“What the fuck’s going on tonight? We’ve got another jumper at the Five Mile Bridge. Three bridges in this town, and people jumping off every goddamn one of them at the same time. Who should I send out there?” Chief Harry Showalter leaned back in his chair, a toothpick jutting from between his lips, and put his feet up on his desk. “Nobody. Why bother? By the time someone gets there, the body’ll be gone anyways. Not like some crazy bitch is gonna wait for the cops to show up so they can talk her down. Best thing to do is pray the bodies wash up far enough down river that it’s someone else’s problem.” Bonaventura’s eyes darted between the ringing phone and his boss. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Showalter’d always been a sonofabitch to work for, but he’d never shirked his duties. And how had he known the jumpers were all women? Well, if the chief wasn’t going to do something, Carl would. If he could save just one of them... He grabbed his hat and stood up.
