THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE

by Jason Whitlock

  “Married?”

  “No. What has this to do with anything?”

  “Just asking,” said Dojcsak. The chair was comfortable, the auditorium warm, like a cocoon. The absolute silence of the empty space lulled his senses, lobbying him to sleep. Dojcsak pulled a hand over his face in an effort to keep awake. “Did you rehearse Sunday?”

  “I gave them the day off. I’ve been working them hard; I don’t want them to lose their enthusiasm, the spontaneity they’ll need for opening day.”

  “Which is when?”

  The artistic director was becoming agitated with Dojcsak’s meandering, seemingly irrelevant line of questioning. “If you’d like to order tickets, Inspec—Sheriff —the box office is open Monday to Friday, ten to three-thirty. I have the number on my card.” Pataki pulled his wallet from his trousers, extracted a business card and passed it to Dojcsak.

  Dojcsak received it, read it then asked, “Artistic Director? What exactly is it that an Artistic Director does, Mr. Pataki?”

  Pataki cursed silently. Jesus Christ, the man is more exasperating than Peter Falk. “The Artistic Director is the boss, Sheriff,” he said, this time getting it right. “The decision maker. I decide what we’ll produce, how we’ll produce it and in many cases, direct the production myself.” He stiffened, as if proud.

  Dojcsak nodded his head as if impressed, like the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz Pataki imagined, his unconscious mind determined to cast Dojcsak in a role other than police.

  “You didn’t rehearse Sunday,” Dojcsak said. “It says so here, in my book.” Dojcsak referred to his notes. “Where were you? I don’t recall if you said.”

  “Home.”

  “No kids; not married. You were alone?”

  “Of course.”

  Dojcsak nodded as if to say: How convenient. “Her friends, Mr. Pataki. You mentioned friends?”

  They were traveling endlessly in circles on a Merry-Go-Round from which Pataki was now anxious to descend. He was feeling confused. In another minute, he feared he might reveal to this man the contents of his earlier, more distressing telephone conversation at his home.

  As if pleading, Pataki said, “I told you. A group of them hang around the back door, waiting for their friends. Kids, you know; blue jeans, sweatshirts, tee shirts, long hair, short hair, dark, blonde, who knows? I don’t pay that much attention; they all look the same to me.” Then, as if reconsidering his reply, he said, “Wait; there is one, a girl—actually, I’m not even sure if it is a girl. Big, with short, spiky hair, sticking up all over.” He motioned with his fingers and his hands, as if his own thin hair was caught in the wind. “I remember her because of the earrings. They call her the battle-tank.” Finally, as if it were necessary though not significant: “And a black kid; her cousin, I think she said, Missy.”

  “You didn’t know her well but she shared this bit of personal biography with you?”

  “In passing,” Pataki replied.

  Five minutes later Dojcsak thanked Pataki for his assistance, shaking his hand and assuring him they would be in touch should additional questions arise. Pataki shuddered at Dojcsak’s clammy grip. Afterward, he poured himself a drink: bourbon neat, from the lobby bar. He observed his reflection in a mirror, his brow damp, dark hair frazzled by the pressure of the interview. He would need a change of clothing, he decided, his linen dress shirt saturated now with perspiration.

  At forty-two years of age, Joel Pataki considered himself reasonably settled. Adequate income for a man living on his own, a vocation he liked, at times even loved, and reasonably well regarded among colleagues and friends. Joel hadn’t been the victim of either abusive parents or a traumatic past; in fact, his childhood was reasonably well adjusted. Public school education leading to a college level degree in dramatic arts, graduating with adequate grades before relocating to New York City to seek reasonably steady employment in the theater district surrounding Times Square.

  Goal achieved, two years earlier he accepted the appointment as Artistic Director for The Church Falls Theater District Corporation, a position requiring him to move from New York City: from the anonymity of the many to the scrutiny of the few.

  Pataki downed his drink, savored the slow burn and worried he had said too much. Even more, that he had said too little.

