The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “Sorry, she woke up early from her afternoon nap and she’s cranky.” Lupe turns to the back of the house and shouts something in Spanish. Manny steps into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. If it’s possible to look any worse than he did the last time we talked, he does.

  “Dr. Meyerhoff. What are you doing here?”

  “I called her. Asked her to come to our house because you are too stubborn to go to her office.” Manny glares at Lupe and says nothing. “Sit down, please. I’m going to try to get Carmela to sleep some more.” She looks at Manny. “Ask her if she wants some coffee or water. I’ll be right back.”

  Their living room is sparsely furnished with an Ikea couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. No art, no books, no fancy sound system, only scattered toys. All that a young cop with a stay-at-home wife and a child can afford in Silicon Valley.

  Manny takes one of the chairs. “I’m going crazy staying home. I’m trying to do stuff around the house, but it doesn’t help. I dug up the front yard, the side yard, the back. Lupe had to stop me before I dug up stuff she already planted. I thought exercise was supposed to relieve stress.”

  “It does. Unless you’re already so stressed exercise won’t make a dent.”

  Lupe comes into the room. “Did you offer her coffee?”

  “Forgot.” He shakes his head. Lupe turns on her heels and walks into the kitchen. “I’m in the doghouse. Again. I can’t do anything right and staying home is making things worse.”

  Lupe comes back into the living room with a tray holding three cups, a coffeepot, a bowl of sugar, and a carton of milk. We pour our own and settle into silence, waiting each other out to see who will speak first. Manny looks at Lupe. She looks at the floor.

  “You called the doc. Say something.”

  “He’s supposed to be resting not working. He’s on the computer all the time. Or making phone calls. I need him to help out.”

  “I am helping out. I’ve been doing yard work.”

  “You know what I mean. You need to spend time with your daughter.”

  “Working, Manny? What are you doing?” I ask.

  “He’s looking for that damn blanket. When he finds it, if he finds it, it will probably be in Russia and the video will be forty years old.”

  “I do it when you’re asleep or taking a nap. It doesn’t bother you. Why do you care?”

  “You’re here but you’re not here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your body may be in the same room as me and Carmela, but your mind is thousands of miles away.”

  Manny starts to protest and Lupe cuts him short.

  “Tell her why you won’t bathe the baby. Go on, tell her.”

  His lips press into a hard line. He starts to speak and then stops, takes a sip of coffee and sets it down on the coffee table. “I’ve told you. It’s not that I don’t want to. I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you? Tell her.”

  He looks at his feet. “I keep seeing other stuff. It’s like somebody’s switching pictures on me. First there’s Carmela, all happy in the tub, and then there’s some other baby in a bath, screaming. It’s just better if I don’t.”

  “He won’t let anybody near her but me. My father wanted to change the baby’s diapers. Manny had a fit. It’s her grandfather, for God’s sake. He loves her.”

  Manny shakes his head, slowly, from side to side. “That’s what they all say. All full of love and making nice. That’s how it starts.”

  “It’s my father, Manny. My father.” Lupe’s voice is shrill and tears muddle in her eyes.

  “That’s who does this kind of stuff. Not always strangers.” He looks at me. “See, she doesn’t understand. Her life is full of normal people. I talk to these creeps every day. They could be doctors, lawyers, anybody. I tell them, ‘I’m ten years old, want to see a picture of me naked?’ They should be horrified, but they’re happy. They can’t wait to meet me, buy me ice cream and pizza. They’re grooming me, setting me up to trust them.”

  “I’ve heard this a million times. I can’t listen anymore. My father would never do anything like that. Neither would any of our friends.”

  Manny’s hands harden into fists. “I told you. I can’t take the chance.”

