Gone Tomorrow

she would have told you she worked at Wal-Mart.”
    He didn’t answer. I said, “I had an office in the Pentagon once. I’m familiar with the place. Try me.”
    He paused a beat and then he shrugged and said, “She was a civilian clerk. But she made it sound exciting. She worked for an outfit called CGUSAHRC. She never told me much about it. She made it sound like a hush-hush thing. People can’t talk so much now, after the Twin Towers.”
    “It’s not an outfit,” I said. “It’s a guy. CGUSAHRC means Commanding General, United States Army, Human Resources Command. And it’s not very exciting. It’s a personnel department. Paperwork and records.”
    Jake didn’t reply. I thought I had offended him, by belittling his sister’s career. Maybe the Rucker seminar hadn’t taught me enough. Maybe I should have paid more attention. The silence went on a beat too long and grew awkward. I asked, “Did she tell you anything about it at all?”
    “Not really. Maybe there wasn’t much to tell.” He said it with a hint of bitterness, as if his sister had been caught in a lie. I said, “People dress things up, Jake. It’s human nature. And usually there’s no harm in it. Maybe she just wanted to compete, with you being a cop.”
    “We weren’t close.”
    “You were still family.”
    “I guess.”
    “Did she enjoy her job?”
    “She seemed to. And it must have suited her. She had the right skills, for a records department. Great memory, meticulous, very organized. She was good with computers.”
    The silence came back. I started to think about Annandale again. A pleasant but unremarkable community. A dormitory, basically. Under the present circumstances it had just one significant characteristic.
    It was a very long way from New York City.
    She wasn’t an unhappy person .
    Jake said, “What?”
    I said, “Nothing. None of my business.”
    “But what?”
    “Just thinking.”
    “About what?”
    There’s more than meets the eye .
    I asked, “How long have you been a cop?”
    “Eighteen years.”
    “All in the same place?”
    “I trained with the State Troopers. Then I moved over. Like a farm system.”
    “Have you seen many suicides in Jersey?”
    “One or two a year, maybe.”
    “Anyone see any of them coming?”
    “Not really. They’re usually a big surprise.”
    “Like this one.”
    “You got that right.”
    “But behind each one of them there must have been a reason.”
    “Always. Financial, sexual, some kind of shit about to hit the fan.”
    “So your sister must have had a reason.”
    “I don’t know what.”
    I went quiet again. Jake said, “Just say it. Tell me.”
    “Not my place.”
    “You were a cop,” he said. “You’re seeing something.”
    I nodded. Said, “My guess is that out of the suicides you’ve seen, maybe seven out of ten happened at home, and three out of ten, they drove to some local lane and hitched up the hosepipe.”
    “More or less.”
    “But always somewhere familiar. Somewhere quiet and alone. Always at some kind of a destination. You get there, you compose yourself, you do it.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that I never heard of a suicide where the person travels hundreds of miles from home and does it while the journey is still in progress.”
    “I told you.”
    “You told me she didn’t kill herself. But she did. I saw her do it. But I’m saying she did it in a very unconventional manner. In fact I don’t think I ever heard of a suicide inside a subway car before. Under one, maybe, but not inside. Did you ever hear of a suicide on public transportation, during the ride?”
    “So?”
    “So nothing. I’m just asking, that’s all.”
    “Why?”
    “Because. Think like a cop, Jake. Not like a brother. What do you do when something is way out of line?”
    “You dig deeper.”
    “So do it.”
    “It won’t bring her back.”
    “But understanding a thing helps a lot.” Which was also a concept they taught at Fort Rucker. But not in the psychology class.
    I got a refill of coffee and Jacob Mark picked up a packet of sugar and turned it over and over in his fingers so that the powder fell from one end of the paper rectangle to the other, repeatedly, like an hourglass. I could see his head working like a cop and his heart working like a brother. It was all right there in his face. Dig deeper. It won’t bring her back .
    He asked, “What else?”
    “There was a passenger who took off before the NYPD got to