Overdue

© 2004 E. Michael Lewis
All rights reserved.

Let's start when the shit hit the fan.

Monday, late August, 1970. Hotter than a Vegas call girl with a john at each end. Seventy-nine degrees at nine o'clock in the morning. My phone rings.

I say something less than complimentary to the loser with the misfortune of waking me up.

That loser is Jeff Matheson, my adolescent partner. Kid's been in Homicide for over a year and hasn't shaved once. Y'ask me, he should be solving math problems in a K thru six somewhere instead of solving murders.

"Jack," he's yellin' at me, "Jack, we got a hot one. Captain wants us in Auburn, pronto."

I humor the boy. "Whatcha got, Jeffrey? Some good ol' boy run over by his girlfriend with his pickup truck? Or is it them damn hippies again?"

"Ain't no hippies or cowboys, Jack." He sounds all serious, all moved. "It's a little girl, down at the public library. I told 'em we'd be there in an hour."

"An hour? Speak for yourself, boy. I'll get there when I get there."

"Fine. Right. See you there, Jack." The phone goes dead before I can bash it against the wall. An hour, from West Seattle, after a night like last night? Damn punk.

I roll out of bed, drink some breakfast and put myself together. After twenty-five years as a county detective, I can shave, dress and throw myself behind the wheel in less than seven minutes. But there's no need to hurry just because Shortpants's got his knickers in a twist.

So I get to the crime scene—I'm sorry, did I say crime scene? It's like the Puyallup fuckin' Fair. Uniform and plainclothes, they're everywhere, talkin' an' swearin' an' shaking hands like it was some kinda union function. I've always said that there's nothin' more contaminating to a crime scene than local law enforcement. Clearly this was the biggest thing to happen in Auburn since the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile parked for three days out front of the Piggly-Wiggly. I keep expecting someone to try to sell me a scone.

Right away, Shortpants finds me. As usual, he's out of breath. "Jesus, Jack, where have you been? Cameron's already here, an' him and Ryan are getting the scoop!"

Now that is cause to worry. Cameron and Ryan are my two favorite sparring partners, as county detectives go.

"No shit. Well then, give it to me straight, kid."

He starts tuggin' on my cuff, like he's anxious to ride a roller coaster. "Jessica Hammond, age 11. Lives across the street. A paperboy spotted her early this morning and called the police. Coroner Snow is about to move the body."

He walks me up to the library's main entrance. Two sets of closed glass doors block our way in. It's inside the second set that I see her. My gut wrenches. No shit, twenty-five years on the force, solvin' hundreds of murders involving guns, knives, cars and once even a ridin' lawnmower and I'm pukin' my guts out all over the sidewalk like a rookie. Shortpants tries to help me, but I shove him away. "Get me a towel and some water," I choke out.

When he returns my color is back and I'm sitting so I can't see her. I sip the water and wipe my face on a Dairy Queen napkin.

"Pretty rough, huh," Shortpants says, all philosophic-like.

"Jesus, kid, what the hell did you have to go and show me that for?"

"I thought you'd want to see the body," he says.

"Body?! Jesus Christ, kid, that ain't no body! I ain't seen a body like that since Normandy! Jesus!" I stand up and watch the dark, plastic-covered shape roll out of the side entrance on the gurney, Coroner Snow walking behind it in a labcoat as white as his name. "Come on, kid. Let's go."

We almost get there. Cameron and Ryan collectively crawl out from under a rock and block our way. These two are worse than reporters. At least I get the first shot off.

"Well, if it isn't Tweedle-dumbass and Tweedle-dogshit. And here I thought the Tacoma aroma was blowin' a bit northerly today."

Ryan says, "Izzat you I saw pukin' your guts out all over that nice clean sidewalk? Getting soft, Jack, getting real soft."

"Hey, fuck you, college boy. You really think police work is gonna keep you from the draft and sloggin' through rice paddies in this man's army?"

Now it's Cameron's turn. "I'd watch it, Jack. It's because of you we're here."

"Oh really? Why is that?"

"C'mon, Jack. Everyone knows all you gotta do is show up loaded a few more times and I get your desk. I'm givin' you a week."

Ryan adds, "Hell, Bob, everyone knows he's lost it."

I go to swing at college boy, but Shortpants holds me back. When I get him offa me, the dumbshit brothers have walked away, laughin' like two pretty girls at an ugly contest. The ambulance with the body drives away.

