Washington Masquerade Read Free Page B

who never said
fuck
and who avoided using the ghetto slang endemic among his colleagues. He knew it, of course, but resisted its use, unlike Fiona, who had mastered the idiom and could haul it out when required. Fiona wasn’t certain he would make a good partner and was leaving that verdict open. They were now in the honeymoon period of the bonding process.
    ***
    The police had cordoned off the entrances to the subway station and kept frustrated commuters at bay, much to their noisy chagrin. The victim was a male. One car of the train had passed over his torso, which lay in a pool of blood, and his glasses had been smashed.
    Fiona and Izzy did a cursory inspection of the body, reaching into his pockets. They were startled to find no evidence of identity, no wallet, no keys, just a non–rush hour subway ticket to exit some station down the line and two hundred dollars of folding money. The platform on which the man had stood was heading north, and the ticket indicated the distance that the man had planned to travel: enough fare for the end of the line.
    His face, frozen in an expression of baffled surprise, looked vaguely familiar, but Fiona couldn’t place him. A closer inspection revealed that his moustache was pasted on, which startled her, but she left it in place, pending the medical examiner’s inspection. His body was a bloody mess, but the head was clearly identifiable.
    They determined that the man had jumped, fallen, or been pushed, at about two fifteen in the afternoon, which was when the train headed into the station. There were no signs of scuff marks at the edge of the platform that could have indicated a struggle. A small, wizened old lady was the only witness. She had seen his body fall from, as she put it, “the corner of her eye.”
    â€œIt happened so fast,” she kept saying.
    Since headquarters was close by, they had arrived swiftly, just a few minutes behind the uniforms who were quick to corral the few people who remained on the platform as potential witnesses. It was an off-peak time on the subway system, and although the crowd was sparse, the event had happened at the extreme end of the station where only the first car had gone over the body.
    The train operator, who was merely a live backup for a computer-operated system, said he was not certain he saw the man fall, not that he could have stopped the train in time. He was a youngish black man, very nervous and upset. His lips trembled as he spoke, and his eyelids blinked repetitively.
    â€œWe were just pulling in, slowing down. We were no more than fifteen feet from stopping. I didn’t see him until he passed in front of the cab. This is awful. It’s never happened to me.” He brought a trembling hand to his face and shook his head. “The thought of it….”
    â€œDid you see his face, his expression?” Fiona asked.
    â€œAll I saw was a blob right in front of me. It happened so damned fast. There was no warning, damn it. There he was, this person falling. Unfortunately, you can’t stop these big babies on a dime.”
    He shook his head in genuine despair. Fiona noted that he was sweating and breathing heavily, a certain candidate for posttraumatic stress disorder.
    â€œNever happened before. I wish there was something I could have done.”
    â€œDon’t blame yourself,” Izzy said.
    â€œWhy would someone choose such a terrible way to die?” the young man mused. “I jumped down to see.” He shook his head vigorously. “Blood everywhere. I’ll see this in my mind forever. If only… but, you see, there was nothing I could do.”
    â€œAnd you saw nothing else, just the man falling? A blob, you said.”
    â€œThis moving lump.”
    â€œDid you see his face? Hands? A detail of clothing?”
    â€œOnly this falling object. Like… it just fell in front of the car.”
    â€œDid anything catch your eye, arrest your attention on the