Barely Bronx: March 2012

Jordan rubbed hard against the windshield; the collection of nearly 25 years of mud, dust, and leaves reluctantly gave way until he reached the glass. The car was in a nearly perfect vertical position, buried up to the middle of the hood—even the model was a mystery. When he finally cleared enough debris to view inside he was able to see a broken steering wheel and something behind it but could not make it out. He removed his small flashlight from his belt and directed it behind the wheel; small beings scurried away from the light. He pulled away momentarily to absorb the possibilities and then leaned forward with the light again. A dust-covered coat still leaning against the wheel, a spine protruding from it. He rubbed his eyes and returned to the image; no mistake, this one was long dead. He stood up and worked his stiff legs back into shape and began walking around the car. He saw where Pig had cleared a small spot on the passenger window. He crouched down, peered in. No wonder Pig was so spooked. A skull was leaning on the dash. It rested against the windshield, long strands of hair around it, making it appear like some bizarre nest. Everything looked gray from decades of collecting dust. He spotted a small yellow metal chain with a tiny cross still hanging from the visible portion of the spine. A small pile of bones sat on the floor board beneath the right cuff of the still-hanging arm of her coat. He rubbed until the cleared circle on the window grew wider. He saw a purse and thought about opening the car door or breaking a window to get at it, but that wasn’t his call. The coroner would want to do that—policy.

Only a wing window was broken on the car, though even that might have already been broken before the crash. He walked around the entire vehicle trying to imagine how it came to rest there. There had been several crashes on this curve. All removed without incident, all without noting that those cars came to rest on a knob. No one knew that it existed until now, and now only because Pig needed to relieve himself, his modesty literally had taken him over the edge. It had taken him an hour to make his way around the knob and back up to the original shelf; Pig was fortunate he hadn’t broken anything in the fall. It was the thick manzanita that saved him, as it “saved” the car—but not the driver, who must have struck her head against the steering wheel and died. Jordan thought about it for a second and shuddered; he hoped it was a quick death.

What should have been just another interesting footnote before retirement became so much more. When Jordan ran the plate, it came back to a missing person, open case—“Probable Murder Victim.”

In fact the case was quickly “closed.” Neither the original municipal jurisdiction nor the county wanted any further part of it. Budget cuts made 25-year-old cold cases easy to file away as adjudicated (they weren’t really solved!) the case subsequently closed…

…closed, that is, in every mind except Shelly’s.

The dinner had been great. The wine loosened him some and he began telling her about the “interesting” discovery and the 25-year-old case that no one was interested in any longer. “…so they thought the husband killed her after she disappeared. He didn’t have any record, but he lost his temper that night during an argument and pushed her down. The young kids saw it and of course told the investigating officer. Hell, he was the one who called the cops when she didn’t come home. I guess they thought he was being clever. They harassed him on an epic scale but he never caved. They were able to take his kids, talked CPS into believing he was a danger to them. Got him fired from a few jobs and then he literally disappeared from the radar… and get this, the coroner didn’t come out! He said he was “full up” with cold cases… just bag the remains, it was clearly an accident!

He hadn’t finished shaking his head when he looked over at her. She looked annoyed and even a bit angry.

“What?”

She began clearing the table abruptly, placing the dishes in the sink with “accent.”

“Hey … it’s me. Remember? Husband, friend, pal … buddy?”

She wasn’t having any. It was what he had come to call her “Mount Rushmore” face. He studied what he had told her, sipped, and again finally asked her to sit down and talk to him. She sat down hard on her chair, leaned forward with both palms on the table.

“Ever occur to you that a man has been accused of murder, had his children taken away, made to abandon his life, and is still carrying that?”

He acknowledged what she said with a shrug and a nod.

She continued, “What are you prepared to do about it?”

“I think Sean Connery said that in ‘The Untouchables.’” There was no return smile. “What do you think I should be doing, Mrs. Cooper?”

He was being looked at now with eyes that were leveled so evenly on him he felt like he was in a room with one of those pictures that, no matter where he stood, would be staring at him.

“You need to find him, and his children—tell him you know he didn’t kill his wife and tell his children the same. My God, Jordan … no one cares!”

“Yeah, I have to be married to the one person who does!”

“That’s bullshit! If this didn’t bother you, you would never have told me about this “interesting” case. You wouldn’t have dug deeper into the circumstances if you weren’t interested, concerned.”

He played with the remaining wine in his glass, swirling it around until it came close to the rim. It was a lousy case, an assumption, easily made, perfectly circumstantial. Only the missing body kept them from charges. The alternative was to harass the husband into absence. Case “closed” with back slaps, smiles, and absolute belief the right thing was done.

Only it wasn’t. And the only two people who cared sat across from each other in silence. He could see her imagining the insanity it must have brought the husband, and he had no idea where he would begin to look for him. He’d already collected notes, asked around for information, run out the husband’s name in the computer—nothing.

Subconsciously he had probably already come to that crossroads, and now he had just crossed it. Even though he could probably live without looking for the husband, he knew he couldn’t live with the face across the table unless he tried…