"What'd you go and hold me back for?!" Shortpants looks at me like a wounded puppy but doesn't say anything. I know why he did it. It's a ritual we have. Hell, what really upsets me is that ten years ago, I coulda took all three of those punks.

"C'mon," I say, "let's see what they left us."

We take a side door down a narrow hall past some bathrooms and turn into the library. It's not a big affair, fine for a small town but a broom closet compared to Seattle Public. We walk past the main desk to the main entryway, where men are still taking pictures and collecting evidence. They're already cleaning up the blood.

For a moment my head gets dizzy and I think, "Holy Christ, I'm gonna lose it," but I grab onto the counter and manage to keep it down. I have to stop watching the man scraping broken, bloody fingernails off the glass doors.

"You okay?" Jeff asks me.

"Fine. Gotta piss. Get the basics for me, would ya?" I don't leave him time to answer and move back into the fresh air and heat, at least eighty-five degrees of blistering heat. I inhale deeply.

I'm doin' that when the captain walks up. "Too much for you, Cannon?"

"Nothin' I can't handle," I say. I straighten up.

"I just talked to Cameron and Ryan. They say they got a line on this one."

I can only shake my head at him. This is like a bad dream.

"Now I know you can give me this one, Jack. I want you to do some interviewing."

It smelled like shit work, and I said so.

"Jack, there are no other leads to follow up on. We've talked to the kid who found her; he's clean. The PDs say the place was locked tight when they got here. Unless Snow or forensics can tell me somethin' new, we've got two people of interest. Cameron and Ryan got one. I want you to take Matheson and do the other."

"Who are they?"

"One's her uncle. I'm giving him to Cam. Her real parents are dead. Yours is the librarian who closed on Friday."

"Friday? You mean...."

"Yeah, Jack, the library was closed all weekend. Only the head librarian has the key. Snow seems to think the girl's been dead at least since Saturday. We'll know for sure later."

I nod, acting cool, all the while thinking, Jesus, a real locked room mystery! "I get ya."

"Where's Matheson?"

"Inside."

"I'll have him set it up. Pick up a copy of the preliminaries and look them over." He walks away, but stops and steps in close to me. "Then go home, get something to eat. I'll have Matheson call her in this afternoon." He pats my shoulder and walks into the library.

I get the paperwork, drive home and have lunch. Leftover Chinese and beer. About two, I stumble downtown. The squad room looks like it does during Seafair: empty as all hell. I sit down at my desk and sift through my phone messages.

From the direction of the interrogation rooms come Cameron and Ryan. They're talkin' and laughin' 'bout somethin', then Cameron stops college boy with an elbow in the ribs and points to my desk. Up they stroll for a second helping.

Cameron puts both hands on my desk and leans in. "Hey Ryan, you smell anything?"

"I think that's your career," I tell him.

"Nah," Ryan says. "That's Cannon's cologne. eau de Drunk Tank."

Ryan laughs at himself. Cameron looks me in the eye. "It's too late for you, Cannon. Do you know who we got in there?"

"Did they pick up college boy's mommy for soliciting again?" Cameron raises his arm to stop Ryan—he stays obedient but glares.

"In there is the murderer of Jessica Hammond." He mistakes my 'so-what' look for a blank one. "You know, the library girl? We got him, Ryan and I."

"Who is he?"

"Milton Hammond, her uncle. He's a stage magician, does dinner theater, knows a hell of a lot about locks."

"What's his motive?"

Ryan chimes in, "Mr. Hammond has a history as a burglar. We think the girl found out and threatened to tell."

"So he breaks into the library and..." I gulp, remembering the mess, "kills her? And leaves her there?"

"Why not?" challenges Ryan. "It throws the suspicion off him, doesn't it?"

"What's his alibi?"

"Stays he was onstage until eleven on Friday, and started at five on Saturday night. He reported her missing Saturday morning. Other than that, el zippo."

"Weapon?"

"Does it matter? You saw the mess. Besides, he's about to squeal."

I had to admit, their theory could fly. It's ugly, but looks aren't everything in Homicide.

"I really gotta hand it to you two," I say, all smiles. "How did we ever get along without you two geniuses?"

"You just watch it," Cameron says as he stops touching my desk and straightens his tie. "You better start cleaning this shit up now, Cannon," He gestures to my paperwork. "New management is coming soon."

