fifteen
monday, april 21

It took a full five minutes for the conveyor belts to grind to a halt and the employees to congregate on the ground floor of the recycling center.

“This is Detective DeRosa,” Jimmy announced. “And most of you know CeCe.”

Marissa waved to me. Her hair and make-up were impeccable, as always.

“They’re here to ask questions about Bob,” Jimmy said as he hung his head. The plant workers responded in kind with an impromptu moment of silence. “Please do your best to be helpful.” The sea of orange suits dissolved as workers made their way back to their stations. Jimmy handed Frank a plastic Ziploc.

“It’s Bob’s tool kit and his receipt pad. We found it in the pile. It must have fallen out of his pants pocket.”

Frank glanced at me, and I nodded. I recognized the small leather case that held Bob’s tool kit as well as his spiral notepad. Now that Jimmy mentioned it, Bob did always have the pad on him. Periodically, he’d pull it out and jot down notes.

“I don’t think it will help,” Jimmy said. “I paged through it already, just receipts.”

“I’ll take a look at it,” Frank said, accepting the plastic baggie. “We need to talk about the e-waste that comes into the facility.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said as he led us outside to a row of ten Dumpsters lined neatly under a metal overhang. Jimmy unlocked a gate too high to scale, which effectively rendered the containers unreachable by the public. I placed my foot on the bottom rim of the first container and hoisted myself up. It was about half full of electronic products—televisions, phones, screens, computers.

“How does the stuff end up in here?” Frank asked.

“A few ways,” Jimmy said. “A resident can curb it and then call in for a special pick-up on items they can’t lift, like a television. We charge a small fee for scheduled pick-up. Some residents, the cheap ones, drive right up and dump their garbage at no charge. Then we get calls from businesses who are overhauling their equipment. We recommend an independent mover who picks up large loads and drops off here.”

“I’ll need names of the independent haulers,” Frank said.

Jimmy nodded and then continued. “Last, we run a free residential program once a year where we’ll pick up any type of e-waste at your curb.”

“I thought it was more frequent than yearly?” I asked, distinctly remembering carting stuff to the curb with Charlie.

“We used to do it quarterly,” Jimmy responded, “but the scavengers were eating away at our profits.”

Frank dropped his arms and looked up at the sky. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Freegans, Dumpster divers, pickers, day trippers, and now scavengers. Garbage had its own language, and Frank was a non-native speaker.

“I guess I need to ask,” Frank said. “What is a scavenger?”

Jimmy smiled and pointed to a discarded bench. We sat down and listened as Jimmy explained the inner workings of the trash business. “Most garbage can be repurposed, but in the United States, only twenty percent actually gets recycled. It’s a shame, because when you do it right, garbage is a profitable and environmentally sound venture.” Jimmy straightened his back and swept his gangly arms across the recycling center. “I wish we had more of it. When we started twenty years ago, this place was half the size and costing taxpayers a couple of hundred thousand bucks a year. Now, we’re netting over
a million dollars a year through properly sorting, packaging, and redistributing materials.”

“Who did what?” Frank asked.

“Bob watched the market and cut the deals, and I handled the day-to-day.”

Frank folded the cover on his iPad and leaned forward. “Give me an example.”

“Water bottles,” Jimmy responded quickly. “Bob found a manufacturer in Minnesota who turns plastic bottles into polyester fabric. Plastic bottles can be ground down to a flake-like consistency. Those flakes can then be melted into a spaghetti-thin filament.”

I nodded eagerly. “Like thread,” I said. I had heard of this recent innovation in water bottle recycling, and I was happy to discover that Bob and Jimmy were on top of it.

“Exactly,” Jimmy confirmed. “Thread that can be woven into polyester material. Anyway, Bob was a master at staying on top of the next greatest green trend. I worked on my end to streamline the sorting and baling.”

“So what’s a scavenger?”

“Scavengers also watch the market, and they attempt to get to the hot items before the legitimate dealers. They’re low-level middlemen who add another layer of distribution to the system. Our problem was the curbside pickup. Scavengers keep track of municipality recycling schedules. They study the calendars looking for the special pickups—like the quarterly collection of tech items. In the middle of the night, they comb the streets and strip the computers clean. By the time we picked up in the morning there was nothing left to sell.” Jimmy took a deep breath. “It drove Bob crazy. We’d be left with a computer shell.”

“A true non-recyclable,” Frank said.

“Yeah, useless garbage—how’s that for redundant? So now we run the program once a year, and we don’t print the date. We use an automated robo-call two days before pickup. Our yield is lower because residents are caught off-guard, but scavengers also have less time to mobilize.”

“Who do the scavengers sell to?” I asked.

“That’s a bit of a gray area. We’re a public facility. Bob dealt with reputable, large-scale recyclers. Have you ever seen a town purchasing order?”

“Twenty people have to sign to place a three-dollar order for paper clips,” Frank laughed. “But it doesn’t mean that your legitimate recyclers didn’t buy from the scavengers. The town recycling center may have constraints, but the other players don’t.”

