The Blood On Our Hands (3 page)

“Ed, you’re a knob.” They stood, watching the water, not speaking, each preoccupied with his imagination. Leland broke the silence. “Help me out, Ed.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Talk to Sidney, he’s your cousin.”

“Sure, all of a sudden I’m good for something other than fags.”

“C’mon, Ed, be a pal.”

“He’s the Sheriff, Lee. Sure, he’s my cousin, but I hardly know the guy.” Dojcsak inhaled then exhaled, allowing his smoke to be carried by the wind. McMaster remained silent, hoping to motivate Dojcsak by sheer force of his will. Relenting, Dojcsak said, “Okay, I will. What do you want me to do?”

Leland half-smiled. “Lie, Ed; like a rug, like a dog, like a five-dollar whore. Tell Sidney we were together, you were with me all day.”

“Why should I do that?”

“As a retainer, chum,” Leland said conspiratorially. “On something I might be able to do for you in the future, you know? You might want a sniff of teen pussy yourself someday. I mean, the guys say you’re a homo, but…” Leland left the thought unfinished, moving closer to Dojcsak, placing an arm over his friend’s shoulder. It was at once the most distasteful yet natural thing to do. “C’mon, Ed-ee-oh,” he teased, “smell my fingers.”

“YOU’RE HERE.”

It was an accusation, an implicit rebuke uttered with mild but conspicuous contempt by his subordinate officer.

“Sorry,” Dojcsak replied, and as if it was sufficient explanation, “the fog.” He did not bother to mention a stop for take out coffee and a surly service station attendant with whom he had argued, accusing the man of filling his cup only half full.

“It’s thick,” Christopher Burke agreed, drawing his head like a turtle into the warmth of the upturned wool collar lining his leather jacket. They were standing at the mouth of the alley, a long throat at the end of which lay the body. Dojcsak had parked his car on the street against the curb, facing south in the northbound lane of the town’s main street boulevard, among a half dozen other marked and unmarked State and County police vehicles. It sat fifteen feet away, engine cooling, rhythmic ping of oil dripping to its pan audible even from here.

Burke hadn’t moved to greet the older man when he arrived. He stood at the corner of a red brick building that flanked the entrance to the alley, smoking, content to let Dojcsak come to him. A reflection, Dojcsak imagined, of the esteem in which Christopher Burke held his superior officer

“He hasn’t solved a major crime in twenty years,” Dojcsak had once overheard him say to fellow deputy Sara Pridmore. “That says something if you ask me.”

“He hasn’t
had
a major crime in twenty years,” Pridmore argued in Dojcsak’s favor. “If you ask me, that says more.”

Dojcsak endured the young officer’s latent disdain. Burke was no Dick Tracy, but neither was he an Inspector Clouseau.

Together they walked from the street into the lane.

“How’s Sheila?” Dojcsak asked, inquiring of Burke’s wife.

The younger man shrugged. “She’s pregnant, Ed. How would you expect her to be?” he said, as if hoping for a helpful response. Sheila Burke was expecting her husband’s first child. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” he complained. “The kid can’t come too soon for me.”

“She’s due when?” Dojcsak knew the date but had forgotten.

“Like I said, not soon enough.”

Dojcsak sighed, thoughts drifting to his own daughter. He said, “Don’t begrudge the kid before it’s born. It’s too heavy a burden for any child to bear.”

“She’s been pregnant seven months, Ed, we haven’t had sex for six. Can you imagine what
that’s
like?”

Dojcsak simply shrugged his broad shoulders and bowed his large head, an acute sense of privacy rather than pride preventing him from explaining that yes, he could imagine exactly what that might be like.

“Doctor says it’s a girl,” Burke said.

“Congratulations,” replied Dojcsak half-heartedly. “A daughter for your wife.”

The alley was bleak; a narrow corridor flanked on either side by brick, relieved at uniform intervals by shuttered doorways and suspended yellow pot-lamps. There were no windows here and no access to the sunshine that might otherwise illuminate a dreary interior. The buildings were holdover from an era prior to urban renewal, when function triumphed over design; there was a need, a structure erected to accommodate it.