  Lupe stands. “Fix him, Doc,” she says. “I’m giving him one more month to finish this case and get out of ICAC or I’m taking the baby and leaving. We don’t have friends anymore because he doesn’t want anyone coming to the house. He won’t let me hire a babysitter, so I can’t go out with my girlfriends. I’m supposed to be proud of him because of what he does? The way his mind works, he’s just as sick as the people he’s trying to catch.” She walks out of the room.

  Manny sinks back against the couch, his face turned upward, as though he’s counting the ceiling tiles. “I know things I wish I didn’t know. But I can’t unlearn them.” He wipes his arm across his face and I realize he’s crying.

  “I don’t want to lose her, Doc. Or Carmela. But I can’t quit in the middle of this investigation.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a quitter.”

  “Let me make sure I understand. You won’t quit your job for your family, but you are willing to quit your family for your job.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just asking Lupe to hang in with me until this case is solved and then I’ll go back to the street.”

  “But what if it’s never solved?”

  “That’s what’s killing me. I need to be working. The longer this guy stays out there, the weaker our chances of finding him. The more he’s likely to think he can take another baby and get away with it. I can’t live with that.”

  Lupe sticks her head through the doorway. “You’re obsessed. Like a maniac.”

  “Why should I have to choose between you and my job?”

  Lupe disappears into the kitchen without saying a word.

  I tap the table to get his attention. “And why should your family have to choose between your job and you?”

  Carmela starts to cry. Manny gets to his feet, but Lupe is already opening the door to the baby’s room. Carmela’s cries grow louder, then softer. In a minute there is nothing but silence.

  Manny’s face goes slack. “We’ve been around this track before. Nothing changes. Nothing I say helps.”

  “That’s because you have to do something, not just talk about it.”

  He sighs, long and deep. “I need a break. What’s going on at the department? Anything new?”

  “The chief is having oral surgery today.”

  “I mean in terms of the investigation.”

  “You’re not supposed to be working, remember? Put some of that energy into your family. Take your daughter to the park. Pay attention to her instead of looking for child molesters. I’d better go. I want to say goodbye to Lupe.”

  “You know something, don’t you?” He is reading me, looking for telltale signs that I’m lying. Unfortunately, I have a face like an open book. Never could master that neutral screen business they pressed on us in grad school. I turn away. “You do know something. Tell me.” I walk toward the door. “The best thing I can do for my family is to find this bastard before he hurts another child. If I don’t, I’ll be stuck with this for the rest of my life. And so will they.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “Understand something, Lupe wants me to find this guy as much as I do. The quicker I can do this, the better it is for her.”

  “Let somebody else do it. You’re not the only one capable of finding him.”

  “I’ve put hundreds of hours into this. No one else. C’mon, Doc, tell me what you know, even if you think it doesn’t matter.”

  “And if I do? What do you give me in return?”

  Lupe is standing behind him, Carmela fast asleep, curled on her shoulder. Manny senses their presence. He takes Carmela into his arms. She murmurs softly, opens her eyes once, and falls asleep, settled against his chest.

  “I swear on the ba
by”—he looks at Lupe—“that if we don’t close this case by February, I’ll quit the ICAC unit and go back to the street.”

  “A deal is a deal,” I say. “Make no mistake. I’m going to hold you to this. So is Lupe.”

  “Understood,” he says and hands Carmela back to Lupe. “Now, Doc, sit down and tell me what you know.”

  I start by telling him that he was right about his prediction. The proprietor of the Dollar Store has closed his shop and gone to Mexico. I expect Manny to gloat a little, but he only asks me if there’s any word on the autopsy. When I tell him as far as I know it’s still pending, he asks me what else I’m holding back.

  “The chief doesn’t know this yet. I could get in trouble.”

  He flicks his hands and shrugs. “So tell him, I don’t care. I don’t hide anything from him.”

  “You’re hiding the fact that you’re working when you’re supposed to be on leave.”

  “No I’m not. If he asks me, I’ll tell him. You can tell him. What’s he going to do? Give me two, maybe three more days on the beach with no pay? I’m already on the beach.”

