“Not much of a mystery,” Murphy said, pointing to the Parson’s table. A collection of pill bottles lay scattered amidst a leather bound book and two weeks worth of crossword puzzles clipped from The New York Times. “Mr. Swedge was being treated for congestive heart failure. The tablets on the floor are nitroglycerin. I’ll have a definite cause of death in a couple of days.”
Joe checked two EMTs fidgeting with a black rubber body bag. Preston Swedge, leaning back in a wood high back chair with his chin tilted to the ceiling in a forty-five degree angle, had turned into a science experiment. Maggots working overtime stripped the flesh off his face and consumed his eyeballs, leaving sockets glistening like polished ivory. A noxious collection of yellow-green fluids congealed on Preston’s wing tips. “Like the Wicked Witch of the East, he’s melted into his shoes. How long hasn’t he been missed?”
“Ten to twelve days. Humidity and heat play havoc with the decomposition process.” Murphy pointed to the flies on Swedge’s face. “Do you want to know the life cycle of our friend the Chlorotabanus crepuscularis?”
“I’ll wait for the movie,” Joe replied. “Where’s the emergency alert pendent he wore around his neck?
“The last completed puzzle is from the fifth. The date fits within the estimate.” Fredericks removed the pendent from a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, holding it in the palm of his rubber gloved hand. “Didn’t help him.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders.
“Can you remember the last time you saw Mr. Swedge alive?” Fredericks asked.
Joe lit a cigarette and froze Fredericks with his glare. Joe’s former shrinking violet subordinate had grown into the role of being the big cheese. Murphy sorted through his notes as he walked to the door to stay out of the looming fray. “I remember like it was last Thursday. I saw him tool out in his ’58 Fairlane convertible,” Joe said. A half-eaten hoagie lay rotting on its wax paper wrapper across from the body. He circled the table and sat down. “Looks like tuna.”
Fredericks nodded to the EMTs who lowered the bloated remains into the bag positioned on a stretcher. “So what?” Fredericks asked.
Joe waved at a swarm of flies tiptoeing across the hoagie. “He couldn’t chew stuff like this.”
Fredericks removed his mask. “What’s your point?”
“Someone was here when Preston expired.” Joe leaned forward for a closer look. “A month ago, I was at the dentist and Mr. Charm was bitching to the receptionist how his new set of choppers couldn’t chew oatmeal no less a sandwich.”
Murphy packed his examination bag. “This is all very interesting. But…”
“Make sure you check his gut. I’ll bet a case of beer you won’t find any shredded lettuce,” Joe said.
“I’ll let you know,” Murphy said, rolling his eyes. “It’s been a real pleasure.”
Fredericks watched Murphy recede down the hall. “There’s no evidence of forced entry, the drawers and closets haven’t been tossed. According to Murphy, the guy was taking medication to keep his heart ticking. Maybe he was sitting on the other side of the table, didn’t feel well, got up and tried to walk it off. Who knows?”
“And who cares?” Joe added. “I don’t give a shit, but let me ask you one question, Detective Lieutenant.”
Fredericks motioned for Joe to continue.
“He goes for a leisurely stroll around the table and he doesn’t use the alert. He feared dying and being found like he was.” Joe laughed as he pat Fredericks on the shoulder. “Like I said, I don’t give a shit. It’s your case, but for old times, humor me and check the wax paper for prints.” His eyes widened as he flipped the book over. The Five Books of Moses was embossed in silver letters.
Fredericks removed his gloves. “I’ll think about it.”
Joe picked up the book, opening the cover. “The Old Testament.” He shook his head. “Genesis. In a million years, I’d never guess he’d be reading the Jewish bible.” He checked his watch. It was 1:15. “I gotta get going. I got a shrink appointment in hour.” He tapped the table twice with his club and walked down the hall into the sunshine.
Fielder was gone. Joe Stoval, clutching his rake, stood at the bottom of the driveway. “You got your wish, Preston is fucking dead,” Joe said.
“I shouldn’t have said it. Barbara would’ve kicked me in the shin.”
Joe put his arm around Stoval’s neck. “If I had a ten dollar bill for every time I wished the bastard dead…it would’ve paid for a year of college.”
