The Ashes of an Oak (6 page)

An arm, long past rotten, fell through the door and slapped limply against the outside of the machine.

Whoever’s arm it was, they were very dead.

Captain Diehl curled his lip and gazed at the bloated corpse.

It had torn and ruptured as it had been dragged out of the furnace, which was what they had eventually figured the decomposed lump of metal to be. Viscera had slid freely to the floor. The stench was overwhelming. There was a sweet smell to the rotten flesh. It was deceptive. It made people think that it was not so bad, that they could cope with that, that all they had to deal with then was the unreality of the half-closed eyes and still chest, but beneath that lay the truth of being human; the faeces, the mouldy meat, the bacterial expulsions that spored upon the air. The bystander became afraid to breathe for fear that, by an intake of breath, death would take root within them, that it would grow in the amniotic sac of their warm, healthy bodies and erupt violently and unexpectedly in the pleasant ignorance of an ordinary day.

Steve had thrown up. He wasn’t shy in admitting it. He stood outside smoking while Emmet and Frank watched the clear up.

‘Why are you here, Emmet?’ asked Frank. It was said without attitude.

‘I heard it was messy. I wanted to see how messy.’ The Captain inhaled deeply from his cigarette as if it was some sort of prophylactic against death, maybe even a cure. He held his breath as long as he could, then let the smoke go slowly. ‘Who knows what?’

‘Nobody knows anything,’ said Frank. ‘Look at this place. It’s a fucking transit camp. Homeless, users, kids painting the walls with shit. They ought to pull the place down. Be done with it.’

Emmet raised his eyes to the grim walls and fractured windows. It was an epitaph to Hope. ‘Nothing in his clothes?’

‘What clothes? Look at him. He was butt naked.’

‘Get the uniforms to canvas the area.’

‘They already are, Em.’

‘Any obvious cause of death?’

‘Are you kidding? I’m not going near that thing! That’s why we have forensics. They can scoop it up. I ain’t looking for zilch on that.’ Frank ignored an impatient raise of the eyebrows from Emmet. ‘Body like that? What? Ten days dead?’

Emmet shrugged. ‘Around that. Bit less maybe. See what the ME says.’ He kicked at the dust and debris at his feet. A piece of metal ground its back against the concrete. The clean concrete beneath it found the sun and shone like a new dime. ‘What the hell were you doing in here anyhow, Frank?’

Frank aimed his cigarette at a distant pool of water and threw it. It landed in the middle, spat, sent out a dying smoke signal and expired. ‘I kind of need to talk to you about that.’

Emmet glared at Frank. ‘This going to be one of your long stories?’

‘Maybe, Em. Maybe.’

‘Come see me at the precinct before you knock off today. We’ll talk then.’

‘Sure.’

‘Steve okay?’

‘He will be. He’s all empty now. He’ll be after coffee and a sandwich in ten minutes. He’ll be fine.’

The Captain loosened his tie. ‘Okay. Later then.’

Emmet took one more sideways glance at the corpse and left.

The apartment carried the stains of life; reading glasses left on the bedside table, a half empty bin, a magazine, a newspaper, the clock that ticked for no one yet pushed relentlessly on, clothes that hung dumbly in the wardrobe, none new, yet all as certain of the years as the rings of a tree. Nothing spoke of the elephant in the room, yet all proclaimed loudly the shadow it left behind.

Steve cast a fresh eye over the fire escape while Frank went to the bedroom to look behind closed doors.

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand across the old quilt that Mrs Dybek used. It must have been twenty-five years old and cost a week’s wages, but it was as immaculate as the day it was brought home, an eruption of colour that could have passed for the feathers of a peacock or an elaborate Indian sari. He put his nose to it and sniffed. The odours exploded in his head. He pulled away, overwhelmed, then took another sniff. It smelled of perfume and tobacco, of soap powder and air freshener, of that unidentifiable smell, that patina, that each one of us carries and leaves behind, that smell that marks our boundaries and unconsciously allows others to know of your presence or, in your absence, remind them that you were there.