“True,” Jimmy said, and then added, “Our red tape creates a window of opportunity for scavengers. Regulations slow us down. Scavengers will work through the night, sell to anyone, no paperwork, all cash.”

“The garbage black market,” Frank said. “As long as there’s a monetary spread and two parties willing to trade, you’ll find a match.”

Jimmy stood and rubbed his hollow cheeks. The rims of his eyes were rheumy with memories. “Bob loved this business. He thought every piece of garbage had a story, and he was happy to listen to people as they unloaded their junk.” Jimmy was silent for a moment, and I could see he wrestled to put Bob’s philosophy into words.

I started to hum a familiar song, quietly at first, but as the tune came back to me, I broke out in a string of la la’s.

Jimmy’s eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost. “That’s Bob’s song,” he said, pointing at me. “He used to whistle that song.”

“Actually, the song belongs to Oscar the Grouch.” I started to sing again, filling in with the words until Jimmy couldn’t help but join me in the chorus of “I Love Trash.”

“Had you heard Bob whistle it?” Jimmy said.

“I did,” I answered. “Bob loved trash because he knew he could give meaning back to people’s items by transforming them into something else.” The inspiration for his dioramas.

Frank stood up and began to pace. I nodded to Jimmy and said, “Give him two minutes. He’s thinking.”

Frank stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, then he tossed his head as if to say I’m not ready. Instead, he shook Jimmy’s hand, signaling the wrap-up. We were preparing to leave when Frank stopped again.

“These containers,” Frank said finally, pointing to the row of e-waste Dumpsters. “How long can you hold what’s in there?”

“As long as you want.”

“Jimmy,” I asked as I looked at the plastic bag Frank held, “did Bob give people a receipt when they dumped their e-waste?”

“Yes. The last three containers are donations that might be useful to nonprofits like churches and preschools. They’ll pick through the stuff and see what they can use. Not everyone needs the latest version. The donations are a write-off for the resident, and Bob gave them a receipt for their efforts.”

Frank looked at the bag and then looked at me. Bob’s notebook wouldn’t get tossed anytime soon.

Before we left, Frank and I toured the recycling center to inquire about the doughy man. We circulated photocopies of my sketch, leaving extra copies in the lunch area. Not a single bite.

“Do you think the workers are afraid?” I asked Frank.

“Hard to say. We’re not even sure the doughy man is involved,” he said. “He may have nothing to do with Bob’s death.” I stared at Frank. Neither of us believed that.

“Now what?” I asked as we made our way to the parking lot with not much more information than when we arrived.

“I keep coming back to Bob’s dioramas,” Frank said. “His art was so …” He trailed off.

“Connected?”

“Yes, and I get the sense Bob knew people. He had to be connected to someone who knows something, and I’m guessing his wife is the best place to start.”

We decided to travel in Bob’s footsteps to see Barbara, walking the same path he took to and from work. After we put a few hundred yards between us and the recycling center, the sound died down,
and the woods enveloped us as we strolled. It was surprisingly quiet and not unpleasant. We walked in silence until I could see the turnoff for Bob’s driveway.

Frank reached for my hand and slowed to a stop. “Who would have thought the grounds of a recycling center could be so romantic?”

I tensed up.

“Is it me?” Frank asked. “Or the smell of garbage?”

“You’re perfect, and you smell delicious,” I said. I gave Frank a perfunctory kiss. “I’m just a little spooked. We do agree that someone pushed Bob?”

“I think that’s what happened on the catwalk.” Frank squeezed my hand and then released it. “We’re fine out here, but maybe it would be better for Barbara if we weren’t hanging all over each other.”

We turned into Bob and Barbara’s driveway, a narrow dirt path lined with bursting lilacs. I wondered if the couple’s plantings had been designed to diffuse the odorous output of their closest neighbor.

From about halfway up the drive, we had a clear shot of the hodgepodge home, which appeared permanently askew. One thing, however, stood out today: the metal front door was wide open.

Frank shoved me to the side and mouthed stay here. He rose up on his toes and trod silently down the driveway toward the side of the house. A lump formed in my throat as I watched Frank feel around his back. I detested guns, but in this instance, it felt appropriate.

I took one giant step sideways and plastered myself to a pine tree. With my nose against the bark, the sap stunk like overmedicated menthol. You can do this, I thought, breathing in and out of my mouth.

A twig snapped behind me. Sounds of the forest, I screamed in my head. Like the cliché, “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?” Well, since I was there, I took my own word for it, because I’d heard it. I tried to find comfort in the fact that I hadn’t lost my hearing. Of course, if you happen to be in the middle of a murder investigation and you’re hiding behind a tree while your boyfriend has his gun drawn, random sounds in the woods will scare the pants off you. As I thought about my pants flying off, I sensed something brush across my leg. I lowered my eyes without moving my head. Not as easy as it sounds.

Bob’s cat had wrapped itself around my leg.

“Good kitty,” I croaked. I tried to blow slowly through pursed lips, like Katrina practicing her birthing exercises. I reached down for the cat, who curled into my arms.

