Remembering Sarah

by Chris Mooney

  This wasn’t happening. Your missing daughter’s jacket doesn’t suddenly show up five years later in the middle of the night—on a cross.

  Merrick slid into the opposite seat with his cup of coffee. “How are you holding up?”

  “I don’t think any of this is registering yet,” Mike said. “Who found the jacket?”

  “Deb did. One of her refrigeration units blew around nine. By the time the service guy came by and replaced the engine, it was after eleven. She went to her truck and saw someone collapsed on the snow and walked up to him. She thought the person was hurt, so she ran back up the hill, got into her truck and called nine-one-one.”

  “Who’s the person?”

  Merrick’s expression changed, and a white noise filled Mike’s head.

  “Jonah walks around a lot at night,” Merrick explained. “During the day, he’s pretty much a shut-in. As you know, some people who recognize him throw rocks, push him—a few months ago someone actually tried to run him off the road. I’m sure you’ve read the stories in the paper. So he goes out at night, bundles himself up and disguises himself.”

  “And visits the place where he abducted my daughter,” Mike said, the words strangling the inside of his throat.

  “I don’t have a witness who saw Jonah plant the jacket and cross on the hill. Now we’re going to—”

  “Where is he now?”

  Merrick put his coffee cup down, folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Listen to me.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Jonah called nine-one-one about five minutes before Deb did. The police were already on their way.”

  “You’ve had five years, Merrick—five fucking years to build a case against him, and now you’ve got an eyewitness who can place him with my daughter’s jacket. The fuck you waiting for? For Jonah to ring your doorbell and say, ‘Hi, I did it?’”

  “I understand you’re upset.” Merrick speaking in that same bored monotone he always used—especially in the beginning, when he spoke like he had a clue about kids, about what it took to raise them, what they tore from you every time they stepped out the door. Merrick had never married; he lived alone in a condo complex called The Heights, nice but nothing fancy.

  “Do you know he called me?”

  “Jonah did? When?”

  “Right before you did,” Mike said and repeated Jonah’s words.

  “You didn’t call him back, did you?”

  “Of course not. I know about Jonah’s rights. And we wouldn’t want anything to interfere with that, would we?”

  Merrick’s face remained impassive. Talk, scream, yell—share an intimate detail about yourself or break down and cry in front of this guy and all he would do was give you back the blank look of nothingness, like you were talking to him about how to make a ham sandwich.

  Mike couldn’t look at that face anymore. He was about to stand up when a voice piped: You storm out of here—you throw a fit and Merrick will keep you out of the investigation.

  “You’re aware that Jonah’s dying,” Merrick said after a moment.

  “I am. Are you?”

  “Where do you think he’s most likely to talk to us? Inside a jail cell or sitting in his favorite chair in his house where he’s comfortable?”

  Mike rubbed his forehead and tried to wrap his mind around what was going on, the store quiet except for the occasional crinkle of cellophane, the sliding of boxes across the floor.

  “The jacket will be at the lab first thing in the morning,” Merrick said. “When I find out anything, I’ll call and let you know. Go home and get some sleep.”

  “How long before you know anything?”

  “Depends on how backed-up the lab is. I’ll call you the first I find out.”

  Anger itched along the inside of his skull. Mike said, “He saw Father Connelly earlier today. You know that?”

  “No. What happened?”

  As Mike explained what had happened, Merrick didn’t seem surprised by any of it. He wasn’t surprised, Mike knew, because Merrick had cops like Slow Ed watching Jonah—only Mike couldn’t mention that. If he did, he’d be in violation of his probation and off to jail he’d go while Jonah went to sleep in his own bed.

  Mike said, “What about Jonah’s hospice nurse? You talk to her?”

  “How do you know he has a hospice nurse?”

  “Word around town. Is it true?”

  Merrick nodded. “Hospice has been called in.”

  “And?”

  “I’m asking you to stay away from her.”

