by Drew Franzen
After a silent moment, Dojcsak said to Pridmore, “Destruction of property is one thing, Sara, murder something else altogether, though the possibility can’t be ignored. Is the killing so soon after the fire the other night coincidence? Had she been involved with the rougher elements? Do you have any reason to believe she was?”
Sara had been responsible for questioning the victimized merchants and pursuing any leads. After only a moments hesitation, she said, “Not that I know, though I think her cousin, Jordy, might be.”
Burke said, “The black kid?”
Sara said, “You know him?”
“Scumbag. Who doesn’t?”
“Anyway,” Sara continued, “I suspect the heightened police activity resulting from the killing will send the little hooligans to ground. I’m hoping so; I don’t need the aggravation.”
To Burke, Dojcsak said, “Interview the victim’s aunt, Christopher. I want to know what she thinks of Eugene. Could he be responsible? What kind of relationship did he have with his daughters, his wife? Be blunt. After all, the eldest left home when she was sixteen, still only a child herself. Did Maggie confide to her sister? If so, what?”
“Does Eugene’s interest in pornography extend beyond the Exxxotica, do you think, or is it just his business?” Sara asked.
Burke nodded. “We’ll need a client list, Ed. Purchaser receipts, debit and credit cards. It’s a long shot, but it could be a customer. The body was dumped behind the store. Coincidence? And, we should check Eugene’s inventory. Even his laptop. Can we get Time Warner to release a log of his internet activity?”
“For?” Ed asked.
“You know, kiddy porn, snuff. Sick shit like that.”
“Chris is right, Ed. We may learn a lot about Missy from her phone, when we find it, or her laptop. Does she have a Facebook page? Instagram? What does she tweet, what does she text and with who? There’s so many hook-up apps available to teenagers these days she could have been meeting with anyone.”
Raising a hand as if to say Stop, Dojcsak said, “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s rule out Eugene and move on to other considerations from there. Jimmy Cromwell has committed his assistance and the assistance of the State Police. Let’s make the best of it, especially for the technical stuff.
“Cromwell has ordered a canvass of the neighborhood immediately surrounding the crime scene. The Troopers will interview possible witnesses and employees in the area of the shop, though only a few stores are open for business on Sunday. Most close by five.” He said it with a gesture of resignation. “And, Chris, I’ll want to speak with the cousin, Kendra. No reflection on you, but I’m not buying that she has no idea where Missy was off to when she left yesterday.”
“What are we looking for, Ed?” asked Sara.
Dojcsak shrugged. “A reasonable suspect?”
“That covers a lot of ground, Ed; eighteen to eighty years of age, pees standing up.”
Burke said, “Let’s not forget the half who squat, Sara. No reason her killer can’t be a girl.”
Both Sara and Dojcsak conceded the point. There was no reason to linger further, their respective objectives clearly defined.
“Bring the car around, Sara. You drive.” Dojcsak extracted keys from his coat and tossed them across the desk to Pridmore. “My eyes,” he said by way of explanation. “With the late night, I don’t trust my judgment.”
Pridmore followed Burke from the office, down the stairwell, out the door and across the lot to where both the police cruiser and Dojcsak’s Crown Victoria were parked. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t mind the drive, perhaps enjoy the opportunity to settle into the vehicle’s plush leather interior and experience the pleasure of quadraphonic surround sound, though Dojcsak’s choice in music was not her own; a selection from the fifties, sixties and seventies, even a two disk Cole Porter Songbook featuring the vocals of a young Ella Fitzgerald, as if Ed was stuck in a time warp from which he was either unwilling or unable to emerge.
From his cruiser, Burke turned to Sara. He raised his hand and flashed a dazzling smile with his porcelain perfect white teeth before departing in a cloud of loose gravel and dust. Pridmore eyed his departure cautiously, thinking that his parents must have put a fortune into that pie-hole.
…
Dojcsak remained in the office after they left. He sat two minutes smoking, finished the last of the brewed coffee, and silently passed gas. He did not think about the alley; he did not think about the girl. After a short while, he rubbed a meaty palm across his chin, deciding he needed to shave, to retreat to the bathroom on this floor and to scrape his face. At eight twenty-five, Ed Dojcsak left his office and walked down the hall to fetch his razor.
