When asked, she speculated, “Blood? Could be, though we won’t know for certain till we get it back to the lab.”
“The victim?” Kubiak asked
“Won’t know till we get it back to the lab,” the technician repeated flatly.
Was it relevant? In his mind, Kubiak executed a mental shrug. After all, among an off season population of less than ten thousand local residents—of who more than half are children themselves—how many potential child killers can there possibly be?
Having no further excuse, Kubiak peered into the bin.
The victim was a mulatto, an attractive milk chocolate mix of half black, half white. Her complexion was sallow now, her wiry hair limp, made that way by the misty rain. Her eyes were only partially closed, as if she was resting.
The child appeared comfortable, Kubiak thought absurdly, her lifeless body seemingly immune to the ill effects of the dropping temperature and rising breeze, unconscious of the damp seeping into the refuse beneath her unfeeling skin. Her feet were together, long legs parted provocatively at the knees, arms by her side and hands upturned as if to catch the rain as it fell from the sky. She had been wearing a white halter; it clung to her torso like a second skin, hugging her breasts like plastic wrap, exposing her midriff just above her jeans. A silver hoop pierced the skin at her navel. Kubiak regretted the permissiveness of the mother who would allow it.
The clothing appeared intact. By her side was a lightweight spring jacket, carelessly placed as if it had haphazardly followed the victim into the bin. Kubiak could see no visible sign of violence, no evidence of sexual interference. Her face was calm and unperturbed, as if she had met death willingly, her expression content and without the bitter edge to be expected in one snatched so early from the wonder of young life.
Just as he was about to imagine otherwise, Kubiak realized the girl was dead; could see it, smell it, didn’t need a pathologist’s report to tell him. He turned from the body to the street. Further examination was unnecessary; medical details would follow.
“Well?” Burke asked when Kubiak stepped from the container
Kubiak shrugged, as if that were enough.
“Unbelievable,” Burke said. “When the mother called to report the girl missing, I thought: overbearing bitch; give the kid some slack. Who’d a thought it, eh?”
Kubiak said, “Imagine how the parents must feel.”
Burke pulled a crumpled package of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket, inserting one between his lips. Before lighting, he offered to Kubiak. “Rape?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Christopher,” Kubiak replied. “I just got here myself.”
Burke said, “Could be.”
“Could. The girl is fully clothed, though.” Then: “We’ve formally identified the victim?”
“Missy Bitson, thirteen-years of age,” Burke said. The younger man indicated a police cruiser, roof lights flashing, door open. “The father, Eugene.”
Eugene Bitson was standing beside the vehicle speaking with a uniformed officer, visibly distraught over the death of his daughter but more probably, Kubiak thought, over the prospect of having to tell his wife: How in the name of God am I going to do that? he seemed to be asking.
Kubiak was acquainted with the family. Eugene was the proprietor of the Exxxotica Video, the adult movie and novelty emporium whose opening local merchants, townsfolk, and the village council decried, yet were unable to forestall and in whose garbage bin his dead daughter was unfortunate enough to now lay. In the early years, Kubiak himself was divided over his professional obligation to protect Eugene’s right to remain open and his own personal desire to see the shop shut down. Though the proliferation of online porn had contributed greatly toward achieving that end, both cheap rents and an aging clientele assured the Exxxotica’s continued operation.
By tomorrow, when word of the murder spread, there were those in town who might say that in the killing of Missy Bitson, Eugene got no better than he asked for, or deserved.
Kubiak pulled deep on the remains of burning fume dangling from the tip of his borrowed cigarette, letting the smoke mix with his own breath and trail from his mouth in a puff of gray cloud. He was thankful for the distraction, knowing he would have to speak with the father soon, not prepared to do so yet.
He observed the man, wondering if he himself would react this way when his turn came, bubbling on the shoulder of a complete stranger when it was time for his own daughter to die. Kubiak hoped not and didn’t think so but until then couldn’t say with any real certainty. Referring to the body, he asked, “Who found her?”
Burke indicated a man leaning against the un-open door of the second police vehicle, arms crossed in a casual expression of indifference. He was a searcher volunteer who had been questioned at length and with nothing relevant to contribute beyond being first at the scene, was now waiting to be dismissed.
“What’s Mcteer doing here?” Kubiak asked, indicating the arrival of a man now approaching from the mouth of the alley.
“Police scanner?” Burke shrugged. “Arrived here before me.”
“Did he get pictures?”
“I don’t think; the Troopers got here first. They must have secured the scene.”
“If he did, we’ll see them tomorrow in the Sentinel-Tribune,” said Kubiak, only half-serious.
Seamus Mcteer was stout and in his mid-fifties, a Scottish immigrant and former high school classmate to Kubiak. An expensive digital camera hung from a leather strap around his neck. It nestled in the crook between his barrel-chest and protruding belly.
