took out a small photo of the dead man and began approaching the cabbies and the newspaper stands, the late- night cafes and the morning bakeries. None recognized him. But then, they said, it was tough to remember. Most nights seemed the same as any other. Garvey wrote down what they could tell him. Then he showed them a sketch of the tattoo on the man but none of them recognized that either.
“What you looking for?” asked one man at a newspaper stand. “Somebody dead?”
“Somebody’s always dead,” said Garvey.
“Yeah, yeah. But who is it this time?”
Garvey walked away and did not answer.
He moved outward in a spiral, hitting the row homes and the slums, flashing his badge and the picture and asking if there had been any disturbances or sightings of the man. The people came to the door with their eyes meek and watchful, like rabbits approaching a wolf at the entrance of their den. In many homes the reek of shit and urine and rotting wood hung in the air. Sometimes a child cried from somewhere in the depths of the house without ceasing. They knew nothing.
At one home a dog was chained up in the alley beside, panting as though delighted with the day. Garvey knocked on the door and an elderly woman with cataracts the color of oyster shells answered. When he asked her about the picture she had to pull it close and peer at it with one eye as though she were looking at it through a microscope. Then she said, “Oh, yes! I’ve seen him.”
“When?” asked Garvey eagerly. “About three, four weeks ago?”
“Oh, no. Long before that, I think. Last summer. He had a little boy with him. Little boy, used to play with my dog while I watched. The man asked if it was all right and I said certainly it was.”
“He had a little boy?” said Garvey, mentally groaning.
“Yes. He gave Arthur the high point of his day.”
“Arthur?”
“My puppy. Arthur’s his name.” She smiled blindly in the general direction of the little dog, who almost seemed to smile back.
“What was he doing out here? The man, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. He used to come out here on walks with his boy, I think. There’s a playground nearby. Then they used to go over and look across the waterway at Construct. He said he told his little boy giants played there.”
“Did you get the man’s name?”
“No. It was months ago and he only came a handful of times. More than half a year ago. I probably wouldn’t remember if it hadn’t been for Arthur. And it was before my eyes went, you see.”
“Sure, sure. Any idea where he lived?”
“Oh, somewhere around here, I assume. I’m not sure where. He always came from up the road,” she said, and pointed.
“From the Shanties?” said Garvey.
“The what?”
“The Shanties. The Porter neighborhoods.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“What did the little boy look like?” he asked.
“Like a normal boy. About ten. Underfed a little. He was about so high and he had brown hair and brown eyes,” she said, sticking a quivering hand out breast-high. “That’s about all I remember. I think the boy’s name was Jack, but I can’t be sure.”
“Jack?”
“Something like that.”
“All right,” said Garvey. Then he bade her good day and went back to his car and sat, thinking. He looked at the photo of the dead man, then shook his head and said, “Christ. A kid,” and sighed.
Being a policeman of any type in Evesden meant you saw a lot of things, many strange, some funny, and plenty terrible. You armed yourself with a strong dose of black humor and used it to belittle the sights you saw, to make the tragedies and stupidities trivial and easy to handle. A friendly, joking discussion between average police, or possibly the medical personnel they worked with, would probably shock or outrage any outsider who hadn’t yet had a taste. One popular joke was to discuss victims as if they were plumbing, noting leaks and broken U-bends and pointing out the areas that needed soldering. Usually the victim wound up being a toilet in these bizarre, comedic metaphors.
But no matter what anyone had seen, no matter how many bodies they’d filed or marked off, the mere presence of a child changed things. Delivering news to families, and especially about children, aged a man in ways unseen by the naked eye. And cracking the plumbing routine about a dropped child was unthinkable. Any police who dared bandy a joke of any kind about in such a situation would probably wind up with a whaling. A murdered-child case was a curse, the worst possible event, changing the demeanor and very workings of the Department for weeks. The fraternal greetings gave way to furtive nods, and the detective stuck with it was practically considered the victim of a terminal illness. Conversations died when he came near, and he’d find himself receiving earnest condolences and whispers of good luck. One detective, Wolcott, had received a child case as his very first on the job. It had never gotten filed, and Wolcott had been removed from the Department after he was found weeping at his desk a year in, the child’s name still on the bronzed list on the wall. Garvey heard he was working a beat now, dropped back to being a regular uniform. So it went with such poisonous tragedies.
While Garvey couldn’t say if the boy, Jack, was in any danger or involved in any way, it still left a bad taste in his mouth. The man had been poor, Garvey could tell that just from looking at him, and if the old lady was right he’d made his home in the Shanties, a rough neighborhood if ever there was one. God only knew what would happen if the boy went looking for him when he didn’t come home. Abandonment was common in the Shanties, but that didn’t make it any less brutal. Garvey hoped the boy had a mother out there, and that the John Doe’s murder had nothing to do with his family.
He rubbed at his eyes and leaned his head back and sighed. After a while he slept.
He awoke with a start, sitting up at a harsh tapping noise. He peered out the window to see a patrolman standing there, half-stooped and waiting.
“Fuck’s sake,” said Garvey. “Leave me alone.”
The patrolman kept tapping. Garvey swore and pulled out his badge and slapped it up against the glass. The patrolman shrugged and Garvey rolled down the window.
“What? What the hell do you want?” he said.
“Detective Garvey?” asked the patrolman.
“Yeah?”
“My name’s Clemmons. You’re needed, right away.”
“By who?”
“Lieutenant Collins. He needs you in the Shanties. Something’s happened.”
“Collins?” said Garvey. “Why does he need me?”
“He just said to find anyone. Anyone.”
Garvey blinked the sleep away and squinted at the patrolman. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. He was pale and clammy and Garvey noticed his lips and fingers were trembling. He smelled faintly of vomit.
“What happened?” asked Garvey.
“I can’t say, sir. You’d have to see it for yourself.”
“Something bad?”
“You’d… you’d have to see it for yourself,” he said again.
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t. I’ve been driving around for an hour in this neighborhood. I just happened to find you. You want to follow me?”
“Where to?”
“On Bridgedale. It’s the trolley station, sir.”
“All right.”
The patrolman started walking back toward his little car. Garvey stuck his head out the window. “Can’t you at least give me a hint?” he called. “Something? Anything?”