"Yeah," Ryan chimes in. "The times they are a' changin'."

I stand suddenly but it doesn't scare them and they laugh their way out the door. My phone rings.

"What?"

It's the receptionist. "Your suspect is here. I put her in three."

I grunt a thank you.

"Don't scare her too much, Jack. She looks about a hundred years old. By the way, she says she knows you."

"Yeah, well, I know a lot of people." I look around but I don't see Shortpants. "Where's Jeff?"

"I don't know."

"Send him in when he's back from the toy store," I say. The receptionist laughs. I take a hit of vodka and orange juice from the thermos in my bottom desk drawer, grab the case file and head into room three. On the way, I take some cold coffee from this morning's pot, just for looks.

So I open the door, right? I mean, everything is cool, business as usual, and there she is. I see her and I think I've fuckin' lost it, that my mind has left the planet and that any second I'll collapse on the ground, froth at the mouth and roll around like a first class nutbar. But I remain in the doorway.

She says, all sweet and normal, "Why don't you come in, Jackie?"

I swing the door shut behind me, set the file and my coffee on the table, but do not sit.

Know me?! Jesus Christ, I'd know her anywhere!

Miss Caville, my librarian from grade school. Miss Caville, the witch.

And she looks exactly the same as she did the last time I saw her ... in 1935!

She sits calmly in the interview chair, her hair black and stringy, her nose long and hook-like, her skin rumpled like an unmade bed. Her small hands are folded over her dark floral dress. Her fleshy smell reminds me of an old rotting log half submerged in a swamp.

"Please, sit down." Miss Caville motions to the chair across from her. "We have a lot to talk about."

Without knowing why, I do what she says. I say, "We'll get started as soon as my partner gets in."

"He won't be here," she says matter-of-factly. "He has some business that demands his immediate attention."

My mouth opens just as the door does. I sigh with relief. It's Shortpants.

"Hey, Jack, I'm sorry, but I've got some business that demands my immediate attention. I'll see you later."

Christ! Did I just hear what I think I heard?

Shortpants is ducking his head back out the door when I ask, "Hey Jeff, the captain in his office?"

That's code for asking if anyone was watching from behind the two-way mirror. "Nope," he says. I see sweat beading up on his forehead.

My stomach sinks. I'm on my own.

After a brief pause, he looks at me helplessly and closes the door.

I look back at her. She is still smiling.

"Well Jackie, you called me here. What is it you want to know?"

"First of all, my name is Jack," I say. "Nobody's called me Jackie since I was eleven. And for starters, why the hell aren't you pushing up daisies?"

She is winning the composure game. "I like Jackie better. After all, that's how we met, when you were Jackie and I was Miss Caville."

"Well I'm a little older now, so we can cut the crap."

"Very well, then." I look into her eyes and see the same lavender intensity I remember from all those years ago when our teacher would take us to the library for story-time. They scare me. I can barely sip my coffee.

I open the case file. "So, Miss Caville..." Her name tastes like birdshit on toast.

"Lorena, please." I glance up to her placid smile. "That's my first name. You're sure you want to do this your way, Jack?"

"Yes. My way."

"Very well then."

I take out a pen. "All right. How long have you been a librarian at the Auburn Public Library?"

"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?"

"Did what?"

"Killed her. Killed the little scalawag who died with such gusto in my library. That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Yes, but..."

"No buts about it. I don't mean to tell you your job, Jackie, but if that's why I'm here, that's what you better do."

I drop the pen and stare at her. Suddenly, I need a drink real bad. My palms are sweating and I can't stop my left foot. Tap-tap-tap.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I called you Jackie. I meant Jack. I'll try to remember from now on."

I lean back in my chair and ask, "Did you do it?"

"Kill her? Oh heavens no. I would have loved to have killed her, but I did none of the work. I am—what do you call it—an accessory. That's it. I was an accessory."

When I first walked in I couldn't believe my eyes. Now I can't believe my ears. "You know who killed Jessica Hammond?"

"Yes," she titters, in a voice even higher than I remember.

I wait for a moment in stunned disbelief. When she realizes I'm waiting for her to continue, she says, "Oh. Well. I suppose I should tell you the whole story."

I leave the pen atop the case file, trying to act casual. "Shoot," I say.

"Very well, then.

