The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 55

Most humans have experienced the out-of-context-face phenomenon (which is separate from prosopagnosia or face blindness). An out-of-context face is disorienting because, as psychologists have discovered, context influences recognition. The out-of-context-face phenomenon occurs when the face and the place don't match.

For instance, we might see a familiar face in the crowd at a baseball game. When the man waves, we wave back, even though we don't recognize him as our neighborhood mail carrier. Dressed in his postal uniform with his mail bag slung over his shoulder while delivering mail, he's instantly identifiable. At the ballpark, in this new environment, our brain registers recognition of that particular face but can't make the association. We're left wondering, how do we know this guy? We've experienced the out-of-context-face phenomenon.

Mitch Tarpick was experiencing a form of this phenomenon. He recognized their faces but couldn't comprehend what his prodigal son, Montego, and his boho girlfriend were doing at his crime scene. His brain couldn't connect the dots. The visual dissonance paralyzed him as they drew closer.

"Wait up, Indigo!" Montego hollered.

Indigo? Frazier Stoudemire wondered. The name struck a resonant chord. Indigo Finch? The sister of Sonya Finch? And the absent mother of Maribeth Finch, now Lizzie Nickerson?

Frazier knew the moment Tarpick became aware of Indigo's identity as Lizzie Nickerson's mother, all bets were off. Mitch's nervous system would likely short-circuit. His head might explode. He could suffer a major heart attack or stroke. In a cruel, ironic twist, Mitch Tarpick may be the one carted away in the coroner's van instead of the body of Tyson Russko.

While his stupefied partner remained frozen with analysis paralysis, Frazier took advantage of the opportunity to slink away unnoticed into the apartment building.

Delvin Ott met Detective Stoudemire in the entryway, just outside Margery Brennan's apartment. Judging by the smell of things, (or lack thereof), today was not her baking day.

With his notepad in hand, Officer Ott escorted Frazier up the stairwell.

"Lizzie and her Aunt Sonya," he said, still uncertain of the spelling, "were lucky. The guy who went after them was a deranged tweaker."

"The guy out there on the sidewalk?"

"Yep. Total psycho."

The second floor buzzed with busy forensics techs, entering and exiting Frederick Gibbs' old apartment carrying bagged items, most of which looked like drug paraphernalia. By the time they reached the third floor, Officer Ott had shared the sordid details of the investigation with the detective.

Frazier knocked on the door. "Ms. Finch. It's Detective Stoudemire. I'd like a word with you if I could." Delvin Ott descended the stairs back to the second floor.

Sonya peered out into the hallway and then reluctantly admitted the detective. She looked like she was working on her tenth cup of coffee, her eyes wide, her hands trembling.

Stoudemire entered wearing a small, friendly smile. He found Lizzie sitting at the kitchen table watching Buddy swim lazily in a glass of water.

He began, apprehensively, "When your neighbor, Frederick Gibbs was... uh..."

"Murdered," said Lizzie.

"Right." He adjusted his tone, adding an extra helping of congeniality so the words wouldn't land so hard. "The perpetrator's roommate was a man named Tyson Russko. He's the man who attacked you."

"Wait. What?" said Sonya. "Those guys lived together and one of them killed Mr. Gibbs?"

"That's right," Frazier replied. "He's currently in prison. The guy out there on the sidewalk was his roommate."

Sonya threw her hands into the air. "What's wrong with these people?"

"Did you recognize him?"

"I only saw him for a split second," she said. "He didn't look familiar."

"He was downstairs when Scooter's family was moving stuff out of Mr. Gibbs' apartment," said Lizzie.

Sonya's head snapped around toward her niece.

"Are you sure it was the same man?" Stoudemire asked.

"Oh, geez, he had a big tattoo on his face and he looked like a rat. How many people have tattoos on their faces? Nobody else that I know. I see people with tattoos on their necks, and their arms, and their legs, and their backs, and their fronts but not on their faces. Why would you even do that? It doesn't even make sense."

"Did anybody talk to him?" the detective asked. "When he was downstairs?"

"He asked me where I live."

"He what?" Sonya gasped. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

"I told him we live up here."

"Why did you do that?" Sonya squeaked.

Lizzie shrugged. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Up until recently, we know Tyson Russko was living on the street like a vagrant," said Stoudemire. 

"Compared to normal people I think I'd be a terrible vagrant," said Lizzie. "I don't like being outside very much and I don't like being around a lot of strangers."

"Lizzie, don't interrupt," said Sonya.

Lizzie couldn't stop the train. "I guess you could find a field or some woods but in a lot of ways it would be worse. There would definitely be more bugs."

Stoudemire continued. "Somehow Russko gained access to this building and broke into the empty apartment on the second floor."

"Why?" Sonya's voice rose with a sharp pitch.

Lizzie covered her ears. Her toes automatically tapped against the floor.

"I guess we'll never know," said the detective.

"Oh, geez. I knew something was wrong with that door." Lizzie sighed. "The doorknob wasn't right. Mr. Gibbs' doorknob didn't look like that. It didn't look straight. I thought somebody was in Mr. Gibbs' apartment. You could see the doorknob looked weird. Anybody could see that. And there was a gross smell. Like chemicals burning or something."

Frazier nodded. "There's evidence that he was smoking methamphetamine in there."

"Oh, my god." Sonya leaned her head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling while she caught her breath. "And then he decided to come upstairs and attack us?"

Stoudemire drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter. "I pretty much gave up trying to make sense of a lot of the things people do."

Sonya said, "Lizzie, why didn't you tell me about that man asking you where you live?"

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

Frazier asked, "Was someone else in the apartment with you when Mr. Russko tried to break in?"

"No. Just the two of us," said Sonya.

"Three," said Lizzie. "Don't forget Buddy."

"So who threw the fishbowl out the window?"

"It was me," said Lizzie.

"SHHHHHHH!" said Sonya. "I think maybe I should call a lawyer before we answer any further questions."

"Oh, geez," Lizzie said, no emotion evident in her voice or on her face. "He was running away from the police." 

"Lizzie, that's enough."

"He was getting away."

"You smashed his head?" asked Stoudemire.

"His head got smashed," said Lizzie. "Not the same."

"She wasn't trying to hit him." Sonya's voice trembled.

"Yes, I was."

"Lizzie! Stop talking!"