Fall Guy (14 page)

Brody was shaking his head.

“I don't believe that either,” I said. “Anyway, there's another side to it. Even when the work is brutal, it's what he wants to do. He really loves to work. It's a religious experience for him. It's therapy. It's self-defining. It's not the icing on the cake, it's the cake itself.”

Brody was smiling. He reached out and touched my arm.

“I know, I know. I get carried away. It's just that most dogs never get the chance to…”

“You don't have to explain. I know exactly how he feels.”

“Oh,” I said. Another thing his wife had complained about, perhaps.

I ate some pizza. Brody did, too.

“Sometimes I think it's just easier than real life,” I said.

“What is?”

“Work.” I leaned back against the rail.

Brody took a deep breath and let it back out.

Dashiell began to vocalize, a kind of singsong sound he made to let me know he was running out of patience. I shot him a look and he lay down.

“It's hard getting the training materials,” I said. “I know most of the groups training cadaver dogs use chemical scents—you know, the pseudo formulas. But until we understand it all, until we know exactly what the dog's keying on, I'd rather use the real thing.”

“Any bodies buried here?”

“Not quite that real. I've used extracted teeth, and some blood products. My dentist has been very helpful.”

“Good,” he said again. “How far along is he?”
Gesturing toward Dash with his half-eaten slice of pizza, getting the dog's hopes up.

“Maybe halfway to where I'd want him. All the scent work he's done helps. He's got the culture down cold—how to quarter, how to keep his mind on the task at hand. But he still needs more experience with…”

“The dead?”

I nodded. Cadaver recovery wasn't something you'd ordinarily talk about, but sometimes, in order to be useful, you ended up doing things you never imagined you'd do. If anyone would understand, I knew Brody would. He took out a cigarette, lit it, kept the match in his hand. He wasn't in any rush to get Parker's cell phone. He had no idea what was on it. But I did. I pulled it out of my pocket.

“This may be one of the reasons why Parker was so anxious to get back in there and to do it when none of you guys were around. Also, I think I saw him, the guy who wanted to see Parker in hell.”

“That would be me.”

“No…listen.” I handed him the phone.

He flipped it open, then played the messages, his eyes getting darker as he listened.

“I found this, too.” I showed him the matchbook from Hell.

He looked down at the phone, but didn't say what he was thinking.

“The matchbook was in a jacket pocket. I found it when I was packing up Parker's clothes. The cell phone was another story. It was hidden under the couch cushions. That's probably why the uniforms didn't find it. My guess is that Parker was sitting on his stash the whole time. Literally.”

Brody remained silent.

“There was cash there, too,” I said. “It's still back at O'Fallon's apartment.” I picked up my beer, put it down again. “They really messed up. Parker said they were very young, right out of the academy.”

Brody had no comment. He just sat there, the smoke from his cigarette curling toward the center of the garden like a graceful wave good-bye.

“I met the dwarf,” I told him. “In fact, I played poker with him.”

“How much did you lose?”

“I came out ahead,” I said.

“No kidding.”

I wondered if I should add that I'd used the money I'd found as a stake, that there was more there now than when I'd found it.

“Parker was there,” I said instead. “And a bunch of his deadbeat friends.”

“Which ones?”

“Bill, Ricky and a hairy-looking guy they called Ape.”

“Nice company you keep.” He put the cigarette out against the side of the steps, then remembered the can with sand in it.

“That time when I spoke to Parker,” I said, “he told me he went out to meet a friend the morning Tim…of Tim's accident.”

Brody was studying me now with those sad eyes of his.

“Who did he say he was meeting, and did you ever talk to…”

“He only gave a first name, said that was all he knew. He said the guy never showed up.”

“I thought Parker was out all morning,” I said. “I don't get it. If the guy never showed up…”

“He said he hung out, met someone else while he was waiting, got into a conversation.”

“And does this other person have a name?”

“Bert.”