Stovall burst out laughing. “Maybe the ‘fucking Jew’ Rothstein killed him. He rambled on about him enough.”
Joe lit another Marlboro. “I was hoping to meet the ghost Rothstein.” He blew a stream of smoke to the sky. “I wonder if there’s going to be a service. Preston had no relatives.”
Stoval poked at a rock with his rake. “I hope there is one. I can’t wait to hear Reverend Miller’s eulogy for the man who claimed he changed the world and history.”
“Changed the world, how?” Joe asked.
Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me. Maybe it was the booze talking.”
Chapter 2
WESTFIELD, NJ AUGUST 2000
JOE CHECKED THE SIDE MIRROR, stuck his hand through the window and gave the guy in the BMW on his bumper the middle finger. “Keep blowing your horn, moron.” There wasn’t any way to pull around the old lady pushing a shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot of Wholesome Organics. Going organic for Joe was equivalent to flushing money down the toilet. Besides, the T-bone steak he planned to toss on the grill was on sale; it would be a change from frozen dinners, fast food and pizza he was surviving on since his wife left.
Driving Elaine’s ‘98 Volvo wagon was an adventure. He swore to the service manager at the dealership that turning the radio on caused the Swedish delight to misfire. Using the air-conditioner caused it to stall. Joe cursed the woman who took his five-year-old Explorer to Arizona as he turned the key for the umpteenth time. The engine coughed to life. He revved the oil-belching beast for another ten seconds for the prick in the BMW. Dr. Headcase would’ve been pleased. The behavior modification plan for his anger management issues paid its first dividend.
Fredericks’ Crown Victoria was back in the Swedge driveway. Joe stopped ten feet past the evergreens to get an angle to see the front door. A van belonging to Callahan Restoration, Inc. was parked with its sliding door on the passenger side facing the entrance. Ryan Callahan was a cousin of Christian Murphy. His business was removing the stench of death. Someone wasn’t wasting time. Joe wondered how long it would be until the Tudor was on the market.
Joe pulled the Volvo into the garage and carried the shopping bag through the door to the laundry room. Roxy pointed her nose in the direction of Angus heaven. “Patience girl,” Joe said, walking into the kitchen. He placed the bag on the counter.
The answer machine was blinking. Joe hit the play button. Call one: “It’s Elaine. I hope you remember to go to your appointment.” He hit the delete button. Call two: “Jozef, Harry is away for next three days. Call me, pleeze.” Joe laughed as he hit delete. The sultry voice, requiring no introduction, belonged to Alenia from down the block. The ex-pole dancer found her mark at a strip joint near the Elizabeth exit of the New Jersey Turnpike. She massaged the ego and other worldly parts of a man thirty years her senior, liberated his wallet and found a very comfortable life a world away from the dingy apartment in a suburb of Moscow. He’d let her wait. Call three: “Christian Murphy.” Joe turned up the volume. “Preston Swedge had a heart the size of a basketball with advanced coronary artery disease. I’m listing the cause of death as heart failure. That’s one for me. The other is for you. There wasn’t any lettuce in his gut.”
Joe opened the refrigerator door of the Maytag side-by-side, grabbed a can of Bud, and held it to his forehead. He limped into the den off the dining room. Joe scoffed at the description of the seven by ten room when they bought the house. A den in his mind was large enough to hold a poo
l table, an oversized leather recliner, and a monster projection television. The converted sewing room barely held a six-foot couch and a screw-it-together computer desk purchased at a bigbox wholesale club out on the highway. A thirteen-inch Sony rested on the corner of the desk.
Joe raised the blinds on the two windows behind the desk and sat on a Banker’s chair his father polished for thirty years as a N.Y.P.D. detective. A photo of Joe, his father, and grandfather in their N.Y.P.D. blues taken at Joe’s graduation from the police academy teetered on the edge of the desk. He booted up his notebook computer, clicking on the bookmarked site for Rutgers University.
“Hey Joe, where are you?” Dan Fredericks yelled.
Roxy bolted through her doggie door, running full tilt into Fredericks as he neared the kitchen. “Good to see you girl.”
