The old drunk was thin and frail, but a creature had torn loose in French’s chest. “Look at the picture.” He shoved it at the old man’s face; caught the jaw, twisting it back. “I said, look at it! He was here, yes?” Fingers pressed on whiskers and brittle bone. The old man moaned in pain, but there were answers here, and French would tear them out if he had to. The bartender. The old men. In some dark place, he knew not even the girl was safe. “Was he here? Who was he with?” The old man began to cry. “I’ll ask you one more time…”

“Stop it, please! You’re hurting him!”

It was the girl, ashen and afraid. She had both hands on her heart, a slip of a girl.

“He can’t even speak. Don’t you see? He never has.”

She touched her mouth, and French looked down at the old man, seeing him for the first time, a frail old drunk, wild-eyed and afraid, moaning wetly as he worked a mouth with no tongue.

French stumbled back, horrified by the extent of his fear and rage, and by the creature that followed behind. He wanted to apologize, but knew there were no sufficient words. So he showed his palms instead, backing away until he found night air and the quiet and his car. From behind the wheel, he watched people flee the bar, the old men stumbling off together, the bartender leaving next, and then the young woman, who locked the building’s door before shaking out a cigarette and placing it between her lips. She didn’t notice the police car until half the cigarette was gone, then she started his way, and he watched her come. The narrow waist. The shadows for eyes. If she was afraid, it didn’t show. She put a hand on the roof, and looked inside. French was unsure what to say, so he spoke in cop. “You shouldn’t lock up alone in a place like this. It’s dangerous.”

“Normally, I don’t, but you scared the bartender pretty bad.”

Up close, the girl was pretty and younger than she’d first seemed, maybe only eighteen. “About what happened in there…”

“You kind of lost your shit. Yeah, I saw it.”

“Is he okay?”

“Old Tom? He’s tougher than he looks.”

“He’s a regular?”

“Like the rain.”

She smoked more, and studied him with a contemplative air. French thought something was happening, but couldn’t think clearly. The way he’d behaved, that blind rage. The girl was still watching him, her eyes either gray or dark blue. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen.”

“And your parents know you work in a place like this?”

“So what?” She frowned around the cigarette. “Now you’re the good cop?”

“I’ve pulled bodies from this place. Before your time, but more than once.”