He returned to the chair. “Do you remember me? It’s been a long time.”
I nodded. “You were at the funeral. You and a woman.”
He seemed surprised I saw him there. “That was my partner, Detective Fogel. That’s not what I meant, though. I spoke to you when you were a kid. About Andy Flack. Do you remember?”
Again, I nodded. “Detective Brier.”
“How do you feel? Are you in pain? I can get a nurse. They’ll give you something.”
I wasn’t. I wasn’t in any pain.
I shook my head.
A paper sack sat beside the detective’s chair. He pulled it between his feet, unfolded the top, and reached inside. His hand came out holding my Steelers sweatshirt. He set it on bed, smoothing the material. He reached back inside and pulled out my jeans, set those beside the sweatshirt.
There was little left of either.
The clothing had been cut off me, now ruined.
What remained of the material was charred, riddled with dozens of holes, the edges of which were burned, the material melted.
Without looking up from the clothing, the detective said, “We pulled clothes from some of the bodies in the diner that didn’t look this bad.”
He slipped a finger through a hole in the sweatshirt, nearly six inches in diameter, the material cracked and flaked at the edges, small pieces raining on the bedsheets. “The fire destroyed your clothes, yet the doctor said you don’t have a single scratch on you. Not one. No burns, no bruises. Nothing. We have witnesses that say you ran inside that place not once, but twice. Pulled people out. Your friend, Duncan Bellino. Your boss. You were inside when the propane tanks blew.”
I said nothing.
“Your hair isn’t even singed.”
I said nothing.
“You should be dead.”
My eyes fell on the back pocket of my jeans.
The detective followed my gaze. I looked away.
He reached back into the bag, pulled out the letter, set it on top of my jeans, still in the envelope. “Interesting letter. Mind if I ask where you got it?”
I remained silent.
“I shouldn’t have read it, I know. None of my business, really. All these years as a cop, though, makes you nosy. Couldn’t help myself, and itwasopen. Thought maybe I’d find an emergency contact listed or something.”
Bullshit.
Brier ran a finger over the edge of the envelope. “Eddie and Katy, that’s your parents, right?”
“Where’s Gerdy?”
The detective frowned. “She’s dead, son.”
“I know that. Where’s her body? I want to see her.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” His gaze never left the envelope. “The letter, it’s old. Dated 1978. Long time ago.”
“What about Dunk? Is he…”
“Surgery. He took a bullet in the shoulder, another in his chest—cracked three ribs, that one did. A third bullet got him in the gut. Two more in his left leg. He should probably be dead too, but he seems tough, might pull through, might not. Owes you his life if he does, that’s for sure. Then again, the explosion didn’t hurt you. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt him, either.” Eyes still on the envelope. “Who is Richard Nettleton?”
