Free The Blood On Our Hands by Jonah Ellersby Page B

a half empty pack. He ignited the tip with a disposable lighter and momentarily contemplated the flame.
    Inhaling deeply, he said, “Where’s Sara?”
    “Not here,” Dojcsak replied as if it should be obvious.
    “So, what’s the plan, my man?”
    Dojcsak shrugged. “We do our duty; we investigate the crime.” He spread coffee from a pre-measured packet to cover the filter he’d carefully placed in the basket of the coffee maker.
    “You’re not an experienced investigator, Ed; might be easier said than done.”
    Dismissing Burke’s skepticism, Dojcsak replied, “Our only responsibility is to the victim; to assemble facts and to determine motive, opportunity and means. That’s simple enough. How the State—or the good Lord for that matter—interpret and apply the evidence we collect is a matter for their conscience, not ours.”
    Unconvinced, Burke replied, “Haven’t got much to go on.”
    “It’s a small town, Christopher. How many child killers can there possibly be?”
    Burke agreed. Through a cloud of smoke he quoted Seamus Mcteer: “The possibilities are limited.”
    Coffee was ready. Dojcsak extracted two large mugs from an overhead cupboard, pouring for both Burke and himself. Burke ignited a second cigarette from the remains of the first.
    “You said last night you joined the police to be a policeman. Here’s your chance. Be a policeman. If you’re concerned with the larger issues, you should have studied law.”
    “It’s not the larger issues keeping me up at night, Ed, it’s my wife, and not in a way I appreciate. In another two months,” he lamented, “it will be the kid.”
    With an audible sigh, Dojcsak said, “I’m not an experienced investigator Christopher, but I do know that in a murder investigation the evidence that results in the apprehension and conviction of a suspect is usually gathered within the first twenty-four hours of the crime.”
    “ CSI? ” Burke asked.
    “ Colombo ,” Dojcsak said, eyeing a wall-mounted clock, “and in the case of Missy Bitson, we’ve squandered half our opportunity already.”
    Needing no further encouragement, Burke scrambled from the cot. Without thanking Dojcsak for coffee, he made for the bathroom to shower and to shave.
     
    …
     
    Dojcsak sat erect, back stiff in the functional but uncomfortable wood chair behind his desk, coffee mug in one large fist, telephone receiver in the other, cigarette burning from tobacco to ash in the ceramic ashtray by his elbow. The ashtray had been a gift from his daughter, Jenny, inscribed with her initials and the greeting, “Merry Christmas Daddy, 1990”, her fourth and perhaps—to the girl—final happy Christmas. Shortly thereafter, Luba had been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, the parent’s reinforced devotion to the youngest child cheating the eldest of what consideration they had to spare.
    For Edward and Rena Dojcsak, Luba’s illness had devoured Jenny’s brilliance as a black hole might a star.
    Sunlight filtered like yellow ribbon through the smudged glass panel of the six-pane window. Airborne particles of dust and debris wandered restlessly in and out of the shaft, invisible one moment; exposed like guilty schoolchildren the next. The sun glittered from the glazed surface of the colorful ashtray. Intended originally as a candy dish but Dojcsak partial to tobacco rather than to sweets, he ultimately utilized the memento as a receptacle to accommodate his most filthy habit. On her rare and infrequent visits to the station, Jenny said nothing to discourage her father’s ill-considered treatment of the keepsake, but her expression on seeing it for the first time being used this way suggested she thought it lamentable.
    The air was heavy in the small office, musty and close like the smell of old socks; too early in the season yet to open windows and to take advantage of the refreshing and premature spring breeze? With the boiler conspiring mysteriously with an imperfect thermostat to