Ronald Malfi - Floating Staircase

Beforehand, Cordova had suggested I wash up in the men’s room at the end of the hall. He handed me a grubby-looking towel and a sliver of soap flecked with pebbly granules, which told me it needed a good washing of its own. As I washed the dried blood from my palm and my arm, along with the streamer of red ribbon that had trailed from my left nostril and down over my lips and chin, I heard Cordova and Freers murmuring in the hallway outside the door. Their communication was brusque. I made out only bits and pieces, though I was certain I heard Adam’s name mentioned. Leaning closer to the streaked and spotted mirror, I daubed at the shiny new bruise on the edge of my forehead.

Now, as Strohman’s door closed behind me, I wasn’t necessarily a new man, though at least I felt less like some vagrant who’d been picked up for loitering.

“Okay,” Strohman said into the receiver. He motioned toward the only other chair in the office, which faced his desk. “Thanks, Rich . . . Yeah, no problem. Sure . . . Say hello to Maureen for me . . . Right. You, too.”

I sat in the chair as Strohman hung up the phone. Still clutching the notebook to my chest, both my feet placed firmly on the floor, I had a sudden flashback of my interrogation with Detective Wren twenty years ago—how I’d sat shivering on a bench along the river, a towel draped over my scrawny shoulders as I sobbed and explained as best I was able what had happened. Summer crickets popped in the tall grass like popcorn, and clouds of gnats covered my ears. Detective Wren had leaned in close to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and talked very low and very lethargic. I could tell that it was difficult for him to speak quietly, even with ample training in the art, so I was sure it was a taxing exercise for him.

“Travis,” said Strohman, “I’m Paul. I’m the chief down here. I work with your brother.”

“I know who you are.”

He seemed unfazed. “Nice shiner you got there.”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Right.” I felt him take in not only the discolored bit of fruit swelling from my forehead but also the mud-streaked condition of my clothes, the knotted tangles of my hair. Scooping up the telephone, he punched three digits on the keypad. “Hey, Mae, bring us some coffee in here, will ya? Thanks.” Then he hung up. “Looks like you could use some.”

“Why’d you want me brought here? How do you know who I am?”

“Because I spent yesterday morning talking David Dentman out of filing harassment charges against you,” Strohman said evenly.

My laugh sounded like the caw of some strange bird. “You’ve got to be kidding. Me?” Although it hurt to do so, I tapped the shiny knob at my forehead with two fingers. “He hit me so hard I think he left his DNA in my skull.”

Still leaning back in his chair, Strohman looked infernally bored. “He came in all fire and brimstone, saying you went to his house in West Cumberland and taunted his sister with her dead son’s things. Said you wrote her some horrible story in a notebook making them out to be a couple of loons.”

He didn’t ask me if it was true or not, but I felt the need to refute it nonetheless. “This has all been a series of misunderstandings. I wasn’t tormenting that woman. My wife and I moved into their house, and they’d left some stuff behind. I was just taking it back to them.”

Strohman sighed and fingered the dark cleft in his chin. “I really don’t care.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I like your brother,” Strohman said. “He’s a good man. I’m trying not to embarrass his family.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You’re causing quite a stir around town. Allegations of murder and police cover-ups—”

“I never said anything about police cover-ups.”

“Whatever.” He prodded the air absently with an index finger to signal just how banal he found this whole conversation. “Westlake’s a small family community. It’s my job to make sure everyone stays happy. You’ve been asking a lot of questions about stuff that doesn’t concern you, bothering people in the process. I figured I’d give you the opportunity to ask them directly to me.”

“I want to know why the investigation into Elijah Dentman’s supposed drowning was quashed.”

Strohman grinned. He was roguishly handsome. “You sound like Columbo.”

“Humor me. How come David Dentman was let off the hook so easily?”

“Why shouldn’t he be?”

“He’s got a criminal record, a history of violence. His statement on the record says he’d been watching Elijah from the house that afternoon, but your officers missed something. I missed it too at first.” I explained about the trees from the crime scene photographs, although I neglected to tell him from whom I’d gotten them. Probably in a town Westlake’s size, there was only one crime scene photographer, and Strohman didn’t need to ask.

“Where are these photos?”

I groaned inwardly. “Probably somewhere over Pennsylvania by now.” Strohman frowned.

“I had them with me at the cemetery. They blew away after Dentman punched me in the face, then handcuffed me to the fence.” Now it was my turn to frown. “How come you haven’t asked me what I was doing out there, anyway?”

“I already know.”

“How?”

“Dentman phoned it in this morning.”

“Son of a bitch. He admitted to it?”

“Phoned it in anonymously,” Strohman said. “From a pay phone in West Cumberland. But I know it was him.”

“Well, shit.”

“I’m going to share something with you.” Strohman got up from behind his desk and went to the door, opened it.

A round little woman with silver hair stood on the other side, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. I hadn’t even heard her knock. Strohman took the cups and thanked the woman, then closed the door with his shoe. After he handed me one of the cups, he sat in front of me on the edge of his desk. I heard the wood creak in protest.

“This is what you wanted to share with me?” I said, savoring the warmth radiating through the cup. “Coffee?”

Again, Strohman grinned. My mind summoned an image of a young Kirk Douglas. “In situations like the one that happened to the Dentmans, the families are always the prime suspects. We always address the parents first. In this case, I spoke personally with both the boy’s mother as well as his uncle. The mother”—he waved a hand to indicate her mental instability—“she was of limited capacity, let’s say. Of course,” he added, leering at me from over the rim of his cup, “you’ve met her, so you know.”

He slurped his coffee. “I questioned David Dentman extensively. His story never changed.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“We had no body and no evidence that a homicide had taken place. What I’m saying is there was no probable cause to even make an arrest.”

A glimmer of hope ignited within me. I leaned forward in the chair. “So you believe he killed the boy?”

Strohman set his coffee on his desk, then folded his hands in his lap. “I did seven years in Los Angeles as a uniformed officer and another two in homicide. I love this little town—it’s pretty and peaceful, and I got a wife and a litter of youngsters who’re much better off here than back in L.A.—but I’m aware of its shortcomings. I’ve been here four years, and we’ve only worked two wrongful death cases in all that time. And only one of those was an honest to God homicide. A squabble down at the ‘Bird, fists flying, some guy pulls a knife. That’s hot news around here. Most of my officers have never seen blood let alone worked a homicide investigation.”

That tabloid celebrity smile returned. He had perfect teeth. “But I’ve worked some pretty gruesome cases. I could tell you stuff that would make you spend the rest of your nights sitting up in bed, listening for every little creak in your house. When it comes to doing those sorts of things, well, that’s my bread and butter. And just because I moved my family out here for a better life doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered all my training and instincts. You don’t leave those things at the airport security checkpoint, so to speak. You catch me?”