Saints Of New York (32 page)

Parrish
lowered his head. He didn't feel ashamed. He
just felt
stupid. He didn't know whether Jimmy
Radick was telling him the truth, though he suspected he was. Any lie that
Jimmy
told
him
now would be easily discovered with a few words
from
Caitlin - if she ever spoke to him
again. Radick would know
that.
Radick
was not aware of the threat that Clare Baxter had
made.

'I'm
sorry for—'

Radick
raised his hand. 'I spoke to the doctor lady. That
's
all. I
told her I was going to put in for a
transfer, but I've decided
not to
do
that. I want to stick with this, Frank, but there has to be
some
ground rules. You have to stop being an
asshole, okay? You
really
have
to just stop being a fucking asshole, and we'll get along fine, okay?'

'I
can do that,' Parrish said.

'You
sure you
want
to?' Radick asked.

Parrish
didn't reply. He merely looked at Radick with a resigned and worn-out
expression.

'Enough
already,' Radick said. 'We have work to do.' He put
the
sheaf of papers on the desk. 'I have not
been able to find this Lester Young. I got his name over to Probation and they
have no-one by that name in their system. I'll keep at it. However,
what I
do have is phone records for Kelly,
Rebecca and Karen.
Nothing
for
the others, their accounts are too old.'

George
McKinley Wintergreen had pushed a cart for as long
as
anyone could recall. Even when he slept,
that cart was tethered to his right ankle with a makeshift chain of bootlaces.
Cut that cord and you could have stolen the cart, but it would have done you no
good. The entire shifting spectrum of George
's
worldly
possessions were in that cart, but they were worthless to anyone but him.
Bottle caps - a whole sack of them - everything from Coca-Cola and 7-Up to
Seagram's, Crown Royal, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and even a small baggie of wood
and cork stoppers from Labrot Graham's Woodford Reserve. Next came
cotton reels, bobby pins, buttons, photographic film canisters, eye-droppers,
batteries, discarded keys, foreign coins, empty matchbooks, ring-pulls,
barrettes, teaspoons, and a thick wad
of
postcards,
all of which had come from England to the many and varied relatives left behind
by American tourists.

Dear Ma. We saw
Buckingham Palace. Lucy thinks she saw
the
Queen of Britain at the window.

Jimmy. We're
having a great time, though a can of Pepsi is
nearly
two bucks!

Granddad. Hope
you are well. Uncle David says we're going to
see
someplace called Madam Two Swords today. Sounds like a
bordello!

Other
such sentiments.

George
Wintergreen was a jackdaw, a hoarder, though
the
rationale behind his collecting, what
current or future
purpose
these
things would ever serve, was unknown to anyone but
him
self. He guarded them ferociously, but
was just as likely to
decide
that
some item was no longer of value. During his fifteen years
of
vagrancy he had abandoned combs, lengths
of string,
padlocks,
broken
wristwatches, cigarette packets, computer discs,
lipstick
tubes, plastic forks and ballpoint pen
refills.

Wintergreen
haunted the edges of South Brooklyn - Carroll Park, the Gowanus Canal -
sometimes crossing beneath the shadow of the expressway into Red Hook. He slept
in doorways, derelict buildings, abandoned storefronts; and every once in a
while took advantage of the narrow floor space available in a deconsecrated
church near the James J. Byrne Memorial Park. Here, amidst the flotsam and
jetsam of Brooklyn, those that walked the streets unseen like ghosts of New
York's past, he slept for a handful of hours away from the bitter cold. Come
daylight, he would disappear again into whatever world existed through his
eyes. He pushed his cart, he collected his necessaries, he spoke to no-one.

One
time George had been married. One time he'd understood the vagaries and vicissitudes
of the international money market as well as any man, alive or dead, but then
something happened. A chasm opened up. George fell headlong, and he kept on
falling until he hit the dirt and - in preference to trying to claw his way out
- he decided to stay there.