CHAPTER SIX
WITH DOJCSAK GONE, Rena proceeded with her chores. She thought: Why should Ed, of all people, believe he has as good a chance of solving the crime as Angelique? Modern forensics was no match against the mysteries and sheer power of psychic intuition. Rena believed this firmly and unconditionally; had done for going on ten years, since Angelique first had declared, contrary to the dire prognostications of Luba’s doctors and the empirical certainty of scientific fact, her daughter would survive into her teens. Rena hadn’t confessed this forecast to Ed, in the early years out of a desire not to offer false hope, and, after Luba had turned thirteen, unwilling to risk that his skepticism might potentially impair the power of the psychic’s positive prediction.
Rena would telephone Angelique this afternoon, she decided, to get from her a better sense of who might possibly be responsible. She would love nothing more than to visit, to discuss the murder first hand, either in the store front shop or perhaps in the sitting room of the psychic’s second story apartment overlooking Church Falls’s main drag, over Chinese green tea and the uniquely flavored miniature almond paste biscuits favored by Angelique. (When asked about the peculiar but not unpleasant tasting novelties, Angelique declared: “Sugar and spice, Rena, an appropriate blend of both is necessary to make my cookies—and life—bearable”, though at times Rena imagined the headiness with which she departed the premises to be weighted more toward spice.) An oversize wrought iron sign depicting the all-seeing mystic eyeball hung suspended from a heavy chain outside the portico, marking the location of the shop, and was what at first had attracted Rena to the place.
But it wasn’t a day on which Rena could reasonably depend on relief from Dorothy O’Rielly, who would be busy at the station. Kate Bouey was working a seven in the morning to seven in the evening twelve-hour shift. Rena could telephone Sandy Belak, the public health nurse who called once weekly on the family to monitor the status of Luba’s medication, but Sandy had other patients and with the recent cut back in home health-care funding it was unlikely she would take time to perform what ultimately was no more than babysitting. Jenny was unreliable; she would be no use.
Rena rinsed cups, deposited the evidence of her husband’s filthy addiction into the waste bin beneath the kitchen counter and drained what remained of the morning pot of coffee. Sheila Burke had telephoned last evening, wanting to talk. Pregnancy, hormones and her husband Christopher’s marauding libido were playing havoc with the young woman’s fragile emotions; boo-hoo, Rena thought, Sheila needs a shoulder to cry on. Who doesn’t?
But Rena Dojcsak had troubles of her own. Though she no longer was obsessed over the state of her failing marriage or the prognosis for her dying daughter, Rena didn’t have the surplus emotional energy required to obsess over the trouble of others, either. Not that she was unsympathetic; simply believed herself unfit to offer either heartfelt commiseration or meaningful advice to her friends, given the state of her own sorry existence.
Careful not to wake Jen, Rena ran the upright along the carpet and lower hallway, leaving the second story and bedrooms for the afternoon. Luba would sleep fitfully until woken, undisturbed by either her mother’s movement or the rhythmic whine of the Hoover; in her daughter’s constant struggle for breath, Rena imag
ined these to be small annoyances.
She and Ed had been married eight years prior to deciding on a family. The couple was careful to ensure Ed was reasonably well established in his position as Warren County Sheriff, a job he’d come into by default on the resignation of his cousin. Though Ed had been Sidney Womack’s deputy, it came nonetheless as a surprise to everyone when he ran uncontested in the County election. After Jenny arrived, Rena happily resigned her own position and the second income she enjoyed as a substitute teacher at the local high, devoting herself full-time to the raising of her child.
With a combination of savings and debt, they were just able to purchase a home on the more affordable if less fashionable south side of the Hudson River, though from their rear yard they did partially overlook the waterway as it flowed in the direction of New York City, on its way out of town. (In later years, Rena came to regard the river in the way others regard high-altitude, jet-plane vapor trails; with longing, as if she were somehow being left behind on a journey somewhere, anywhere, but here.)