Mcteer was the proprietor and Chief Editor of the Seneca Falls Sentinel-Tribune, the weekly community newspaper. For a brief period in the late seventies and early eighties, he had left Seneca Falls to work as a city reporter with the New York Post, returning permanently to town about the same time Kubiak became Chief of Police. Mcteer had rescued the Tribune from near bankruptcy after purchasing it from the last in a succession of unsuccessful previous owners.
For over a century, the Sentinel-Tribune had honored a tradition of supporting local law enforcement officers in the prosecution of their duties. From the beginning, Seamus expressed no such sentiment toward either the police in general, or to Art Kubiak in particular.
Making eye contact, Mcteer nodded and approached Kubiak, careful to avoid the greasy run-off collecting in oily purple-black puddles in the dips and potholes of the crumbling laneway.
“So, what do you think then, Art? A domestic?” Seamus gestured toward the victim’s father.
Kubiak shrugged. “Can’t say, Seamus.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Too soon.
“Ay, though the possibilities are limited aren’t they?”
“They are,” Kubiak agreed.
Kubiak looked down on the shorter man. Mcteer carried his weight on a compact frame, his skin pink and smooth like that of a much younger man, pale blue eyes bright, resembling two marbles pressed in dough. His belly was large and firm, as if it might explode if pricked with a sharp pin. He kept his scalp clean-shaven, as was the current fashion among the balding, protected tonight by a cloth cap tilted jauntily to one side. Mcteer’s pudgy fingers clutched at his camera as if Kubiak might attempt to take it away.
“Keep the lid on that thing,” Kubiak said now, referring to the camera.
“Oh, ay,” said Mcteer, shifting his body to pull the camera from Kubiak’s reach. “Out of respect, you know? For the victim.”
They were silent and after a moment, Mcteer said, “Can you give me anything, Art?”
“I don’t want to see anything irresponsible in print, Seamus. Nothing that might lead to speculation.”
“Oh, ay, you know me, Art, always the responsible one.” Seamus nudged Kubiak, as if sharing some private truth.
“Nothing irresponsible in print, Seamus, is all I ask.”
“Right’o, Art, though it would be good for the circulation.” Turning to Burke, Seamus said, “And you
? You must have ideas of your own?”
“Sure,” Burke replied, himself believing that in a case like this the possibilities were limited.
“Not surprised to hear that, am I? After all,” he said, more to Kubiak than to Burke, “he is the new breed. College educated, isn’t he? How’s about a quote then, Art, something to reassure the subscribers?”
Mcteer smiled expectantly, like a child.
“Until we have something to say, we won’t.”
With a tsk, tsk and a nod of his head, Seamus turned away. Kubiak removed his cap. With one hand he shook loose the excess water that had accumulated and was now dripping rhythmically from the brim, with the other he brushed back a tangled forelock that had fallen loose across his brow. Above him, a fine mist continued to spill from the layer of low-hanging cloud, like a shower head set to fine massage. The air was cool and damp on Kubiak’s skin, but agreeable; beneath his jacket and despite the temperature, he had begun to perspire. Replacing his cap, he said, “Where was she last seen and by who?”
Burke paused to extract a vinyl bound notebook from the breast pocket of his own coat. “She spent the afternoon at the home of her cousin, Kendra Bitson.” Burke gave the address. “Across the street from you, isn’t it, Art?”
Kubiak acknowledged that it was. Having spent the day at home, he admitted, he hadn’t seen anything: neither his wife nor next-door neighbor Kate Bouey—who had been visiting—had volunteered, when told of the child’s disappearance, if they had either.
“You’ll need to speak with them, Chris, or Sara will. To obtain a formal statement.”
As far as they knew, the victim’s uncle Drew Bitson was the last person to see the girl alive, Burke recounted, other than the killer himself of course. He remembered helping with her jacket at two fifty-two that afternoon, give or take. Crushing the butt of his cigarette beneath the sole of his heavy, leather boot, Burke explained, “I know what you’re thinking, Art: ‘How could he be so precise?’ Well, the Pacers were playing the Knicks. Bitson—Drew, not Eugene that I’m aware of—is a fan. In fact, he played part of one season with the Knicks in ‘eighty-two, before blowing his knee out in a pre-season game the following year. He’s a local boy. Myself, never heard of him, but he had wheels from what I’ve been told.”
“Uh-huh,” Kubiak said. “And?”
“He passed his niece her jacket,” Burke continued, “from the closet. He glanced at the clock in the breezeway and decided he had time to fetch a bowl of corn nuts and a beer before heading back to the den to catch the three o’clock tip-off. I can’t say for a fact about the corn nuts, but the beer? By the time I questioned him, he’d had a few. The game began precisely at three-oh-eight p.m., Eastern Standard. I know. I was listening.”
Kubiak pulled his own unfiltered brand of cigarette from an inside breast pocket. He asked, “You’re sure?”
“The wife was home too, Art. According to her, a few neighbors stopped by to catch the first half.”
“The son, Jordy?”
“Didn’t think to ask, but I will.”
“Did Missy leave the home alone?” Kubiak wanted to know.
