twenty-three
saturday, april 26

As expected, the lobby of the local police station at 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning was dead. Except for a down-and-out fisherman who had gotten drunk and drowned in the shallow bay a few years back, suspicious deaths were not a major issue in Cold Spring Harbor. With the high concentration of wealth, the town had its fair share of robberies, but those typically occurred on weekend nights and during major holidays when the wealthy traveled. Inevitably each year, the jet-setting crew returned home to discover their recently purchased cruise wear, neatly folded in their Coach suitcases, was the only clothing they had left.

It wasn’t lost on me that I was connected to two local murders that had broken a kill-free stretch of over a century. Home values, thanks to me, had probably plummeted in the last twelve months, leaving my neighbors’ investments underwater and my name quietly removed from any social register that hadn’t banished me years ago.

I looked around the empty stationhouse. Since I was accounted for, the chance of a crime occurring was next to nothing. There was one man sitting on a bench reading the local paper, and he looked like he might have stopped by for the complimentary coffee.

“Jimmy?” I said as a face appeared over the newspaper. Missing was Jimmy’s one-piece recycling center coverall and hard hat. I realized I had never seen him outside the recycling center, and it irked me that a change of clothing was enough to alter his appearance beyond recognition. I stared at him a little bit too long, causing him to shift awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t recognize you in street clothes.”

“People see what they expect to see,” he replied, rising to shake my hand. “Even if Bob had lost a hundred pounds, he still would have been a fat guy, you know?”

In fact, I knew exactly what Jimmy meant. Seeing isn’t a function of the eyes. Our brains tend to interpret or distort information in a way that makes us comfortable. We see what we want to see or what others have told us to expect.

“I’m going to remember that,” I said as I watched Frank approach us. Frank’s gait had purpose, and although he rarely seemed to be in a rush, you could tell he never wasted a minute.

“Thanks for coming in,” he said, leading us down the hall toward his office.

Charlie was already seated at Frank’s round table, and I took his attendance as a good sign. Given Charlie’s technological expertise, it meant Frank’s primary interest was e-waste, not Bob’s supposed drug problem. I came to that conclusion having taken Cheski’s comments to heart—focus on the facts.

“I didn’t want to meet at the recycling center, and I think you’ll soon see why,” Frank said, and turned to Jimmy. “Obviously, I’ve got waste-related questions so I’m going to jump right in. When was the last time the recycling center ran a printed e-waste take-back program?” Frank asked.

“Maybe two years ago,” Jimmy replied.

“So these scavengers you told us about must be pretty hungry,” Frank concluded. “Assuming the scavengers are still in the business of mining free garbage, the recycling center curbside programs were potentially one of their bigger suppliers.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said. “We were easy money for them. We did the advertising, and they received the profits. I imagine they’ve got other sources now, but they probably have to work much harder for it.”

“How long do you think a scavenger holds on to e-waste before it’s sold?”

“Small-time players get in and out fast,” Jimmy said. “It’s strictly quick money. I’m assuming scavengers move the product by the next day, maybe even that night.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” Frank said, and then he proceeded to outline a very clever plan.

“The minute an item is deemed to have value,” Frank explained, “a ski jacket, designer sneakers or an iPod—the door has been opened for crime. Even crimes that don’t involve a tangible object involve the concept of value. The taking of a life, for example, or a person’s dignity, in the case of a rape, is essentially the taking of value. What I’ve learned from the people at this table is that garbage, while useless to most of us, has value to some people.” Frank let us sit on this point, but we didn’t need any encouragement. With two Freegans in the room and the guy that now ran the recycling center, he was preaching to the choir. If anything, Frank was late to this game. We nodded in patient unison.

“Our gap in this investigation is that we haven’t identified all the players who deem garbage valuable.”

“Until it’s not,” Charlie said.

“True,” Frank said. “With value comes risk, as objects can lose value due to external events. With risk comes the potential for loss or great profits. Either outcome is a motivator for crime. To create a list of suspects, we need to identify anyone who thinks garbage has value. We know the local recycling center is a legitimate player. However, we need a way to uncover all the related parties.”

“But at this point, would these players raise their hand to identify themselves, if they knew a murder investigation that involved garbage was underway?” I said.

“That’s what got me thinking,” Frank said. “CeCe, yesterday you hypothesized that Harry paid to unload the warehouse in an attempt to avoid an association with Bob. It’s possible other players in the world of e-waste have tried to lay low.”

I nodded.

“We also discussed the fact that maybe not everyone knows Bob is dead.”

“I’m a little lost,” Jimmy responded. “But I’m guessing you’ve got a plan to bring these parties to the forefront?”

Frank’s mouth curled slyly. “Oh, I’ve got a plan,” he said, as he rose proudly and walked to the white board mounted on his office wall. Using colorful magnets, he tacked up a detailed street map of the town.

“We’re going to bait the players,” Frank said, “with something of value by staging an e-waste sting. Within the week, the recycling center is going to run a traditional curbside take-back program.”

“Damn, this is good,” Charlie said, nodding as his mind raced ahead. “We’re going to fill the streets with recyclables, draw out the scavengers, and follow them. It’s like a drug bust where the police ignore the small-timers but use them to find the kingpin.”

“Yup,” Frank replied with an extra air of confidence. “And, we’re going to lace this garbage with whatever you tell me is highly sellable right now,” he said to Charlie.

“I wondered why I was here,” Charlie said as he rubbed his hands together conspiratorially.

Frank wrote a to-do list on the board. “Charlie, those leftover computers in the warehouse. We can use those as plants, right?”

“Can do,” Charlie said. “We can also curb whatever the recycling center hasn’t processed yet.”

“And Jimmy,” Frank continued. “The reason you’re here is that you’ve got to make this look real. The center’s employees can’t suspect this is a setup. We’ll map out a controlled area for pickup—a designated neighborhood where you think homeowners will actively participate. You’ll need to set up a robo-call, but more importantly we’ll need to post print ads. We can even run an ad in the local newspaper. The most important thing is that this needs to look legitimate.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“I’m hoping your dark-haired lady makes an appearance,” Frank said. “And I’m hoping your night vision is working.”

Right, my night vision. My “seeing” ability. This was a real job, and I had to get my head together.

“It’s Saturday. Bob has been dead a week and a day,” Frank said. “Can we pull this off by Thursday?”

Charlie and Jimmy agreed to the deadline.

I raised my hand. “That’s Katrina’s due date.”

Frank’s face registered exasperation. “Babies either come early or late but never on their expected due date. In the meantime”—he glanced at his watch—“you and I have a date.”

“We do?” I said.