  CHURCH FALLS, SOMETIME IN THE SEVENTIES

  WITHIN THREE WEEKS of his arrest, Drew Bitson was arraigned, indicted, and ordered to stand trial in the beating death of Frances Stoops. Once more, Prosecutor Jimmy Cromwell argued that bail should be denied: given his previous record (which for shoplifting at the age of twelve some thought was no record at all) there was the possibility Drew might re-offend. The presiding magistrate, once more, agreed.

  It was a warm day, even for August, a continuation of the unyielding and oppressive heat wave that had descended and settled upon the inhabitants of the Hudson River Valley since the day Shelly Hayden had been discovered floating face up in the water. The humidity hung suspended in the air above the mountains like a damp sponge. Bitson sat in the dock, looking forlorn and perspiring visibly in a dark suit that either he had outgrown or which had never belonged to him in the first place. His typically brown skin had turned slate gray, either from anxiety, exhaustion or the heat. To many in the courtroom it seemed that Drew might collapse in a heap to the floor. The boy’s parents sat together but alone in the gallery, bodies pressed tight to one another despite the temperature, as if their mutual faith in his innocence might somehow mitigate the collective belief shared by most in his guilt.

  Sidney Womack was present, though not required to participate. A court appointed attorney represented Bitson. Not the man who earlier had appeared on his behalf, but a heavy woman who seemed no more enthusiastic about, or convinced of, her client’s innocence. She, too, perspired visibly.

  In the two weeks since the arrest, Womack’s investigation had failed to yield any substantive evidence that would either absolve Bitson in the killing, or further implicate him. Excepting the photo, an errant pubic hair and an admission by Drew that he’d had sex with the girl recently but not on that day, there was mostly insinuation and conjecture, which to Sydney was hardly enough to convict, let alone to condemn. Results of a blood test were pending, which would confirm that a semen sample extracted from the victim matched a blood sample extracted from Drew. Given the likely sentiment of any potential Warren County jury, Womack wasn’t convinced they would not elect to hang the boy all the same.

  He’d spoken with Frances’ mother in an effort to determine the victim’s level of personal hygiene. Though affronted and wanting to know how it was relevant, she did confess that Frances was not particular about her daily routine, although on that specific day she couldn’t be sure. So the pubic hair may have set there for days, which neither proved nor disproved Drew’s statement that on the day she died, Frances and he had not been intimate. Womack confirmed that the two had been seen together about town as a couple on frequent occasions, but then Frances had been seen about town on frequent occasions with other boys as well; many boys. Perhaps most revealing of all, according even to her parents, Frances had a reputation that was at best spotty, if not outright soiled.

  Sydney grudgingly acknowledged he might be falsely discounting the evidence against Bitson to support his own suspicion Leland McMaster had something to do with the killing of Frances Stoops and—though he was careful not to say—Shelly Hayden. Ed Dojcsak had confessed as recently as yesterday to having seen McMaster and Stoops together on the night of her death; they drove off in the same vehicle. What cause could Leland, a seventeen going on eighteen-year-old boy, have to be with Frances, a thirteen going on fourteen-year-old girl? And what were they doing in the same car? Then again, why would Leland McMaster, a seventeen going on eighteen-year-old boy, risk an intimate relationship with any thirteen going on fourteen-year-old girl, given the clarity of the New York State law relating to statutory rape?

  Outside the courtroom, Womack removed sun
glasses from a breast pocket. The justice system had taken less than thirty minutes to place Drew Bitson into the care of State correctional authorities and with the safekeeping of the accused no longer his responsibility, Womack decided on lunch. It was not yet going on noon and a late and substantial breakfast had forced him to release his gun belt by a notch while sitting in court. All the same, Womack proceeded to the nearest diner, the thought of facing a thirty-five minute return drive from Albany into Church Falls on an empty stomach—or one only partially full—being untenable.

