by Liz Moore
I put my phone away and peel out, driving blindly toward Mount Airy.
I feel self-conscious, stopping in on Truman without phoning ahead, but I don’t know what else I can do. I hope I don’t surprise him at an inopportune time. I keep remembering the woman’s voice in the background of my call to him. Who is that? the woman was saying. Truman, who is that?
* * *
—
Truman’s car, a neat and polished Nissan Sentra, sits in his driveway. Truman’s personal vehicles are always impeccable. Not a trace of food or dust or dirt anyplace inside or out. Especially since Thomas was born, my car has always been full: full of kids’ toys and crumbs and water bottles, full of shopping bags and food wrappers and coins and snacks.
I park on the street again and walk onto Truman’s porch. I hesitate before knocking: second thoughts, second thoughts.
I’m standing there, my hand in the air, deciding, when the front door flies open. On the other side of it is a tiny lady, less than five feet tall.
—What are you selling? she says. Whatever it is, I don’t want it.
—Nothing, I say, surprised. I’m sorry. Is Truman home?
The lady lifts her eyebrows at me, but doesn’t move, and says nothing more.
I weigh my options. The woman before me could be anyplace between sixty and eighty years old. She looks something like an aging hippie. She’s wearing a bandanna on her head and a T-shirt that says Virginia Is for Lovers. Is this—could this be—Truman’s mother? I know he has one, and that she is alive, and that he loves her. I know she was the principal of an elementary school at one time. But last I heard, she was retired and living up in the Poconos.
I try to peer past her, into the house, but the woman closes the door slightly, as if to block my view.
I try again.
—I’m a friend of Truman’s, I say. I was just hoping to speak to him.
—Truman, says the woman, as if searching her memory. Truman.
* * *
—
It is then, finally, that Truman himself emerges from the back of the house, wearing a towel around his waist, sort of hopping to get to the door. He’s embarrassed to be seen this way, I know: proper Truman, whom I have rarely seen in anything other than a uniform, even after work.
—Ma, he says. This is my friend Mickey.
The woman nods, suspicious, looking back and forth between us. Okay, she says. But she makes no move to let me in.
—Just hang on, Mick, says Truman, and he moves his mother gently out of the way. One second. He closes the door. In the moment before he does, his eyes connect with mine.
* * *
—
Five minutes later, the three of us are sitting uncomfortably in the living room. Truman is clothed now, straight-backed in his chair, his right leg stretched out on an ottoman before him. We all have tea. Truman’s mother looks at the cup in her hands.
—Drink it, Ma, says Truman. It’s cool enough now.
He looks at me. My mother’s been living here for a little while now, he says. He hesitates, glancing at his mother, seeing whether she’s listening. She had a fall, he says.
—And she’s been forgetting, he adds, quickly and quietly.
—I am right here, son, says Mrs. Dawes, looking up sharply. Right here in this room with you. I’m not forgetting anything.
—Sorry, Ma, says Truman.
—Why don’t we go out in the yard? he says to me.
* * *
—
I follow him, watching the sure broad back of him as he leads the way. How many times have I watched him from this angle, leading the way up the steps of a house, leading the way into crime scenes, leading the way as we answered one call after another? Shielding me, in a way, from the worst of it, the first sight of a body or a gruesome injury. Our shared history means that I take strange comfort in following him.
It’s freezing in the backyard. Small shrubs, brown from winter, run along a brown wooden fence. We can see our breath as we speak.
—I’m sorry about my mother, says Truman. She’s—
He hesitates, searching for the word. Protective, he says finally.
—Don’t worry about it, I say—thinking, not saying, that I’m mildly jealous. That it would be nice to have someone in my life who was protective of me in that way.
* * *
—
In the backyard, I recount for Truman the story of my meeting with Denise Chambers, and its surprising results. As I speak, he wears an expression of warmth and concern. The words tumble out of me more and more quickly.
—No, he says. Really?
—Really. I’m suspended.
He pauses. Any new info on Kacey? he says.
—Nothing, I say.
For a long time, Truman goes silent, biting his lips as if wrestling with whether or not to say something. Finally, he speaks.
—What about Cleare? he says.
I look at him.
—What do you mean, Cleare, I say.
Truman looks at me for a while.
Then he says, Mick. Come on.
When he says this, I sense the crumbling, all around me, of some large and unwieldy pretense, a defensive wall I erected years ago and counted on, along with Truman’s sense of discretion and respect, to protect me from any direct questions.
Suddenly, I find my voice has been taken from me.
I rarely cry. I didn’t even cry over Simon. I was mad, yes; I punched the refrigerator. I shouted into the air. I hit pillows. I didn’t cry.
Now, I shake my head. One hot tear spills down my cheek and I wipe it angrily away.
—Fuck, I say.
I don’t think I’ve ever even cursed in front of Truman.
—Hey, he says. He is gruff. He doesn’t know what to do. The two of us have never touched, unless it was in the process of wrestling some perp to the ground.
