by R.J. Ellory
The man who said that to John Costello was a Jersey City homicide detective called Frank Gorman.
′My name is Frank,′ he said. He held out his hand. He told John that the girl was dead. Nadia McGowan. The funeral had already taken place the day before. Apparently it was a small affair, primarily a family thing, but the wake was held in The Connemara and it filled the place to bursting, and out along Lupus and Delancey, all the way down Carlisle Street near the park, there were people crowding to make themselves known to the grieving parents. More friends in death than ever in life. Wasn′t that always the way of things? And they left flowers near the bench where she′d died. So many flowers it wasn′t long before the bench disappeared beneath them. Lilies. White roses. A wreath of something yellow.
So Frank shook John′s hand, and asked if he was okay, if he wanted a drink of water or something. He was the first one to ask questions, and he would come the most times, and he would ask more questions than anyone else, and there was something in his face, in his eyes, that told John that he was persistent and determined and unforgiving of failure. He was also Irish, which helped when it came down to it.
′A serial,′ he said. ′This guy . . . the one that attacked you.′ He looked away toward the hospital room window as if something silent demanded attention.
′We know of four victims . . . two couples. Perhaps there′s more, we don′t know. You′re the only one—′ He smiled understandingly. ′You′re the only one who′s survived.′
′That you know of,′ John said.
Frank Gorman took a notebook from his jacket pocket, a pen also, and he leafed through page after page to find some space in which to write.
′He attacks couples . . . we presume couples who are out together, you know . . . doing things that couples do when they′re together . . .′ His voice trailed away into silence.
′I feel like I can′t remember anything.′
′I know, John, I know, but I′m here to help you try.′
′First loves are the most important,′ Erskine Costello told his son.
Seated in the back kitchen, there across a table, a meal finished, a glass of beer on the side.
′Have to tell you, your mother was not my first love.′
′You sound like you′re apologizing for something.′
′Wouldn′t want you to be disappointed.′
′Disappointed? Why would I be disappointed?′
Erskine shrugged his broad shoulders. Raised his hand and ran it through coal-black hair.
′That Nadia McGowan . . . she′s a beautiful girl.′
′She is.′
′Her parents know you′re courting?′
′Courting?′ John said. ′Who says courting? It′s 1984. I think people stopped courting in 1945.′
′Okay, John, okay, so let′s be blunt like a fist, eh? Do her good Catholic God-fearing parents know their daughter is having sex with a sixteen-year-old whose father is a drunk who hasn′t stepped inside a church for thirty years or more? That blunt enough for you, lad?′
John nodded. ′It is. And no, they don′t know.′
′And if they found out?′
′There′d be trouble I′m sure.′ He looked up at his father, expected the Riot Act, but Erskine Costello, the sharp edges of his mind and tongue worn smooth by the gentle insistence of good Irish whiskey, merely said, ′So be careful you don′t get caught, eh?′
′I′ll be careful,′ John Costello said, and knew that if his mother were alive there′d be a storm.
′How can I remember what I don′t remember?′
Frank Gorman, Jersey City homicide detective, didn′t answer the question. He merely smiled as if he knew something of which the world remained ignorant, and once again looked away toward the window.
′Can you go back through it for me?′ he said.
John opened his mouth to speak, to tell him that he′d gone over this time and again in his mind, but whenever he looked there was nothing.
′I know you′ve gone through this for yourself,′ Gorman said, ′but not with me . . . not with me here listening, and I need you to do this.′
John looked at him, at the way he smiled - like a child who′d made a mistake, and just wanted you to be patient with him, to be understanding, sympathetic.
′Please . . .′ he said quietly. ′Just lean back, close your eyes, and walk me right through it from the beginning to the end. Start with the morning of that day, and tell me about the first thing you can remember . . .′
John Costello looked at Frank Gorman for a moment longer, and then he moved the pillow behind his neck and leaned back. He closed his eyes as Frank had asked, and he tried to recall how he′d felt that morning.
′It was cold,′ he said . . .
And John Costello turned sideways and lay for a while beneath the covers of his bed. It was six days after the night he′d stayed over with Nadia.
He glanced at the clock beside his bed: four minutes to five. Any moment his father would hammer on the door and shout his name. Beneath the covers he was warm, but when he edged his foot out from beneath the blanket, he felt the chill of the room. He relished those few minutes before the day began, lying there aware that life had changed more than ever he could have imagined.
Three minutes past five and he rose and opened his bedroom door a handful of inches to let his father know he was up.
Bread to make. Bacon to fry, sausage, pancakes, hash browns; and bucketfuls of coffee beans to grind.
Could hear the run of water from the bathroom. Erskine Costello still used a straight razor, gave it an edge on a leather strop, whipped that thing back and forth without a second thought and then shaved with cold water and a froth of coal tar. Old school. A regular guy.