  I tell him about Kathryn Blazek letting slip that JJ had a secret stalker during the same conversation when she confessed to being a secret smoker and buying her cigarettes at the Dollar Store. I tell him Frank knew how to find Maldonado and Maldonado had a bunch of parking tickets belonging to the guy he sold his truck to. Manny grabs a piece of paper and starts taking notes. When I describe Frank’s and my conversation with JJ, he goes almost rigid with excitement.

  “Let me get this straight. She doesn’t have a stalker but she has spies, people Bucky sends to check up on her. And she gets threatening letters that she opens but never reads past the first line. And no word on the autopsy? You’re sure about that?” I nod. “Be right back.” He walks into the kitchen and comes back holding a wireless phone. “I’m going to call the chief.”

  “I told you. He’s not there.”

  “Too bad. So sad.” He punches in the chief’s number and when Pence’s secretary answers he tells her that he’s working from home at the chief’s suggestion and asks if the autopsy report, which should be addressed to him, is in yet. “It is?” he says. “Would you be so kind to fax it over to my house? And tell the chief I hope he feels better real soon.”

  Lupe isn’t happy with me. She bundles the baby into her stroller, stocks it with toys, a bottle, diapers, plastic bags filled with cereal and fruit, and heads for the park. Carmela does not travel light, even to go around the corner.

  Manny sets the autopsy report on the coffee table and starts to read. He stops, flips the paper over, and rereads the previous page. The whole of his face seems to be fighting with itself, eyebrows, nostrils, lips, all moving and twitching. He finishes and shoves the report across the table to me.

  “What do you think?” I say.

  “I don’t know what to think. It’s not what I expected.”

  I push the report back. “I can’t. I don’t want to.” There are many things I’m willing to do to prove to the cops that I’m tough, but I draw the line at autopsies. “Just give me a summary.”

  He picks the report up, flips to the back page, and shakes his head.

  “Death from terminal arrhythmia.”

  “Terminal arrhythmia? A heart attack? Babies don’t have heart attacks.”

  “No signs of physical or sexual abuse. No bruising, no burns, no blunt force trauma, no vaginal penetration, no anal penetration, no traces of semen anywhere on the body. Nothing. Just makeup, a blanket, and some flecks of meth”—he swallows hard—“caught in her eyelashes.”

  “Not raped? Not molested?”

  “You can’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. The family are still suspects, and now I got a crap load of new leads to follow up. None of this can get out. You understand? It’s the details that trip the bad guys up. If I ask a suspect why he raped Chrissy and he says she wasn’t raped, I ask how he knows that. If he says someone told him, I don’t have any leverage.”

  He puts the autopsy report in a folder and places the folder in a large manila envelope.

  “Do you have that guy Buzz’s address with you?”

  “There’s not one address, there’s a bunch.” I give him the list. “They all seem to be in the same neighborhood.”

  “Piece of cake. I think I’ll go for a drive in the country. It’ll be relaxing. Care to go on a ride-along?”

  I don’t know if he’s asking me because he thinks I can help or because it’s the best way to keep an eye on me so I don’t call Good Morning America with details about the autopsy report. I don’t care which it is, I’m going.

  Maldonado has ten tickets with ten different addresses, all in the same area twenty miles south of East Kenilworth. We head out in Manny’s Prius. The terrain is flat and dotted with small broken-down ranches. The gentrification that is creeping from Kenilworth to East Kenilworth hasn’t infiltrated this far south. Small pens of horses and sheep butt up against the roadway. Compared to the lush irrigated farms and orchards of the Central Valley, this area has been ravaged by drought. Manny consults his GPS and turns off the freeway. We drive another ten minutes. The area around us is all hard-packed soil and field rubble. Goats roam empty backyards, content to eat whatever garbage they find. Driveways are jammed with cars in various states of disrepair, held up by concrete blocks or jacks. Hard to imagine why the mysterious Buzz has gotten a lot of parking tickets. The place is littered with abandoned cars.

