"Lizzie Nickerson," Frazier Stoudemire mumbled to himself. He rubbed his red eyes, sore from poring over the case file on his desk. "I wonder if she still lives over there on the east side."
"What do you have there?" Detective Tarpick said, standing over his partner's shoulder. "Let me have a gander. Isn't that the Booth case?"
Frazier slowly turned in his chair. There was no need to respond. Obviously, it was the Booth case.
"You can't crack 'em all," Tarpick said. "Sometimes you hit the wall. You walk in circles going nowhere fast." He leaned forward resting one hand on the corner of his partner's desk, the other at his hip, grimacing. "We're not magicians, we're police detectives."
During the past few years, Tarpick had successfully dodged the baby bullet. His wife, Chloe, tired of his excuses for not fulfilling his marital obligations, had given up on her desire for a new, bouncing baby Tarpick. But by then, Mitch had contracted pottery fever and pursued his ceramics class with an unbridled passion, his back muscles strained as badly as his relationship with his glum spouse.
"Have you seen a chiropractor about that back, Mitch?" Frazier asked.
"The last thing I need is some wannabe doctor twisting my spine around," Tarpick grumbled. "I know I've been burning the midnight oil at the potter's wheel," he said. "I don't need some glorified masseuse to tell me that."
He fumbled with the lid of a prescription bottle.
"Why don't you take a break from your ceramics class?" said Frazier. "Give your back a rest."
"I'm so close to a breakthrough," Tarpick replied his voice softening. "I can almost taste it."
"Ceramics injury." Officer Delvin Ott chuckled as he passed by. "That's a new one."
Tarpick grumbled something that sounded like "shut your face, Ott." He may have said something about Ricky Gervais but Tarpick would be one of the last people on the planet to make references to comedians or any form of comedy for that matter. He took his serious nature seriously. There was less than an infinitesimal chance that he uttered some version of "Shut Gervais, Ott." Even for a man wobbly on his feet from muscle relaxants and pain medication, that would be inexcusably nonsensical.
In any case (no pun intended), Stoudemire dared not float the idea of conferring with Lizzie about the Booth case. There was no upside to compounding his partner's misery.
........
Wearing her customary oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, Lizzie sat on the fifth step of the first-floor staircase in her apartment building, her lanky legs crossed at the ankles.
"You remember me, don't you?" said Frazier. "I'm Detective--"
"Frazier Stoudemire." She finished his sentence.
He smiled. "Would you be interested in taking a look at this?"
"You know I'm on the spectrum, right?"
"I guess I had an idea that you might be." There was no hiding the fact that the topic, and the blunt way she introduced it, made him terribly uncomfortable.
"If you think I'm an autistic person with a superpower, let me stop you right there."
"Well, you are exceptionally skilled at--"
"I look at things. Really look at things. That's all. You could do the same thing if you just concentrated on looking."
He shook his head. "Believe me, Lizzie. I've tried. I just can't do what you can do."
"Don't call it a superpower. It's not. I'm not a stereotype."
Her tapping right foot drew his attention. "I'm sorry if I upset you."
She took the folder from his hand and began to read. "Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you what I think," she said, the folder opened on her lap.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," said Frazier. "I could get into a lot of trouble for sharing this information with you. Or with anybody. I can't let that case file out of my sight. You need to promise not to tell anybody about this, understand?"
"Oh, geez. Okay, I promise if that makes you feel any better."
"You don't need to get involved if you don't have time," he said, his arm outstretched, his hand open.
"I have time." She pulled the file closer to herself. "Just let me look."
"You probably shouldn't mention this to your Aunt Sonya, either."
"Mention what?"
"That I was here asking for your help with this case. I mean, after all, it's an open murder investigation."
"Do you want me to study this file or don't you?"
"If you think you could help."
"Of course, I could help but you're distracting me with all your talking. How do you expect me to carry on a conversation and give this case file my full attention? I only have one brain, you know."
"Sorry."
"Multitasking is a fallacy."
"Some people are better at it than others."
She cleared her throat. "Research on the subject from psychologists and productivity experts has revealed that multitasking slows productivity, impedes task completion, and decreases task quality while creating stress. Nobody is good at multitasking. Period."
"Okay, then. If you want to look through the file, I'll stop talking."
Lizzie responded with a sigh. "So, what is this about? Some lady was pushed off of... what is this? A train trestle?"
"Yeah, it's in Ault Park. Didn't you ever go hiking out there?"
She glared at him.
"Or sightseeing, maybe?"
"Why would I go hiking at a park to see an old train trestle? That doesn't even make sense."
"I thought maybe you read about it."
She didn't respond.
"Her name was Jahelen Booth," Frazier said. "Hikers found her body the next morning."
"Where are the pictures of the body?"
"They're very disturbing. I removed them from the file."
"Oh, geez. So these pictures are from the trail leading up to the trestle?"
"That's right. We know the victim was thrown off the trestle in the evening. We just don't know who did it. Or why."
Lizzie turned the page, her brow furrowed as she read. "What about this guy, Benjamin whatever?"
"Benjamin Tuttle. What about him?'
"Did he see the pictures of her body?"
"No."
"When your friend, Detective Tarpick said did he know there was a murder in Ault Park about six hours ago, this Benjamin guy said he didn't even know her."
"They almost always say they didn't know the victim."
"If he didn't see the pictures, how did he know it was a lady?"
"Let me see that transcript."
"The other four people you interviewed assumed the victim was a man. Benjamin is the only one who thought it was a lady."
She leaned closer to the photo, her nose a few inches from the surface. "Did you see this over here?"
"What are you pointing to?"
"Right here. It's hard to see in this picture. Do you have another one?"
"Of the crime scene? There are several."
She flipped through the photos and then went back to the first. "This. Right here."
"What?"
"That's fish tank gravel."
"Huh?"
"That's definitely what that is."
"It's pebbles. Rocks."
"You can't see the difference?"
He squinted at the photo.
"I cleaned Mr. Gibbs' fish bowl dozens of times," said Lizzie. "Maybe more. And almost every time some pieces of gravel ended up in my Aunt Sonya's apartment."
The detective scratched the back of his head, trying to process.
"It's colored gravel," she said. "First I thought it was pea gravel but it's too smooth. Sure looks like dolomite to me."
Stoudemire shrugged.
"Fish tank gravel. Definitely," she said. "So if this dead lady doesn't have a fish tank at home, the gravel was probably accidentally carried to the crime scene by the person who killed her. You should check to see if Benjamin Tuttle has a fish tank."