The day ran as any other. Breakfast eased seamlessly into lunch, from there into mid-afternoon sandwiches, flasks of coffee and slices of apple pie to ferry over to the lumber crew in McKinnon′s Yard. Darkness started somewhere around four, and it was less than an hour until it filled up the spaces between things and hung shadows around the lights.
He saw her as she crossed Delancey Street. It was something past seven. She had on a pair of jeans, a red flower embroidered on the hip, flat shoes, a suede windbreaker. Her hair was tied up on one side, and she wore a diamante barrette like a butterfly.
He opened the door and went out onto the sidewalk.
′Hey,′ she said. Reached out her hand, touched his arm.
′Hey.′ Wanted to kiss her but there were customers.
′Time you done?′
′Nine, maybe nine-thirty.′
′Meet me down on Carlisle at nine-thirty. Have something to tell you.′
′What?′
Nadia McGowan glanced at her watch. ′Two hours . . . you can wait two hours.′
′Tell me now.′
She shook her head, kind of laughed. ′Nine-thirty, the bench on the corner of Carlisle, okay?′
′You hungry?′
′No . . . why?′
′Got some cinnamon Danish . . . made it myself.′
′I′m good, Johnny, I′m good.′
She reached out, touched his cheek with the back of her hand, and then she turned and walked away, reached the corner before she looked back over her shoulder once more.
He raised his hand and he saw her smile . . .
′And you saw no-one?′
John Costello shook his head without opening his eyes.
′And the people in the diner?′
′Were just the same people that were always in the diner. No-one different.′
′And in the street—′
′No-one in the street,′ he interjected. ′Like I said before, there was no-one . . .′
′Okay,′ Detective Frank Gorman said. ′Go on.′
′So I watched her cross the junction, and then she went around the corner . . .′
And then she was gone.
Used up two hours waiting. Dragged like a heavy thing, and John forever gl
ancing at the clock by the mirror, the hands weighted, running slow.
Erskine was back and forth, saw the frustration in his son′s face. ′Get away early why don′t you?′ he asked.
′Not meeting her ′til after nine,′ John replied.
′So go out back and clean the enamels. Time′ll fly if you′re doing something.′
He did as his father asked, hosing down pots and pans, a box of salt on the side with which to scrub them.
Eight-thirty came and went in a heartbeat. John cleaned himself up, changed his shirt, combed his hair.
Carlisle Street was no more than a five-minute walk, but he left The Connemara at ten past nine.
′And you saw no-one then either . . . as you left?′
John shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but felt there was nothing to say.
Frank Gorman stared at him for a little while, possibly no more than seconds, but those seconds were well disguised as minutes, even hours. It felt that way in the confines of the room. Tense. A little claustrophobic.
Gorman′s right eye was not centered. Gave him a curious look. John wondered if such a physiological idiosyncrasy enabled him to see angles that others could not.
′And so you walked from the restaurant to Carlisle Street?′
′Yes,′ John said.
′And you saw no-one on the way?′
′No, I saw no-one.′
′And when you reached the corner of Carlisle Street . . . ?′
He sat down on the bench, and pulled his windbreaker around him. He looked out toward Machin, the direction from which Nadia would come. Pools of sodium yellow beneath the streetlights. The sound of a dog howling for something only a dog would understand. The distant hum of cars on Newark Avenue. Skywards there were the faraway lights of planes heading out of Irvington and Springfield. It was a cold night, but it was a good night.
John Costello zipped up his jacket, dug his hands into his pockets, and waited . . .
′For how long?′
John could feel the tension of the bandages. ′Ten minutes, fifteen maybe.′ He looked directly at Gorman. It was hard to catch him straight, one eye dead-center, the other five degrees starboard and watching for storms.
′And what happened then, John? Once you saw her coming?′
′When I saw her coming, I stood up . . .′
And started walking toward her, and she raised her hand as if to slow him down. She was smiling, and there was something anticipatory about that moment, as if he knew something was coming, and there was every possibility that it was something good.
′Hey,′ he said as she reached the corner of Carlisle.
′Hey back,′ she replied, and she walked toward him, reaching out her hands.
′What′s up?′ he asked.
′Let′s sit down,′ she said. Looked at him, and then glanced away, a sudden flash in her eyes that told him that maybe the something wasn′t so good.
And had he known that she would never tell him, that he would learn of it from a stranger in a hospital room, and had he understood why such a truth would be denied in that moment, he would have pressed his finger to her lips, stayed her words, taken her hand and hurried her away to safety.
But hindsight arrives after the fact, never before, and the irony was that after her death, after the terrible thing that happened, the foresight - the intuitive shift that he felt for such things - would have been so useful.
The shift would have told him to run back home, to take her with him, to let it be someone else′s night to die.
But it wasn′t.
Always the way of such things.
It was Nadia McGowan′s time to die, and there was nothing that John Costello could have done about it.
′She was going to New York City to study,′ Gorman said.
