In the front passenger seat of the car, a detective waited for me to finish stuttering. He had introduced himself as Sergeant Harold Hayashida. I remembered Gabe mentioning his name. Gabe thought he was one of the better detectives. When Hayashida arrived ten minutes ago, he looked as though nothing much would excite him, and when he returned from inspecting the body beneath the bridge, he looked more sombre but still not surprised. Beside him, a uniformed patrolman sat at the wheel, writing on a wire-bound pad.

“Okay,” I said one more time. “You’re telling me that this guy, this man under the bridge, you think he committed suicide? By sticking his head on top of that piece of concrete and waiting for the bridge to come down and crush it like an egg?”

“I’m not saying that’s what he did,” Hayashida said. “I’m saying that’s what it looks like he did.”

“How …” I shook my head and started again. “How crazy does somebody have to be to do that?”

“You’d be surprised.” It was the patrolman behind the wheel. All I had seen of him so far was the back of his neck. “Last month, out near Grimsby? Had a guy lie on the railroad track, right in front of the wheel of a boxcar on a freight train waiting for a signal to change.” He twisted to look at me. The back of his neck was his best feature. “Lot of people who live near the tracks, they saw this guy. Couple of them ran out to stop him. Pulled on his legs and everything, but he hung on. Other people tried running up to warn the engineers, but the train was half a mile long, and before they could get there the thing started moving. Took his head off clean as a butcher’s knife.” He turned back to his report.

“I talked to him,” I said. “Or at least, he talked to me. Just before he did it.”

“Did you see him?” Hayashida said. “The man you spoke to?”

“No,” I replied. “I told you I didn’t.”

“So it might have been someone else.” Hayashida turned to Tom Grychuk. “How often are you here?”

Grychuk sounded as though it were an effort to speak. “Six nights a week. Six to midnight, every night except Sunday.”

“You’re sure the man under the bridge is the one you’ve been warning away the last few days?”

Grychuk answered without taking his eyes from the lake or his hand from his chin. “Looked like him. I mean, same shirt, I recognized that. Same size. Not a big guy.”

“You called him Charlie,” I said to Grychuk.

“Called who Charlie?” the detective asked.

“The man. Under the bridge. He called him Charlie. Did you know him?”

Grychuk looked at me as though I had revealed some personal secret about him. “I knew him to see him, that’s all.”

“But you called him Charlie.”

“That’s what I do when I’m pissed off at somebody and I don’t know their name. I call them Charlie.” He looked at Hayashida. “I don’t know his name.”

“What is his name?” I asked the detective. “Who is he?”

Hayashida thought that over for a moment before looking down at his notebook. “The ID in his wallet says he was Wayne Weaver Honeysett. Shows an address on Hutchings Lane—”

“That’s near here,” I said. “Down the beach strip, near Tuffy’s, isn’t it?”

Hayashida nodded. “Somebody’s there now, searching for next of kin.” He looked at Grychuk. “How old would you say this man was, the one you kept chasing away from the bridge support?”

Grychuk shrugged. “Maybe fifty. Around there.”

“Height?”

“Five five, five six.”

“Weight?”

“He was skinny. I’d guess 130 pounds. Maybe less.”

Hayashida nodded. “It fits.” He looked at me. “Does that sound like anyone you know?”

“No,” I answered.

“But he knew you. You said he knew your name, and that he knew what happened to your husband.”

“Maybe he knew who killed Gabe.”

“What happened was, Gabe killed himself.” It was the thick-necked cop.

“That’s what you people think,” I said.

“I’ve seen the report, Mrs. Marshall,” Hayashida said. “In fact, I worked on it myself, the forensics and all. It looks pretty clear.”

“You knew Gabe.”

“Yes, I did. We didn’t work together, but—”

“Do you think he could kill himself like that?”

Hayashida took a deep breath, scratched his head, and smiled without humour. “One thing you get used to in this job is surprise. You get so used to it that after a while, nothing surprises you, if that makes sense.” He looked at me, the smile gone. “But you’re right. Gabe Marshall was maybe the last guy I could imagine killing himself.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for that. Now how about this. You’re saying you believe my husband killed himself less than a week ago, and now this poor man under the bridge, who told me that he knew what really happened to Gabe, because he saw it all, you’re saying he killed himself too?”

“You don’t know it’s him.” It was the uniformed cop behind the wheel, watching me in the rear-view mirror. “You talked to some guy, but you never saw him. Doesn’t mean it’s the one who put his head under the bridge, let it come down on him.”

“Hey,” I said, “I know it was him, and I know he damn well didn’t kill himself. And neither did my husband.”

That was too much for the cop, who had the bulk and attitude of a bear, and he turned and pointed a finger at me as though it were a weapon. “Look, lady,” he said, “you’re gonna have to stop jumping to conclusions and shooting your mouth off about things you know nothing about—”

Hayashida set a hand on the cop’s arm, but not before I exploded at him. “You arrogant bastard! You didn’t see my husband dead on a blanket, you didn’t talk to the guy under the bridge, and you didn’t stumble over a headless body, either. I’ll jump to any conclusion I damn well want to, and I’m not a lady, you prick—I am Gabe Marshall’s widow!”

I demanded that Hayashida open the door for me. I needed to breathe fresh air. Once he did, I walked quickly away from the car, my hands clenched into fists. The cop was saying something to Hayashida about getting me back in the car, but nobody was getting me back into that car, and nobody was going to talk to me that way.

“Mrs. Marshall.” Hayashida had followed me. “I think we’ve got all we need now. Would you like a ride home?”

“No,” I said. “But maybe you can walk with me. It’s only two blocks.”

“YOU LIKE LIVING DOWN HERE?” Hayashida was beside me, walking past the parking lot that had been the amusement park. Flames from the steel companies flared across the bay, and the transport trucks kept rumbling on the high bridges over our heads.

“I love it,” I said. “Gabe loved it too.”

“Some of us couldn’t believe it, about your husband. Cops have been known to do that. What Gabe did, I mean. But it’s usually uniformed guys, younger cops who start drinking too much or let the job get to them. Or older guys who’ve got nothing more to look forward to than a skinny pension. But not a guy like Gabe Marshall.”

“Why not a guy like Gabe Marshall?”

“Because he always seemed, I don’t know. Too grounded, I guess. Relaxed, contented. Liked his work, liked his life. That’s who he was at work. What was he like at home?”

“He was relaxed, contented, liked his work, and liked his life. That’s why he didn’t kill himself.”

“But he did.”

“Bullshit.” I started to cross Beach Boulevard.

“He did, Mrs. Marshall.”

“You can believe it.” Hayashida had fallen behind, and now he was walking briskly to catch up. “The whole damn police force can believe it, but I don’t, and I never will.”

“Mrs. Marshall—”

I had picked up my pace. Hayashida was still behind me. “That man, back there under the bridge, was going to tell me something. I know it. His words scared me so damn much I came home, and when I went back not thirty minutes later, he was dead. And you’re telling me that he killed himself too?”