“Bert. Again no last name?”

Brody shook his head. “Giving useful information to the police isn't one of his priorities.”

“He say where he met this Bert?” I asked him.

“He did.”

“And someone went there to see if anyone remembered seeing him at the time he claimed to be there?”

Brody laughed. “You neglected to read me my rights. This'll never hold up in court. Yes, someone went there. Parker's covered for the time he claims he was out.”

“Which commenced prior to the time Jin Mei heard Tim?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I picked up a piece of the pizza and gave it to Dashiell.

“I thought you said he ate.”

I shrugged. “Life is too hard without pizza,” I said, “even for a dog.”

Maybe it was too hard even with pizza. Brody didn't say so, but I had the feeling that's what he was thinking. I told him I'd gotten the death certificate. I asked him what “pending further investigation” meant. He told me they were probably waiting for the tox screens to come back.

“Do they expect anything?”

“No. It's routine.” He reached over and took
the matchbook from Hell. “Like collecting evidence at the scene. When it's a suicide and it doesn't appear to be staged, it's not all that important.” He compressed his lips, lifted a hand in the air, shook his head.

“Not really your personal opinion?”

“Definitely not. You always want it done by the book, no matter what you think it is. Opinions change. You want to have that evidence, just in case you might need it.”

I could see the muscles in his cheeks jumping, see the tension in his shoulders, the disappointment that, whether or not it had been necessary, an important job had been botched.

“Thanks for this.” He dropped the phone into his jacket pocket; the matchbook, too.

I thought about O'Fallon's notebook, but the cops had seen the previous ones and had left them at his apartment. I thought that was reason enough for me to look at the notes first, then decide if they were something Brody would want to see.

When the rain started, it was just a fine mist. For a while, we stayed where we were. Then Brody got up, picked up his jacket and headed for the gate, Dash and I following behind him.

“There's a memorial for Tim on Saturday, at four, in the communal garden. His sister and brother will be there. Will you come?”

He squeezed my shoulder, letting his hand stay for a moment. “I will,” he said.

While I was locking the gate, I heard the rain beating on the cars parked along Tenth Street. I saw Brody start to run. I did the same.

I hadn't had time to look through O'Fallon's notebook when I'd found it. I didn't know how long Maggie would take to change into her uniform and I didn't want to be asked to leave it with her. I thought it more expedient if she didn't see it in the first place, at least not until I knew what sort of notes her brother had made and thought he needed to hide under the driver's seat of his car.

After Brody left, I made a cup of tea and had Dashiell find the notebook for me. I was feeling guilty that he'd just been hanging out with me but that I hadn't been giving him enough to do. Riding in a car or watching me pack up someone else's belongings, even finding Parker's cell phone, these things did not qualify as work for a strong, intelligent dog. Talking to Brody about the cadaver-recovery work I'd been doing with Dashiell made me promise myself I'd get back to it soon. I'd packed up a lot of O'Fallon's possessions and gotten rid of his car. I thought I'd probably be finished with the apartment in a week or
so. It wasn't unusual for a landlord, even here in New York City, to forgo a month's rent when a long-term tenant has died. After all, by putting in a little bit of money—a new refrigerator, a new kitchen floor, a better sink in the bathroom—he could raise the rent sufficiently that in very little time he'd more than make up what he'd lost. Getting rid of a rent-stabilized tenant, one way or another, always benefited a landlord. Even if that was not the case, O'Fallon's rent was cheap for New York and the estate could afford to pay for another month if that was what I needed. Dashiell and I both needed time. I decided to take the next day off, to work with Dashiell and go swimming at the Y.

I took the notebook from Dashiell—he had done one of the things he loved best: he'd found something that was out of place—and sat down on the couch to read. Opening it for just a moment at Maggie's house, I'd seen Parker's name in it. So I expected the notes to be mostly about him. But that wasn't the case.

