A Dredging in Swann

by Tim Garvin

  One of the workmen below stood. He raised an object into the light. The handle was brown with mud and the head obscured with drapes of dripping plastic, but it was recognizable. It was an axe.

  Kate said, “Way to go, Carter. Bring it up.” She looked at Seb. “You think we’re done?”

  “Yeah. We’re done. That’s the axe that killed Hugh Britt. Otherwise it wouldn’t be in the bottom of that well. And Leo wouldn’t have been digging it out.”

  Carter, followed by the other workman, climbed up the ladder. He laid the axe on the grass. Kate knelt and with a pen pulled thin black plastic away from the metal, revealing a double-edged axe-head.

  Seb said, “Think you can get anything?”

  She said, “Never know. Maybe mitochondrial DNA. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Tell me again, how did Leo Sackler know this was in here?”

  “Current theory, she left a letter and someone robbed it from Leo.”

  “So Germaine Ford killed Hugh Britt?”

  “I doubt it. I think she was there though.”

  “What about the axe they found in the water?”

  “The killer threw it out there maybe. Or she did. Probably after Leo got arrested.”

  “My goodness. What a cool case. And the true murderer of Hugh Britt has now killed Leo Sackler. Is that the theory?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “Well, Seb, dammit, who is it?”

  Seb glanced at the two workmen, who were both listening intently. He fished up his phone, knelt, and took a close-up of the axe-head. He stood and smiled at the two men. He said, “Fellows, I cannot complete this mystery for you yet. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get it tied up. But I really want to thank you guys. Hard work down there. Really good work.”

  Both of the men smiled and nodded. Carter said, “Well, damn.”

  On the way back to the squad room, Seb stopped at a flower shop and bought two more roses and a small vase. The vase was a stem of red glass, and he hesitated over it, since Mia made small vases too. Hers were a wrapped sheet of porcelain sloped up to a small hole, little clay buttons at the seam, reminiscent of a monk’s cloak. He could swing by her studio, say remember that reminder X on my hand about the rose I had to get for someone? Have a light conversation. Which would be a bullheaded move. He bought the red vase, which was thin and tippy and seemed to represent the height of crappy design.

  Bonnie was not at her desk when he entered the squad room. He filled the vase from the drinking fountain in the hallway and left it and the three-rose bouquet on her blotter. At his desk, he opened his laptop and notebook and began to complete the investigation summary. He had several interviews since he had last written and was immersed first in reporting, then in storytelling.

  At one point he smelled perfume and there was a light kiss on his temple. Bonnie, broad-smiling, holding the vase of roses, said, “I don’t care what they say, I think you are a sweet guy.”

  When Seb finished, it was past four. He ended with three theories. First, a person or persons unknown, but maybe Elton Gleen, robbed and killed Leo Sackler. Second, the unknown person was Jorge Navalino. The third theory was the elaborate Squint Cooper theory and had ancient roots, as in: Squint killed Hugh Britt in 1969 when he was home on leave, maybe, and probably over Germaine Ford, who was likely present at the murder. Then, a few days ago, Squint hears from the Realtor Press DeWitt that Leo is digging out a well at the lodge and concludes that Germaine has buried evidence there. He further concludes that she has left a testament informing Leo about the axe in the well. The next day, after chasing the drone in the van, Squint drives to the lodge and forces Leo to reveal the location of the testament in the precious box left by his father. Then he kills him, probably by dropping a lasso on him, which is why the arm was caught up in the rope. He left out the detail that Squint was a former calf-roper, since it might suggest confirmation bias. How Leo broke his leg was unknown, though it might have occurred in a scuffle. After killing Leo, Squint kills Jorge to prevent him from revealing that it was he, Squint, who drove the drone-chasing van.

  Three murders in a zero-evidence package.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Marty Jerrold, reading the screen. Marty said, “I’m almost finished.”

  Seb waited. In a moment, Marty slung himself into the interview chair. He laid a two-inch-thick accordion folder on Seb’s desk. He said, “Goddamn, son. You got my case, and now you’re writing a mystery. What’s your percentage on Squint Cooper?”