The entire neighborhood was an outpost on the southern edge of the village, an island of stagnation separated from the more prosperous north by the river that flowed east to west across the horizon, a branch of the Hudson briefly reversing direction before eventually winding its way south toward Manhattan Island.

As a teenager, Dojcsak had spent his formative years on these streets; his first cigarette, first kiss, and where he had copped his first serious
feel
, a disastrous experience that left him feeling awkward and ashamed. No one except the locals came here anymore. What remained of the businesses located on this side of town were lucky to squeeze subsistence level earnings from their meager trade. Dojcsak suspected they were anticipating future development, the day a wealthy syndicate might offer ten times face value for their ramshackle holdings. He surveyed the grimy alley; Dojcsak hoped the merchants would not hold their breath too long.

The fog hadn’t lifted but unlike the street passage here was clear. Rain dropped from a canopy of hanging mist that seemed to broach the gulf above their heads from rooftop to rooftop between buildings. Dojcsak noted the rutted pavement and was careful to mind his step. With his brain still foggy from alcohol, simple obstruction became obstacle, for Dojcsak the inconvenient walk a treacherous journey across a shattered wasteland of cracked asphalt and debris. The alley reeked of neglect, the unmistakable odor of decay.

“It’s here,” Burke said, interrupting Dojcsak’s observations. “The bin.”

From a distance he’d seen the halogen arc lamps, courtesy of the local detachment of the State Police. He’d seen them, but not what they revealed: the bin obviously, but not the body.

“Inside,” Burke said.

“Inside,” Dojcsak repeated, as if the cadaver’s presence here might be an undesirable but no less unavoidable fait accompli.

Dojcsak surveyed the activity around him, acknowledged faces he recognized, familiarized himself with those he didn’t.

The State Police had arrived earlier and now stood aimlessly about, redundant at this hour, crowd control so early on a Monday morning unnecessary. By dawn they would be gone, leaving the scene in custody of a solitary officer, the rain and a six-inch wide strip of yellow synthetic police tape. In twenty-four hours evidence of murder and the body would be erased. In the neighborhood, life would return to normal with most never having noticed it hadn’t been

Referring to the police, Dojcsak asked, “How long have we been on the scene?”

“An hour, an hour and a half. The Troopers were here by the time I arrived. They’d secured the area. I was on duty when the child was reported missing. Dispatch contacted me after the body was discovered. Call came in around midnight.”

“You were on call?” Again, Dojcsak knew, but had forgotten.

“It didn’t get me out of bed, if it’s what you’re asking,” Burke said, as if with his wife pregnant how could it? Sheila was at home, secure in the comfort of her single floor bungalow, the one he struggled so hard to purchase and was now working so hard to pay off.

Recently, Burke had been forced to replace the tarpaper and shingle roof. When asked by his neighbor, “Made to last twenty, twenty-five years aren’t they?” Burke had replied, “Are we talking about the shingles, or the wife?” in a way calculated to make the man laugh.

Being summoned by a cranky dispatcher to the crime scene was bad, he thought now, but knowing he would lose his regular Monday and Tuesday off made it worse. Tomorrow, Burke had planned on scoring some pot, driving into Albany with friends, and possibly staying the night. Instinctively, he sniffed at the damp night air; no sign, he decided, of the telltale weed clinging to either his person or his clothes.

“Sara worked the search till eleven,” he told Dojcsak. “She’s on day shift tomorrow. I told her to go home, get some rest.”

“Considerate of you,” said Burke. “I’ve left her a message.”

“Me too, though not much she can do here but get in the way.”

Burke waited obediently, deferring to rank, allowing Dojcsak an uninterrupted examination of the crime scene. He shivered in the cold damp, thinking under the circumstance this could take all night.

Dojcsak sensed Burke’s impatience, the rhythmic shift of body weight from left foot to right and back, as if he were cold, had to go to the bathroom, or both. He understood but would not accommodate it. Dojcsak could not be rushed.

