Sliver Of Truth

I regarded his dirty face and matted blond beard, his ripped Rangers team shirt, his mismatched shoes. He didn’t look that bad for someone who was lying on the street on a piece of cardboard. I pulled a five from my pocket and handed it to him. He pointed south.

“He dropped something in those trash cans, hailed a cab.”

“He hailed a cab?” I said, dismay and annoyance creeping into my voice.

He shrugged. The little dog yipped at me nastily.

I walked over to the trash cans he had pointed out; there were three gathered together at the curb. The smell was awful. “Which one?”

“That one,” he said, pointing to the right. I hesitated.

“Pretty girl doesn’t want to get her hands dirty,” he said to his little dog, giving me an amused grin. “Welcome to my world.”

I gave him a dirty look, grabbed the lid, and lifted it up. I was assailed by the odor and by what I saw inside. On top of the white trash bag lay a handgun with a silencer on its muzzle. I don’t know if it was the smell or the gun, but I felt as if I might vomit. In spite of that, I reached in and picked it up, more to convince myself it was real than anything else. It was real. I stared at it in disbelief. I’d watched a girl get shot on the street, chased her assailant, and found his gun with a silencer. I felt a weight on my chest; my hands started to shake. I’m not sure how long I stood like that.

“Put the gun down. Put your hands in the air.”

I froze and lifted my eyes from the object in my hand. I was surrounded by cops. Four uniformed officers stood around me. Two patrol cars pulled up next to us. The homeless guy was gone.

DEPRESSION IS NOT dramatic, but it is total. It’s sneaky-you almost don’t notice it at first. Like a cat burglar, it comes in through an open window while you’re sleeping. It takes little things at first: your appetite, your desire to return phone calls. Then it comes back for the big stuff, like your will to live.

The next thing you know, your legs are filled with sand. The thought of brushing your teeth fills you with dread, it seems like such an impossible task. Suddenly you’re living your life in black and white-nothing is bright, nothing is pretty anymore. Music sounds tinny and distant. Things you found funny seem dull and off-key.

I was sinking into that hole as I was questioned by homicide detectives at the Midtown North Precinct. I told my half-truth to them, over and over in as many different ways as they wanted me to: I was returning a call from Myra Lyall and found out about her disappearance from Sarah. Sarah asked to meet me. There was a misunderstanding; she thought I could help her find out what happened to Myra. She left the diner when she realized I didn’t know any more than she did. I went after her, feeling bad. I watched her fall to the street. By the time I got to her, she had two gunshot wounds in her chest and was dead. I saw the man who I thought might have shot her running away. I gave chase and found his gun.

If Sarah had saved my message, they’d know there was a bit more to my story than I’d mentioned. But I imagined she would have deleted it, as skittish as she’d seemed.

“So why was Myra Lyall trying to reach you?” said the third guy who’d come in to talk with me. He was older, looked pasty and tired. His belly strained the buttons on his shirt; his gray pants were too short. He’d introduced himself but I’d already forgotten his name. At this point, my depression felt more like apathy.

“I guess for a story she was working on, a profile on Project Rescue babies.”

He looked at me for a second. “That’s where I know your face.”

“That’s right,” I said, yawning in spite of how rude and arrogant it seemed to do so, or maybe because of that. I was so sick of all these cops, playing their stupid games. They all thought they were so savvy, that they knew something about the human condition, that they knew something about me. But they didn’t. They didn’t know the first thing. I’d sat in too many rooms like this since the investigations into Project Rescue began. The process had lost its ability to scare and intimidate me.

The cop kept his eyes on me. They were rimmed red, flat and cold. He was a man who’d seen so much bad, he probably didn’t even recognize good anymore.

“Are you tired, Ms. Jones?”

“You have no idea.”

He gave a little sigh, looked down at his ruined cuticles. Then he looked at me again.

“A girl is dead. Do you care about that at all?”

His question startled me. Of course I cared about that. In fact, if I let myself think on it at all, on my responsibility for what had happened to her, how she was the second person to die in front of me in less than two years, I would crumble into a pile of broken pieces on the floor.

“Of course,” I said softly. The admission brought a pain to my chest and a tightness in my throat. I hoped I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t want to cry. “But I don’t know who killed her or why. I’d only known her for twenty minutes.”