  “Somewhere between a hundred and zero. What did you get on Jorge Navalino?”

  “A nice kid, and everyone says so. No surprising money in the Navalino family bank accounts. But mostly we been knocking doors in Coopertown. And there I have news. I picked up Lewis Krasner.” He tapped the folder. “Remember Lewis?”

  “Burglar?”

  “Yes, Lewis the burglar. His sister is Carol Devon, and when we knocked up her trailer, she invites us in. And what do you know, right there sleeping on her couch is Lewis Krasner, who is her husband’s burglar buddy. Her husband is Danny Devon, who is currently downstairs waiting on a better deal for armed robbery. They may take him to trial. Anyway, Carol jabs a bare foot right into Lewis’ face and wakes him up.”

  “That’s cruel.”

  “Oh, it was. He pops up and Carol says, ‘Here they are. You wanted to go to jail, now’s your chance.’ It seems Lewis has been considering his future, and option one is go back to prison and see the dentist. He’s got a terrible case of meth mouth, and it’s recently gotten painful. We should start calling it zombie mouth. Or the mouth of hell. There’s something about meth mouth that cringes me. It’s worse than seeing a dead guy, because a dead guy, at least—”

  “You’re wandering, Marty.”

  “Well, it affects me. Anyway, he says he wants to make some confessions. Plural. So we bring him in, and he does. He didn’t even have a warrant on him. He just craved a dentist and an orderly prison life. I just checked him in downstairs. I closed three burglaries.”

  “So what’s the excellent news?”

  “I cleared your case. The one you swapped me for, the pottery studio. And here it is.” He tapped the folder. “It was one of Krasner’s jobs.”

  Seb’s mouth opened. He stared.

  Marty said, “What? You look like I killed your dog.”

  Seb said, “No. That’s great.”

  “Okay. Now then. Recall those motorcycle cases I swapped out to you?”

  “That’s Lewis?”

  “No, not Lewis. But in the course of our interview he tells me about a couple of kids wheeling a motorcycle through Coopertown looking for a buyer. High school kids. He doesn’t know them, but it’s a clue. So since I solved your pottery case, how about you give me back those motorcycle cases?”

  Seb opened his file drawer, sorted through the cases, and handed Marty a four-inch section of folders.

  Marty said, “After all, if you arrest Squint Cooper, you won’t need a few motorcycle busts. You’ll be king of Swann County.”

  “Anything left in Coopertown?”

  “About a dozen trailers. Barb’s meeting me out there now, and we’re going to finish up.”

  “So what did Lewis do with the pottery? There was a scale too.”

  “Gone to Mickey Christmas, the roving fence with the terrific name. Whereabouts unknown, but probably in Kentucky. How he intends to fence pottery I have no idea. Maybe he’s a collector. Anyway, you got the doer. So my prediction is that the victim of this crime will feel emotionally generous. What? Did I kill your other dog?”

  Seb had grimaced. He said, “Things got a little difficult there.”

  “Well, the course of true love never did something-something. Get married and forget love.” Marty stopped, inspected Seb’s face. “Well, goddamn, Jude, go out and get her.”

  “I’m loo
king for the right approach.”

  “What happened?”

  Seb shook his head.

  Marty said, “Never mind. I feel an avalanche of advice ready to pour out, so I’m out of here. I told Lewis to look for a visit from Detective Creek. He’ll have his first appearance in the morning, so between now and then he’s in lawyer limbo.”

  It took another hour to polish the report. Seb entered it in the log file and sent an email notice to Stinson. Then he sat at his desk, head down. He had a half-finished song, tuneless so far, a sort of love song to life. He could adapt it for Mia, make it an offering. Which might be too bold, since really they had only been together twice, at the café and on the barge. He thought of Ahmad, who had a boom box full of beats. The song could be a hip-hop thing, the love message hidden under the offsetting irony of a Southern white boy chant, expressing caution-to-the-wind trust.

  His phone rang.

  “Seb Creek.”

  “Detective Creek, this is Virginia Rubins calling you back about the letters you wanted.”

