down and went to the body. They took one look, exchanged a couple of words and returned to the cab.

  ‘Nobody seems to have seen a thing,’ said Jim. He pointed at the crowd. ‘But feel free to ask.’

  Frank sighed. ‘You still aren’t funny.’

  Frank cast an eye at the crowd. He wanted to slap every single one of their faces and tell them to stop feeding off the remnants, but they were remoras, grabbing the sharks’ leftovers in this litter-strewn, grey, cavity of decay. If there was one thing that was going to make them feel alive, that would sustain them through the day, it was someone else’s death.

  ‘You,’ said Frank. He crooked a finger at a middle-aged black man who was more likely than not wondering where the hell he was going to get his next fix now that the shop had closed. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The man didn’t take his eyes from the blanket.

  ‘You know this man?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then there’s no point you being here is there. Give your name to the officer and beat it. Hey, Tanner.’ The uniformed cop came over. ‘Take this guy’s name and send him on his way. In fact, take everybody’s name and get them the fuck out of here.’

  Tanner stuck out a thick hand and pulled the man over.

  Frank shook his head hopelessly. Same toilet, different shit. Brownsville.

  It was the same day over and over. He rolled the figures over in his mind. They were tattooed on his brain that he could see on the back of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes to sleep at night. He was stained. Nearly nineteen hundred murders in New York last year. Five thousand rapes, fifty-seven thousand assaults, one hundred and fifty thousand violent crimes. We haven’t evolved, he thought. We like to pretend we have, but we’re just a hair’s breadth away from being the animals we really are. We still leave out scent one way or another, we’re still driven by the need to eat and fuck and we’d still kill to get that last piece of meat.

  Some people said that the difference between us and the animals was the ability to reason. In his book that was called premeditated. That was it. All these people and not one of them gave a damn about the other. They just fed off each other and when the table was empty, moved onto some other poor bastard.

  He looked across the street and someone caught his eye. It was male, about six feet, white. He couldn’t see his face because he had a hat on, the brim pulled low over his eyes and casting a shadow over his face. He wore black shoes and a sharp dark grey suit. His legs crossed over at the ankles. He was relaxed. The man leaned against the wall, looking at the scene across the road from himself. He had one hand in his pocket while the other hung by his side.

  Frank stared at him. He wasn’t waiting for a ride; he would’ve been watching the road. He wasn’t outside a shop waiting for it to open. What the hell?

  ‘Jim,’ called Frank. Jim came over and followed Frank’s pointed finger. ‘You know that guy?’

  ‘Which guy, Frank?’

  The guy in the suit…’ He was gone. In as long as it took for a bus to go buy, the man had disappeared. ‘Never mind,’ said Frank.

  ‘Forensics are here,’ said Jim.

  ‘Okay.’ Frank stepped into the road and walked between the angry cars. He headed straight for where the man had been standing and looked at the ground. There was nothing. He stepped right and went into an alley. There was no one. He looked up at the fire escapes and strolled down passed some dumpsters. There were signs of humanity; needles and empty bags, candy wraps, food and discarded clothing, but there was no one down there.

  He came back out of the alley and walked back across the street.

  ‘Where’d you go?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Thought I saw someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just some guy taking an interest, that’s all.’

  They walked back though the circle of vultures. Frank could smell the sweat on them. ‘Tanner,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, get these people out of here.’ Another unit pulled up. The uniforms got straight into the fray and started to move the crowd. He grabbed Steve’s arm. ‘Let’s go. There aren’t going to be any surprises here.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Steve.

  Frank took one more look across the road at where the man in the suit had been. The place seemed emptier without him, like something was missing.

  They climbed into the Plymouth and headed back to the precinct.

  ‘Hey, Sinatra. The Captain wants to see you.’ The desk sergeant, message delivered, went back to his work. His shirt was dark blue with sweat.

