Broken Angels

43

The crime scene was locked down, sealed off from the city. The media had gone off to file their stories. CSU would process the evidence through the night, and far into the next day.

Jessica and Byrne stood near the river's edge. Neither could bring themselves to leave.

"You gonna be okay?" Jessica asked.

"Yeah." Byrne took a pint of bourbon out of his coat pocket. He toyed with the cap. Jessica saw it, said nothing. They were off duty.

After a full minute of silence, Byrne glanced over. "What?"

"You," she said. "You've got that look in your eye."

"What look?"

"The Andy Griffith look. The look that says you're thinking about turning in your papers and getting a sheriff 's job in Mayberry."

"Meadville."

"See?"

"You cold?"

Freezing my ass off, Jessica thought. "Nah."

Byrne hit the bourbon, held it out. Jessica shook her head. He capped the bottle, held it.

"Years ago we used to drive out to my uncle's place in Jersey," he said. "I always knew when we were getting close because we would come upon this old cemetery. And by old I mean Civil War old. Maybe older. There was this small stone house by the gate, probably the caretaker's house, and in the front window was this sign that read:

'FREE FILL DIRT.'

Ever see signs like that?"

Jessica had. She told him so. Byrne continued.

"When you're a kid, you never give stuff like that a second thought, you know? Year after year I saw that sign. It never moved, just faded in the sunlight. Every year, those blocky red letters got lighter and lighter. Then my uncle passed, my aunt moved back to the city, we stopped going out there.

"Years later, after my mother died, I went to her grave one day. Perfect summer afternoon. Blue sky, cloudless. I'm sitting there, telling her how things are going. A few plots down there was a fresh gravesite, right? And it suddenly hit me. I suddenly knew why that cemetery had free fill dirt. Why all cemeteries have free fill dirt. I thought about all those people who took them up on that offer over the years, filling their gardens, their potted plants, their window boxes. The cemeteries make space in the earth for the dead, and people take that dirt and grow things in it."

Jessica just looked at Byrne. The longer she knew the man, the more layers she saw. "That's, well, beautiful," she said, getting a little emotional, battling it. "I never would have thought of it that way."

"Yeah, well," Byrne said. "We Irish are all poets, you know." He uncapped the pint, took a swallow, capped it again. "And drinkers."

Jessica eased the bottle out of his hands. He didn't resist.

"Get some sleep, Kevin."

"I will. I just hate it when we're getting played and I can't put my finger on it."

"Me, too," Jessica said. She fished her keys out of her pocket, snuck another peek at her watch, then immediately chided herself about it. "You know, you ought to go running with me sometime."

"Running."

"Yeah," she said. "That's like walking, but faster."

"Ah, okay. It kind of rings a bell. I think I did it once when I was a kid."

"I may have a boxing match set up for the end of March, so I better start doing roadwork. We could run together. It does wonders, believe me. Clears the mind completely."

Byrne tried to suppress the laughter. "Jess. The only time I plan on running is when someone is chasing me. And I mean a big guy. With a knife."

The wind picked up. Jessica shivered, turned up her collar. "I'm gonna go." There was a lot more she wanted to say, but there would be time. "You sure you're okay?"

"Never better."

Right, partner, she thought. She walked back to her car, slipped in, started it. As she pulled away she glanced at her rearview mirror, saw Byrne silhouetted against the lights on the other side of the river, now just another shadow in the night.

She looked at her watch. It was 1:15 AM.

It was Christmas Day.