The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 3

Tarpick conferred with Officer Ott while his partner, Detective Frazier Stoudemire offered a warm smile to the girl on the stairs. To borrow a phrase from the first-floor tenant, Ms. Margery Brennan, it was unnerving. The girl in the hoodie looked directly at him and yet didn't acknowledge his smile with one of her own, or a little wave, a wink, or any confirmation. She sat there on the fifth step, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her sneakers bouncing ever so slightly on the stair.

Tarpick glanced up at her. "The show's over, girlie."

"Oh, geez," she said. "If we had a dog, this would have never happened. Statistically, perpetrators are far less likely to commit crimes in environments where dogs are present. Barking dogs are as intimidating as security systems. Isn't that right, detectives?"

"I don't compile dog statistics," Tarpick snapped.

Stoudemire said, "It makes sense when you think about it."

"I begged my aunt for a dog for years and she says no dogs are allowed in these apartments. It's against the rules. What rules? I've never seen it written anywhere that dogs are forbidden."

Tarpick cupped his hands over his ears. "For the love of Mike, would you please button your lip? 

"Do what with my lip?"

"We're trying to attend to a little police business here. So zip it. You're driving me crazy." He gestured with the folder in his hand as though he were waving her off.

"You shouldn't say that." She leaned backward, elbows resting on the stair.

Stoudemire said, "You know, Mitch, I'd like to hear what she has to say. Not about dogs."

His partner's head swung around so quickly, that he thought it might snap off. "We don't have time for tomfoolery, Frazier," Tarpick said. "Let's wrap this up." He made a looping motion with his finger apparently meant to signify wrapping.

"Tomfoolery?" Stoudemire thought. "The guy talks like a cartoon."

"Before you finish with your wrapping," she said, "If you checked this handrail for prints down there at the bottom of the railing I'll bet you find Mister Gibbs' left handprint on the banister and not his right."

"Say that again?" Stoudemire asked.

"On the way down the stairs, Mr. Gibbs would walk with his right hand on his cane. The cane was always in his right hand. Always. He said it was his steadier hand. So he didn't use the banister on the way down. As he was coming back up the stairs, I bet you'll find his left handprint on the banister, his right hand on his cane."

"How 'bout that?" said Officer Ott.

Frazier saw the resentment welling in his partner's eyes.

"Handprints on banisters! What does that have to do with anything?" Stoudemire threw his hands in the air. "This isn't a TV show, kid. We are real police officers doing real police work!"

"I don't watch TV," she said. "It makes me dizzy."

Delvin Ott stepped over the body to get a closer look at the banister. He clasped his big hands behind his wide back.

It occurred to Frazier Stoudemire that if this were a TV show, the characters would be far more attractive. It didn't occur to him as an insult. It was merely an observation.

"So what difference does it make whether the deceased fell while coming down the stairs, or whether he fell while going up the stairs?" Tarpick pointed to the body. "The result is, we got one dead senior lying in the entryway."

"Oh, geez," she responded. "It makes a big difference."

It was clear that the girl had succeeded in getting under Tarpick's thin skin. "I am not going to waste my time debating with some precocious ten-year-old girl."

"I'm fourteen," she replied.

All eyes went to the girl.

"No way you're fourteen," Officer Ott blurted.

"Born in 2008. Do the math."

"Who are you?" Stoudemire asked.

"Lizzie Nickerson. I live on the third floor with my Aunt Sonya."

Ott jotted the information in his notepad. "I'm not sure how to spell Sonya," he said, a bit embarrassed. "Is that with a y or with a j-i-a?"

"Oh, geez," said Lizzie.

"You mind giving us some space here, kid?" Tarpick said in a patronizing tone. "We got real police work to do."

"And another thing," she said as she stood.

"No, I think I've heard quite enough from you." Tarpick turned his back to her.

"What is the other thing?" Stoudemire couldn't contain his curiosity. His question brought another sharp glare from his partner.

Lizzie said, "I think you should check the back of Mr. Gibbs' head for signs of blunt force trauma. Isn't that what they call it when you get hit in the head? Blunt force trauma? Trauma's a weird word."

Tarpick clenched his jaw.

She pointed. "See there? On the wall? That's blood, right? A little bit of blood on the wall there. It sure looks like blood."

The detectives leaned forward to examine a splotch of crimson specks on the wall. The police photographer stepped carefully over the body of Frederick Gibbs and snapped a few photos.

Tarpick's face flushed.

"You should check the doorknob and the floor of the front porch," she continued. "There's probably more blood out there. That is if the crime scene hasn't been compromised. I think that's the right word. Compromised."

As Tarpick examined his hands, the first-floor apartment door opened. Ms. Brennan poked her head into the hall. "If anyone is going outside, would someone kindly bring in my newspaper?"

"Happy to," Tarpick replied sarcastically. "Always at your service."

Stoudemire said, "This girl is amazing!"

"A little too amazing if you ask me." Tarpick turned on Lizzie. "You seem to know an awful lot about this situation. I'd like to speak with your Aunt Sonya about you coming down to the station to discuss this matter further."

"The police station? Oh, geez. I don't like going to weird places." She climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"Come back here!" Tarpick bolted up the stairs after her, his partner trailing. The photographer and the uniformed cop watched them go.