“Take your time,” he says. “I don’t mind kicking back here with Charlie awhile. The Stooges are on.”
CHAPTER SIX
It can be odd picking up the body of someone I knew in life. Charlie Kelly was a local fixture in Brockton, known as the Lucky Leprechaun for his diminutive size and affinity for scratch tickets. Like most living out an existence in this grizzled manufacturing city, he was born, raised, and, now, died here. I often saw him in his DPW pickup, dragging on a cigar and sipping Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, supervising as younger workers filled potholes. Years ago, he was named an Everyday Hero by the Brockton Enterprise. It was his idea to have DPW crews make weekly passes of elementary schools to clear the smashed beer bottles and used condoms from the playgrounds. In the spring they planted flowers, and always he had pockets filled with candy for the “little rugrats.” In the article, he said he’d never had children of his own, that being Brockton’s “Uncle Charlie” was enough.
I check the house numbers on Aberdeen Street; Ryan has taken the space in front of Mr. Kelly’s house. Searching for street parking, I notice a long berth two doors down. I imagine the neighbors will be distressed to have a hearse parked in front of their bungalow with its chain-link fence and cardboard cutouts of smiling turkeys taped to their bow window. Death isn’t in keeping with the Thanksgiving spirit.
I scan the street for Mike’s Crown Vic, but it’s not here. In neighboring Whitman, a detective will make a pass when there’s an unattended death; this happens in Brockton, too, but not always. Brockton’s police force is consumed with vehicular fatalities or garden-variety domestics resolved with kitchen knives and fists. In recent years, gangs filtering south from Boston and across the ocean from Cape Verde have brought their grievances with them. Gun violence rarely makes the front page of the Enterprise anymore.
Approaching Mr. Kelly’s ranch-style house, I’m struck by its tidiness. This street is a pocket of relief within the city. Here the dusty grit that showers everything is kept at bay by washable vinyl siding and vibrant bunches of chrysanthemums lining some of the walkways. His lawn was given an end-of-season clip, and while there’s no color to break the brief expanse of green, the hedges are neatly trimmed below the windows. I suspect his DPW crew made a pass here as well.
I ring the doorbell and hear Ryan call out above the yipping of a small dog. He snaps open the door, sweeping away a Chihuahua caught underfoot.
“Hey, you didn’t have to rush over,” says Ryan over the barking. He’s holding a bag of potato chips. When he sees my eyes fall to the bag, he shrugs. “Evidence.”
Save Ryan’s gun belt lying on the floor, there’s nothing distinctive about this house; it’s a common five-room ranch. The entrance opens directly into the living room with its gray couch and matching chair, navy blue area rug over worn hardwood, and stock floor lamps, the shades cracked and yellowed. A standard nineteen-inch TV blares the Three Stooges, interrupted in spurts by the explosive crackle of the police radio from Ryan’s abandoned belt. The only color in the room is from an ancient green and white afghan covering Mr. Kelly’s entire torso and legs. I wonder if it was knit by his mother, if I should tuck it into his coffin.
The shades are pulled, an odd consideration for a single man. Many of the bachelors whose bodies I pick up live amid disarray, if not outright filth: overflowing ashtrays litter every room; uneaten pots of food span kitchen counters and coffee tables; laundry, pornography, and liquor bottles lie strewn throughout. But as distasteful as these houses are, none compare to those of cat ladies. All are hoarders—magazines and newspapers mostly—rot and filth spilling from between the pages. And cats too numerous to count. Years ago I considered getting a pet, but walking through one too many cat-lady homes cured me of such notions.
Ryan, with the chips in one hand and more in his mouth, bends to scoop the dog under his left arm. It immediately stops yapping and begins to lick the grease from Ryan’s palm. I walk past them to the body, where an ankle pokes out from beneath the afghan. It’s mottled purple and blue down through the toes. The foot that rests on the floor is wholly black where bodily fluids, pooled by gravity, have settled. All of the hairs on Mr. Kelly’s exposed body are white and his eyes are nearly closed. His mouth, however, is twisted, as if his death had been particularly painful.