John was silent, absorbing this thing. Had she planned to leave him there? Would she have asked him to go with her?
He looked up at Gorman. ′She didn′t have a chance to say anything.′
′And you heard nothing? I mean, until he was right there behind you?′
John Costello shook his head, once more felt the tension of bandages.
′And what did you see?′
John closed his eyes.
′John?′
′I′m looking.′
Gorman fell silent, and suddenly a sense of unease and disquiet came over him.
′I saw the pigeons . . . a sudden rush of pigeons . . .′
And Nadia was startled, a little afraid of the sound, and she sort of fell against John and he grabbed her arm and pulled her close, and she laughed at herself for being scared of something so silly.
′You all right?′ John said.
She nodded, she smiled, she let go of his arm and walked toward the bench.
John followed her, sat beside her, and she leaned against him and he felt the weight and warmth of her body.
′What is it you wanted to tell me?′ he said.
She turned and looked up at him. ′You love me?′
′Of course I love you.′
′How much do you love me?′
′I don′t know. How much is it possible to love someone?′
She held her arms wide like a fisherman telling tales. ′This much,′ she said.
′Five times that,′ John replied. ′Ten even.′
She looked away, and John followed her line of sight, all the way down to the end of Carlisle and across toward Pearl Street and Harbor-side.
′Nadia?′
She turned back toward him . . .
′And it was then that he appeared?′
′I don′t know that appeared is exactly the right word. I don′t even know what word you would use.′
′How d′you mean?′
′Appeared. Yes, maybe it was like that. It was as if he suddenly materialized out of thin air. There was no-one, and then there was someone.′
′And there was the sound of the pigeons again?′
John nodded. ′Yes, she turned back toward me . . .′
And she took his hand, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
′I′ve been thinking,′ she said, and her voice was almost a whisper.
′About what?′
′About what we talked about before . . . what I said that time—′
The pigeons had returned. A crowd of them around the base of a tree no more than five yards from the bench. Old women sometimes came and sat; they brought breadcrumbs, had for years, and the pigeons congregated in anticipation for when they would return.
′What time?′
A breeze, back and to the left of John, and . . .
′I felt it against the side of my face - a breeze - and if I′d turned at that moment . . .′
′You can′t do that John. It doesn′t do any good.′
′Can′t do what?′
′Keep asking yourself what would have happened if. Everyone does that, and it just prolongs the pain.′
John looked down at his hands, his wrist still in its cast, his fingernails black, the swelling on his right thumb that would be there for the rest of his life. ′But you can′t help it,′ he said. ′You can′t help going back through it, can you?′
′I s′pose not.′
′Something this bad ever happen to you?′ John asked.
Gorman looked back at him with his off-center gaze and said, ′No, nothing like that ever happened to me.′
′But you′ve seen it happen to others, right?′
′All the time. Well, not seen it happen as such, but seen the effects of it. That′s what I do. I am a police detective. I look behind the barriers and the yellow tapes. The terrible things that human beings are capable of doing to one another.′
′And why do you think things like this happen?′
′I don′t know, John.′
′Psychiatrists know, right? They know why people do these kinds of things?′
′No, I don′t think so, John. Not in my experience
. If they knew why people were crazy then they′d be able to do something to help them. In all the years I′ve been working, I′ve never seen one of those guys do anything to help anyone.′
′So why do you think it happens? Why do people hurt other people, Detective?′
′Seems to me that everybody does whatever they do for the same reason.′
′Which is?′
′So other people will know they′re there.′
′Seems a hell of a way to let people know that you′re there, doesn′t it?′
′It does, John, it does . . . but then I don′t profess to understand what this is all about. I just do everything I can to find the people who are responsible and insure they don′t have a chance to do it again.′
′By killing them.′
′Sometimes, yes. Most times by taking them into custody, seeing that they get to trial, seeing them in prison for the rest of their lives.′
John was silent for some time. ′Do you believe in hell, Detective Gorman?′
′No son, I don′t believe in Hell.′
′Neither do I,′ John replied.
′But I can′t say the same about the Devil,′ Gorman said. ′If only from the viewpoint that—′
′That he can occupy a man′s thoughts,′ John interjected. ′Can make him do things . . . like the Devil isn′t a person as we are, but more like—′
′A concept,′ Gorman said. ′More like an idea that gets hold of people and makes them do things that they wouldn′t otherwise do.′
′Exactly,′ John said.
′Exactly,′ Frank Gorman echoed.
Silence for a little while, and then Gorman looked up at John Costello.
′So you felt a breeze,′ he said.
′Yes, and then . . .′
He squeezed Nadia′s hand, and sort of tugged her toward him. There was something she needed to say, and she was having difficulty saying it. In that moment it did not worry him. He did not feel a sense of concern for what it might be. He did not suspect that she was leaving him, for such a thing had never happened, and he did not believe it could.