He leaned forward and opened the bedside drawer. There was very little; a glasses case, some half full biros, a pot for her teeth filled with a watery pink liquid, a book by Barbara Cartland and a diary. Frank grabbed the diary and flicked through it. It was empty.

He put it away and looked in the small cupboard underneath. There was a hot water bottle, some nightgowns and another romance.

He closed the door impatiently and went to the wardrobe. It had a row of skirts and dresses, perhaps twenty all told, all old, some jumpers and cardigans and her grey coat. A place for everything and everything in its place. There were no gaps, no unused coat hangers. Shoes lay on the floor of the wardrobe. All were scuffed and beyond redemption and yet they had been cared for as the scratches were all coated with a layer of polish and remained as scars. One was a pair of brown flat slip-ons, next was a pair of green boots, presumably for winter, and next to them, not a pair, but a single black sling-back which she can’t have worn since nineteen fifty-five. Where the other had gone was anyone’s guess- lost in a move, in a clear-out, just misplaced over time. This one, the one that remained, could only be a snap-shot, a Polaroid, a reminder; that white-lined, over-folded picture that you kept in your wallet because the memory of it was too great for it to be thrown out. It must have been a special night, the night she wore that.

He went and stood on the bed to look at the top of the wardrobe. At last he found some dust, the one place she couldn’t get to, but that was all.

Underneath the bed there was nothing. No dust bunnies, no discarded tissues, no bits of food, no cobwebs.

He walked back into the living room and found Steve with his head under the sofa cushions, his arm down the side of the sofa up to his elbow.

‘Anything?’ asked Frank.

‘Nothing. You?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Which leaves us with the fact that someone threw an old lady off a fourth floor landing for no apparent reason.’

‘There’s always a reason,’ countered Frank. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the door. His eyes roamed the room in the hope that they’d fall upon something. ‘We just don’t happen to know it. It was probably some asshole who hated women ‘cause his mother was mean to him or he felt more comfortable in his sister’s underwear.’

‘Or it might’ve been a junkie caught in the act who panicked.’

Frank wagged a finger at Steve. ‘I’m not sure about that. That’s the weird thing. If it was a junkie or a burglar, they’d crack her head open where she stood or stab her or strangle her. Either way, the door would be closed and they’d go out the way they came in.’ He pointed at the window. ‘When you’ve got a way out, you don’t open the door, drag an old lady onto the landing and throw her four floors down. Too much noise, too much effort and not a single ounce of panic. This wasn’t a spontaneous killing. This guy had purpose.’

Steve put the cushions back, straightened his shirt sleeve and rolled it back up. ‘Which was?’

‘No idea. Why would he turn up at crime scenes? He led us to the old factory. Why? To boast? To show us how clever he is? To taunt us? That would fit with him standing outside my apartment and across the street yesterday. None of which gives us a motive.’ Frank looked at his watch. ‘I’m tired. Let’s get back to the precinct.’

‘You’re going to share this with Emmet, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘I’m going to share it with Emmet.’ He opened the door and ushered Steve out. ‘Come on, Mom. Let’s go see Dad.’

Emmet Diehl was playing politics when Frank and Steve got back to the precinct, so they did the paperwork first and, in doing so, regurgitated the memories of spilled insides, blue cheese skin and the tropical heat of that broken down factory.

Frank understood the need for paperwork, but hated it just the same. There was a part of him that was always going to be, one way or another, on the beat. He could have been a desk-jockey like Emmet Diehl, taken the money and the prestige and the headaches and the ulcer and the slow decline into cardiac atrophy that came with the inertia of office, but that wasn’t him.

Granted, he hated people – the cynicism, the dishonesty, the disloyalty, the willingness to retreat, at the slightest prompt, into the beast that lay beneath the surface - but he needed to be among them. He needed to react to them. He needed to feed off them the same way they fed off the death of Robinson Taylor or the Superbowl or the news of yet another massacre in the Middle-East. He came alive when he bounced off someone else. Their energy fed his depleted cells and sparked him into life. He hated to admit but, without others to annoy him, he felt useless and alone.