  “I’m pretty sure the nurse isn’t part of my restraining order.”

  “This evening someone called the station and said a truck was parked across the street from Jonah’s house. Unfortunately, this person didn’t get a good look at the driver’s face, or his license plate. If you go near him—if you so much as say hello—all he has to do is pick up the phone and call us and you’ll be on your way to serve five to eight. And this time, there’s nothing I can do to stop it either.”

  “Guy with the best lawyer wins, right?”

  “Thanks to O.J.,we’re all operating in a different world now.” Merrick moved his coffee aside and then leaned across the table, his face serious. “The truth is you hurt our investigation. You hurt it big time. When all this went down, Jonah was cooperative and then you moved in and almost killed him and now he won’t make a move without talking to his lawyer.”

  Mike didn’t say anything.

  “Jonah’s running on borrowed time. I think I’ve got a way to get what I need from him, but to do it, you’re to stay away from him, the nurse, all of it. Let me do my job and worry about Jonah. Just go about your normal life.”

  “I don’t have much of a life anymore,” Mike said, “and I can guarantee you what’s left over is anything but normal.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The bar was on the edge of town, near Chelsea, and aptly named The Last Pass. The place always reminded him of a black-and-white drawing he had seen in a catechism book back in his parochial grammar school days—souls denied entrance to heaven lay in hospital beds, their faces twisted in pain. They seemed no different from the bar’s patrons, a collection of the lost and angry and rejected who cashed in their Social Security, disability, and welfare checks to spend their days drifting from one bar to the next, places with dim lighting and a constant haze of cigarette smoke.

  The bartender was young, somewhere in his early twenties, with a shaved head and a blue muscle shirt with the sleeves cut off to show off the barbed wire tats that crisscrossed each bicep.

  “Shot of Jack with a draft on the side,” Mike said.

  “What kind of draft?”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  One drink. That was all he was asking for, one measly drink. Normal people came home from work after busting their hump all day and unwound with a drink, their reward for putting up with the daily grind. Just one drink to dull his nerves and help him sleep. No way his P.O. was going to call or stop by at this hour.

  The bartender came back and placed the shot and draft on the bar. Mike stared at the shot, running his tongue over his front teeth.

  You’re feeling sorry for yourself.

  Let’s say that was true. So what? Where was the harm in indulging in a moment of self-pity? And why was he bound to a set of rules that dictated his every moment while that piece of shit got to go wherever he wanted?

  Mike picked up the shot glass and brought it to his lips, the smell of booze filling his nostrils.

  Just one drink. One drink to help him sleep and he’d go home.

  One drink’s going to turn into two and then three and four and five and you’ll get good and drunk and then drive back to Jonah’s. You want to knock that shot back, go ahead, but at least be honest with yourself.

  Mike put the shot glass back down on the bar, unclipped the cell phone from his belt and dialed the number he knew by heart.

  “You ever wonder about the difference b
etween purgatory and life?”

  “Father Jack?” Bill asked, his voice thick with sleep, groggy. “I swear, I haven’t been touching myself in my bad place.”

  “They found Sarah’s jacket at the top of the hill an hour ago.” Mike took in a deep breath, swallowed. “It was on a cross.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Staring at a shot of Jack and a draft at The Last Pass.”

  “That dump? Christ, Sully, if you’re going to fall off the wagon, the least you can do is do it in style.”

  “I saw him tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Jonah,” Mike said, and filled Bill in on what had happened.

  “So Slow Ed did you a solid,” Bill said. “He’s a good guy. Came to visit my mother when she was in the hospital.”

  Mike watched the beads of moisture running down the beer glass. On the other end of the phone, he heard what sounded like a car door slamming shut, followed by a car starting.

  “Get it out of your head, Sully.”

  “It’s been an hour, and I still want to kill him.”

  “Leave him to the reaper. It’s not worth it.”

  “Jess is moving to New York.”

