Chapter Six

"A cop?"

Marty wondered if the guy would faint. Clearly he'd had no idea Jim was a cop. But then that wasn't really such a stretch.

"No. No, she wouldn't…" Instant grief showed in Michael's face.

Marty concealed his smile. "A witness, photos at the scene, what else do you think we need for a judge to throw the book at him? Marty tossed his question to Tom.

Tom leaned over and spoke over Michael's shoulder, "As long as you don't confess, Marty can send you away for just about ever. If you confess, you get a lot less, maybe seven to ten."

"Can I talk to Marybeth?" Michael's voice shook.

Marty snorted, taken aback by the guy's stupidity. "Sure, and we'll let you go on your own recognizance and expect you back after dinner with a confession." He laughed out loud.

"No, Marty. She'd kill him. Then there's no one to say he didn't do it," Tom explained.

Michael ran his hands through his hair, he gathered his wits and began talking, quietly, without looking at either of the men.

"I met her," he nodded toward Marybeth's photo, "in a bar on Friday. We drank a bit, danced, and went back to my place."

"What time?"

"Early, maybe seven. She was hot for it, so, you know I wasn't going to hold back."

"Go on."

"At about eight she said she wanted another drink so we went out again, this time she insisted on a particular bar. One down DUMBO way. I went along, she was hot, she was putting out and it looked like it wasn't going to stop. We went to the bar, drank, danced some more and then she went to the bathroom. She was gone for a long time but when she came back she was all agitated and upset. Said something about some guy had attacked her."

"In the bathroom?"

He shook his head, "She started getting weird on me crying and hauling me out the door. She dragged me across the street to the park. She was hysterical by then, saying she'd been talking to this guy and he had chased after her and attacked her. And that's when I saw a… a guy on the ground, lying still. She said he'd grabbed her and she'd pushed him and he'd just fallen. That maybe he'd had a heart attack or something."

"You expect me to believe this crap?" Marty was disgusted.

"No, really, that's what happened. She said she'd tried to run away but he'd chased her and ripped her dress. She showed me scratch marks on her breast."

"So, what'd you do? Why didn't you call 911?" Tom pushed.

"She said he was dead. She'd checked. And there was a dumpster there and she asked me to put him in it so she wouldn't get into trouble."

"And you did?"

Pale just nodded.

Marty looked at Tom who stepped from the room. He returned a moment later with another photo. "This the guy?" He laid Jim's photograph on the table.

Pale shrugged. "Could be. It was dark, I was half out of my mind with drink and it was so unreal."

The shrug, the pure carelessness of it, infuriated Marty and all the patience and calm he had mustered evaporated. "What do you mean you can't be sure? You toss so many bodies that you don't even remember what they look like?" Marty's voice rose as he began to vent his frustration by slamming his fist to the table in front of the guy.

Michael jumped, trembling and almost ready to cry. He sat as still as he could, hoping not to provoke the officers any further. "No, I never did this before, it's just... I didn't look, I didn't want to look. You know?"

Tom touched Marty on the arm, beckoning him back before he slammed his fist into the guy's face. "Listen, Michael, we think maybe the guy is Detective Dunbar, from our squad. We need to know. So take another look.

Michael peered at the photo. A tall man, blonde with blue eyes, serious looking, scary even. Could it have been the guy Marybeth killed? What would these guys do to him if it was? He knew cops protected their own. He suddenly needed to go to the bathroom really badly.

"No. Really I can't be sure. Look can I go to the bathroom?"

"You can go when we've ID'd the man you may have killed."

"Killed? No, I didn't kill the guy I just picked him up, you know." The cold in Michael's stomach hit a new freeze point.

"If he was alive when you "tossed him" and hitting the bottom or being buried in garbage killed him, then you're responsible. At least left in the park someone would have found him in the morning, taken him to a hospital or something." Marty watched the guy's face as the news sunk in. He guessed that if they kept the pressure on much longer they'd be calling a cleaning crew for the room. But the guy didn't seem to know the answer.

"What was he wearing?"

Michael was relieved; this was something he could answer. "Ah, a long coat, suit and tie under I think, and ah, he was wearing sunglasses, that I remember. I mean, who wears sunglasses at night?"