  Frank and Steve walked up the stairs to the second floor. The place was busy and twice as hot as when they left. Frank didn’t think it could smell any worse, but the stench was crushing.

  Steve led the way. ‘Captain first then paperwork, okay?’

  He knocked on Captain Diehl’s door and they were beckoned in. They sat down while he finished on the phone. It always amazed Frank at how softly-spoken Emmet Diehl was. He never seemed to raise his voice or display anger in any way. It was almost as if he was happy to let the world talk and he would chip in at the first silence and see what happened after that.

  ‘What you got?’ asked Diehl.

  ‘Stabbing on Pitkin,’ said Frank. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Any clues?’

  ‘Well, he was bleeding a lot.’

  Diehl looked wearily at the detective. ‘It’s very hot in here, Frank. Unlike you, I don’t have a window out of which I can throw myself to a quick and merciful death.’

  Frank crossed his legs and held up his hands. ‘Sorry, Em. Dead dealer. Robinson Taylor. He got opened up.’

  ‘Like a fish,’ added Steve.

  ‘So, I ask again,’ said Diehl. ‘Any clues?’

  ‘Nobody saw or heard anything,’ said Frank. ‘Those thousand people that walked past the body while it lay bleeding on the pavement didn’t even notice it. In fact, they didn’t notice it until the uniforms turned up. Then they couldn’t get enough of it.’

  ‘We asked around,’ said Steve in the hope that it would give Frank a chance to draw breath. ‘They were all sightseers. Jim Baker, the uniform, knew the deceased. He didn’t express surprise.’

  The Captain raised his eyebrows. ‘Jim Baker doesn’t show surprise. I’m not sure Jim Baker shows anything.’ He closed a buff folder and stood and filed it in a cabinet.

  Frank stood up. ‘Is that it?’

  Diehl gestured at him to sit down again. ‘No. You two know Violet Dybek?’

  ‘Sure we do,’ said Frank. ‘She’s in three, four times a week. Came in this morning. Something about a stranger in her apartment the last couple of nights. I got Reeger to take her home and do a search and said me and Steve would drop by later to see if we could find anything.’ He leaned forward as he sniffed the air. ‘Smells like tuna in here.’

  Diehl looked impressed. ‘I’ve brought tuna sandwiches today. That’s a good sense of smell you have there, Frank.’

  Frank screwed up his face. ‘It’s like I can smell everything today. It’s crazy.’

  ‘Probably the heat,’ said Steve. ‘Everything smells worse in the heat.’

  The Captain snapped his fingers. ‘Yeah, that’ll be it.’

  ‘Then bring on winter,’ said Frank.
‘Mrs Dybek, Emmet?’

  Diehl leaned back and scratched at the back of his head. ‘She’s dead, Frank.’

  Frank instinctively went for his cigarettes. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘She took a dive over the railings in her apartment building. Fell four floors.’

  ‘Well, that’s just shit,’ said Frank.

  Steve too lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll say. I didn’t think she could be killed.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ snapped Frank.

  ‘Sorry, Frank. She was feisty and scary.’

  Frank growled. ‘You want us to go out?’

  ‘You up for it?’

  ‘Damned right I’m up for it. Five years that woman’s been coming up here. We were probably the only people she trusted.’

  ‘Mike Patton and Bob Simmons have it at the moment. Go to the scene, get up to date and tell them to come back. I’ll reassign them.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Diehl picked up his mug and realised it was empty. It had a picture of a Chihuahua on it. Emmet and his wife were crazy about the damned things. ‘Sorry, guys. I know you liked her. You’re kindness didn’t go unnoticed.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Frank. ‘Lot of good it did her.’ Frank put a hand on Steve’s arm. ‘Could you give me a minute, Steve? I just want a quiet moment with the Captain.’

  ‘Sure, Frank. I’ll be outside.’

  Frank waited for the door to close.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Diehl.

  Frank took a long ruminative drag on his Camel. ‘I think I want to retire.’