Despite working odd hours, Ed proved to be an active and involved parent. In spite of his size and physical awkwardness, he displayed a remarkable sensitivity to Jenny’s needs, encouraging even his skeptical wife. On certain nights during the week, Rena could spend an evening out in the company of friends, confidently leaving the home and Jenny in the care of her husband. Emotionally, Ed had always teetered between optimism and despair; the arrival of Jenny pushed him toward a more positive disposition.
By the time their daughter was almost two years of age, life was progressing well enough on the domestic front that the Dojcsak’s were ready, if not necessarily anxious, for another. On her first attempt to again become pregnant, Rena, however, miscarried. Ed suggested they count their blessings, desist and forestall any further effort to expand the small but happy brood.
“One more time, Ed,” Rena pleaded with her husband. “Please; this isn’t fate, it’s coincidence. Even Doctor Henry says there’s no physical reason I shouldn’t be able to conceive and have another healthy child.”
Under pressure and with great misgiving, though not a foreboding sufficient to qualify as foresight, Dojcsak relented. Soon afterward, Rena did become pregnant.
At birth, their second child had been small, though at six pounds she had not been premature. By two months, Luba having gained little weight, her head lolled on her narrow shoulders like a bobble-head doll, connected only by a sinewy thread of neck through which the blue-black veins were visible beneath her transparently pale skin. Henry Bauer expressed surprise, though at the time not alarm. He cautioned the parents to not overreact. True, he said, Dojcsak is a big man. But Rena is small, accounting, perhaps, for the child’s diminutive proportions. But for the four weeks of her life between the age of two months and three, Luba seemed ill without relief. Though her appetite was normal, at five months her rate of growth by weight had slowed and in fact, according to a home scale purchased by Rena, had begun a disturbing and inexplicable reversal. By now, Henry Bauer was himself anxious enough to order a series of tests, suggesting a nutritional supplement as well, to augment the breast.
“To enhance what she’s obviously not getting from you.” The statement was in no way accusatory, yet Rena felt somehow diminished.
And Luba coughed constantly. For either her or Rena to sleep, Rena was compelled to cradle her baby throughout the night, keeping Luba’s head propped up over her arm, or with a pillow; Luba could not seem to draw breath otherwise. Albuterol was prescribed every four hours and liquid steroids once a day, an antibiotic in case she had pertussis, and liquid Tylenol for fever, though to Rena she didn’t seem obviously warm. When the initial tests returned negative, Rena felt relief and a mixture of dismay.
After a while, in addition to the cough, abdominal cramps appeared, vexing both parents and child. Bauer prescribed Simethicone drops, presumably for colic.
Her mother-in-law weighed in with her own advice. “Check what you’re eating. Something you’re eating is upsetting her stomach. Spicy, salty, fatty, sweet foods: all will pass through you into her,” she said, as if recommending a diet restricted to plain oatmeal and dry, whole-wheat toast. “Are you drinking?” she asked, as if accusing Rena of acquiring the habit from Ed., who since Luba’s birth had begun to drink more.
While eating solids, Luba still was gaining no weight. An angry rash developed over her bottom, spreading to her thighs and lower back. Rena changed soaps, wipes, disposable diaper brands, powders and creams, all to no avail. As if to mock Rena’s ministrations, the rash became worse, spreading and becoming meaner looking by the day. Fearing the consequences of a modified or more restricted diet on Luba’s already stunted rate of growth, in desperation Rena appealed to Doctor Bauer for advice.
Feeling both guilty and ashamed, referring to the rash, she said, “I’ve tried. Nothing works. Nothing. The more I try to control it, the faster it spreads. And she eats. God, she eats. The more I feed her, the smaller she gets. What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing,” Bauer replied. “You’re doing everything you need to be doing. Look at Jenny. Healthy as a horse, isn’t she?” (Physically, perhaps, but in truth, since the birth of Luba and the subsequent shift of emotional resources toward the ailing child, Jenny had suffered miserably. Rena was fearful of a possibility for lingering resentment and serious alienation.)
Taking Luba from her mother, Henry Bauer laid her on the examination table, placing her on her back. He removed her jumper, next removing her under tee shirt, leaving her in only her diaper. Using a thumb and middle finger, he probed gently along the child’s midriff to her groin, around to the small of her back. He turned Luba to her side, passing a forefinger along her spine. Luba squirmed, scrunching her tiny face into a grimace; a death-head grin, Henry Bauer imagined. This child is ill, he thought to himself. Perhaps seriously, though with what, how or why it was impossible for him yet to say. Additional and extensive tests would be required.