“He’s naked as a jaybird under there,” says Ryan, crumpling the bag. He leaves it on the coffee table, next to a blank video case and Red Sox ashtray, a cigar stub wedged in its nook with a lighter in the shape of a baseball beside it. There’s the requisite bottle of Jim Beam, too, paired with a half-filled tumbler. The remote is resting on the arm of the chair, where I expect Ryan left it. “He must have been watching the movies.”
Though the house bears the stench of death, it’s relatively mild, nearly overwhelmed by the odor of stale cigars. I take a step toward the thermostat; it’s set at fifty-five degrees. I’m grateful for Mr. Kelly’s frugality. Any warmer and advanced decomposition would have made this removal unpleasant.
“Watch your step. Peanut here left some land mines,” Ryan says.
“Peanut?”
“That’s what his tag says.” Ryan fingers the bone-shaped pendant hanging from the dog’s collar. “I figure I’ll drop him off at the SPCA on my way home. I’d love to take him home, but the wife don’t like dogs much. No, she doesn’t.”
Ryan’s voice has taken on a singsong quality as he nuzzles the dog’s snout. Peanut begins to lick his mouth, his tongue darting in and out of Ryan’s lips.
I consider Mr. Kelly instead. “How long do you think he’s been here?”
“There were two newspapers outside.” Ryan sets the dog down and starts to pick at his teeth with a nubby fingernail. I imagine the salt from the chips must sting where his cuticles are red raw. “The guys over at the DPW said he was in on Friday, so my guess is Friday night? He probably got one of the movies, had himself a good time jerking off, and”—Ryan lifts his shoulders in the world-weary manner of cops—“died a happy man. Poor bastard.”
There’s another hiss from Ryan’s radio and this time he bends to the floor and pulls it from its holster. I listen to the back-and-forth, incomprehensible mumbles, followed by the only words I can distinguish, “ten-four.”
“Mike’s on his way over,” Ryan says as he grabs his belt and clips it around his waist. “Chief wants him to sign off on this, seeing as how it’s Charlie. I better take a look around, make sure everything’s copacetic. Hold off until he gets here. You know how Mike is.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
“Don’t bother. He’s already on Centre Street, he’ll be here any minute.”
I’ve no choice but to stay. I concentrate on the sound of Ryan clumping around Mr. Kelly’s bedroom, rolling open closet doors and slamming shut drawers. The dog is in there with him, and I can hear Ryan murmuring to him in dulcet tones. A pause and then he shouts, “Man’s got some nice cigars.”
He emerges from the room, a small wooden case in his right hand, the other dragging a cigar under his nose. “To the victor go the spoils,” he murmurs before tucking it into his breast pocket. The dog scampers behind him, looking up at Ryan, his eyes wide and body trembling.
“Oh, poor little Peanut, all alone,” says Ryan, his voice high-pitched. He picks up the dog again, cuddling him under his chin. “Who’s my little buddy?”
Just then a car door slams. There’s nowhere in this tiny space for me to hide. I shrink against the wall that divides this room from the kitchen.
Ryan puts the dog in Mr. Kelly’s room and closes the door. There’s an outburst of barking and the tiny dog’s nails frantically scratching at the barricade.
Mike’s on the steps now; I can hear him wiping his feet on the rubber mat outside and then see the knob turn. When the door pushes open into this room, it’s as I’ve been blown back too.
I focus on his shoes, and then he says my name. “Hello, Clara.”
My breath comes quickly, but I loosen my coat
around me so he can’t see the rise and fall of my chest. I glance a little higher and see his hands resting on either hip. I don’t know what to make of his tone and can’t look to his face.
“Hello, Mike.”
“Hey, Mikey,” says Ryan, holding out the humidor, bending slightly at the waist. “Care for a cigar?”
I can stare at him now; his attention is directed at Ryan. Mike appears more tired than usual, and there’s a slump to his shoulders I haven’t seen since that first year after his wife was killed. I wonder if I’m the cause.
“Bolivars. Cuban, right?” asks Mike, eyeing the box. “Didn’t know Charlie was plugged into that crowd. Those got to have a street value of a few hundred.”
