“That’s twenty dead,” came a voice into my ear. I turned around, thinking it was someone at the table next to me, but I had forgotten how early it was, just two in the morning. It was dead here, full of dead, phosphorescent light. Above, one long bulb flickered. You could hear the incessant humming. When I turned back to my coffee, there was a man sitting at my table. He had yesterday’s paper, its startling headline about the bus accident, the opening words, “Twenty Dead,” in big black letter.
He spoke from the grey folds, his face hidden in the pages:
“And who do we blame for this? The city? The Metro? Who’s the scapegoat this time?”
“No one’s to blame,” I lied.
He sighed.
“We know that’s not true,” he said, a quiver in his voice. “We know the papers won’t tell the story, will they? If anyone presses the matter, who will be the scapegoat?”
The voice was familiar to me, and I shivered. It went on:
“I wonder who’s left that will poke and prod? You won’t, you know the truth now. We’ve left the cave, you and I.”
I didn’t answer, not at first. My coffee was still hot, and I blew on it. After a quick sip, and licking my lips, I answered:
“And who are we?” I asked, staring at the stranger across the table.
“A scapegoat,” he whispered. “A friend.”
“A friend?” I wondered if he had information to sell. What price was he aiming for? Did he know who the terrorists were? I set the coffee down.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Detective Lebner, assigned night duty.”
I felt a chill as he said my name. Each syllable was said deliberately, coldly.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Your wife, three sons, a daughter in college now, don’t know why you work the nightshift, Chip. They read the papers, and it says accident, twenty dead. Maybe they notice the somewhat remarkable disappearance of a twenty ton marble statue listed on page sixteen. Maybe. I wonder if they notice, it’s here in black and white, the same street. You’d notice, if you were looking for it, but you don’t need to look for it, because you know. Now you’re hunting for it.”
“Where is it?” I whisper.
“I just released the damn thing,” he said, folding the paper over and looking at me.
I jerked in my seat, the back of my hand knocking the coffee over.
Ted, his bloodless face and pale, dead eyes.
“Twenty, that’s twenty on my conscience, and hell to pay for each one. They’ll add whoever you pin it on if the first story doesn’t stick. Twenty, though, it’s a good, solid, even number. A good start.” He grows silent, as though waiting for me to speak. He folds the paper methodically, laying it down in the brown spill.
“You’re dead,” I stutter. The comment seems inane, but it’s all I can think to say.
“You would know,” he sighs.
Tale Told 