A State Police identification crew was busy collecting what might prove useful, though Dojcsak suspected the rain would have long before washed clean anything of evidentiary value; prints, fibers, hair, or other links that might form a chain connecting a perpetrator to the crime. Still, they searched the alley and had begun canvassing the neighborhood. Photos were being taken, a videotape of the scene secured, swabs, scrapings, distances, and angles measured and collected.

Twenty yards away, Dojcsak watched a forensic technician kneel to collect debris from the ground with a set of stainless steel tongs. He placed each item separately in an individual plastic bag, like a sandwich sack Dojcsak noted, heavy duty, one that Rena might use to pack his lunch. A second technician dabbed at the brick of the building with a cotton swab, as if she were attempting to obtain a sample.

When asked, she speculated, “
Blood?
Could be, though we won’t know for certain till we get it back to the lab.”

“The victim?” Dojcsak asked

“Won’t know till we get it back to the lab,” the technician repeated flatly.

Was it relevant? In his mind, Dojcsak executed a mental shrug. After all, among an off season population of less than ten thousand local residents—of who more than half are children themselves—how many potential child killers can there possibly be?

Having no further excuse, Dojcsak peered into the bin.

The victim was a mulatto, an attractive milk chocolate mix of half black, half white. Her complexion was sallow now, her wiry hair limp, made that way by the misty rain. Her eyes were only partially closed, as if she was resting.

The child appeared comfortable, Dojcsak thought absurdly, her lifeless body seemingly immune to the ill effects of the dropping temperature and rising breeze, unconscious of the damp seeping into the refuse beneath her unfeeling skin. Her feet were together, long legs parted provocatively at the knees, arms by her side and hands upturned as if to catch the rain as it fell from the sky. She had been wearing a white halter; it clung to her torso like a second skin, hugging her breasts like plastic wrap, exposing her midriff just above her jeans. A silver hoop pierced the skin at her navel. Dojcsak regretted the permissiveness of the mother who would allow it.

The clothing appeared intact. By her side was a lightweight spring jacket, carelessly placed as if it had haphazardly followed the victim into the bin. Dojcsak could see no visible sign of violence, no evidence of sexual interference. Her face was calm and unperturbed, as if she had met death willingly, her expression content and without the bitter edge to be expected in one snatched so early from the wonder of young life.

Just as he was about to imagine otherwise, Dojcsak realized the girl was dead; could see it, smell it, didn’t need a pathologist’s report to tell him. He turned from the body to the street. Further examination was unnecessary; medical details would follow.

“Well?” Burke asked when Dojcsak stepped from the container

Dojcsak shrugged, as if that were enough.

“Unbelievable,” Burke said. “When the mother called to report the girl missing, I thought:
overbearing bitch
; give the kid some slack. Who’d a thought it, eh?”

Dojcsak said, “Imagine how the parents must feel.”

Burke pulled a crumpled package of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket, inserting one between his lips. Before lighting, he offered to Dojcsak. “Rape?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Christopher,” Dojcsak replied. “I just got here myself.”

Burke said, “Could be.”

“Could. The girl is fully clothed, though.” Then: “We’ve formally identified the victim?”

“Missy Bitson, thirteen-years of age,” Burke said. The younger man indicated a police cruiser, roof lights flashing, door open. “The father, Eugene.”

Eugene Bitson was standing beside the vehicle speaking with a uniformed officer, visibly distraught over the death of his daughter but more probably, Dojcsak thought, over the prospect of having to tell his wife:
How in the name of God am I going to do that?
he seemed to be asking.

Dojcsak was acquainted with the family. Eugene was the proprietor of the
Exxxotica Video
, the adult movie and novelty emporium whose opening local merchants, townsfolk, and the village council decried, yet were unable to forestall and in whose garbage bin his dead daughter was unfortunate enough to now lay. In the early years, Dojcsak himself was divided over his professional obligation to protect Eugene’s right to remain open and his own personal desire to see the shop shut down. Though the proliferation of online porn had contributed greatly toward achieving that end, both cheap rents and an aging clientele assured the
Exxxotica’s
continued operation.

By tomorrow, when word of the murder spread, there were those in town who might say that in the killing of Missy Bitson, Eugene got no better than he asked for, or deserved.