"I remember the day Jessica Hammond first came into my library. It was a frosty day in February, 1967. She had that charlatan of an uncle with her. They both applied for library cards. I came out of my office to watch the clerk help them. I saw how giddy and excited she was. I could also see how sticky her little fingers were, and read her desire to smear them all over my books. I knew right away she'd be trouble."

"You knew all this just by looking at her?"

"Your suspicions about me all those years ago were right, Jack. I was, and still am, what any God-fearing Christian would call a witch. I hide myself from adults, but not from children, like you Jack."

"Why me? Why now?"

"I make it a point to—visit—the lives of my special pupils every now and again. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to see you sooner, Jack, but I'm getting on in years, and my post as head librarian keeps me very busy."

"So now I'm special?"

"Tsk tsk tsk," she chides. "Don't you remember, Jack? That rainy afternoon in February 1935, when your teacher kept you in from recess and made you do a book report, just you and me?"

"No," I half shout in empty denial. I close my eyes and block out those moments in the library alone with her—and the fear that war and policework could not obliterate. Desperately, I cling to my badge like a lifeboat. "Go on. When is the next time you saw her?"

"I saw Jessica plenty of times over the last three years. Her imbecilic uncle would drop her off at my library and go perform sleight-of-hand. He left her unsupervised for hours on end, sometimes until we closed and afterward.

"Most of my staff became quite taken with her, but not I. I knew what kind of little girl she was. I saw her put my books back in the wrong places, move the chairs out of order. She returned books overdue, if at all, and most were sticky. She lost three books. Three. Naturally, I grew to hate her.

"Then I became aware of her plan. It happened when we were closing one night two months ago.

"'My uncle isn't here yet,' she sniffled to one of my aides.

"'He'll be here soon,' the aid said. 'I'll wait with you if you want.'

"'I wish I never had to leave,' Jessica said. 'I wish I could stay here forever.'

"That's when I knew. From then on, I could see the guilt in her irises. But it was only last Friday that she had the guts to try it. Poor little girl, hiding behind the potty. She thought I wouldn't see her and that she could read my books forever. They are my books, do you understand, Jack? They're my books, and as head librarian I have a responsibility to protect them from her grimy little fingers."

"So you conjured up a demon to eat her alive?" My sarcasm is the only thing I have left now. Under her cold, lavender eyes, even that is going fast.

"No," she says, her lips taut. "I didn't need to. The books did it for me."

"The books?"

She leans in a little. "Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to be a book, Jack? Readers pawing at your bindings, folding your pages, bending your spine, sullying your jacket and then reshelving you out of order. Worse, what do you think it's like to be a book that nobody reads? Some books sit on the shelf for years, dust filtering between their pages nurturing a musty smell. You watch people lovingly choose the books next to you again and again and again."

"You're telling me somebody killed her with a bunch of books?"

"Not at all. The books killed her all by themselves."

"Hey now, what do I look like?" My voice finally responds to my pleas for bravado. "Books don't kill people. People kill people."

"Books are alive, just as we are, and they killed that little slut as surely as I sit here before you. Remember, books are the receptacles of knowledge, and knowledge is power."

My head throbbed. "How did you get 'em to do it?"

"All I had to do was leave my office safe open. The book inside did the rest."

"And what book is that?"

"Don't trouble yourself with names, Jack. Let's just say it is a tome esoteric even to most collectors of arcane lore."

I frown at her insult. She is kind enough to notice. "Don't worry Jack. If you were bound with the flesh of Egyptian slaves and etched with the blood of exposed babies, you wouldn't be very happy either."

"You left the safe open so this book could—sneak out and kill her?"

"In a manner of speaking. I knew that as soon as this book was allowed to creep through the stacks, it would wake all the others up. You see, Jack, this book hadn't been read for a long time, and it was very angry."

"So the one sneaks out and they all gang up on her? Is that how it goes?"

"You're very bright, Jack. I always knew you'd amount to something. Yes, that's exactly how it went. They knocked her down and she crawled toward the door, begging to be let out." The witch pauses and smiles widely. "She died in agony."

"So, the books in the library pounded her to death?" I don't know which is worse, asking the question or hearing the answer.

"It wasn't just pounding, Jack. There was paper cutting, gagging, stabbing and slamming. Oh, it was quite a sight!" It is her turn to lean back, her breathing shallow, her face in reverie.

