The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 2

At the front curb, Detective Mitch Tarpick steered his sedan behind a police cruiser and parked.

A uniformed officer resting against the fender of the police car tilted his head back and blew a gentle stream of cigarette smoke toward the sky.

Tarpick slammed the door behind him as he exited the sedan. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk, a case file under his arm, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

"What's the problem, Mitch?" asked his partner, Detective Frazier Stoudemire.

"What's next?" Tarpick grumbled. "Pick up the dry cleaning for the folks at the senior center? Maybe help them unpack their groceries?"

"Huh?" Stoudemire said.

"An old man takes a tumble down a flight of stairs and they call in police detectives? It's undignified," snorted Tarpick.

"It's kind of our job," Stoudemire replied, which earned him a cutting glare.

Detective Mitch Tarpick took another sip of his cold coffee. Stoudemire knew his partner's coffee was cold. You didn't need to be a detective to deduce that. It had been almost three hours since they'd exited the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and Styrofoam can do only so much.

Tarpick set his coffee on the roof of the sedan and then straightened, shoulders back with an audible crack of his vertebrae. "Come on, Frazier. Let's get this over with." He gestured with his folder. "So we can get back to real police work."

His partner followed him toward an old three-story brick structure that seemed to be leaning back on its heels or whatever the fancy architectural term was for the building's heels. In all probability, buildings don't have heels but maybe they should.

The cop dropped his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and mashed it with the toe of his polished shoe. "They're in there." The cop gestured with a nod. "Should be wrapping it up as soon as the ME gets here to bag the body."

Tarpick sighed heavily. "Do I look like I need a refresher course on standard police procedure?"

Stoudemire winced while following his partner up the stairs to the front porch. He thought he heard the cop at the car mutter, "Asshole." Perhaps he said something about a lasso but Stoudemire doubted it. Cowboy talk was seldom if ever discussed among the detectives and the police officers at the precinct. As far as he knew, Cincinnati wasn't a popular destination for cattle drives.

In the entryway, the detectives found a police photographer busily snapping away, her hair secured in a tight ponytail.  Officer Delvin Ott closed the notepad in his big hands and shoved it into his pocket. 

"What did I tell you?" Tarpick gestured toward the corpse.

Stoudemire peered over his partner's shoulder at the deceased.

A skinny girl in baggy jeans and an oversized hoodie quietly descended the staircase and sat on the fifth step.

Ms. Brennan glanced at the skinny girl and said, "Goodness me. Here comes that chatterbox." She retreated into her apartment and closed the door.

The girl slowly sucked in a slow breath between her teeth as she surveyed the entryway.

"You got nothing better to do, kid?" Tarpick said.

"Nope," she replied and studied the scene.

"Well, go find something better to do."

"Oh, geez," she said softly. "Hassled by the man."

"Go on. Scram!" Tarpick raised his voice.

"This is where I sit," she said.

"Not today you don't."

Without taking her eyes from the corpse she said, "There's no laws against sitting on steps, is there? Not in your own building right where you live."

The police photographer looked from the detective to the girl.

"Don't take my picture. I don't like people taking my picture." She pulled her hoodie strings tight. A small oval of her pale freckled face peered out from inside the hood.

Stoudemire noticed her right foot tapping against the stair tread.

"You know this guy?" Tarpick asked.

She nodded and then began speaking but her words were trapped in the fabric of her hood.

"I can't understand what you're saying with that thing over your face."

She loosened the drawstrings, emerged from the hood, and said, "Mister Frederick Gibbs. He lived right up there." She pointed toward the second floor.

Officer Ott retrieved his notepad for confirmation. "Frederick Gibbs. That's what I got from the first-floor resident, Margery Brennan."

"He was nice," said the girl on the fifth step. "He didn't deserve to be murdered."

"Murdered?" Tarpick chuckled. "You have quite an imagination there, young lady. Let's not start spreading wild conspiracy theories. The old guy came out of his apartment and, like a lot of seniors, probably lost his balance, and took a fall down the stairs. End of story."

"Geez, detective," she said. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Who says I'm a detective?" asked Tarpick.

The girl rolled her eyes. "It's obvious he didn't just lose his balance and fall down the stairs," she said, hunching forward, elbows on her knees.

"It's obvious?" Tarpick grinned. "Is that so?"

"He's lying on his back," she said simply. "If he'd fallen from up here, he would have landed face-down."

Stoudemire raised an eyebrow. Delvin Ott and the photographer exchanged quizzical glances.

"Kid, let me tell you something, Tarpick said. "I've seen people land in the most unusual poses you can possibly imagine after taking a fall."

"But if he fell coming down the stairs from up there, how come there aren't any cuts or bruises on his face? That doesn't even make sense."

Stoudemire's jaw fell open.

"Forensics deals with that sort of thing," Tarpick grumbled. "I'm not in the business of examining bodies."

"Oh, geez. Don't good detectives examine everything at a crime scene?"

Tarpick's rising blood pressure could be heard in his raspy voice. "First, you should never let your imagination run wild." He pointed a stern finger. "And second, this is likely an accident scene, not a crime scene."

"That's just not true," she said.

"Disagree all you want, missie. My opinion is the one that matters. Do us all a big favor and keep your opinions to yourself and stop interfering with official police business. Now shush your mush."

"Oh, geez." She sighed.

Frazier couldn't help but think that the officer parked outside had correctly assessed his partner, Tarpick. The man didn't even have to try. Being an asshole seemed to come naturally to him.