  “My guess is that the sheriff’s department is hassling him. They know he’s good for something. There.” Manny hits the brakes. “Over there. That’s Maldonado’s truck in the driveway.”

  He points to a small clapboard house with a sagging deck. There are curtains on the front windows, all closed. The small yard is partly paved and what little grass that remains is scorched brown. Manny pulls to the side of the road behind a pickup truck and puts his iPhone on the camera setting.

  “How long are we going to be here and what are we looking for?”

  “Hard to say. This is police surveillance, Doc,” he says. “Just lean back and relax.”

  Two hours later, dusk is settling over the fields and the sky is murky red thanks to pollution and dust. As always, I could use a bathroom, especially after all the coffee I drank at Manny and Lupe’s house. We’ve been sitting here looking at nothing but each other and a murder of crows that have been screeching at us from the tops of telephone poles. The collective noun of murder is apt, considering what we’re doing and why we’re here. I ask Manny if he knows that some people consider crows to be the smartest birds in the world, smarter even than dogs. He sticks his hand out and hushes me as the front door to the small house opens. A skinny white guy with long hair comes out backward dragging a wire laundry cart with a bent wheel down the front steps. Something falls off the top of a jumble of unfolded clothes and sheets. The man curses, kicks the basket, and bends over to pick up what’s fallen.

  Only when he stands can I see Buzz’s face. His bottom lip is cracked and bloody. He shudders and begins to scratch his bare arms violently, leaving long angry red welts. The skin on his face and neck is rubbed raw in places and pocked with eczema. Manny takes a picture. Buzz yells something back at the house. A skinny woman comes to the door wearing a tank top and tattered jeans. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. Whatever her age, it’s apparent she hasn’t had an easy life. Manny takes her picture. She hands Buzz some money and a box of laundry detergent. Manny takes another picture. Buzz pockets the money and gives her a shove. Not a playful shove but a hard push that sends her crashing into the steps where she sits, head in hand, crying. Buzz grabs the laundry cart and starts walking toward the road. He’s yelling at her over his shoulder as Manny takes another photo with his cell phone.

  “Damn,” he says, “this thing takes good pictures.” He puts it back in his pocket and starts the car. We pull away, silent as a submarine. I haven’t seen him looking this happy i
n weeks.

  The next morning, we find Pence in his office, preparing for a staff meeting. His right cheek is swollen and he’s worrying the inside of his mouth with his tongue. His secretary offers him breakfast from a tray of pastries she’s about to take into the conference room. He looks longingly at the bagels but chooses a sugar-glazed air-filled donut on the grounds that he can’t eat anything chewy.

  “Soup, milkshakes, and Jell-O. That’s all I’ve had to eat for the past three days. I’m starving.”

  He doesn’t look like he’s starving, but he does look uncomfortable. He brushes flakes of sugar off his jacket and starts to pick up his notebook when Manny looks in the door.

  “Hey. What are you doing here?” the chief says. “You’re not due back yet.”

  Manny smiles. He looks rested. “The doc cured me,” he says. “I’m ready to roll.”

  “Cured you how?”

  “With information. And a new suspect.”

  “In my office, now,” Pence bellows at Manny. I start to walk away. “You, too, Dr. Meyerhoff. Staff meeting is canceled.”

  We go over all of it from our first visit to the Dollar Store to finding Buzz and Maldonado’s truck.

  “You took the doctor with you on surveillance to see a guy who just might be involved in a murder-kidnapping?”

  “It was perfectly safe. I wasn’t going to do anything, just take pictures.”

  “Supposing he had seen you? Come after you with a gun?”

  “He didn’t. He doesn’t even know he’s involved. Anyhow, judging from all the parking tickets he’s got, he knows the locals are looking at him. He’s a tweaker. So’s his girlfriend. They’re probably cooking meth and the locals know it.”