"You saw it happen?"

"Well, I didn't stay for the end." She meets my gaze. "I arrived early this morning, but someone had already found her. Frankly, I don't see what all the fuss is about. She would have been half-starved, had she made it through the weekend."

That's when the fear leaves me. Right there. The bile that had been working its way up my throat does an about face and I lean forward and slam my fist down on the table.

"Because she was a little girl, that's why! She was an innocent little girl!"

"It's better that she's dead. One less child to pollute my library."

"So you killed her? You killed her so she wouldn't put your books back in the wrong Goddamn order?!"

"No." Her voice is calm, quiet. "I killed her because I wanted to."

As the full weight of her words sink into me, I realize I'm seeing something I've never seen in war or law enforcement.

Sure, I'd seen pimps, druggies, hippies, freaks, lowlifes and wife beaters, but all, no matter how dirty or twisted, had been human, some poor cunt's little kid once. This woman only looks human. She's a landmine, a thin plastic bag filled with razor blades and disease. Lorena Caville has no soul.

I stand up, my chair flying back into the wall. "You're gonna swing for this."

"I'll do no such thing." She is still calm. "You see Jack, the truth is just as important to witches as it is to people like you. I came here to confess, and I have, but you'll never use it against me."

"Bullshit, I won't."

"You took no notes. You didn't record us, and no one watched us from behind that two-way mirror." She nods to her own crisp image. "You have no case, Jack."

"You just wait. They can put me on the stand, I don't care how crazy I sound. You'll swing, you bitch. You'll swing and I'll dance on your fucking grave."

"If that's the way you feel, Jack. It was very nice to see you again." She stands and walks to the door with me, patting my shoulder. I jerk away.

I open the door and let her go first, taking a moment to stifle the urge to pistol-whip her to the floor. I try to think of how I can get away with holding her without some judge handing me a one-way ticket to Western State Hospital, when, miracle of miracles, I see the Captain and Shortpants, going over some paper work near my desk. The librarian walks quickly past them, but stops near the door.

Now's my chance.

"Boss," I shout, running over to them.

The captain turns and straightens while Shortpants just swivels. "What is it, Cannon?"

I realize I'm out of breath. Finally, I choke out, "I got it. The whole fuckin' enchilada. I got the library girl case."

The captain's face lights up. Shortpants's jaw falls all the way open. But my eyes are looking past them, to Lorena Caville, the witch who killed Jessica out of simple, vengeful spite. I watch her as she walks out of the room, a single finger raised to her lips in a quieting gesture meant only for me: Shhhhhhhhh.

I don't realize that I'm staring after her. "Well," the captain asks gruffly, "what is it?"

"Yeah," Shortpants chimes in. "How did the interview with the librarian go?"

I inhale deeply, ready to repeat what I know will be the craziest story either one of them has ever heard, and hear myself say, "Strictly routine. She doesn't have any bearing on the case."

I stop cold. Why the hell had I said that? I try again. "She's totally innocent," I say, feeling sweat trickle down into my collar, my hand rising to my mouth. "We should have never called her in. She had nothing to do with this at all."

The captain and Shortpants look like men who've just found out somebody had replaced his Rainier beer with cat piss. "You mean, you think Cameron and Ryan are right?" Jeff asks.

"I'd bet my life on it," I say. What the fuck?! Why can't I say what I want to say, what has to be said?

Just then my phone rings. Jeff answers. "Matheson. Yeah? Really? Great. Send up the papers and I'll let the captain know. Thanks."

Jeff puts down the phone. "Forensics has a positive match of those fingerprints they found at the library." He stops and looks straight at me. "Milton Hammond."

"Out of all the prints we lift at a public library, they just happen to be his." The captain shakes his head and pats my stomach. "Jesus, Jack, how the hell do you do it?"

I don't answer him.

"You two go have Cameron and Ryan read him his rights," he continues, walking away. "Don't let 'em make you eat too much crow, Jack. Glad to know you're still on the team."

I find my fists clenched so tight my fingers ache.

"Hey Jack, you okay?"

I say nothing.

"Jack?" Shortpants snaps his fingers in front of my face.

"She didn't do it, Jeff."

"I know, Jack, it's all right. Cam and Ryan can have this one. There's plenty to go around."

"No, she's innocent I tell you!"