“You scared me,” I said, nuzzling the nape of his neck. The cat’s purring did miracles for my nerves. I peered around the tree and saw Frank waving to me that the coast was clear. I turned to put the cat down and stepped directly into the path of a woman.

My vocal abilities, undiscovered until this moment, lit up the woods like a horror movie soundtrack, sending the cat into a full frenzy of icicle sharp claws. I spun around like a Zumba dancer on speed while the cat did laps up and down my body. In the split second it took to peel the cat off my chest, the woman disappeared.

At a distance, all Frank could see was me as I grasped frantically at my chest. He charged toward me, his gun out.

“Don’t shoot,” I screeched again. The poor cat scrambled back up my body like a scratch post.

“A cat?” Frank’s face registered disbelief. “You’re screaming about a cat?”

I sunk to the ground with the cat shivering in my arms. “No.” My chest heaved uncontrollably. I had to tell Katrina her controlled breathing birth method probably wouldn’t work. I looked up at Frank. “I saw someone.”

Frank knelt on the pine-carpeted ground and placed his steady hands on my shoulders. “Take a deep breath.”

Been there, I thought. I shook my head yes, but my mouth was closed. Maybe that had been my problem.

“Try opening your mouth.”

I stretched my jaw wide and let my lungs fill with air.

“I’m fine,” I whispered faintly as I put the stunned cat down. He whipped his tail and scampered away. Get out while you can, I thought.

“Who did you see?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“I realize that, but can you describe the person?”

I looked up at the blue sky peeking through the bows of arching pine branches. A patch of cottony clouds drifted swiftly by, each one unique, but somehow indistinguishable.

“I can’t see her,” I said slowly. I looked hopelessly at Frank. “I’m drawing a blank.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“You just said ‘her.’ You saw a woman.”

True. It was a woman, but as I explained to Frank again, I couldn’t visualize her face.

“Was her face obscured?”

“No”

“Were you focused on something else?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the cat?”

“Come on, Ce. This doesn’t make sense,” Frank countered. “This is what you do. You memorize people’s faces. If you weren’t looking at her face, what were you looking at?”

I put my hands on my knees and bent over. My stomach rolled, and I thought I might throw up. My rock, my stability, my core—the root of my person was dependent on my ability to truly see faces. I had always had the ability to capture the exact expression that made an individual’s face their own. Yet suddenly, I felt blinded. Just at the moment the woman’s face formed in my mind, it dissolved like an overexposed photograph.

“I can’t see her,” I repeated.

“Why? Did she scare you? Threaten you?”

The one thing I could see was Frank’s face. His brow crumpled and his bottom lip jutted forward. He had lost patience. Sometimes I forgot that solving crimes wasn’t a sideline for him. It was his bread and butter, and now I was just another slow-witted eyewitness.

I didn’t want to disappoint Frank, but my mind was vacant, and I couldn’t even fake a description.

I blinked hard like an old-fashioned slide carousel moving my memory backward with each click of my lids. The cat had been at my feet. I had picked her up, and then I saw Frank signaling me. I remembered a feeling of relief when Frank gave me the thumbs-up. I had taken a step away from the tree and turned toward the road. The woman had been standing about twenty feet away from me, but there was something wrong about the encounter. “Think,” I said as I squeezed my eyes shut. I remembered the cat’s claws digging into me. I must have clutched the cat too hard. But why? I opened my eyes.

The woman had leaned toward me, and as she tilted her head the bright sun over her shoulder filled my visual frame.

Frank shook my shoulders. “Why can’t you see her?”

As my body jerked under Frank’s grasp, I replayed the woman taking a step in my direction, her neck stretched forward, my eyes squinting toward the sky.

“CeCe,” Frank implored. “Why can’t you see her?’

“The sun,” I said. “It was in my eyes.”

“Are you sure?”

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. There was something about the way the woman had tilted her head, as if she wanted to ask me a question, that struck me.

“I don’t know,” I said as I shook my head. “I’m so used to looking at people, and it seemed as if she was looking at me. It was,” I confessed, “confusing.”

Frank loosened his grip on my shoulders. “Listen carefully before you answer. Did you look away because of the sun or was it something about her face?”

I searched for an answer.

Frank scratched his noontime beard. “You need a break, CeCe.”

“No, I don’t.” I raised my voice with each syllable.

“Look, you’re not a trained officer. I think I’m pushing you too hard.” Frank stood up and began a useless pace around the woods, as if the woman would suddenly materialize from behind a tree with all the information we needed to solve the crime. “It’s a shock, and it’s not uncommon when a witness experiences fear.” Frank sighed. “Did you get a chance to see her pants?”

At first I thought Frank was joking, and then a vision popped into my head. “Actually”—I grimaced—“I think she was wearing skinny jeans.”

“Let’s leave it at that,” Frank said. “I want you to step back from the case for a few days, maybe a week.”

“A week?” I moaned.

He rubbed my head as if I had a boo-boo. “Take a break, relax, and give your memory a chance to surface.”

“What am I going to do for a whole week?”

Frank laughed. He knew I didn’t do a whole lot of anything. “You can help Katrina get ready for the baby.”