  “Everyone’s leaving Belham. Check this out. Tonight after the play, I took everyone out to that steak joint on Route Six? Guess who I ran into? Bam-Bam and his new gal-pal Nadine. You meet her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She’s dumber than Anna Nicole Smith.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Nadine thought pork came from a mushroom. And next Sunday’s Pats game is out, by the way. Seems Bam’s taking an unexpected trip to Arizona. Now guess why?”

  “I take it it’s not to see the Grand Canyon.”

  “Try day spa. Nadine wants Bam to drop some serious pounds, so she’s taking him for a week to a spa. He’s going to be eating wheat-germ pancakes for breakfast, doing yoga, taking mud baths, and getting rock massages and enemas.”

  Mike was rubbing the shot glass between his fingers. “People do funny things when they’re in love,” he said, thinking about Jess’s moving to New York, a move he was sure at least partly had something to do with the new man in her life.

  “The fat bastard even got his teeth bleached. I says to him, ’Bam, why didn’t you just pay two bucks for a bottle of White-Out, paint your teeth just like you did before our senior prom?”

  Mike let out a dry chuckle.

  “See, that’s funny. But Nadine? She just stared at me. I swear a thought in her head must be like a canary flying around an empty room. Hang tight, Sully, I’m almost there.”

  CHAPTER 14

  When you use the media, they end up using you. Rose Giroux had drilled this fact into Mike’s head early on. What they’re after, Michael, are your tears. That’s all they care about. They want you to cry for them, to scream, swear—they want you to have a breakdown on camera, and the only way they can do that is by asking the questions meant to provoke you. When they ask them—and they will, over and over again—always remember to keep your focus on your daughter. Remember that behind every dumb question are cameras and tape recorders that are going to run Sarah’s story and Sarah’s picture. The longer you keep Sarah out there, the higher the chance someone will come forward with information. You stand there and be as nice as pie because there may come a time when you need them.

  For the next five days, no matter where Mike was or what mood he was in, he dropped whatever he was doing and in a strained but pleasant tone answered the same mind-numbing questions over and over again. Yes, I’m sure it was my daughter’s jacket on top of the hill. No, I can’t explain why Jonah called 911 and reported finding the jacket. No, I don’t know what’s going on with the jacket. No, I don’t know why the police haven’t arrested Jonah yet. I don’t know anything. You’d have to talk to the police. Go to the police. Speak with the police.

  Merrick held two press conferences—smoke and mirror shows of “We’re working on several leads” and “No comment.” Merrick was holding his cards close to his chest; he wasn’t going to give away any information. When the cameras and microphones were gone and it was just the two of them, alone in a room, he treated Mike to the same lip service. Be patient. We’re making progress. Merrick never elaborated on exactly what that progress was.

  By the end of the work week, with nothing fresh to feast on, the media went into a temporary state of hibernation. They were lingering around Belham, mostly around Jonah’s house, hoping to catch a picture of the dying recluse. And sometimes they’d drive by Mike’s house and knock on the door looking for an exclusive interview—only Mike wasn’t there. He and Fang had moved temporarily into Bill’s house. Anthony Testa popped by the job site for another pee and breathe screen and left in a huff. Mike had forgotten to cap the sample and had accidentally dropped it inside Testa’s briefcase.

  Every morning, from five to six, even in the dead of winter, Father Jack Connelly ran the track at Belham High School. Mike knew this because back in high school, he used to run the track in the early mornings to keep in shape for football. They often ran together and talked about any number of subjects, Father Jack not at all shy about voicing his thoughts on Lou Sullivan.

  On a drizzling Friday morning Mike found Father Jack doing laps around the track, the priest alone and dressed in his gray sweats and a hooded navy-blue sweatshirt. He rounded the corner, and when he looked up and saw Mike standing next to his gym bag, he slowed to a walk.

  “You should really give those up,” Father Jack said, and pointed to the cigarette in Mike’s hands.