—Hey, he says again, and at last he extends one hand and puts it on my shoulder. But he doesn’t try to hug me. I appreciate this. I’m humiliated enough as it is.
—You okay? he asks.
—Fine, I say roughly.
—How did you know about Simon, I say.
—I’m sorry, Mick, says Truman. It’s kind of an open secret. A lot of people know. The PPD is small.
—Well, I say.
I try then to pull myself together. I look up at the cold gray sky until my tears freeze. Then I sniff and wipe my nose once, roughly, with my gloved hand.
—Things started between us when I was very young, I say, by way of explanation, or excuse.
—No kidding, says Truman.
I look away. My face reddens: that old terrible tell. My downfall on the job.
—Hey, says Truman. Hey. What do you have to be embarrassed about? He’s the asshole. You were a kid.
But his words only serve to make me feel worse. I dislike the idea that I am a ‘victim,’ in any sense of the word. I dislike the attention, the sympathy, the hushed tones it elicits. I would prefer, in general, not to be spoken about, by anyone, in any way. And the thought of my colleagues in the PPD gossiping about me and Simon, rolling their eyes and slurping their coffee as they elbowed one another in merriment, makes me want to disappear into the hard earth of Truman’s backyard.
Truman is still watching me, measuring his words, assessing the weight of what he wants to say. He puts his hands on his waist. Looks down at the ground.
—You know he’s got a reputation, he says, hesitantly.
—Simon?
He nods.
—I don’t mean to make you feel bad, he says, or to talk out of school. But you’re not the only one. Rumor is there were other PAL kids he targeted. Seems like there was a pattern, but no one ever confessed, or registered a formal complaint. He was suspended for a while
, after enough gossip, but they could never nail him on anything certain.
I open my mouth. I hesitate. There’s so much more about him, I want to say, that you don’t know. But I stay silent. It’s all too embarrassing. The father of my son.
We look at each other.
—What were the ages of the victims? says Truman. In Kensington.
—The first was unknown, I say. The second was seventeen. The third was eighteen. The fourth was twenty.
—Mickey, says Truman. Do you still have that video on your phone?
I nod. I don’t want to watch it. My stomach feels tight.
Silently, Truman holds his hand out, and at last I bring it up on the screen.
Together, we watch it. It’s as grainy as ever, an optical illusion. The figure who crosses the screen first is a shape-shifter, his face inscrutable. And yet—in the figure’s height, in his gait—I can imagine Simon.
—What do you think? I say, unwilling to make the pronouncement myself.
Truman shrugs. Could be, he says. You know him better than I do. I’ve always steered clear. He’s a scumbag.
—No offense, he says, glancing up at me.
We watch it again and again.
And then, finally, Truman takes stock of our evidence.
—Listen, he says. The good news is you’re free tomorrow. I’m free tomorrow. What leads do we have at this point? Who are our suspects?
—Connor McClatchie, I say. And Simon, I guess.
—We’ll split up, says Truman. I’ll take McClatchie. I don’t want you going near him after what he said to you. You take Simon, he says.
We plan to switch cars, since Simon knows mine. I’ll leave my car in Mount Airy, and drive Truman’s home to Bensalem. I apologize, preemptively, for the mess.
* * *
—
Before I leave, Truman puts his hand on my shoulder one more time.
—We’ll find her, he says. You know, I actually believe that we’ll find her.
It is odd to be spending the first day of my suspension engaged in police work.
When I wake in the morning, I put on a dark sweater and a plain baseball cap. When Thomas sees me, he looks suspicious.
—Why are you wearing that, he says. Where’s all your stuff?
—What stuff?
—Your bag, he says. Your duty belt.
—I’m off today, I say.
I still haven’t determined what, exactly, to tell Thomas, and I need to buy a little bit more time until I decide. I don’t know how long my suspension will be, so I can’t tell him I’m on vacation.
—No Bethany! says Thomas. But he knows better.
—Bethany, I say.
* * *
—
After Bethany arrives and takes over, fifteen minutes late as usual, I drive toward South Philadelphia.
There was a time in my life when I was frequently a passenger in Simon’s personal vehicle. In fact, if I try, I can still imagine myself inside of it: it smelled of leather, and faintly of cigarettes, which Simon smoked only occasionally, but usually on nice days, when he could roll the windows down. He kept it clean and polished it on the weekends. The Caddy, he always called it, with affection. He liked cars: his father had taught him about them, he said, prior to his death.
Now, regarding it in its place outside the headquarters of the South Detectives, I am reminded, against my will, of the many times we were intimate together in that car. Just as quickly, I turn my thoughts away.
In Truman’s car, I park not far away. I lower both visors. I need to stay alert, so I have brought an audiobook to play: this way, I can keep my gaze on the door of the building. I’ve also brought along some food and water. The latter I’ll ration very carefully to avoid the need for a restroom.