  “Right. Thanks. Did you get a chance to talk to your mother?”

  “I did. She said she was planning to bring them to the funeral. Which is tomorrow at the Pilcher Cemetery. At nine in the morning. You know where that is?”

  “I do.”

  “I was wondering if you wanted to …”

  “I definitely will. I’ll see her after the ceremony, if that’s all right.”

  “I’m sure that will be fine.”

  They ended the call. If Seb called Ahmad, they could meet at Betty’s Bar, or get a six-pack and sit by the inlet somewhere. They could work something up. Then knock on her door with the boom box, hey, I got a treat. And damn, sorry about the FBI. He opened Word and found the song. He read, I used to be afraid of love … He read to the end. It could work as a Mia song, definitely. Hip-hopping could add charm and ward off sentiment. Some of the lines were still stiff though. He needed long calm moments. He could go back to the barge, sit with Jimmy Beagle, talk about war and the FBI. And, by the way, Jimmy, what is Mia thinking?

  He packed his laptop into his briefcase, then lifted the Lewis Krasner file and tucked it beside it. He took the elevator to the first floor and crossed the underground corridor to the jail. He checked his nine millimeter in a weapon locker, passed check-in with the deputy at the entrance booth, and took a seat in one of the interview rooms. Ten minutes later a deputy ushered Krasner into the room. He wore the orange jail coverall and was trussed in full restraints, leg, wrist, and belt chain. The deputy locked him into the table ring and left the room.

  Seb said, “Hooking you up is standard procedure, Lewis. I got no say.”

  Krasner said, “I’m used to it.” He was a small man, in his forties, thin-faced and sharp-nosed, a variety of tattooed beasts, quotes, and insignias smattered like afterthoughts across his forearms. His long hair was wet and made brown curtains beside his face. The belly chain fell across one knee and tinked as the knee bounced. He said, “So what do you want?” His teeth flashed black and tan as he spoke. He seized one of his ears and shook it determinedly. He tilted his head and thumped his temple with a palm. “You’re Detective Creek, right?”

  “Right.”

  “First thing you need to know, I’m taking my confession back. A hundred percent I take it back.”

  “Really? You didn’t do the crimes?”

  “I’m not saying I didn’t do them. I’m just not confessing right now.”

  “You just confessed again.”

  “No, I didn’t. I revoke that.”

  “You signed, Lewis.”

  “That’s not my signature.”

  “We have videotape. I thought you needed a dentist.”

  “I do need a dentist.”

  “So what’s the problem? You getting sick?”

  “Yes, Mr. Creek. That’s the problem. I’m quite sick.”

  “Did you see the nurse?”

  “That’s the problem. There’s only one nurse, and she’s a hard-ass.”

  “What are you coming down from?”

  “Various ones of opioids. And heroin. I’m suffering bad, and this know-it-all nurse is absolutely unsympathetic. These people like her should not be serving the public.”

  “You drinking water?”

  “I’m trying to. I have to drink from the goddamn faucet.”

  “So you hereby revoke your videotaped confessions?”

  Krasner stared at him, absorbing the absurdity. He said determinedly, “Definitely.”

  Seb made a frowning smile.

  Krasner said, “I’ll come back tomorrow morning and re-confess, absolutely. How about that? There’s no chance, is there?”

  “No chance, Lewis.”

  “Get me some buprenorphine. Can you talk to the nurse?”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Will you absolutely talk to her, without fail, and a hundred percent you will?”

  “A hundred percent.”

  “It won’t make a fuck of difference. I’m big-time fucked, man.”

  “You got to go through it, Lewis.”

  “I know it. I should have planned. I was thinking, I could have had a secret compartment installed in my ass or something.” He leaned his head forward to reach his hands. He combed fingers through his hair curtains and let them flop. “This is terrific suffering, man.” He sawed the handcuff chain back and forth through the table ring, making a zipping rattle. He said, “I know a guy that died in a jail cell. The nurse told me I was a baby.”

