Buried on Avenue B by Peter de Jonge Read Free Book Online Page B

two detectives an unobstructed view. O’Hara can see that he’s referring to the bill of a cap, the leading edge of it, which is pointing straight at the sky. In the next ten minutes the entire navy blue lid is revealed, then the crown, with the “NY” of the New York Yankees. The style of the hat is quite current; it’s certainly not a seventeen-year-old cap. Apparently Kelso has noticed that too, because she can feel his glare on the back of her neck. But neither has long to concentrate on the other. Less than a minute later, Bradley sits back on his heels and announces, “We’ve got remains.”

 
    CHAPTER 11
    THE YANKEES CAP rests on a yellow-brown skull. Where there were eyes are two square holes, and centered beneath them, where the nose had been, is a triangle. Between the upper and lower jaws, small teeth are visible. It’s been a while since O’Hara scrutinized the human skull, and is surprised by the rounded smoothness of the shapes, which are far more elegant without the lumpy draping of skin and tissue. O’Hara feels as if even without eyes, the skull is staring at her, and despite the ghoulishness of the scene, something in the cast of the jaw suggests a smile. Kelso, however, is far from smiling. His agitation is so palpable that O’Hara resists the urge to turn and face him.
    â€œIt’s not a black man, is it, Bradley?” says Kelso.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou can tell by the opening for the nose, can’t you?”
    â€œIf it was an African American, the aperture would be bigger.”
    â€œAnd it’s not a large man, either,” says Kelso.
    â€œNo,” says Bradley, “it doesn’t appear to be.”
    Working steadily from the cap down, Bradley uncovers a striped button-down dress shirt. If there were any possibility that these are the remains of what had once been a six-four, 320-pound man, it’s gone by the time Bradley uncovers his jeans. From the narrow shoulders and waist, it’s clear that the clothing covers the remains of a child, a small, slight one. When Bradley reaches the knees of the pants, Kelso can’t contain himself. “It’s not the motherfucker,” he mutters. “It’s not the motherfucker. It’s not the goddamn fucking motherfucker.”
    O’Hara has sold him a bill of goods. Not one thing she promised has come to pass. Instead of a black male, it’s a white child. Instead of a victim named Charlie Faulk to whose murder another man has already confessed, O’Hara has dropped a pile of unidentified bones on his desk. And instead of a name going up on the board with a line already drawn through the middle of it and a closure rate of 0.916, O’Hara has added a John Doe, and nothing else. He watches morosely as Bradley reaches the bottom of the pants legs and whisks the dirt from a tiny pair of Converse high-tops.

 
    CHAPTER 12
    THE MEDICAL EXAMINER’S office is in a building on First and Thirtieth as ugly as the Ukrainian National Home. The decomp morgue is located in the most ventilated corner of the basement. Bradley wheels in the body, still enclosed in the orange bag in which it was transported from the garden, and parks it next to an archaic X-ray machine. It’s 1:00 a.m., and Bradley moves in the deliberate manner of someone who has been awake too long. With the discovery of a recently buried white child instead of a long-deceased black junkie, all bets are off, and the six-hour time limit waived. Bradley and his assistant were still sifting, measuring, and photographing long into the night, and although Kelso and Jandorek headed back to the precinct, O’Hara stayed in the garden until the work was done, then followed the body up First Avenue to the ME’s office. Bradley loads a twenty-four-by-eighteen-inch cartridge and slides the tray under one end of the bag. Then he aligns the nose of the X-ray machine and takes the first shot.