* * *
—
All morning, the front door swings open and closed, admitting various personnel, most of whom I don’t recognize. Once or twice I think I catch a glimpse of Simon, only to discover it’s a lookalike.
At eleven a.m., however, I spy him: he emerges from the building and, glancing to his left, turns right, toward his vehicle. He’s wearing a nice overcoat. Gray dress pants and shiny black shoes are visible beneath it. His hair is slicked back. It’s a typical look for him since he became a detective.
Instantly, I’m on high alert. The street we’re on is a relatively quiet one, so I’ll wait to start the engine of Truman’s car until after Simon has already departed.
* * *
—
I follow him. He may be on assignment, I think, going to interview someone in the South Division, a person of interest or a victim or a witness. Or he may just be taking an early lunch. He starts out going north on Twenty-Fourth Street. At Jackson, though, he suddenly does a U-turn, and heads south.
He makes a right on Passyunk. And suddenly, I find myself following him onto the highway.
* * *
—
I suppose I know where we’re going even as we go there, but it still takes me by surprise, the way things happen just as you predict them to. The inevitability of the moment.
He takes the exit for 676 East, and then takes the Allegheny exit off 95.
I could close my eyes, practically, and still drive the rest of the way.
* * *
—
The neighborhood is crowded today, and it occurs to me that it’s the beginning of the month. Paychecks have arrived. Customers are out. To my right, a distraught young woman throws her bag to the ground and then sinks into a crouch, crying.
One block from the Ave, Simon pulls over abruptly and parks. I’m forced to drive past him so as not to alert him to my presence. I’m keeping an eye on my rearview, and I’m almost sideswiped by a car emerging from a small street to my right. I turn right onto the Avenue and park as soon as I can find a spot: out front of a soup kitchen, today, where thirty or forty people stand in line, waiting for the doors to open. I exit my vehicle. Then I peer around the corner of the building I’m in front of, seeing whether Simon’s walking my way.
He’s not.
I can see, from here, that his Cadillac is empty. This means he went on foot in one of three directions, all of them away from me.
I jog toward his car.
* * *
—
What is he doing in Kensington at this time of day? His work is in South Philadelphia. All of his cases are there. It is possible—unlikely, but possible—that he’s doing undercover work. But if he were, he’d have dressed down for the day.
When I reach Simon’s car, I look down the side street it’s closest to, and then I jog until I reach another side street half a block away. But I don’t see him on either. I keep going, running now, picking up steam, peering down every small side street I come to, looking for his gray dress coat, scanning houses for open doors. Five minutes go by.
I’ve lost him, I think.
At last, I stop on a side street called Clementine, one of the blocks in Kensington that’s relatively well taken care of, only a couple of abandos, the rest of the houses kept up. In the middle of the block, I put my hands on my hips, winded, disappointed that I’ve lost my chance. Truman, I think, would probably not have lost him. His years of vice training have made him good at tailing people.
When I look up, I find myself in front of a house that, for some reason, looks familiar to me.
Have I made an arrest here before? Have I done a welfare check?
Eventually, I focus on the metal silhouette of a horse and carriage that adorns so many storm doors in this part of Philadelphia. The horse, I notice, is missing its front legs. And suddenly I’m seventeen again, waiting outside this door with Paula Mulroney, trying to get inside, trying to get to my sister.
I close my eyes, only briefly, just long enough to will myself back to that moment: o
ne in which the question of whether Kacey is alive is still unanswered but the answer to it will turn out to be yes. One in which, though I didn’t know it then, I was about to find my sister and bring her home.
* * *
—
At the sound of the front door swinging inward, I open my eyes.
A woman is staring at me. I can’t remember if it’s the same woman who opened the door all those years ago; in my memory, that woman had black hair, and this woman’s hair is entirely gray. But it’s been well over a decade. It could be her.
—You okay? says the woman.
I nod.
—You need something? she says.
I don’t want to waste my money—I don’t have much to spare these days—but I fear the woman will be suspicious if I don’t. Maybe, too, she has information I can use.
Maybe she still knows Kacey.
So I say yes, and the woman opens the storm door with the metal silhouette on it, and then I am back, suddenly, in the first house my sister ever died in.
The last time I was in here, there was hardly any furniture. There were people in the shadows everywhere I looked.
Today, the house is warm and surprisingly well kept. It smells something like cooked pasta. Pictures on the wall: Jesus, Jesus, Mary, an Eagles poster signed by somebody whose signature I can’t read. There are tidy throw rugs on the floor and there’s plenty of furniture, cheap-looking but new.
—Sit down, says the woman, gesturing to a chair.
I’m momentarily confused. I have my made-up order ready: as many Percocets as the twenty in my pocket will buy me. Three, maybe, depending on dosage. One if the woman suspects I’m an amateur. I’ll get outside, I think, and throw them in the gutter. I’m going to spend twenty dollars, basically, for any information the woman can give me.