Steve was different. Steve rolled like a tumbleweed, happy to drift wherever the draft drove him. He was patient and kind and had a sharp sense of humour. He hadn’t yet descended into the bitter sarcasm for which Frank cursed himself. Steve hadn’t developed the need to react as a form of self-defence, as a way to be aware that he was still alive. He wore his skin as a passport, not as armour, like Frank.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Captain put down the phone and run his hand tiredly across the top of his head. How does he do it? wondered Frank. How does he negotiate with those self-serving sons of bitches in City Hall and come away feeling clean?

He caught Steve’s attention and they headed for the office. Outside, through the triad of glassy eyes that reminded them there was an outside world, the day was coming to an end. A film of grey lay over everything as shadows crept across the face of the fading sun and dragged behind them the cloak of night.

Emmet beckoned them in. He reached down and took out a bottle of whisky. Without asking, he poured out two fingers’ worth into a couple of mugs and handed them over. He then checked his Chihuahua mug, shrugged at the dregs of coffee and poured himself a drink.

Each man took a taste and allowed themselves to get lost momentarily in the heat of the alcohol.

Frank followed the warmth, felt it almost like he’d never felt it before, as it slid over his tongue, to the back of his throat and down into his gullet. When it hit his stomach, the warmth spread like the branches of a tree through his capillaries and blanketed his frayed nerves. He closed his eyes and let the sensation travel to his head. The day became blunted, still there, but without the edge that seemed to cut into him with each step he took.

‘This is nice whisky,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘It’s the same cheap crap I always keep,’ said Emmet.

‘Somehow,’ said Frank dreamily, ‘it seems better.’

‘You’ve had a rough day. Maybe you just needed it more.’

‘Maybe,’ said Frank.

‘So,’ prompted Emmet. ‘Which one of you wants to fill me in with the details of how you two happened to end up in the greenhouse of death on the way to the Dybek place?’

Frank explained. The more he said, the more foolish he felt. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t acted upon what he’d seen. Emmet sat and listened, occasionally dipping into the mug of whisky.

‘Wow,’ said Emmet. ‘What you’ve just told me is that for the past thirty-six hours you’ve been sitting on the description of someone who may be involved in three murders…’ He held his hand up as Frank attempted to interject. ‘…and who stood outside your house in the middle of the night staring up at your window, plotting God knows what kind of mayhem, and you decide that now, right this moment, is the time to bring it to my attention.’ He turned his to Steve. ‘You know about this?’

‘Not all the time.’ It was a plaintive whine.

‘I see. Just some of the time. Well, that’s alright then’ He turned back to Frank. ‘Frank, can you say with any certainty that if we’d had this man’s description out yesterday morning and he’d been apprehended by lunchtime that others may not be dead?’

Frank lit a cigarette. He had to take this. He deserved it. ‘No, Captain, I can’t, but neither can I dismiss the possibility.’

‘Steve, did you ever see this man?’

Steve shook his head.

Emmet leaned back in his chair and finished his drink. He stared into the mug as if the answer had been revealed by the draining of its contents. ‘It may be a good thing if we keep this to ourselves. I don’t need to tell either of you that you should’ve known better. However, I understand your reluctance, Frank, to come forward in light of the fact that you were the only one who’d seen this man.’ He looked at Frank from beneath a knitted brow. ‘You understand how benevolent I’m being here, Frank?’ Frank nodded. ‘Get a description out before you go home tonight.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Frank. Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Emmet rubbed his hands together as if washing the unpleasantness away. ‘Okay then. Did you find anything at the apartment?’

‘No,’ said Steve. ‘We did another door to door, but nobody heard or saw a thing.’

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The thin face of Milt Eckhart, the ME, his large expressive grey eyes flicking from Frank to Steve to Emmet, peered through the door.