Through his stethoscope, Bauer listened to the child’s lungs, to the steady beat of her tiny heart. The rapid thump-thump was typical, almost normal, but Bauer was disturbed, detecting an obvious congestion. For two weeks, Luba had been on a regimen of inhalers, steroids and antibiotics.
“You’ve been giving her the medicine I prescribed?” he asked Rena over his shoulder, an uncharacteristic edge creeping into his tone.
“Yes.”
“Faithfully, without missing a day?”
“Yes.”
Bauer continued to probe; on the examination table Luba squirmed, like an earthworm. “Is she regular, Rena?” Bauer asked now. “Her bowel movements?”
Rena paused, as if reluctant to say. “They smell, Doctor. Awful. They’re gummy, and they stink. Could it be causing her rash?”
Bauer softly stroked Luba’s cheek with his forefinger. In response, her lips curled, for the first time since arriving that morning turning upward in a genuine smile. “She’s a beautiful baby, Rena,” he said, smoothing the child’s wispy hair. He drew his hand across her forehead, traced the bridge of her small nose to her lips, then to her chin. Bauer then did something unexpected and to Rena, entirely inexplicable; the physician licked his fingertips, as if to have a sense of her daughter’s flavor. “Why don’t you dress her?” he said then.
Rena took his place at the examination table. The room resembled an emergency ward triage, each examination area separated only by colorful curtains depicting various fairy-tale scenes: Little Jack Horner, Little Miss Muffett, Jack climbing the Beanstalk and Jack tumbling down the hill with Jill. Child-like finger paintings adorned the wall, executed, Rena imagined, by the physician’s own children, or patients present and past. Next to her a baby cried, a wail seeming to be somehow beyond the possible suffering of a mere child. Opposite her another child laughed, giggling uncontrollably, presumably at the ministrations of the attending nurse.
In his private office, Bauer told her, “I’m going to order
a sweat test, Rena. The test will determine the amount of chloride in Luba’s sweat. To the touch, her skin seems salty to me.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Rena said it as if perhaps she should.
“There are no needles involved in the procedure, no blood to be drawn. She won’t feel any discomfort or pain. In the first part of the test, we apply a colorless, odorless chemical to a small area on her arm or leg. We then attach an electrode to that spot. It allows the technician to apply a weak electrical current to the area to stimulate sweating. She may feel a tingling sensation, or a feeling of warmth.”
In response to Rena’s expression he repeated, “But she will feel no discomfort or pain. This part of the procedure will last approximately five minutes. The second part of the test consists of cleaning the stimulated area and collecting Luba’s sweat on a piece of filter paper or gauze, or in a plastic coil. Within thirty minutes the sample is sent to a laboratory for analysis. The entire collection procedure takes approximately one hour. The results will be available the following day.”
Luba squirmed in Rena’s arms, seemingly as discomfited by the proposition as her mother. Instinctively, her lips sought out Rena’s breast in a feeble attempt to suck at the material of her mother’s cotton jersey. “Why?” Rena asked without preamble or elaboration.
Bauer prevaricated, stalling in his response. Rena sensed his dismay.
“There are a number of things that could be happening. I’d like to rule them out. A Lower GI—gastrointestinal examination—is invasive, uncomfortable and possibly painful for the child.” Bauer raised his eyes from what he was writing. “And you. We’ll do the sweat test first.”
“What will it tell us?”
“Whether Luba has CF—Cystic Fibrosis.”
Two weeks later, worst nightmare confirmed, the Dojcsaks were advised by a medical specialist that their daughter was not gaining weight because of a failure in her pancreas to produce the chemical enzymes that normally pass into the stomach as food departs. Without these enzymes the fat in her food could not be properly digested. In Luba, and in others with the disease, the fat passes straight through the digestive tract. Unable to benefit from its life giving energy, the patient steadily and ultimately succumbs to starvation, even while at the same time eating regular and nutritious meals. Since the stools emerge containing most of the excess fat, they are oily and very smelly.