He started right out of college, for four-plus decades working off the same lesson plans, performing the same in-class demonstrations. The bowling ball pendulum; the egg drop challenge. He’s taught multiple generations, a constancy that’s made him a beloved figure at his school. From him I received my analytical nature. The urge, when confronted with the unexpected, to move forward rather than away.
He slipped off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, reminding me uncomfortably of Ivan Arias. In another life they would get along just fine. “How are Amy and Charlotte?”
“They’re having a good time in L.A.”
“You’re ready to have them back.”
I nodded.
“You have a wonderful family,” he said.
Pressure built behind my eyes. “Thank you.”
He checked the lenses for clarity. The candle flames reflected and flickered. Perfect opportunity for a mini-lecture on refraction and the speed of light through a medium.
“We did this,” he said.
“Did what.”
He replaced his glasses and unfurled his arms, if to suggest he had created the world from scratch. “Your mother and I. Together. It’s our fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s a fact.”
“You’re not responsible for him.”
He gave me a pitying smile.
Of course we are.
My mother returned from the bathroom. A truce had been composed in her own mind, no need to involve me.
I promised to call her with any news. She promised the same.
At the front door she threw herself against me. It had been many years since I felt her body next to mine. It was an unfamiliar feeling. I didn’t know what to do with it. I don’t think she did, either, though she kept pulling on me, hanging on my neck like a yoke, searching for a way to fit together.
Chapter 17
I opened Andrea’s Facebook page and clicked SEE MORE.
I am attaching a photo, please feel free to repost it. He is forty-one years old. He is six feet four inches tall with brown hair and light brown eyes, his beard is light reddish brown. He has a tattoo of a crown on the inside of his left arm (see photos). He was last seen wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.
Please get in touch with me if you know anything!!
Please spread the word!!
A close-up of Luke’s face, setting indeterminate.
A wider shot, Luke shirtless, hoeing on their plot, his hard-earned musculature round and slick as river rocks, the tattoo visible.
Comments expressed concern, offered help and/or support, promised to pass along the news or put up flyers. Some wondered if she’d called the police. She hadn’t answered them, and she’d had enough common sense not to mention Rory Vandervelde by name. But a user named G M Duggan asked another important question.
Andrea I’m so sorry to hear this. What car was he driving
I opened her response.
Its a bright green Camaro with black stripes thank u Gareth!!!
Facebook posts did not show up in ordinary searches. The effect of her going public was not yet apparent. Where the information might travel next, I had no idea.
The fuse was burning that much faster.
It was ten p.m. Official inquiries would have to wait for morning.
Unofficially, the night was young.
I called Edmond Valdez, the property clerk.
“Clay?” Sleep muddied his voice. “What time is it?”
“Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“S’okay. I was watching TV, musta passed out. What’s going on?”
“We had a removal in Fremont today. The guy on the bike?”
“... oh yeah.”
“So I just got a call from his girlfriend. At the time of the accident he was carrying some of her stuff in his backpack. I didn’t realize when I checked it in. Any way I can go grab it for her?”
“Now?”
“She’s leaving the hospital and she’s gonna be locked out of her apartment.”
It was a plausible story. Similar things happened every so often. That they’d never happened to me added to the plausibility.
Edmond snuffled tiredly and gave me his locker combination. “Don’t forget to update the tag.”
“Right on. Appreciate it, man. Good night.”
I showered and put on my last clean uniform. Tomorrow was my day off. The routine included taking Charlotte to the dry cleaner to collect whatever Amy had dropped off on Monday.
The dry cleaner was closed.
My family was in another world.
I filled a backpack with items I thought I might need and drove to the bureau.
A CCTV camera goosenecked over the entrance. I didn’t look at it. Nor did I look away. I kept my gaze level, like a person who belonged there.
I swiped my keycard, leaving a record of my entry, and walked deserted corridors under more cameras. The health lab was closed. The crime lab was closed. Only a skeleton crew of coroners was on site to cope with the victims of the night. The whole week had been slow. People sheltering. Less street crime. Fewer traffic accidents. Death never quits, but it had lifted its thumb off the scale, temporarily.
That night the deputy coroners on duty were Kat Davenport and Stevie Dixon. The sergeant was John Gruenhut. I knew all of them. I knew everyone, in every room, on every floor, day or night. They were my colleagues and my friends.
Outside the men’s locker room I listened for running water. Heard nothing and went in and opened Edmond’s locker.
Spare shirt. Spare towel. Deodorant. Bag of Sour Patch Kids.
The purple key carabiner.
I took it up to the second floor, let myself into his office, and unlocked the safe, using his computer to locate the keys to Rory Vandervelde’s lockers. I stole them. I didn’t bother with Fletcher Kohn’s keys. I needed cover, not a ruined bike or a split helmet.
A camera hung over the property room door. I swiped my keycard.
Rory Vandervelde’s belongings filled four lockers, a glittering assortment of small goods, individually bagged. Cuff links. Tie clips. Nancy Yap’s pearls, her colossal diamond studs. Meds. The watches occupied two entire lockers.
Jed Harkless and Lindsey Bagoyo hadn’t taken any of the other collections for safekeeping. A choice that might seem odd, but I understood. Once they started down that road, there was no end. If they took the antique knives, did they have to take the baseball cards? If they took the cards, did they have to take the footballs? Jerseys? Art? Car keys? They couldn’t take everything.
The problem was that Vandervelde owned everything. Not a problem we often faced. Rich people tend not to get shot or shoot themselves or perish from exposure in alleyways. They die as they live: on their own terms.
In the bottom locker I found the house keys, five of them on an engraved silver fob. RWV.
I stole them and exited through the intake bay to the vehicle lot, passing beneath a red neon CORONER’S BUREAU sign, the sole surviving relic of the old morgue building, where for the better part of a century it hung over the sidewalk, burning luridly.
When we moved to the new building — ten years on, everyone still called it that — the decision was made to mount the sign out back, away from the gaze of anyone who might deem it in poor taste. It was supposed to evoke a sense of continuity, a romantic past.
Tonight, to save electricity, the sign had been switched off.
I still thought of myself as new, too. But that was fantasy. I’d spent most of my adult life here.
Seven vehicles lined the walclass="underline" three body vans, three Explorers, and the hulking mobile command center. A collection not quite worthy of Rory William Vandervelde.