  Diehl frowned. ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Thirty years’ worth.’

  ‘Specifically, Frank.’

  Frank paused like a horse that had reached a high fence. ‘This guy, Robinson Taylor. I saw his face today.’

  ‘Well, of course you did.’

  ‘No, I mean, I really saw it.’ Frank shifted uncomfortably. ‘I stopped looking at the faces a long time ago, Emmet. I realised it did no good. All those deaths, all those people, were just labels; a stabbing, a shooting, a strangling. They became verbs, statistics, a mess to clean up. It was like society had thrown up and we were the mop.’

  ‘It’s the territory.’

  ‘I know that. You think I don’t know that? The point is, I think I’ve had enough. I’m not human anymore. Me and Steve and Mike and everyone, we just go out, every day, and start again with the same old crap. Then seeing that guy’s face today…well, it made me realise I want to be human again and enjoy the sensation. I want me and Mary to go and find a place upstate away from all this and see it out like people.’

  ‘How old are you now? Fifty?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, God knows, you earned it. You got some put aside?’

  Frank knew what Diehl alluded to. ‘Not as much as some,’ he said tartly.

  ‘Well, you’d do okay anyway after thirty years.’ Diehl rested his chin in his hands and smiled. ‘I can’t stop you and wouldn’t even if I could. All I ask is think about it. Don’t let a shitty day put your nose out of joint. You could still end up with your own precinct.’

  ‘What? And end up like you? No thanks.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Get out of here. Think about it for a couple of days. If you still want it by say, Friday, then I’ll start the paperwork. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds swell. Thanks.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay dealing with Mrs Dybek?’

  Frank put his cigarette out in the Captain’s ashtray. It too had a picture of a Chihuahua on it. Frank thought they were ugly, snappy little bastards. ‘Yeah. It’s the least I can do for her. You know, what Steve said? He was just bullshitting.’

  ‘I know,’ said Diehl. ‘I was watching him this morning when she came in. Soon as he saw her he was up and at her and offering her drinks left, right and centre. When she went to the bathroom, he asked one of the girls to check she was okay.’

  ‘He’s a good guy.’

  ‘Well, don’t go encouraging him to retire. I can’t afford to lose both of you.’ He picked up the phone and started dialling. ‘Now, go away, Frank. I have a call to make and in about a minute and a half this room will reek of politics. With your sense of smell you’re likely to throw up all over.’

  Chapter 3

  The apartment building rose six storeys and stood as a monument to mankind’s limitations – the limits of finance, the limits of imagination, the limits of vision and the limits of humanity. It was a box with holes. At night, myriad creatures returned from the safety of daylight to the cramped, oppressive security of bolted doors, whispered fears and frightened isolation. People only half-slept, with closed eyes and open ears, attuned to the creaks and groans, the screams and moans, as alert to the sounds as any jungle dweller would be. Dawn must have come as a relief, as a divine intervention, to those who lived here. Everything here was taken to the very edge, to the limits of existence, where to live simply meant to not die and to not die was not really living at all.

  Frank side-stepped the turd in the doorway and stepped into the lobby. He was greeted by a silence that could only happen in the midst of tragedy. There should have been noise, chatter, the scuffing of feet and the rustle of paper. Instead, it was as if someone had turned down the sound and all that was left was your own subtitles, to be added to the drama laid out before you.

  Frank and Steve broke through the ring of people that lined the scene. Steve held back and talked to one of the uniforms, while Frank carried on towards the twisted, spidery body of Violet Dybek.

  Her face was gone. She had landed facing down and the front of her head had taken the full impact. There was no longer a nose, the lips were mashed and fretted with dislodged splinters of teeth and bone. Her eyes were in there somewhere, maybe pushed back into her skull or maybe they popped with the impact and had become no more than an ingredient in the human soup that gelled stickily across the floor.

