Page 12 of Fragments of the Past

“Dhere’s a few tings Chadham said that I’m foddowing up on. I need to ged on id.”

I have better things to occupy my time than shooting the shit. Plus, whenever I open my mouth, my fat tongue and puffy lips have me slurring my words. I sound like a bumbling buffoon.

Chaim, who carried most of the conversation, chuckles at my speech. “Hope that novocaine wears off soon, man.”

“Thdanks. Me tdoo.” I turn to go.

“Wife’s out of town. Wanna get dinner tonight? Liquid. If you can manage,” Chaim calls. “Mark-39 introduced a new beer.”

After the day I’ve had, a cold beer with a buddy sounds too good to be true. I also hope to have full use of my lips again by dinnertime and not dribble all over myself when I drink. I’m in.

I nod a hello to the people I pass in the hall, sit down at my desk, and sort through the notes I took from Rae Lee’s reading at the Turners’.

I start where the likelihood of finding something concrete to go on is highest. Using my computer to search local parks, I get ten pages’ worth of hits in Brighton and surrounding jurisdictions. Most of them are within the radius of the Pruitt farmland. I’ll fan out if I need to expand the search as far as the capital.

I switch to satellite view. One by one, I zoom in and drag the screen around the perimeter of each playground to get an idea of the size, checking for the potential of anything hidden that I’d need to go investigate on foot. Then I move to the center of the park, looking for sidewalks or water features similar to what Rae Lee described.

Checking the first page of hits off my list takes me an hour. So far, I have one park where the trees obscured the view and the aspect on the street view hadn’t stretched to show me what I needed to rule it out. I click to page two and continue.

The next park is oblong. It’s within a stone’s throw of an elementary school. Lush green pines circle out, surrounding a soccer field. Directly across the street is a baseball diamond. There’s an entrance for a parking lot. But there’s also a sidewalk that takes anyone there for recreation up to the playground equipment. It looks like there might be a second entrance I can’t see through the foliage.

I drop my virtual self on the striped crosswalk. The avatar’s view faces the baseball diamond. There’s a pole for a solar-powered pedestrian crossing with a bucket of bright orange flags attached.

I click the right arrow on the screen. I see a school zone speed limit sign. There are no stoplights within the horizon. A large city park sign shows the turn into the parking lot. Then the sidewalk on the park side of the street seems closer. Slowly, I scroll farther to the right… And I can’t believe my eyes.

I jump out of my seat so quickly that I bang the front of my thighs against the desk drawer.

Twenty minutes later, I pull my car into the lot. Rushing to the main entrance, incredulous at what I’m seeing. The street sidewalk is from side to side. The painted crosswalk lines merge with a path straight into the park. A few feet beyond where the two intersect is a wishing well that’s about five feet in diameter and three feet tall. It’s surrounded by a circular walkway. The water is shallow and still. A handful of pennies and nickels are scattered on the chipped blue bottom. It wouldn’t surprise me if younger kids fed the well and the older ones took from it.

Does calling life as I see it make me jaded?

Parked off to the side of the walkway is a white two-seater utility vehicle with Town of Brighton Parks and Recreation splashed over the hood. Next to it is a dry-vac style pump with a corrugated tube snaking toward the well and an orange outdoor extension cord running the opposite way.

There’s a tug on the extension cord. Seconds later, an older fellow in tidy coveralls pokes out. The shade doesn’t hide the deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes that he’s earned from laboring in the sun. He has a white goatee and a pot belly concealed by his height and his uniform.

I approach him slowly, indicating I’ve read the name embroidered on his badge. “Morris?” I show him mine. “Detective Ames.” I biff the S. “Sorry, root canal.”

“I hear ya, boy. Had one of them myself. Just talk slow.” He looks to see if anyone is around. “Be like me. PretendIdon’t talk slow.” He winks, tossing his head back with a raspy chuckle.

I’d classify Morris as a bit jaded, but his overall demeanor is jovial.

“I’m investigating a case. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

Carefree, Morris’s pearly whites beam from ear to ear. He grunts his approval, slipping his hands into his pockets, and rocks back on his heels.

I speak slower, like he instructed me to. “You do the maintenance here?”

“I take care of this one and a few others.”

“What can you tell me about the park?”

“Ain’t much different from any other ol’ park. Greenway. Playground. Field. Trees. Houses now all around it. ‘Sides this backbreaker, they’re all pretty much the same.”

“You don’t like wishing wells?”

“They never shoulda put this here. Stupidest place for a water feature ever, if ya ask me. It ain’t even got anything to keep it full or the water circulating. And cleaning it is something awful. Bird poop. Kids leaving stuff in it. Gum. Candy wrappers. Food Wrappers. Sometimes worse.” Morris scrunches his nose. Experience has made him jaded, too. “I don’t know whose bright idea it was. But it wasn’t mine.”

I take Morris to be efficient: a no-nonsense type of guy.

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