seven

I hustled after Frank, who hustled after Jimmy, who sprinted toward a plastic-framed container the size of a washing machine. The plastic box was suspended from the ceiling and attached to a conveyer belt on both ends. An industrial-size hose entered from the left side. Jimmy flicked the machine on and air swirled through the box, lifting pieces of garbage up like a popcorn maker.

Jimmy studied the doll’s head and punched numbers into an electronic pad mounted on the back of the machine.

“What are you doing?” Frank asked.

“It’s an optical sorter. The machine can identify recyclables based on their composition of the polymers,” Jimmy said. An infrared beam shot across the interior and Jimmy entered a few more numbers. “Dolls from this decade have a particular resin combination that is relatively unique and easy to match. Bob uses the machine for that sometimes.” Jimmy stepped back and watched as electromagnetic flames whipped through the items. A hunk of molten plastic shot out the bottom like a gumball dispenser. “People throw out garbage in batches. It’s possible someone discarded a box full of doll parts and Bob spotted them in the …” Jimmy’s voice cracked as he continued his thought. “I’m not saying Bob would risk his life for one doll part, but a box of parts? Who knows? If Bob fell trying to get the parts off the pile, the machine will pick up the loose pieces. They’re lightweight, more likely to stay on the surface. But if Bob struggled in the pile while he was searching …”

Frank hadn’t met Big Bob, but I’m sure he realized that, given the man’s nickname, Bob’s size would act as an anchor and draw him farther into the pile. If he had struggled, as Jimmy suggested, it would have been like swimming in quicksand. Doll parts on the surface of the pile might indicate Bob below.

“How quickly does the garbage move from this pile to the sorter?” Frank asked Jimmy.

“The machines don’t run at night. Its noon now and we’ve been at it since about eight a.m. We’ll go through half the pile today,” Jimmy said, and then stopped. “He’s not in the sorter, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sorter is designed to move smaller items.”

I let my breath out slowly. Small favors for a big man, I thought.

“But you think Bob might have fallen off the catwalk looking for doll parts?” Frank asked.

Jimmy shrugged, helpless. “You got another theory?”

I sucked on my finger to stanch the flow of blood.

Frank frowned and pulled me to the side. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered. “Understood?”

I nodded. It was smart of Jimmy to check if the doll was vintage, but I knew Bob wasn’t looking for doll parts; he already had the doll parts I had given him. They were in his pocket when he fell and most likely spilled out after. Bob hadn’t climbed onto or into the pile looking for anything. Yes, he was a crazy collector of junk, a builder of outrageously bizarre art pieces, and a champion of the Freegan lifestyle, but Bob wasn’t nuts enough to tackle a garbage mound to score a tiny doll part. Unlike me, who had just free-fallen into a mound of garbage, Bob was a civil servant who took his job and the safety regulations seriously. If Bob was under this pile, it wasn’t on purpose.

The problem was that if he was in the pile, he’d been there overnight.

I was trying to erase that thought from my mind when I noticed the door to the women’s bathroom was open an inch. An orange-suited picker waved to me through the crack. It was Marissa, the same woman who had collected the bag of glass jars for me. She frequented the farmers’ markets around town, and I had bumped into her once or twice at the Salvation Army sifting through the children’s clothing. She must have seen me cut my finger. Maybe she’s got a Band-Aid, I thought as I made my way to the bathroom.

“Hey, Marissa, thanks for the jars,” I said. “Do you have a Band-Aid for me?”

“I see Bob yesterday,” Marissa said quietly. Her lips were dry but coated with a fresh skim of lipstick. In fact, her whole face was meticulously made up. The lowered zipper on her orange suit revealed a colorful silk blouse underneath. The contradiction struck me, in a good way. Work was important to Marissa, even if the work was sorting garbage.

“Okay,” I said. I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind us. I instinctively peered under the stalls and then nodded to Marissa.

“I see Mr. Bob after my shift yesterday.”

“As you were leaving?”

“No, I forget my pocketbook. I come back.”

I sensed a tinge of anxiety from Marissa. “Are you not allowed back after a shift?”

“Safety regulations.” She wagged her finger. “No one come in after hours.”

