William Landay - Mission Flats

‘What will… I do?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’

When Dad arrived a few minutes later, he opened the passenger door of the car as if he meant to tear it off the hinges. He buried his head in her neck and kissed her and muttered, ‘Jesus, Annie. Jesus.’

The next morning I withdrew from school and joined the Versailles Police Department.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that I would look inside the cabin. It was a constant temptation, wrapped in that cheerful yellow crime-scene tape like a big gift just waiting to be opened. The Game-Show Hosts had already swarmed over it and taken anything that was remotely relevant. What harm could there be in having a little peek? I gave in, finally, on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, October 15.

Of course, I had broken the door lock myself when I found the body, so it was easy to pull off the tape and swing the door open. The sour stench scratched in the nostrils but did not send me reeling into the woods to vomit, as it had four days earlier. The techs had done a job on the interior. There were gaps in the floor where floorboards had been sawed out and removed for testing. An outline had been marked where the body fell, not in chalk but with little cones, presumably to preserve the surface underneath. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw the blood spatters. Blood was everywhere, an incomprehensible amount, a flood of it, too much to have been contained in one body. There were smudges on the walls too, from the powders used to illuminate fingerprints and hidden speckles of blood. Somewhere in the shadows an insect buzzed intermittently, like a small plane with engine trouble.

I walked around the cabin, being extremely careful not to disturb any of the cones or markings. Until you have seen something like this, you cannot appreciate how much fluid a human head contains. Danziger’s had burst like a water balloon. Near the body, the floor was painted thick with it in an immense dark oval. At the edges this stain gave way to heavy splats, which in turn gave way to shapely teardrops. Furthest from the body, the blood was no more than a mist on the wall. Delicate microdroplets with an irresistible needle-fine texture. I lifted a finger to touch them, to feel the tiny Braille bumps they’d formed.

‘Unh-unh-unh.’ This was a voice behind me. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

An inch from the blood-spattered wall, my hand froze.

I turned to see a very tall, lanky man in the doorway. Backlit, his features were difficult to make out. He wore a flannel jacket and a scally cap, which made him look like a longshoreman, one of the tough guys who beat up Brando in On the Waterfront.

‘It’s okay. I’m a cop.’

‘I don’t care if you’re J. Edgar Hoover. You touch that blood, you’ll be tampering with a crime scene.’

‘J. Edgar Hoo — I didn’t touch anything.’

‘Didn’t touch anything? Son, you’re marching around in there like it’s a parade ground. You have no blessed idea what you’ve touched.’

I exited, retracing my steps with the same exquisite care I’d used in entering the cabin.

‘Don’t knock anything over,’ the tall man advised, unimpressed.

In the pine-needle yard, I told him, ‘I’m Ben Truman. I’m the chief here.’

‘Well, Ben Truman, you won’t be chief for long if you keep this up. Didn’t they teach you anything in school?’

‘History’

‘History Ah.’

Neither of us spoke for a moment while we considered the irrelevance of my education.

‘Did you want something here?’ I asked him.

‘Just to have a look.’

I hesitated.

‘It’s alright. I’m a cop too.’

‘Are you working this case?’

‘No, no. Just came to scratch an itch.’

‘Alright. Just don’t go inside. It’s not a parade ground, you know.’

He stepped to the threshold of the cabin, where he stood stiffly, scanning the one-room interior. His hands never emerged from the pockets of his coat. The inspection took only a minute or two and when it was concluded the tall man abruptly turned, thanked me, and walked off.

‘Wait a minute,’ I called after him, ‘wait a minute, that’s it? I thought you wanted to look at it?’

He turned back. ‘I just did.’

‘But you can’t see anything from there.’

‘Of course you can, Ben Truman.’ He gave me a little wink and turned to go.

‘Hold on a second. You came all the way out here just to-Who are you, anyway?’

‘I told you, I’m a policeman. Well, a retired policeman. But as they say, a retired policeman is like a retired whore — she can stop working but she’ll always be a whore. We’ll always be policemen, you and I. It’s the nature of the job, Ben Truman.’

He stood there, hands in pockets, waiting for another question.

I was distracted, though, first by the joke — the wisdom of which eluded me, as did the humor — and then by the archaic term policeman. When had policeman been laundered out of the language, replaced by the antiseptic but gender-neutral police officer or the slangy, vaguely disrespectful cop? Policeman belongs to a more prosaic past — Officer Friendly in a brass-buttoned tunic, that was a policeman. But this man had used the term without self-consciousness. He was an older guy, maybe sixty-five or seventy, and I had the feeling he used other anachronisms as well, girl to refer to a grown woman, or tennis shoes for sneakers.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Good luck with it.’

Evidently he thought this was my case. It was a welcome misapprehension at first. Flattering. But I knew I had only the faintest idea what a homicide detective actually does. And if this guy was a detective… well, what harm in asking?

‘What did you see in there?’

His face registered the realization that I was no homicide detective, nor any other species of detective. He frowned. Whoever he was, he had not come out here to hand-hold a novice. ‘The same things you did. I just didn’t step on them.’

‘I told you, I didn’t step on anything. Anyway, there was nothing to see.’

‘Nothing to see? So tell me, what happened in there?’

‘A guy got shot.’

‘Well, of course. But what then?’

‘What then?’

‘A guy got shot — then the body was moved. You’ll have to figure out why.’

‘How do you know the body was moved?’

‘I know because I looked. Keep looking, Ben Truman. Figure it out.’

‘No, show me. What did you see in there? Show me.’

‘Show you, why?’

‘Because I’m curious. I’m just — I’m curious about things.’

‘I thought you said you were a policeman.’ He regarded me a moment before saying, ‘Come here.’ We moved to the doorway, where he stood behind me. ‘Tell me what you see.’

‘I see a cabin with a lot of blood all around. Some cones where the body was. Little signs to show where things were found.’

‘Yes, those are the obvious things. But what’s wrong here? What’s out of place?’

I looked.

‘Look at the blood. The spatters.’

I stared obediently at the whole baroque pattern of blots and curlicues.

‘Do you know anything about blood-spatter patterns?’

‘No. I’ve never-’

‘Well, there’s nothing mysterious about it. When blood or any other fluid falls straight down, it spatters evenly. You get a stain that’s a round circle with splashes of blood around it, the same in all directions. But when it strikes a surface at an angle, the blood’s own momentum makes it spread across the surface. So, instead of a round stain, it leaves a stain the shape of a teardrop. The fat end of the teardrop is where it hits first, then it tapers off, thinner and thinner as it moves away from the point of origin. You can tell all kinds of things from stains. If you get a round stain on the floor, you know the blood probably just fell with gravity rather than being projected by force. That’s called passive bleeding. A wounded victim will leave a lot of stains like that as he moves around and blood drips from his wounds. There’s not much of that here, of course, because your victim died instantly. But look at these stains, the ones like little comet trails. The blood was spattering out’ — he gestured — ’this way. You see, those cones are behind the blood spatters. The body couldn’t have fallen there. The way those cones are placed, it looks like the blood came flying toward the victim, and of course that’s impossible. So this body was moved after it hit the ground.’