  By one o’clock, having satisfied his passion for a burger, a double thick chocolate milk shake and a generous slice of coconut cream pie served with toasted almond sprinkles, Womack had requested the check from a waitress who by her expression was apparently satisfied in the gusto with which he consumed his meal. Womack watched through the window as pedestrians crossed against traffic on the street. The district was low rent; discount shops and services situated at the fringe of Albany’s more prosperous downtown core. Eventually the county courthouse would move to a larger building uptown, the existing structure insufficient and overwhelmed with victims, witnesses, attorneys and accused.

  Womack paid, leaving a generous tip. He exited into the street, pausing to hitch his belt before recognizing Jimmy Cromwell crossing between vehicles against a red traffic light, accompanied by Leland McMaster Senior and followed by his young namesake. Together they entered a diner across the way. Sidney returned to his vehicle, preoccupied on the drive home with what it could possibly be that the McMasters had to say to Jimmy Cromwell that might not best be confessed to the County Sheriff first.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FROM WHERE HE STOOD, Dojcsak observed the full length of the Main Street Bridge as it passed over the Hudson River. Not so different from any artery running over the Tigris into the heart of downtown Baghdad, he recalled of the images he had been watching on CNN. The pavement was busy, the sunshine and warm temperature agitating the good citizens of Church Falls to venture out of their shops, apartment buildings, homes or from whatever other dwelling they might have over the long winter been forced to take shelter. School-age children traveled in pairs and in packs of anywhere up to half a dozen, on skateboards, roller-blades and on bicycles. The conveyance was not, Dojcsak knew from experience, incidental. Rather it was essential to the manner in which each group both defined and distinguished itself from the other, an association of skaters to bikers as unlikely an affiliation as roller-bladers to skaters. Each group dressed differently, styled their hair differently and had adopted an evolved and distinct form of slang as a method for communication. Dojcsak had once overheard a boy refer to a fellow skateboarder’s move as “sick”, unaware that the phrase was a compliment. Dojcsak feared he was out of touch, immovable while the rest of the world continued to march inexorably beyond his gravitational pull, even though he believed things had changed little since he too, was himself a child.

  Grown-ups walked together or alone, some clutching parcels, others empty-handed and content simply to be outdoors, to savor the day. Muted fragments of random conversation reached out to Dojcsak, like a faint radio signal. Interesting, he mused, what could be gleaned from a tone of voice: fear, exasperation and despair, with most people speaking not only of murder, he imagined, but the possibility for more to come.

  Dojcsak walked to the river, away from the downtown core, along a footpath toward the dam, where the crowd thinned. Above him the trees rustled. A blue jay and its’ mate scrambled from tree limb to tree limb like hyper-kinetic squirrels, chasing after each other and nattering as if they were an old, married couple. Two stumps over, the elegant and modulated whistle of a solitary cardinal marked a sharp contrast to the jay’s petulant, uneven squawk. In the bright sunshine, the bird’s crimson coloring was a prominent splash against the deadwood winter blandness of its perch. At home, Dojcsak loved the birds, never begrudging them their droppings or the nuisance of cleaning up after them. In his rear yard he had placed feeders to attract both hummingbirds and yellow finch and though Rena argued his forbearance owed much to the species nominal excretions, Dojcsak had neither moved nor destroyed the homes of the larger blackbirds which nested in the trees flanking his front drive, despite on some days plastering the hood and the roof of his car with droppings.

  Dojcsak approached a pedestrian barrier, ignoring the warning that read, “No Unauthorized Personnel Beyond This Point”, and stood on a promontory overlooking the river. Tons of water came together below him in a swirling mass. He ignited a cigarette and reviewed his conversation with Eugene and Maggie Bitson and his most recent interrogation of the theater director, Joel Pataki.

  Proving Eugene guilty would be difficult if not next to impossible. Maggie was adamant that her husband had spent the afternoon home, in plain sight of her daughter and herself. Unless she was to alter her account (and what reason would Maggie have for doing so, or for having lied in the first place?) or be contradicted in her testimony by Mandy, Eugene, as a suspect, would remain beyond Dojcsak’s serious consideration. That Eugene might be guilty of sexually abusing his girl was disturbing, but insufficient to prove conclusively that he killed her.