  “He molested the first girl and the church buried the story.”

  Father Jack stopped walking. He stood there with beads of sweat running down his face, his breath steaming in the cool air.

  “The church moved him to another parish and then Caroline Lenville disappears,” Mike said. “Her mother was late picking her up, so Jonah gave her a ride home. The police believe him because they don’t know about the molestation charge, but the church did, and after the dust settled, you guys moved him to Vermont and then Ashley Giroux disappears.”

  Father Jack leaned forward and removed a towel from his gym bag.

  “You held Sarah in your hands,” Mike said. “You baptized her. You ate at my house.”

  “You want me to say again, Michael? That I think Jonah’s a disgrace? That I’m ashamed at what the church did? How they ignored and betrayed the victims afterwards? You know how I feel about everything that’s happened.”

  “Why did Jonah come to see you last week?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  So it was a confession. And since confessions were sealed, no cop or judge or court order of any kind could make Father Jack reveal what had transpired.

  Mike flicked his cigarette into the wind and stepped in closer, his face inches from the priest.

  “Whatever you say, I promise it will stay between you and me.”

  Father Jack looked out at the football field.

  “Just point me in a direction,” Mike said. “Tell me where to look.”

  “I know this has been an incredibly painful and difficult ordeal for you. Try and remember, God has a plan for all of us. We may not understand it, it may anger us at times, but He does have a plan for us.”

  “We’re not in church. How about telling me as a friend?”

  “It’s in God’s hands now. I’m sorry.”

  Mike felt a thick, bulging wetness in his throat. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t think you really are.”

  Ray Pinkerton stood in his kitchen and spoke slowly as he tucked his patrolman’s shirt into his blue pants. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” He had a soft, almost feminine voice that didn’t go along with the hard, almost muscular fat of his big, wide body. “Not after the week Sammy’s had.”

  “I know it’s been a rough week for him,” Mike said. He wasn’t feeding the guy a line. Mike had witnessed the media’s relentless pursuit
of Sammy Pinkerton on TV this past week; reporters setting up camp outside of Sammy’s house and skulking around the grounds of St. John’s Prep high school in Danvers, taking pictures of him as he rushed to classes, bolted to his father’s car.

  “Nothing’s changed over the past five years. Everything Sammy saw that night, he told Merrick, and Merrick told you.”

  “As far as I know,” Mike said.

  Pinkerton let the comment slide. “Why do you want to talk to him now, after all this time?”

  It had something to do with wanting to place Sammy next to Sarah that night on the hill—and that by doing so, maybe Sammy could bring Sarah closer to him. And maybe, just maybe, if he heard Sammy talk about what happened and saw it through Sammy’s eyes, maybe it would trigger some new thought or new direction.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult here,” Ray Pinkerton said. “I know you’ve asked to talk with him before, early on, and I said no.” He sighed and ran his palm over his shaved head. “He blames himself for what happened, you know? That time, he wasn’t sleeping at all,wouldn’t eat. I got him into counseling and he finally worked his way out, and now with everything that’s happening, I can see him slipping back.”

  “Dad, it’s okay.”

  They both turned and saw Sammy standing in the hallway.

  Seeing Sammy up close like this—Sammy not a kid anymore but sixteen and real tall and real thin with a buzz cut and patches of beard trying to come together and form a goatee—it rocked Mike back to that morning he had stood on the hill and wondered what Sarah would look like now, and he realized that Sarah could walk right by him and he probably wouldn’t recognize her.

  Ray Pinkerton was about to speak up when Sammy said: “Honest, Dad, I’m fine.”

  But Sammy didn’t sound fine, he sounded scared. Looked it too, Mike thought. Sammy wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Sammy said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I found out about Neal’s blog yesterday.”

  Ray said, “Blog? The hell’s a blog?”

  “It’s like an online journal,” Sammy said, and then shifted his attention to Mike. “That’s why you’re here, right?”