“According to her cousin, she did.”
“Was she seen by anyone after that time?”
“Not that we know. We still need to canvass the area.”
“She had originally planned to stay the afternoon,” Kubiak said as if thinking. “‘Be home for dinner by five’, she told her mother. Did she make a phone call? Give her cousin a reason for leaving early.”
“We haven’t found a phone yet. Or if we have, they haven’t handed it over.” Burke indicated the State Police crime scene techs. “So we don’t know if she made a call, or sent a text. But according to Kendra, Missy didn’t actually leave early. It was never her intention to stay the entire afternoon.”
“Ah,” Kubiak said, as if he had suspected all along. “She lied to her parents. She’d made other plans. She used her cousin as cover, lied to her parents and met with someone later this afternoon. Did she tell Kendra where she was going?”
“No,” said Burke. “To meet a boyfriend?”
“Likely.” Kubiak recalled, thinking, though not remarking, on how the child was dressed. “We’ll need to ask, though who to ask, I’m not sure.”
He digested the fruits of Burke’s labor. “You’ve been busy, Christopher.”
“Yeah, well.” Burke replied dismissively, unable to construe either criticism or praise from Kubiak’s tone. “It’s the most activity we’ve had around here since I arrived. Don’t get me wrong, Art,” he added quickly. “If I could undo what’s been done, I would, in a heartbeat. But I joined the police force to be a police officer. This,” he said, referring to the activity around him, “is an opportunity. Around here, as close as I’ll likely ever get.”
Kubiak did not envy or resent the younger man’s ambition. Why begrudge in someone else something to which you no longer aspire?
“It’s a small town, Christopher. Not much happens in a small town.”
“Sure, Art; try telling that to him.” Burke indicated the victim’s father, reminding Kubiak it was time now to speak with Eugene Bitson.
Forsaking the shelter of the container, together with Burke, Kubiak approached the stricken parent. “Let’s get to it then.”
…
By the time Sara arrived on the scene, Kubiak had moved on to interrogate the father of the victim. Incoherent with grief, within ten minutes of being approached by Kubiak, Eugene Bitson was permitted by the officer in charge to leave the scene.
“She’s…she’s…she’s…gone, Art,” he’d stammered, as if it wasn’t obvious to all present. “What am I going to do?”
Kubiak said, “Go home, Eugene, be with your family. We’ll talk in the morning.”
In the opinion of Art Kubiak, the victim’s father was simply too distraught to be questioned. Eugene was escorted home, over both Burke’s and Sara’s objection, by an Officer of the State Police, Kubiak convinced the man would be better able to answer their questions after a good night’s rest. By then, he’ll have had an opportunity to formulate a response, argued Burke, a misleading one if he were a betting man. “His daughter has just been killed, Christopher, what incentive does he have?” Kubiak replied, as if it were not obvious.
“I’m inclined to agree with Chris,” Sara said.
For two hours afterward, Kubiak supervised the crime scene. A Medical Examiner had been summoned from the State Capital to ensure a more thorough examination of the corpse and by three a.m. that morning, she was near to completing her task.
“Can you tell me anything from your preliminary observations that might help?” Kubiak asked when she emerged from the bin. “How did she die? When did she die? Did the killing occur here in the alley? Did someone familiar with the neighborhood place the body here? The rain, how will it affect the evidence?” Kubiak pressed.
“If you’re hoping for me to speculate, Sheriff,” she replied, raising her hand to forestall him, “don’t. There are too many variables. Without a more thorough examination, it would be irresponsible. You watch too much television. I’m not a fictional CSI that in sixty minutes—less commercials—can solve the crime.”
She pronounced the child officially dead, forbearing to suggest cause, time, or place of death, simply confirmed to everyone what they already knew: that sometime between her discovery and the time she had last been seen, Missy Bitson had passed violently from this life to the next. “I’ll schedule the post mortem for ten tomorrow morning and by mid afternoon you should receive my preliminary findings.” Abruptly, she collected her bag and moved from the alley, walking briskly to her vehicle, leaving Kubiak to ponder her disposition. Perhaps it was the hour, perhaps it was the damp and perhaps, he concluded, it was simply the circumstances.
By four a.m., photographs taken, samples secure, the forensic specialists and the medical examiner gone, Burke stood discussing point spreads on the upcoming weekend in the N.B.A. with a State T
rooper and former Penn State point guard sensation.
Before leaving, Kubiak took one final look at the body. Still in the bin and ready to be removed, a young officer assisted the morgue people in the process. Lacking adequate facilities locally to conduct a proper post mortem, the body followed the medical examiner to Albany. According to best estimates, it had been here more than eleven hours. With the declining overnight temperature dipping to below freezing, when moved, Kubiak was not surprised to hear the body peel from the cabbage, tearing from the leaves like a thrift store mannequin. Observing the officer, he wondered at a judgment that sent a youngster to do a more experienced professional’s work.
The Body In The Water Page 4
