When all have gathered, Olafson clears his throat, and gestures with his arm. “She was found here, below us, floating in the water. The hotel has generously allowed you to have this ceremony in their parking lot, but asks that you don’t linger too long. Therefore, if you could pass by, say your prayer or respects, and then head for your shuttle, it will take you back to the church.” He points to a sky-blue bus parked in front of the hotel. It has ‘Church of the Spirit’ emblazoned on the side in a curvilinear font.
Daniel Chandler looks up from where he is setting up the video camera. “The bus is for anyone who wants a ride back. We thought it might rain…” there’s a scattering of faded laughter “…and that the procession would break up here.” He finishes what he’s doing, and steps away from the camera, bending his head and murmurs a prayer, or maybe he’s just rehearsing his lines. He takes a breath and says, “Victoria Harkness loved all waters, but especially this river. She saw it as analogous to the current of life that flows to us from the Sprit. Thus, I say to you, O Great River, nestle her soul in your waters. Nurture her in your bosom, and convey her to the divine home that awaits us all.”
I try not to roll my eyes. That would be disrespectful. And it’s just a reflex anyway, indicative of my discomfort with anything spiritual. The truth is that I don’t know how to mourn for someone I never met. Instead, I look out over the water and wish Victoria Harkness Godspeed to whatever her next destination might be. If there is a destination beyond the present reality.
I step back to watch, envying the congregants their faith. If nothing else it gives them something to look forward to. The mourners fall into procession, looking out over the river, some of them casting flowers into the water. One person, the young guy — Jason Morganstern — who spoke first at the memorial, throws in his candle. Olafson steps in and grabs his arm.
“None of that. You don’t want to start a fire.”
“It’s water, ain’t it?” Jason tries to shake loose, but the detective holds him firmly.
I move forward. To support Olafson? To defend Morganstern? I don’t really know. Call it copper’s reaction, heading toward the trouble instead of away from it.
The detective’s voice takes on a steel sternness. “The pilings below are wood. And as you may know, Astoria has an unfortunate history with fire.”
“So? I ain’t from here,” growls Morganstern. “Let me go.”
Olafson maintains his hold for a few seconds more, to make his point, then releases the man after a little shake, and gestures toward the bus. Face crumpled with anger, and maybe sadness, Morganstern spits on the asphalt and walks away, straightening his shirt. Everyone else seems to be ignoring the altercation; more people move forward, hands cupped around their candles. Olafson speaks to some, nodding, acknowledging the people he knows. It’s evidence of how long he’s lived here, how embedded in the community he is. And how much of an outsider I am.
A woman’s voice comes from behind me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” I turn, too quickly, and Claire Chandler steps back. Her eyebrow goes up. “Did I startle you?”
“A little. Do you know that guy?”
“Detective Olafson?” She shakes her head. “Not well. He was there when they recovered the body. I’m not happy about the police being here. It’s so intrusive. They should let us mourn her in our own way. But with Elizabeth Harkness involved, that’s too much to hope for.” Her eyes glisten with moisture. “I suppose — I suppose the church is done with. I don’t see how it can go on without her.”
“Surely you can get another pastor?” An image of Seth Takahashi surfaces briefly in my mind, like a cryptic message in a Magic 8-ball. “Or your husband. He seems to be stepping up to the role.”
“Oh, Daniel,” she momentarily closes her eyes, and shakes her head in negation. “It wouldn’t be the same. She had a light. I don’t know who will be able to take her place.” Claire brushes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please. Figure out what happened to her. Daniel may want to keep the police at arm’s length, but I won’t let this lie. She was my friend, and if someone hurt her, I want to get to the bottom of it.” With a firm nod, she turns and walks toward the waiting bus.
I rub the back of my neck. I don’t have the resources to work the case properly. I’m off my game. And I don’t know the territory. At all. Olafson was right — knowing the people, the politics, the community — it’s the bedrock of policework.
But. I’ve been a cop for a long time. And whatever I experienced — hallucination, vision, faux acid trip — I saw Victoria murdered. Beyond saw — I was there, in a way I can’t explain. I may not be able to paint a picture, but I can offer this: the hope of justice.
When I turn back to the river, my gaze intersects with that of Detective Candide. The set of her jaw speaks volumes: get off our turf.
In answer, I lift my chin and meet her eyes squarely, delivering my own subliminal message. Back off, lady. You don’t scare me.
Claire wants me to keep investigating, so I ride the bus back to the church and drink tea and mingle with the congregation, listening and gathering information about Victoria Harkness, sometimes guiding the conversation to when people had last seen the pastor. I hear anecdotes about how she had helped people; stories of