This notebook, unlike the ones I'd seen at O'Fallon's apartment, was not about the cases he was working on. This one was more like a diary, more personal. I had the feeling that when I read the others, they would be heading down this road, becoming less about work and more about O'Fallon.

The first surprise was that O'Fallon had recorded money he'd given to Parker, and in some instances, what the money was meant for. He had clearly been trying to see that Parker could earn a living, one essential of being self-
sufficient. He had no intention of taking care of him any longer than he had to. He'd given him money for a short course in food preparation, something that would allow him to get a job as a cook. I thought about Parker offering to cook for me. So he hadn't been lying. But then a page later, O'Fallon had written “no go re food course.” Parker had said he was mugged. “Promised to look for work and pay money back,” O'Fallon had written, but he had not been fooled. Nor had he given up either. At the bottom of that page, he'd written, “Try harder.” An admonishment, I thought, to himself.

And then in the middle of the notes about Parker, about his growing passive-aggressive attitude, his continued use of alcohol and drugs, the petty theft of O'Fallon's possessions and whatever else he could get his hands on, there was a change of topic. O'Fallon had apparently been doing research on police suicide and had been making notes on what he'd read.

It was one of those notebooks with a marbled cover, a little rectangle where you could write your name and the subject matter, but O'Fallon hadn't written in either space. I wondered if he had carried it with him. Or perhaps he wrote the notes sitting in his car, the windows closed, the air conditioner on, closeted from the rest of the world, but not from his own problems, not that at all.

I wondered if the notebook was his way of reflecting, of making decisions, because the major issues he was grappling with were all in it.

“Stress inherent in the work,” he'd written at
the top of one page. Then there was a list: “irregular hours, long hours, rotating shifts, a feeling of uselessness, lack of respect from the public, boredom, secretiveness, loyalty to the club and not the truth”—that last one underlined—“dealing with violence, misery, death.” There was a blank line, as if he had been thinking, as if, perhaps, he'd been reluctant to continue, and then: “Fear of appearing weak.” And under that, another list, “Signs of Weakness.” O'Fallon had written: “Seeking professional aid, letting on that not everything is okay, admitting a lack of control, admitting failure of any kind, any show of emotions, any discussion of emotions, feeling any emotions.” The last underlined.

When the phone rang in my quiet house, I was startled. I looked at the clock before I sent Dashiell for the phone. It was past midnight. I'd been reading for over an hour.

“Alexander,” I said, expecting to hear someone in trouble, someone needing my help.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

“No. What's up?”

“You know the garden around Saint Luke's Church, on Hudson Street?”

“Yes.”

“What's Dashiell's command for cadaver work?”

“‘Find bones.' Why?”

“Perfect. Take him there, to Saint Luke's. Tell him that, tell him to find bones.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I buried something there for him to find.”

“You did what?”

“It's not deep. I know there wasn't enough time for that, for the scent to migrate to the surface. I talked to someone.”

“What do you mean, you talked to someone?”

“Never mind that. You said it was difficult getting material for training sessions. I made some inquiries and got you something. That's all.”

“But why?”

“Let's say it's a present.”

I heard him light a cigarette.

“Isn't the garden locked at night?”

“Not tonight. The first gate you come to will be open. When he makes his find, leave it there. I have to”—he paused, cleared his throat—“put it back.”

“Oh.”

“Don't forget your slicker. It's still raining.”

And just like that, the phone went dead.

