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

“No, sir,” Andy said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s a little easier the third and fourth time.”

A.J. clicked off the flashlight. “It’s never easier.”

They both turned away from the body and leaned their hips against the railing. In the distance, A.J. could hear a siren, and knew in a few minutes the road would be lit with half a dozen sets of headlights.

“If it doesn’t get easier,” Andy said, “how does anyone do this for twenty-five years?”

“You just find ways,” A.J. said. “And you find things. Like finding this girl. If you hadn’t needed to take a leak, we wouldn’t have found her. But you did need to take a leak and we did find her. And now she can go home. And that’s what you think about.”

“So finding her is a good thing?” Andy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Will we get any recognition for finding her?”

“Nope.”

Andy thought about that for a minute, then took the flashlight from A.J.’s hand. He shined it back down into the tree limbs, holding it on the pink shirt for a long time. From the brush and trees below, the chirr of crickets was starting up and they both stood there for a moment, listening.

“I don’t ever want to forget this moment,” Andy said.

“You won’t.”

Andy set the flashlight down, pointing it so the beam ran along the top of the half-wall. He drew a pocketknife from his pants and flipped it open.

“What are you doing?” A.J. asked.

Andy bent over the railing and started carving in the concrete. A.J. glanced down the road for the cruisers, then back at Andy. Andy’s knife was scraping furiously against the hard surface.

The first headlights were coming down the road when Andy brushed away the gray dust and put his knife in his pocket. Then he walked off to meet the arriving cruiser.

A.J. picked up the flashlight and shined it down on Andy’s scratchings to see what he had written.

I FOUND TAMMY. BADGE #221.

A.J. turned to look at Andy as he walked down the bridge toward the flashing blue lights. Despite the mud and rain that spattered his sleeves and trousers, his step was sure and his shoulders were straight.

A.J. watched him for a moment, then looked back to the carving. After a moment, he pulled out his own pocketknife and worked the rusty blade open.

Under Andy’s inscription, he wrote one of his own.