  As for Pataki, Dojcsak was convinced the theater director was homosexual; both his demeanor and physical appearance suggested it. This did not preclude the possibility he might have killed Missy, but it made sex an unlikely, and more important to Dojcsak, difficult to substantiate motivation, especially in light of the semen deposit extracted from between the victim’s legs. Blackmail perhaps? Extortion? If she suspected, Missy could have threatened exposure, held it over Pataki’s head like a Damocles Sword. Dojcsak wasn’t convinced; Pataki was neither married nor had children. With no family to protect, being “outed” might prove temporarily embarrassing but in these days of permissiveness certainly not fatal to either his private life or his career. In fact, Dojcsak mused, it might even give one or the other of them a lift.

  Clearly, under questioning, the director had seemed nervous, spewing off at the lips as if stricken by a severe case of the verbal runs. This suggested to Dojcsak something, but not necessarily guilt in the death of Missy Bitson. That Dojcsak’s daughter was said by Pataki to be a regular visitor to the stage door of the Church Falls Theater (he had no doubt the reference to battle-tank was a reference to Jen) was less a concern to Dojcsak then, as her father, it should have been. After all, he’d washed his hands of the responsibility for her questioning, to Sara.

  While performing his early morning ablutions last evening, after being woken by Burke, Dojcsak had considered the local retard Warren Wable as a potentially credible suspect. Not prime, but following closely behind Eugene. Aside from the fact he once had been discovered skulking within the girls change room at the local pool, in both conduct and appearance, Warren Wobbly possessed all the unfortunate physical characteristics of the quintessential Hollywood brute.

  To Dojcsak, Wobbly would be convenient, indictable under even the most circumstantially evidentiary conditions, a man unable to defend himself coherently. A brief telephone call from the station this afternoon to Warren’s aging mother dashed Dojcsak’s enthusiasm for the theory. Except for attending Sunday Mass in the morning—as was their custom—neither mother nor son had been outside the home. “It was miserable,” Eunice Wable said to Dojcsak. “Cold and wet. I wouldn’t venture out in such weather, why would I allow my son? Why do you ask, Eddie?”

  Had it not been for the presence at her dinner table of a visiting uncle and aunt, Dojcsak might have dismissed Eunice’s account as a defensive tactic of a mother on behalf of her son. As it was, he had no choice but to rule Warren out.

  As he told Christopher Burke he would, Dojcsak spoke with Kendra Bitson in her home that afternoon. Angela, Kendra’s mother, had demanded to be present during the interrogation.

  “You told Officer Burke that your cousin left at three. That she hadn’t planned staying longer.”

  As if processing the question (or perhaps
her response), after a moment, Kendra said, “Yes sir.” Like her dead cousin, the girl was thirteen-years-old, had the coal black color skin of her mother and a physique that could best be described as scrawny; no visible evidence of breasts budding beneath her tee-shirt, despite her age, and a midriff, pelvis and thighs that dropped without curve like a plumb line, vertically from her bony shoulders to the floor.

  Dojcsak’s first and overriding impression was: what could this girl possibly have in common with Missy? Not much.

  “Did you see each other often?”

  “C’mon, Ed, give it a break. You live across the street. You know Missy spent time here.” It was Angela Bitson who answered on behalf of her daughter.

  “It helps for me to have these questions answered in an official capacity, Angela,” Dojcsak replied agreeably. “To have them formally entered into the record.” Referring to his notes and turning to Kendra, he asked, “Why didn’t Missy get along with your brother?” The girl turned immediately to her mother, as if for advice. Angela Bitson advanced two steps. Dojcsak leveled a meaty palm in Angela’s direction and said to Kendra: “It’s what people say. I’ve written it down. Says right here in my notes; for some reason, the two didn’t get along.”