Barely Bronx: May 2012

Jordan slowly turned clockwise, taking in every inch of the living room. The walls were blankets of pictures, most of them children at various ages and Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. He stepped close to examine one where Taylor was getting an award of some kind. He looked into the smiling frozen face, trying to assess the man. He was squinting to see what the plaque read when he heard her enter the room.

“Well, there you go! You picked it out, you must be a good detective, just like my Randy!”

Jordan smiled—he wasn’t sure what she meant. He looked at the small woman setting down the tray. She was tiny. Her hands looked like they belonged on a doll. The ring on her left hand hung loosely and tapped against the china cup in her hand. She patted the cushion next to her and he sat with a broad smile and nod. She was having tea. His coffee was waiting to be made: Folgers instant. He sucked his lips into his mouth to limit the smile he could feel expanding on his face. He opened the jar with some effort, poured the hot water from the urn into the cup. When he put the spoon into the coffee jar it stopped, abruptly. The coffee had crystallized; it was one solid mass, and he couldn’t even scrape any off to show an effort at making a cup. He turned to her in some exasperation; she was just sipping her tea, watching him.

“I’m going to have tea. I hope you don’t mind.” He reached for a Lipton tea bag and torn it open. He could smell the mustiness of the paper on the tea bag. She hadn’t served anyone in years nor used either the coffee or tea probably for a decade. He dunked the tea bag, hoping the leaves would have enough of “itself” at least to change the color of the water. When the bag was soaked he let loose the string and turned to her, thanking her again for the tea. Her hand shivered as she sipped, her ring gently tapping against the cup. Her small round face appeared even smaller above her flowered dress. She corrected the shoulders of the dress a few times, complaining that it was hard to find clothes that fit anymore. He noticed the price tag was still attached to the collar of the dress. She was 79 years old. A perfectly round face that reminded him of Shirley Temple, it had youthfulness despite her age, and seemed always to be smiling. Her pale blue eyes were clear and fit well above her sharp nose and small mouth that appeared to hold a perfect set of teeth, her own teeth.

“You have a wonderful-looking family,” he said, looking around the room at the pictures.

She tilted her head at the framed picture above the mantle and rose, walked over to it, and with both hands on the mantle began talking to the frame, to Jordan. “He was a hero, you know. He was my hero. We were together for 43 years.” Jordan had to tilt a bit to see around her at the picture.

Randy Taylor was in black and white. The waist-up picture showed a man at attention in a uniform, staring straight ahead, the shoulders of two others on either side of him. There was a resolve already on his young face. Sharp jaw and broad wide shoulders, even his blonde hair seemed disciplined. It was a picture filled with pride.

“We still talk.” She patted the small urn beneath the picture and Jordan winced.

She turned, smiled, and asked what he needed to know about the “Shannon” case. “You see, he brought everything home; we talked about every case he had. I was his … partner… away from the office. We joked about it. But he meant it, and I did too. My Randy said he lacked the ability to … contrast. He got tunnel vision too easily, he said; got focused and couldn’t step back. I could, I did. So we made a good pair. He would even call me from the office when he made detective—ask me if something sounded right or what would I think ‘if’… Oh, he was just fine, he could have made his way just as well. But he wanted me included. So when he got home we could catch up together. He would listen to the thoughts that came to me during the day.”

She smiled at Jordan “You see, he said he didn’t want me to grow into being ‘a silly simple old woman who made bread’—that’s what he said.”

Jordan was now looking at a different woman. This woman was suddenly “taller,” her voice directed and firm. Her eyes narrowed and aimed right at his. He had allowed expectation and appearance to form his opinion. He knew it. He felt like an apology of some kind was in order. She had him “sized” the moment he was scraping the bottom of the instant coffee jar. He was wondering now if that had been some test or prank.

“You want to know about the Shannon case. You want to prove my Randy made a mistake because you found her body and you believe it proves he didn’t kill her. Well, how do you know he didn’t kill her and push the car over the embankment, or drive her off the road?”

He thought about it. He was sure it wasn’t either of those, but the word “proof” was loud in the room. He couldn’t prove it, or could he?

“You don’t know … and you never will know. Detective Taylor was a good man, and a great officer and investigator. We were proud of the work we were able to do on this case without a body.”

The word “we” hung in Jordan’s head as he drove away from the house, that and the firmly closed door behind him. Someone from the PD had called her, told her he was asking questions about the case. He had made the mistake of offering up his motives and opinion to a few of the dicks while he was there. It had been Taylor’s benchmark case, and he had gone to his widow asking for help in proving he didn’t deserve the acclaim and recognition he received for it—they “both” received for it. He felt foolish, out of his element. It was then he realized he needed to go back to 1973, needed to examine everyone’s motives then—not from here, not from now. He was going home and had to tell Shelly that he encountered nothing but resistance for his efforts.

He blew it, and the old woman was right: he couldn’t prove nearly four decades later she was run off the road or murdered and pushed over the embankment. He was fighting discouragement when it came to him—and I bet she still has his notes… they worked on everything together! He could see Shelly’s squinting eyes already.

That was two weeks ago.

He could smell dinner from the garage. The pickling spice fragrance from the corned beef—his favorite—was everywhere! He was one giant smile as he came through the garage door into kitchen. Shelly was seated at the kitchen table, reading through a pile of papers. Three boxes on the floor next to her read “Shannon 073-1433”—evidence of her own impromptu visit to the tiny Mrs. Taylor.

She looked up with a smile. “They remind me of us, in a way.”

“How in the world …how?”

“Simple, Officer Cooper. I brought my scrapbook over when I went to see her. She and I agreed that all good cops’ wives had scrapbooks. I had her read about my husband, told her how I wouldn’t let it go … and wouldn’t ‘her Randy’ do the same thing as you’re trying to do? We talked about being wives of cops. About how it was then. And I told her about how it is now—but mostly about finding the truth, no matter how it changes what was. He had a lot cases … and her scrapbook was larger than mine …” He examined her smirk, and sat down with his hands on the table, fingers interlocked.

“And get this, she wants to help if she can, at least be kept up on ‘our’ progress. In fact, she called a few hours ago. She said if indeed it was an accident and the car struck the oak as you figured, there might be a chance that the tree sustained damage, even some paint chips embedded! Is that an idea or what?! She suggested we find the average growth rate on the oak per year times the years past and check the bark.. My God, Jordy, she’s incredible.”

Jordan blew out a large breath. “No—you are.”

He was spinning, confused but now with a firm direction. “I love the smell of pickling spice—smells like …”

“Victory?” she replied.

“Ha!” It was all he could think to say.