Tom landed in the chair with a thump. It was as if with that description, any hope that this was not Jim fled. There weren't too many people who wore sunglasses at night.

Marty asked, "You see a dog around him? A German Sheppard?"

"No, I didn't see any dog."

"Okay," Marty continued. "What happened to the body, Michael?"

"She pointed out a dumpster nearby and I lifted him in. I tried to be gentle, but he was heavy and he hit the bottom with such a thud I knew he must be dead."

Tom thought of the detective who had become a friend over the last few years. He didn't know a more dedicated cop. Dunbar lived his life to protect and serve and here this guy had tossed him in a dumpster. Tom's hands clenched under the table. He didn't look up, trusting his partner would get the info they needed without strangling the guy, which was what Tom felt like doing right now.

Marty stepped up again, "And he was definitely dead?"

Michael was scared to look up. "I don't know. I don't know." That as much as anything convinced the detectives that Marybeth had been responsible. The guy wasn't even clued in enough to realize that being sure the guy was dead when he first saw him, was a step away from a murder charge for himself.

Marty felt like spitting, "Get up, you can take us to the dumpster."

"Please, can I use the bathroom, first?" The man pleaded like a child.

Tom and Marty exchanged looks, what was it about this woman that enabled her to turn men into such low life scum?

Tom and Marty showed their badges to the uniformed officer who was keeping the area secure while CSU did their work.

"You guys find anything?"

The CSI held up a large crow bar. "Blood on one end, and fingerprints on the other."

"That the crow bar she used, Michael?" Tom almost spat the words out.

Michael shrugged, "I never saw that. I only…" He shrugged.

Marty and Tom looked at each other. Things were looking pretty bad for Dunbar. "Nothing else?" Marty asked the CSI.

"Nope. You got a body?"

"No. We're looking for a dumpster around here."

The man pointed. "We haven't checked it out yet."

Marty tugged hard on the cuffs on Michael's wrists and dragged him over to the park bench. He secured him silently.

Tom pulled latex gloves on as he approached the overflowing dumpster.

Marty turned his face away. Neither mentioned the smell, which was overpowering, even from the outside. "Good thing Karen's not here."

"Yeah."

The CSI came over, he shook hands with both cops. "CSI Neville. Want a hand?" He spread two sheets in front of the bin. "Let's hope you don't find what you're looking for."

Piece by piece, bag by bag of stinking three day old garbage came out of the dumpster. The CSI sorted it as it came, one pile for what appeared to be straight rubbish, a second for anything that could even remotely be connected to the crime. A glove, a hat, a handkerchief with blood on it, were set aside. They were close to the bottom of the bin when the Marty's phone rang.

"What you got?" the Lieutenant asked.

"We're still emptying the dumpster, we're about half way through… nothing yet, but … the smell…" Marty didn't elucidate. "Hang on, Tom's found something…Shit." Marty was silent for a second. "The harness, a guide dog harness."

Tom handed the sopping harness to the CSI who carefully placed the leather and brass in a large evidence bag.

Detective Selway looked like the weight of the world had dropped on his shoulders. Russo was still angry, fighting something personal. "Here, you shouldn't be doing this, let me." Neville held his hand out and helped Tom out of the bin. He climbed in. Tom looked out across the park and waited.

"I'll wait on line." Fisk's voice was harsh.

"You guys looking for a dog?" CSI Neville could see the answer on both cops face.

"You see him?"

The man nodded, sorry to pass on the news. "I'll need a hand, he's big." The CSI asked.

Marty handed the phone to Tom and stepped up and into the bin.

"It's not Hank." His words came out quick, as he turned back to Tom. "Tell the boss, it's not Hank, just some Labrador. And there's no body in here. Dunbar's not in here." Marty's tongue was loosened by relief. "We're looking for a fellow detective, Jim Dunbar. That looks like his," Marty pointed to the harness, "But that's not Hank. It's not his dog…" He grinned, aware he was running off at the mouth but past caring.

Tom passed on the message, but he didn't feel that much relief, it was a stay of execution for Dunbar, not a reprieve.