"Hey, calm down. Is there something bugging you?"

I mumble, "No."

"Well then, let's go tell them."

Before I go, I move to the drawer with my thermos of vodka and orange juice, pull it out and toss it on the trash. Later, I fish it out for one last round.

Milton Hammond pleads guilty. "He must have really done it," his lawyer tells me after the pleading. "The case you guys had wasn't so good. I told him we might get a deal. But he was like a man possessed."

I knew what he meant. For the next year all I wanted to do is shout the truth from the nearest rooftop, but I couldn't. Even if I could, how could I tell them, "Check the books for trace evidence" without sounding like a lunatic?

I mean, I tried tape recording it, but either I'd say the wrong thing or the tape would end up blank. And as soon as I'd finish writing the whole damn thing out, it would fade, slowly if I was alone, or simply vanish if there was somebody else around—somebody who could read it.

My police work suffers. Every bartender in West Seattle knows me by my first name.

And eventually Cameron gets my desk. It's because I retire, though, not for anything else. All that time on my hands only makes me think about how I'd been tricked into silence by a means I didn't even believe in.

And I got to thinking. I was a good cop for a lotta years. Maybe I could do some digging...

So I call in a few favors and start spending time at Seattle Public, reading up on witches, magic, and angry books, until...

Friday, early November, 1975. Miss Caville still runs the library down in Auburn. I pay her a visit just after closing.

"Jack," she says after locking us both inside. "Are you here to arrest me?"

"I'm not a cop anymore," I tell her. "Retired."

"Surely not you, Jack," she says as she realigns some already straight books. "Being a detective is what you love. You were so good at it."

"Not good enough," I say fiercely. It stops her.

"I hear that the horrible man who killed his niece here five years ago died last month," she says absently. "Prison is not a nice place."

"He didn't kill anyone, and you know it."

"We both do, Jack. Have you come to talk to me about our little secret?" She dusts along the tops of bookcases, then looks me up and down. "Jack, I hope you're not thinking of using physical violence against me. That would be a very costly mistake."

"I'm not going to lay a hand on you," I smile. "Someone else is."

From out in the stacks, I hear rustling, like pages turning very fast. Her eyes dart that way, then back to me.

"In my time off, I've been doing research about books like yours. I learned that witches—or sorcerers, or whatever—can harness and control dangerous tomes by placing a seal on them—some kind of magical 'you do what I say' stamp."

Bang! A book fell in another part of the library.

Miss Cavil smiles, both arrogant and unimpressed. "So?"

"The city still hasn't installed an alarm system here, has it?" I ask, leaning on the main counter. "You still use a safe to keep track of valuables?"

Her smile stops and as she looks at me I see the words 'oh shit' written in the lines of her forehead. She walks slowly, then faster, then almost runs into her office. I follow.

She stops and kneels before her safe. I watch from the door as she smiles, prepares to say something snide, then finds the safe already open. It's empty except for a lace ribbon with strange markings.

"No," she says, looking up at me.

"I admit it, I broke in first, then came around front," I say. "The way I figure it, if that book was pissed five years ago, it must be mad as hell now."

From behind me we both hear movement in nearby shelves. She stands. "You didn't."

"Hell, I don't believe in this shit anyway, so it doesn't matter what I've done. You, on the other hand," I find myself smiling for the first time in years, "You're the one that kept that book locked up."

"No," she repeats, "get out of my way." She pushes me aside and starts towards the front doors. "You fool, it'll kill us both!"

"Way I figure it, you're long overdue," I tell her, and head toward the side door. She runs to the glass doors at the main entrance and rattles them-locked. While she's fumbling for her keys, I walk down the dark passage and stop. The keys stop jingling and I hear her speaking.

"What are you doing? All of you, all of you get back to your shelves! I am your caretaker, your mistress, you can't turn on me! Don't listen to him, he's angry, but I—you don't understand—" Then she starts screaming.

I go. I know they'll find her just like they did little Jessica and they'll wonder how it happened ... Hell, they might even call me up, talk to me about the case.

On the way out, I see they've installed another book drop at the side. A little girl, about Jessica's age, is stuffing a book inside. Her bike lies near her.

She sees me and freezes. Her book clangs into the metal book drop. I almost tell her to clear out, when an urge fills me—irony I guess you'd call it—and I put a finger to my lips.

"Shhhhhhhhh."

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