Cuts Through Bone by Alaric Hunt

faction, because he didn’t abuse or use. Cindy had John’s back. She threw rocks, and could knock the cap from a bottle at a hundred feet. The kids had her back. On the north end of Manhattan, not much moved around without their seeing or finding out.
    â€œThey were strange,” Vasquez said. “I thought they were crackheads.”
    â€œNo, they just don’t fit into the machine.”
    *   *   *
    Vasquez drove down into Morningside as the morning stretched out. Soon, she felt like a pinball, because Guthrie kept chasing from corner to corner and pausing to peer down alleys and into lots. She crossed and recrossed Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue between 170th Street and the mid 140’s. The little detective found the street people he knew would talk—and have something to talk about. Along the way, he broke fresh ground where he could. He handed out sodas, cigarettes, and small bills. The street people knew Ghost Eddy’s name. He was a mean drunk, and drew careful watching. Even garbage gangsters that faked bravado backpedaled their feet while they talked about the big graybeard.
    On the corner of 153rd and Eighth, they found Mother Mary, a fat old woman in a paisley dress. She made hex gestures over the drifter’s name. No good would come of looking for him, she warned—or, worse, finding him. She gave Guthrie a pat on the head, picked up her bags, and hustled down the avenue. The little detective shrugged. He kicked around on the corner for a minute, as if she might come back, but she didn’t.
    Later, Guthrie gave a half carton of Camels to a skinny old man named Wheezy. The vagrant wore suspenders and short-legged blue jeans that showed off mismatched socks. His voice was a breathy rasp, almost completely covered by the noise of traffic. Ghost Eddy wouldn’t catch easy, he said. A pair of patrol cops tried to take him in one time. The gray drifter waited until one of them had a grip, then suddenly used him to bludgeon the other cop. He trotted away while they were dazed. The skinny old man laughed and rubbed at his unshaven chin.
    Guthrie left behind a trail of promises from people to keep an eye out, but the morning didn’t seem encouraging. He pointed Vasquez to turn from Broadway a last time and park in a visitor’s lot at Columbia University. The campus seemed cool and inviting after the hardscape in the Heights. The little detective began his search with campus security.
    The campus cops in the administration building started an immediate whitewash when they heard the names Bowman and Olsen. After all, the killing didn’t happen on campus. Guthrie went along with them without objecting that the victim and suspect were both students. The oldest campus cop held back, catching Guthrie’s eye a few times while he pulled permission to examine Olsen’s dorm room and took some visitor passes. The cop made grim faces when the rest of them joked about Olsen, then volunteered to show them the room in Livingston Hall.
    â€œMike Hines,” he said, offering a handshake to Guthrie after they were outside. The campus cop was tall and a little overweight. A bushy gray mustache underlined a red nose that came from years of heavy drinking. He slid a hat onto his head and squinted at the sunshine.
    â€œThey went over the line, trying to make Greg Olsen seem obvious,” he said. “We never had a complaint about him, though you could say he hadn’t been here for long.” He frowned.
    â€œIs there some more to that story?” Guthrie asked.
    â€œI don’t figure him like that,” Hines replied. “Come on, let’s walk over. I’ll get it lined up in my head.”
    Guthrie and Vasquez followed him. The campus was lightly populated. Most of the undergraduates avoided the summer session unless they needed to make up course work. Livingston Hall was quiet because of that. Over the summer, the students remaining were