But
however deep that chasm might have been, George still possessed sufficient
common sense and connection to reality to understand that the dead body of a
teenage girl was something he couldn't just push his cart away from and forget.

Early
evening of Friday the 12th, perhaps a little before six, George made his way
across the corner of Hamilton and Garner and headed beneath the expressway. He
intended to skirt the Red Hook recreational area, make his way back along
Columbia as far as Lorraine, and then turn right, follow Lorraine to Creamer
and Smith, and then north again around the line of the canal towards Fourth.
Had he completed his circuit as planned, he would have been no more than two or
three blocks from Caitlin Parrish, perhaps the same distance from Kelly's home.
But he didn't complete his circuit. In fact he got no further than the end of
Bay Street, for it was here that he wrestled his cart between a dumpster and a
rusted metal trash can. Snagged momentarily, George used all his strength to
push the cart through the narrow gap. What he didn't realize was that his cart
was caught on a length of heavy wire that had been used to secure the lid of
the trash can. In shoving his cart through the gap he brought the can over, and
the wire, corroded and brittle, just simply snapped. The can went over, the lid
broke loose, and the remains of a much- decomposed human being spilled out into
the alleyway.

Unable
to comprehend, unable to correlate this to any prior point of reference, it was
some moments before George Wintergreen realized what he was seeing. Once two
and two had become four, he backed up, left his cart right where it was, and
hurried to the street. Fortunately, it took him no more than five or six
minutes to flag down a black-and-white, whose occupants he directed, almost
wordlessly, to the scene in the alleyway.

The
younger of the two patrol officers turned gray-green and walked back to the car
to call it in; the older officer, Max Wilson, crouched low and shone his
flashlight right in there. He saw the purse at the bottom, saw whatever it was
covered with, saw the last vestiges of fluid and flesh and rotted human being
that was once a person, and from the presence of the purse and the size of the
trash can he figured that it must have been a girl, no more than a teenager. He
couldn't be certain, and he assumed nothing. Along with Crime Scene the DC had
been called, and between them they would determine what had been discovered

The
younger officer, Will Rathburn, headed back to deal with George Wintergreen.
George sat on the sidewalk, maybe ten or fifteen feet from the overturned trash
can, his cart beside him, his gaze unerringly fixed on the ground between his
feet.

George
didn't smell so good, and Rathburn hoped like hell they wouldn't have to take
him in the squad car back to the precinct. Though he also knew to assume
nothing, it seemed obvious that the old guy had merely pushed the trash can
over with his cart. How long it had been there, and who was inside - well, that
would be a job for Crime Scene. Right now it was simply a matter of containing
the scene, preventing any further contamination of evidence, closing up each
end of the alleyway and waiting for further instructions.

Crime
Scene and the Deputy Coroner arrived simultaneously. They got the purse out of
the bottom of the can and opened It up. Thankfully the purse was made of some
artificial leather, more than likely a polyethylene-based fabric, waterproof at
least, and amidst the remnants of gum wrappers, an undamaged cell phone, eye
drops, and a single unwrapped condom, there
was
a
wallet. Inside it was a student ID card, and that gave them
a
name:
Melissa Schaeffer, d.o.b. 06/14/1989, her pretty face looking back at the DC
like so many other lost daughters and mislaid girlfriends. The trash can had
not been completely airtight, the extent of decomposition was such that there
was little smell left, and when they tried to up-end the can the base broke
away with corrosion. The thing had stood against all weather and wind for some
considerable time, held merely by the strength of the metal and the fact that
it had not been disturbed. Now it was simply a matter of determining whether
the name on the ID card matched the body in the can. Then it would be a
question of who she was, where she had come from, when had she gone missing,
and who might still be looking for her. Sometimes people just stopped looking.
Sometimes it was simply that a detective somewhere wished for nothing more than
to resolve a question and close a file. Other times it was the end of someone's
endless search, and their very worst fears confirmed.