“Grab a beer in the ‘fridge,” Joe yelled. “I’m in the den.”
Fredericks entered the den sans jacket and tie. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. Popping the tab on a beer, he collapsed on the couch. “The air-conditioning feels great.”
“I sorta like the smell of rotting flesh,” Joe said, holding his nose. “I should’ve saved some of the maggots for bait.”
Roxy pawed at Fredericks’ pant pocket where M&Ms were always in supply. He reached into the bag, giving her one. “I didn’t know you fished.”
“I’m thinking about taking it up.” Joe got a kick from goofing on Fredericks. “Murphy’s cousin doesn’t waste anytime. Who called him?”
Fredericks shifted on the couch. “Swedge must have known he was short on time. On the refrigerator were instructions to follow in the event of his death. I contacted his attorney and told him the facts. He asked if I knew someone who could clean up the mess.”
“Who’s the asshole?” Joe asked as he pounded the keyboard.
“Lester Hargrove.”
Joe stopped typing. “Never heard of him.”
Fredericks got off the couch to look over Joe’s shoulder. “Going back to school?”
Joe returned to typing. “I took an aptitude test and you know what I’m good for?” he asked as he filled out an online registration.
“Beer taster?” Fredericks guessed.
“Close. Customer service.”
“In a maximum security prison?” Fredericks laughed.
“Precisely. I told my shrink that I’ve been thinking about finishing my requirements for a master’s degree in history. He said go for it, but take it slow. He’s afraid I might crack under the pressure.” Joe said, waiting for the next information screen. “Did you check out the emergency alert?”
“It doesn’t work. I called the service. They don’t get a signal when it’s activated.”
“Preston oughta sue them posthumously. I’m sure Hargrove would take the case for thirty percent,” Joe quipped.
Fredericks nervously played with the tab on the can until it broke free. “I checked the wax paper for prints.” He walked over to what Joe’s daughter tabbed, The Wall of Honor: A 10 x 10 of Joe shaking hands with John Walsh, the host of America’s Most Wanted; Joe’s honorable discharge from the Marine Corps with his Purple Heart; and a plastic case with two crushed, quarter-size metal pieces, remains of the hollow point bullets that shattered his right leg. The case was mounted above a letter of appreciation from the U.S. Attorney General, for aiding in the elimination of the homicidal maniac who fired them. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases, holding military books detailing the campaigns of the Civil War, World Wars I and II, and Joe’s personal hell—the year he served in Vietnam.
Stalling, Fredericks pointed to the photo of Joe with John Walsh. “I never understood why I wasn’t in the picture. I was the guy who List was handcuffed to when we brought him back from Virginia.”
John List, a Westfield resident, gained national media attention by murdering his wife, mother in-law, and three kids in 1971. List, a God-fearing Sunday school teacher, was caught up in a failing marriage, a failing career, a mountain of debt, and kids perceived to be on the wrong side of the Good Book. For nearly eighteen years, List lived a life of lies until he was apprehended with the help of the TV show.
Joe completed the registration form and clicked the “finish” icon. He turned the chair toward Fredericks. “The case was ice cold. I convinced Walsh to put List’s face on the show,” he lectured. “Cheer up. If you’re lucky, a homicidal maniac will kill five or six poor slobs on your watch and provide the reason for you to call Walsh.”
Roxy sat at Fredericks’ feet waiting for more M&Ms. Fredericks abruptly stood. “Fuck you.”
Joe finished his beer. He fished through the desk’s pencil drawer, found a Marlboro and passed the cigarette under his nose. “Stale but serviceable.” He flicked the Zippo. Smoke rose to the ceiling. “What about the prints on the wax paper?”
“Most were too smudged to be of any value. There’s a thumbprint that is identifiable—Elmer the sandwich guy at Duke’s Deli. He served three years for drug possession; been clean for ten years.
“He’s a good guy.” Joe leaned back in the chair. “You got something else?”
“I’m getting heat to wrap this up. Swedge’s attorney packs a lot of weight. We’re not going to look for the identity of the sandwich eater.”
Joe knocked the cigarette inside a coffee can that he used as an ashtray. He rubbed the back of his head. “Why am I not surprised?” The phone rang. The caller ID said Pole Dancer. He pointed toward the door. “I’ve got to take this call.”
