John Hart - The Last Child

“Hot as hell in this tent.” The medical examiner’s name was Trenton Moore. Small and sparely built, he had thick hair, large pores, and a lisp that grew more pronounced the louder he had to speak. He was young, smart, and dynamite on the stand, even with the lisp. “I think he’s a rock climber.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Dr. Moore gestured with his chin. “Look at his hands.”

Hunt studied David Wilson’s hands. They showed calluses, scratches, and abrasions. The nails were clipped and even but dirty. They could belong to any construction worker he’d ever met. “What about them?”

The medical examiner straightened one of the fingers. “See that callus?” Hunt looked at the fingertip, a thick pad of tough skin. Dr. Moore flattened out the other fingers; they all had the same callus. “I had a roommate in college, a climber. He’d do fingertip chin-ups from the doorjamb. Sometimes he’d just hang there and chat. It was sick. Here, feel that.”

Dr. Moore offered the hand and Hunt touched the callus. It felt like shoe leather. “My roommate had fingertips just like that.” He pointed. “The upper body musculature is consistent. Overdeveloped forearms. Significant scarring on the hands. Of course, we’re just shooting the shit here. I can’t make any official comment until I get him on the table.”

Hunt studied the placement of the hands, crossed over the dead man’s chest. The legs straight and side by side. “Somebody moved him,” he said.

“Maybe. We won’t know anything for certain until the autopsy.”

Creases appeared in Hunt’s forehead. He gestured at the body. “You don’t think he landed in that position, do you?”

The medical examiner grinned, suddenly looking all of twenty-five. “Just kidding, Detective. Trying to keep it light.”

“Well, don’t.” Hunt gestured at the shattered arm, the crooked leg. “You think those were broken when the car hit him or when he came over the bridge?”

“Do you know for a fact that he was struck on the bridge?”

“His motorcycle was definitely moved postimpact. Somebody pushed it down an embankment. A couple of branches broken off a tree and tossed on top. Somebody would have found it eventually. We found paint scrapings on the bridge that match the color of the gas tank. I suspect that chemistry will match. And there’s the kid. He saw it.”

“Is he here?” Dr. Moore asked.

Hunt shook his head. “I sent him home with a uniform. Him and his mother. They don’t need to be here for this.”

“He’s how old?”

“Thirteen.”

“Reliable?”

Hunt thought about it. “I don’t know. I think, maybe. He’s a sharp kid. A little messed up, but sharp.”

“What’s his time line?”

“He says the body came over the rail two, maybe two and a half hours ago.”

The examiner rolled his shoulders. “That’s consistent. No lividity yet.” He returned his attention to the body, bending low over the dead man’s face. He pointed at the bloody cross on the forehead. “Don’t see that very often.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I deal in bodies, not motives. There’s blood on the eyelids, too. You may get a print.”

“How do you figure?”

“Just a hunch. Right size, right shape.” Dr. Moore shrugged a final time. “Whoever killed this guy, I don’t think he’s very smart.”

When Hunt emerged from the tent, the rain soaked his clothes, his hair. He looked at the bridge and tried to imagine the crunch of metal, the arc of the body, and how it must have been for the boy chosen by fate to bear witness. Hunt stooped for Johnny’s bike, which had been cast aside when the tent went up. It made a sucking noise when he pulled it from the mud. Brown water ran off the pocked metal and Hunt walked it to the dry space beneath the bridge. A handful of cops sheltered there, some with cigarettes, only one of them looking very busy. Cross. He stood apart from the others, a light in one hand, Johnny Merrimon’s map in the other.

Hunt walked over, still angry about the wallet, but Cross spoke first.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and looked it.

Hunt thought of the year since he’d lost Alyssa: the nightmares, the futility. It was not fair to take it out on Cross. He was young at this, and he’d have his own black nights, given time. Hunt forced a smile. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. “Where’d you find that?” He pointed at the map.

Cross had a square jaw under brush-cut hair. He lowered the map and stabbed his flashlight downriver. “It was with the kid’s bike.” Cross flinched. “It’s not evidence, is it?”

It was, but Hunt told himself to relax. “I’ll need that back.”

“No problem.” Hunt turned to go, but Cross stopped him. “Detective…”

Hunt stopped and turned. Cross looked tall in the gloom, his skin olive green, his eyes intent.

“Listen,” Cross said. “This has nothing to do with nothing, okay, but you probably should know about it. You know my son?”

“Gerald? The ball player? Yeah, I know him.”

Cross’s mouth drew down at the corners. “No, not Gerald. The other one. Jack. My youngest.”

“No. I don’t know Jack.”

“Well, he was out here today with the Merrimon kid. He ditched school, too. But look, he was long gone before any of this happened. The school called me after the lockdown. I found the kid at home, watching cartoons.”

Hunt thought about it. “Do I need to talk to him?”

“He’s clueless, but you’re welcome to talk to him.”

“Doesn’t seem relevant,” Hunt said.

“Good. Because he tells me that your boy was out here, too.”

Hunt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Lunchtime or thereabouts. Your boy and a couple of his friends.” Cross’s face remained inscrutable. “Just thought you should know.”

“And Jack is certain-”

“My son is lazy, not stupid.”

“Okay, Cross. Thanks.” Hunt began to turn, when Cross stopped him again.

“Listen, speaking of relevant. This guy who assaulted the Merrimon kid, the black guy with the scars on his face.”

“What about him?”

“You’re assuming that he had nothing to do with what happened here? With this victim? Is that right?”

“With this murder?”

“Right.”

“No,” Hunt said. “I don’t see how he could. He was a mile or more downriver when it happened.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Your point?”

“We’re assuming that three men came into contact with Johnny Merrimon. The dead man, Wilson, whoever drove the car that ran Wilson off the bridge, and the big black guy with the scarred face. Is that accurate?”

“That’s our working theory, yes.”

“But the kid didn’t see the driver of the car. He saw a shape, a shadow, but he can’t actually identify the driver, he can’t say if it was the black guy or not.” Cross raised the map. “This is a tax map for this side of town, and that’s where the detail is. In town. Streets, neighborhoods. But here, top right, just on the edge. This is the river and this”-he pointed-“this is where we are. See the bridge?”

“I see it.”

“Now follow the river.”

Hunt saw it immediately. Just south of the bridge, the river bent into a tight loop; it wrapped around a narrow finger of land that was over a mile long but couldn’t be more than a quarter mile across. Hunt felt a hard spike of anger, not at Cross, but at himself. “The trail follows the river,” Hunt said.

“If the Merrimon kid stayed on the trail, he would need to cover a lot of ground to reach the place where he was grabbed, say ten or fifteen minutes at a dead run.” Cross tapped a finger on the map. “If I left the trail and cut across here, I could walk to that same place in five minutes.”