Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 6. Whole No. 790, June 2007

A.J. reached down to pick up his coffee cup. His fingers had stiffened up again and he couldn’t grab the cup the way most folks grabbed things, so he picked it up with his index finger and his thumb, transferring it to his left hand to drink it.

He looked down at his hand. His pinkie finger was gone, shot off by a punk-ass armed robber firing blindly as he tumbled his way down a fire escape. The bullet had ripped through A.J.’s palm, mangling the tendons and severing the pinkie.

Another cop had been on the fire escape that day. His partner, dead from a shot to the head, lying there on the black iron, his blue eyes open toward the sky, his gun still in his holster.

A.J. had seen it happen. But even now, he couldn’t remember it well. All he could remember feeling at that moment was his pain and his fear and all those other selfish emotions that come when you think you’re going to die.

He could remember the funeral a few days later. The long line of police cars crawling along the freeway and the smell of the white mums and the saddest damn music he ever heard at a grave site.

And he remembered the endless rows of uniforms, and the stiff, solemn faces looking at him from the other side of the casket, silently wondering why two veteran cops hadn’t been able to catch one sixteen-year-old dirtbag. Wondering why A.J. hadn’t managed to fire off one single round from his weapon, because he was, they knew, the first one out the window. Wondering all of that, but never saying a word.

A.J. laid his head back against the seat and took a second to close his eyes.

His dead partner had four ex-wives, but not one came to the funeral, so it had been A.J. who had accepted the folded American flag afterwards. Lorraine had put the flag on the top shelf of the closet. Said she put it there so she wouldn’t have to look at it and be reminded every day of just how suddenly she could be a widow, too.

Right after, the department had stuck A.J. behind a desk in the traffic division, saying that because of the finger, he couldn’t shoot accurately anymore. Maybe afraid, too, he couldn’t pull his gun quickly enough to keep from getting shot himself. That year they had paid out three hundred grand in widow’s pensions, they said, and they couldn’t afford any more.

He had stayed at the desk in the traffic division for over a year, silently slogging through paperwork. Every night, he’d uncap the bottle of Jim Beam and try to tune out Lorraine’s whining and find some peace. Finally, Lorraine told him if he wanted some peace, she’d be happy to give it to him. The next day she was gone.

Days after, when he was looking for his old revolver, he found the folded flag behind some Rolling Stones records. He stood there in his bedroom, holding it in his hands, thinking he needed to find some place of honor for it, somewhere better than in the top of a dusty closet.

He bought a new case for it, a triangular one with polished oak edges that the flag could just sit right in, and he set it on the kitchen counter, next to the ever-present bottle of Jim Beam.

A few weeks later, the flag was still there. The bottle was gone and he had not replaced it.

He practiced at the range for a month, always alone, too embarrassed to let anyone see his fumbling. Finally, he found enough agility in his hand and enough confidence in himself to ask for another shot at requalifying. A week later, he was back behind the wheel of a cruiser.

That’s when he finally understood what Lorraine felt, trapped in a life and feeling second-rate, so invisible that you plan honeymoons you’re never going to take.

A calm female voice came from the radio, calling to him. A.J. keyed his mike and acknowledged her.

“Looks like the detectives are about five minutes out,” she said.

A.J. thanked her and clicked off.

Andy was leaning against the half-wall, staring out at the darkness. A.J. figured he was done throwing up, and was now probably just trying to unscramble things in his head. A wisp of fog curled around Andy’s legs, then disappeared. For a second, everything was clear and silent, as if the darkness was holding its breath.

Andy would be different in the morning, A.J. knew. He wouldn’t know why, because he didn’t understand that this was the kind of moment that you lose a piece of yourself in, a sliver of something taken away by that invisible thing that crawls inside you and leaves just as quickly, without letting you know what it took.

Andy wouldn’t miss it much right away, but over time, one day, if he found himself sleepless and alone, he might wonder where it went and if he could get it back.

Andy gave out a sigh deep enough to raise his shoulders, then he turned and looked toward the cruiser. He was ready now.

A.J. pushed out of the car and started across the bridge. Andy stepped forward under the light. He had some color back, but his forehead was still beaded with sweat or rain. He lowered his eyes, then forced himself to look back up.

“How ya feeling?” A.J. asked.

When Andy found his voice, it was still thick with the scorch of vomit. “Don’t tell the guys I lost my dinner, okay?”

“Not a problem,” A.J. said.

Andy’s eyes drifted reluctantly back to the edge of the railing, then down toward the water, but he didn’t move from his spot. He looked lost as to how he should behave or where he should keep his eyes. A.J. stepped forward and placed a hand on the wet concrete railing. He looked down.

The inky water slithered alongside a bank of thick brush, rounded rocks, and cypress trees. One of the trees had been shattered a lifetime ago by a powerful bolt of lightning. In the dim light, the branches looked burnt.

That’s where she lay. In the arms of the dead tree.

Her name was Tammy.

They had gotten the missing person’s report almost two weeks ago, just another thirteen-year-old girl with a juvenile record, a know-it-all attitude, and a boyfriend who thought it was sexy to cover her neck in hickeys.

A.J. and Andy had been called to take the initial report, and he had let Andy take the lead. They had stood in the dirty, cramped living room, Andy’s pen poised over his notebook. The mother had been unable to remember much about her daughter, except that maybe recently she had dyed her hair red, but she wasn’t sure if it was still red now, or some other color. She didn’t know the last names of any of her daughter’s friends. She wasn’t even sure if her daughter had attended school that day. Sometimes she skipped, the mother said.

Andy had stood there, looking down at an almost blank page in his notebook. Later, on the way to the cruiser, Andy had paused and looked back at the house.

It’s like she was lost long before she was lost, Andy had said.

Then, the mother had come to the porch, calling to them, offering one final recollection.

Hey, officers... she had this pink T-shirt she loved, something with rhinestones on the front that said Too Hot to Handle . She’s probably wearing that.

A.J. turned on his flashlight and shined it down into the black branches. In the thin beam of white light, the pink T-shirt looked more like a rag, the fabric eaten away by eleven days of cold, rushing water. The ribbed collar hung loose around her black, decaying neck.

For a second, he thought he could see the glint of one of the rhinestones, but he knew he must be wrong. The stones would be moldy now, their shine lost in the muddy water, if they were even still there.

The T-shirt was the only piece of clothing on her body.

He looked back at Andy.

Andy had finally come to the edge and was staring down at her, the look on his face a mix of morbid curiosity and horror.

“Not going to get sick on me again, are you?” A.J. asked.