  Jim Baker, the uniform from the Pitkin Avenue death that morning, had ended up here too. They acknowledged each other with a ‘what the hell did we do to deserve today?’ roll of the eyes. Frank saw Mike Patton and headed for him.

  ‘You on this now?’ asked Mike.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Frank, unable to take his eyes away from Mrs Dybek. ‘You okay with that?’

  ‘Sure I am, Frank. Me and Bob thought you’d take it.’

  Frank looked up. ‘She lived on the fourth floor. I take it she didn’t fall down the stairs?’ He wasn’t smiling.

  ‘I would guess not. We’ve been into her apartment and seen what we can see. Forensics are up there as well as down here.’

  ‘Signs of a struggle?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No. Dirty glass upon a table. A plate needed washing. That’s about it.’

  Frank took his hat off and fanned himself. ‘It stinks in here.’

  ‘It’s the heat,’ said Mike. ‘Always worse in the heat. I don’t notice it much anymore myself.’

  ‘You and Bob take off. Me and Steve’ll take it from here.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll type up some notes for you. Complete the picture.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mike called Bob Simmons over and the two men left. Frank noticed Bob take out the turd on the way out. He limped away like he’d been shot in the foot. Any other time…

  Frank caught Steve’s eye and indicated that he was going up to Mrs Dybek’s apartment.

  There was an elevator, but Frank took the stairs. He didn’t like elevators. He didn’t like the fact that they were confined spaces or the fact that he was suspended by a wire that was made by human hands, which was attached to the elevator by human hands, which was maintained by human hands and judged by the imperfections of the human eye. He was strange that way. He would quite happily walk into a crime scene, face off with a PCP crazy, but things like fairground rides, where the guy who checked it had only to have tied one on the night before and now missed the loose
bolt or the broken shaft…That scared him. Human fallibility scared him.

  By the time he reached the fourth floor, his lungs had almost failed him. He stopped and lit a cigarette, then leaned against the railings outside Mrs Dybek’s apartment.

  Below, in the lobby, upon the black and white tiled floor, he could see the milling crowd, looking like pieces on a checkers board and, in the middle of them, the insignificant doppelganger of the lady once known as Mrs Dybek, the cause of the commotion, the irrelevant, still centre of a self-powered whirlwind.

  Frank tried to remember how tall she was. She came to his shoulder. He was six feet one, which made her about five five. She was round too. When she walked she rolled along, propelled, it seemed, by the momentum that built up, like a perpetual motion machine. She wore a dress, always, and shoes with heels that were never more than an inch, usually flat. They were sensible shoes.

  Frank studied the railing. It was perhaps three and half feet high. No, closer to four. To get over this, Mrs Dybek would have to have hitched up her dress, lifted her leg high enough to get over the railing or, failing that, pulled herself high enough to topple over the railing, in order to fall. She could have climbed onto a table, or something, but whatever that was would have still been there. He didn’t see it. If Mrs Dybek was going to kill herself, this wasn’t the way she would have chosen. In fact, she wasn’t the kind to kill herself, period.

  He walked into the apartment. 4B. It always seemed to be 4B. It smelled of cabbage and lavender. There was another smell too, familiar but distant, lost like a forgotten word that balanced on the edge of your tongue.

  There was the glass. It looked like the remnants of milk at the bottom of it. He picked it up and smelled it. Milk. Not that skimmed crap either. Next to it was a plate with some biscuit crumbs upon it. He picked it up and smelled that too. There was no smell strong enough to yield anything. The rest of the room was as expected. An aged sofa, a threadbare chair, a thinning carpet that had little left of its original colour. The TV was a Zenith.

  There were two sash windows. Only one of them was above the fire escape. Frank opened that one up and stepped out. The metal was hot to the touch. He searched for signs that someone may have been there, but it looked as if even the birds didn’t perch there. He went down to the next level. His footsteps echoed though the steps and made the whole structure shake a little. He wondered when it was last checked.