Chapter 3
WESTFIELD, NJ AUGUST 2000
RESTING AGAINST AN OAK, Joe drained a can of Bud. It felt good to be outside like he used to do every Thursday, his day to hit the links from April through the first snowy winter day. Running a hand over the grip of the five-iron nestled in the manicured grass, Joe fought the urge to take a hack at the lone dandelion that managed to evade an army of landscapers on the payroll of Fairview Cemetery.
Taking a hit on his tenth Marlboro of the day, brought a strange pain underneath his breast bone like sandpaper on sandpaper. Elaine never lost an opportunity to predict that he would end up like Uncle Ernie on an oxygen tank after losing a lung. Maybe she was right when she suggested he purchase a plot—it was only a matter of time and he ought to choose the spot.
Joe coughed up a plug of nicotine infused mucous, spitting it toward a primrose patch. He checked his watch—ten o’clock. Dr. Headcase would be proud. He hadn’t seen the rising sun in a year. He’d been on the hill since eight for one reason: Until he saw the dirt flooding over Preston Swedge, it wasn’t over.
Ed Stoval said that Preston’s attorney came by to pick up one of Preston’s suits. The arrangements were private. Joe laughed at the idea—nothing was private. Catman Prather, an ex-con Joe helped get a job at Holly’s Home for Funerals, had given him the heads up the day before that Preston’s body was being released by the medical examiner. The burial had to be done on the quick, before eleven the next day. Catman didn’t know why. The caretaker at Fairview bitched and moaned he wouldn’t have the gravesite prepared. A promised C-note assured a backhoe would be digging by eight in the Oakdale section.
Joe reached into his goodie bag, retrieved an opened bag of Cheese Doodles, and popped a handful into his mouth. After muscling a canopy over the plot to keep the grieving family out of the blazing sun, two gravediggers tidied the work area, covering the excavated earth with a green tarpaulin. Joe snapped open the front page of The Star Ledger. The lead article—“Vice President Al Gore told reporters during a press conference before boarding his plane at Edwards Air Force Base that he had not ruled out the possibility of including Ralph Nader or other third party candidates in the upcoming presidential debates.” Joe had one comment, “The schmucks deserve each other.”
He flipped the paper to the death notices, a habit he claimed he inherited from his mother. Dr. Headcase said it was a manifestation of an unconscious need to be assured that one was still alive. Joe knew the psychobabble was bullshit. H
e was looking for names of those he consciously wanted dead.
Surveying the one hundred ten acres produced a shiver even though the temperature hovered near eighty. He never bought into the line of the dearly departed going to a better place, not believing it when they lowered his cancer riddled grandmother into the hole when he was six or when his best buddy from his Marine unit decided to ventilate the side of his head. It didn’t matter that the poor devil never made it as a civilian, stumbling from one job to another with stops along the way in psyche units and county jails. Once in that box you were finished, kaput, bye-bye, worm meal. Spending twenty grand on a polished granite mausoleum with stained glass windows made perfect sense.
A hearse followed by a gray Camry turned onto Oakdale Avenue. The procession stopped twenty yards from the gravesite. A frail elderly man of average height, who Joe identified as Reverend James Miller, got out of the front passenger seat.
The sight of the six-three, gray bearded rabbi from the Westfield temple, Bernard Balaban, unfolding from behind the wheel brought Joe to his feet and squished his plan of watching the proceedings from the hill. Preston’s protesting the placing of the Jewish holidays on the school calendar at a board of education meeting was legendary. “The fucking Jew Rothstein” still rang in his ears. Joe looked around. “Lillie, you’re not going to miss these,” he said, lifting a flowerpot of petunias from the grave of Lillie Pfaphenbach deceased since 1975. Putting on an oversized pair of sunglasses, he adjusted his Yankee cap to just over his eyes and began descending the hill.
An attendant from Holly’s Home for Funerals transferred a burnished walnut casket to a gurney. The man of the hour was wheeled to the entrance of his freshly dug subterranean condo where the two cemetery workers placed the casket onto the lowering device.
House of Ghosts Page 2