“But you came in, and you saw Bob?”

“Yes, he talking to a man.” Marissa scrunched her brow. “Mad.”

I suspected as much. We weren’t digging through garbage for nothing.

“I leave quick and run down the driveway,” Marissa said. She licked her stained lips. “I see a woman too. She running.”

A woman? Marissa’s information caught me off-guard. There were trails in the surrounding woods, but it would be an odd choice for a jog considering the recycling center attracted rats. “Was she wearing running clothes?”

“No, she wear jeans.” Marissa leaned over and gripped her calves. “Tight, here.”

A phone trilled, echoing off the ceramic walls. I jumped. It was my phone.

“Katrina’s in labor,” Charlie’s voice burst out. “We’re heading to the hospital.””

“What?” My reality shifted 180 degrees. “Is there a complication?”

“Yeah, the complication is I’m the only one home.” Charlie wasn’t pleased. “Kat’s midwife, Vicky, is delivering another baby.”

“Call Dr. Grovit,” I said. Dr. Grovit was pushing eighty, but he’d been my family doctor since the beginning of time. Even in semi-retirement, Dr. Grovit always seemed happy to help the Prentice clan, which now included my uninsured housemates. “Tell Katrina to hold tight.”

I hung up and searched Marissa’s face. This woman was scared. I took Marissa by the elbow and opened the bathroom door. “It’s all good. I need you to tell Detective DeRosa what you told me.”

“I no tell,” Marissa said.

Be nice. Be calm, I thought. I loosened my grip on Marissa and ran through some options in my head. I couldn’t shake the image of the bulging mountain of garbage. The thought caused my brain to hopscotch back to Katrina’s impending delivery.

“Tell Detective DeRosa you came back for your phone, but then you found it in your bag. Tell him you never entered the plant.” I forced a smile. “Can you do that? For Bob?

“I do that.”

We walked, arms linked like young girls, toward the catwalk. Frank had cordoned off the damaged section.

“Frank,” I said, “this is Marissa. She thought she left her phone here yesterday.”

“When I come back,” Marissa said, tag teaming my lie, “I still standing outside, and I see Mr. Bob.”

I took a half step back, literally handing Marissa off to Frank. “My sketchbook is in the car.”

I ran at full stride back to the parking lot. Memory is fleeting. The faster I got back to Marissa, the better the sketches would be. She mentioned two unidentified people: an angry man and a running woman. I felt the details slipping away as the seconds passed. I dug into my pants’ pockets for my keys when a man’s voice cried out, followed by shouting in Spanish. Another alarm blared, but it wasn’t the signal for danger I’d heard earlier when I dove into the garbage. This was faster, more frenetic, with an urgency that felt like a punching bag. Ignoring the alarm, I continued to my car.

My phone rang again.

Charlie, I don’t have time for a baby, I thought. Please figure this out yourself. The phone continued to trill while the alarm blared. Dismissing both sounds, I focused my attention on retrieving the sketchbook. I pulled it from the side pocket of the car door and jogged back into the warehouse just as four straining men pulled a body from the heap.

Oh Bob.

I kept my distance, but still, I could see the damage the garbage had inflicted. Bob’s clothes were torn and his exposed flesh, like my finger, was covered in sharp nicks. I noticed one particularly deep gash in his neck before turning away.

The alarm died as suddenly as it had started. In the new silence, I stepped quietly to the side and dialed Charlie back as I walked a circuitous route around the pile to find Marissa and Frank.

“Hey,” I said, wearily, hoping Charlie had made a proactive decision concerning Katrina.

“We’re almost there,” Charlie said, referring to the hospital. “Grovit will see Katrina in his office.”

I sighed in relief. Even if Katrina was truly in labor, it wasn’t as if I was delivering the baby. She’d be in good hands with Dr. Grovit, and my hands would be more useful transferring Marissa’s visuals to lead on paper.

I heard an approaching ambulance, but from the look of Bob, a hearse seemed more appropriate.

“Gimme an hour,” I said to Charlie. I was a fast sketch, and I sensed, given Marissa’s attention to detail, that her information would come quickly. “I’ll check in with Dr. Grovit when I get to the hospital,” I said and then hung up.