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “It was. Jail people basically have no inward sensitivity. What kind of people would apply for a jail job? Think about it. What do you want? I got to get going.” He zipped his handcuff chain through the table ring again. “I’m getting claustrophobic.”

  “Tell me about the pottery studio.”

  “What about it?”

  “You remember it?”

  “Of course, I remember it. I thought there was antiques or something in there. It turns out it was all handmade modern stuff. I took some anyway, just in case.”

  “And the scale.”

  “Yes, I took the scale.”

  “How much did you get?”

  “Very fucking nothing almost. Thirty for the scale.”

  “Mickey Christmas?”

  “Yep.”

  “He take the pots?”

  “What I had left. Five, I think. Ten bucks each one. A rip-off for sure. Some of those pots had price tags of like hundreds of dollars.”

  “Who told you there were antiques in there?”

  Krasner alerted. He bobbed his head methodically, considering. He said, “I don’t work for nobody. I do my own thing.”

  Seb waited.

  Krasner said, “All right then. It was Elton Gleen mentioned it. We were shooting the shit around the tubs and someone said Mickey Christmas was coming, and it was like, damn, nobody’s ready for that. And it came up Elton Gleen mentioned a place on Willow Road that he admired some of the art collection in there. So I borrowed Carol’s car and hit it that night.”

  “You said you sold Christmas what you had left. Where did the rest of it go?”

  “Just a teapot to Elton for twenty bucks.”

  “So he got first pick?”

  “Yeah, because he admired it.”

  “Sounds like he got a bargain.”

  “Oh, hell yeah. That teapot had a price tag of five twenty-five. It was all modern though.”

  “You write all this for the other detective?”

  “Fuck, man, I’m not writing again. I’m sick.”

  “I’ll write it. You sign it.”

  A half hour later, as Seb left, Krasner lifted his head from his arm cradle and reminded Seb that he had promised to speak to
the hard-hearted nurse, which Seb did, without avail.

  It was past six. Outside, the sun had lowered and the air was cooling. Seb stopped at an Italian restaurant and ordered lasagna and a glass of wine. Then drank two more glasses. When he left the restaurant, the sun was golden through the pines. North Carolina sunsets were inferior to California’s, where he had gone through boot camp and infantry training, because California had the western ocean. North Carolina had the eastern ocean, though, and notable sunrises. From his apartment window, he had seen many fine sunrises, each day different, like a changing painting. As he settled into the driver’s seat, he decided to drive to a beach park and sleep in his Honda, wake to a pure sunrise, without rooftops and cars. I’m doing surveillance, officer. In case he spooked a ranger.

  He turned the key, illuminating the dash, but did not engage the starter. Radio news blared, and he turned it off. The bottom difficult truth was that life was always one thing after another and no handle. The future swept into the past through the present, and things were infinitely complex, and there was nothing to hold on to—not in ordinary life, or in war, or after a war—unless it was a person, which he had lost.

  He had fallen in love, was the truth. Love had attracted him, and he had needed it toward him, but his force had not been strong enough to keep it, and that was the true sad truth. This was wine thinking, his gloom-loving wine mind working, but truth anyway. At the beach, he could leave the car and sleep on the sand. Watching for drug runners, officer. He closed his eyes and saw her, and an ache pulsed.

  On the drive to the beach, he made a six-mile detour down Willow Road all the way to the end, past Jimmy Beagle’s fish house, dark in the moon-gleamed water, then to the turnaround in front of her studio, a dark bulk in the dark trees. He slowed and made a quiet circle in the turnaround. Then he drove away toward the beach, where the sun would rise and he could listen for a love song.

  The Unseen

  Powers of Life

  The sun was down, and the moon up and halfway open, like a sleepy eye. The silver haze on the water and the scrub and sand made Cody feel jumpy and exposed but didn’t matter really, since the plan was to boldly build a weenie fire. He even had marshmallows. He had fished the west end of Cat Island, worked past the splintery wharf and the twin firepits where he had buried the missiles, then anchored at the eastern inlet until darkness closed. He was hidden in night now, so no longer worried about Elton and Peener, except to think now and then about what was coming there if he made it through.