I sat there for a moment, stunned. But it was what I wanted. Exactly what I wanted. And it was already tomorrow, the day I promised myself I'd work with Dashiell. I ran upstairs to the office and got Dash's tracking harness and a long lead. I put on heavy socks and waterproof boots. I took the jar of Vicks and ran down the stairs, grabbed my slicker, shoved the Vicks in the pocket and suited Dashiell for work. Ten minutes later, I was at the gate to Saint Luke's Church, looking around me like a thief, then opening the latch and slipping inside, carefully closing the gate behind me. There were no lights on anywhere, not in the garden and not from any of the windows. The rain had nearly stopped by now, but steam was rising from the paths, the mist was so thick that
had there been any lights on, they would not have illuminated the garden anyway. It was a large place, snaking around the church, the school, the building that housed the thrift shop. I switched the leash from Dashiell's collar to his harness so that when he pulled hard, which he would as soon as he was on the scent, he wouldn't be giving himself a correction. A correction would stop him cold, the last thing I wanted. I bent and whispered, “Are you ready? Find bones,” adjusting the leash so that it would slide through my hands as he went and I followed.

Dashiell's head was above the ground. He was air-scenting. He turned it from side to side and then began to move, quartering the area of the courtyard where we had entered, searching a section at a time at a speed I could barely keep up with. Then he pulled me to another part of the yard, and now he was moving in a straight line. He stopped, pushed his nose into the pile of leaves in front of him, then sat and barked once, looking toward me, then back at the ground in front of him. He pawed at the leaves once, then barked again. I caught up quickly, testing the air. Nothing. I thought about using the Vicks anyway, but decided to wait. I didn't want to lose my own sense of smell unless I absolutely had to. I didn't know what Brody had borrowed. He hadn't said. But unless he'd buried a rotting corpse in the church courtyard or borrowed whatever Dashiell had found from the morgue, it wasn't all that likely that the odor Dash had followed would be discernible by me.

I knelt on the wet ground and carefully began
to brush the leaves away with my hands. There was loose soil underneath. I brushed that away, too, until I saw it. Dashiell began to speak, not a bark, but a low mumbling noise he made when he was excited or wanted something. Kneeling next to the shallow grave, both of us looking at the single bone, I put my arm around him.

“You did good,” I told him. “You did great.”

All I could smell was the musky odor of the damp ground. For Dashiell, there was much more. I could hear his tail stirring the wet leaves behind him. I put some leaves back where they'd been on the odd chance someone would happen by before Brody returned. Then I stood, and so did Dashiell. Suddenly I broke away, running across the lawn. I stopped and turned to face him, patting my chest. When he leaped in the air, I put out my arms and caught him. He turned and began to lick the rain off my face. Then he put his wet cheek against mine and held it there. “You did it,” I whispered, squeezing him against me. “I
knew
you could.”

Leaving St. Luke's courtyard, I carefully pulled the gate closed behind me, not happy that it would remain open for the rest of the night. But then I saw him across the street, sitting in a parked car. Well, I didn't exactly see him. What I saw was the ember of his cigarette, flaring as he inhaled. I could have walked over to the car, to thank him. But I didn't. I didn't wave either. Had he wanted to talk to me then, he would have gotten out. He hadn't. He was waiting until I left to retrieve the bone and lock the gate. I started to run and didn't stop until I was standing in front of my own gate, trying to catch my breath.

As late as it was, I was too elated to feel sleepy. I had thought that Dashiell's previous search work would help him learn human remains recovery more quickly, and now it seemed I'd been right. I dried Dashiell, ran a bath and peeled off my wet clothes. Sitting in the tub, head back, eyes closed, I heard the phone ring. I heard my own outgoing message, Dashiell barking. Then I heard his voice.

“I know what you did,” he said. “Just remember, there are consequences for every act.”

There was something familiar about what he'd said, something too familiar. I got up, put on my robe and, still dripping, walked into the office and hit
play
on the answering machine, listening to Parker's message a second time. Then I took the stairs two at a time, picking up O'Fallon's notebook and paging through it quickly. I knew what I was looking for would be on the right-hand side, but I couldn't remember exactly where it was. And then I found it, about two thirds of the way down the page. It was with the material about police suicide. It said, “No shot fired goes unheard. There are consequences for every act.”

That was in pen. And on the following line, in pencil, perhaps as an afterthought, he'd written, “Could God love someone like Parker? And, more to the point, what about someone like me?”