“Yeah, we liberated some of these when I was overseas,” says Ryan, before nodding toward Mr. Kelly. “He won’t be needing them anymore.”
Mike winces. “When you’re wearing this uniform, you leave everything as is.”
I steal a glance at Ryan and notice the hinges of his jaw bulge. Then he smiles.
“I was just kidding,” he says, but doesn’t remove the cigar from his pocket. The dog has grown quiet in the other room, as if he too is awaiting the verdict of his owner’s final moments. Ryan puts the box on the end table and waves his arm around the room.
“Nothing suspicious here. When I came in, the victim was on the couch. I felt for a pulse, there was none. He was cold to the touch and showed signs of rigor mortis. I phoned it in to the M.E., explained the body’s state of undress, the Lipitor in the cabinet, and the M.E. called it a heart attack.”
“Have you called Charlie’s doctor for his medical history?” Mike asks.
Ryan has the look of a pet caught voiding on the floor. “Looks pretty straightforward. His license says he’s sixty-two, puts him in the age bracket. My guess? He was watching TV, had himself a smoke”—Ryan purses his lips, plbbt—“and expired.”
I interrupt. “I’ll call the doctor. I’ll need a signature for the death certificate.”
Mike walks to the coffee table, picks up the video case, and turns it over before showing it to us. “I don’t know, looks to me like he was watching a movie. No label. And he’s naked.”
“Oh.” Ryan smiles, his eyebrows flexing. “He was having himself a good time watching the movies.”
He leaps across the room to Mr. Kelly’s television stand, a simple particleboard and veneer cabinet, the kind popular with Wal-Mart shoppers, and begins fumbling with the VCR. I imagine Ryan is a more sophisticated consumer who outfits his compact living room with a forty-inch flat screen and cable-ready DVD player. I have neither.
“Ryan,” starts Mike, “just look for the doctor’s number.”
But Ryan ignores him and continues with the VCR. Mike lets loose a rush of air and returns his hands to his hips. Still, he turns to watch the screen. I do too.
A Gold Bond commercial exhorting the benefits of bath powder is replaced with silence as Ryan pushes a button before walking back to Mike’s side. An instant later the screen goes blank and then flickers to a scene of a single bare mattress laid out on wooden boards. The wall behind it is dingy and naked, save for what appears to be a child’s abstract scrawl in green and blue crayon. Mike picks up the remote control and turns up the volume.
“Uh, Mike?” Ryan starts, but Mike shushes him.
A man and a little girl are walking over to the mattress, their backs to the camera. She’s wearing a sundress, pale blue and rumpled. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt, but his head is beyond the camera’s frame. They turn in profile, the girl’s face obscured by her long, dark hair. We see only the man’s torso.
“Mike—,” says Ryan, reaching for the clicker.
“Wait.” Mike raises his hand, and Ryan freezes.
The man on the video whispers something to the girl. It’s unintelligible, but her response is clear. She shakes her head no and a curtain of wavy tendrils drapes against a cheek, hiding her expression. The man’s tone changes; that’s all I know for certain, because the only word I can distinguish is “now.” The child raises her right hand to her shoulder and slips the dress strap down. Before she removes the other, she turns to look at the camera. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes plead with me. It lasts only a few seconds, but it’s enough. I can’t help myself—I cry out.
“Shit,” Ryan whispers, leaping over the coffee table and punching buttons on the VCR.
“Turn it off!” Mike says before striding across the room to me. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I’ve never felt his touch before; it burns. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
His hand still on me, he turns to Ryan. “Secure the premises; this is now a crime scene. I’ll call in a search warrant while you get his doctor on the phone and take a medical history. If he says he had a heart condition, at least Clara can get him out of here. We’re stripping this house.”
Mike returns his attention to me, and I wonder if he can feel me tremble, if he can smell the acid from my stomach searing my throat. Both of my hands go to my head. Not here, not now. Instead, there’s a sore from the other day, vivid and ragged. I scrape the scab free with my nails.
“Are you okay?”
“That girl—”
He interrupts. “I know, it’s sick. I didn’t know Charlie was a ped.”
“No,” I say, meeting Mike’s eyes for the first time, “I know that girl.”
His grip tightens and I falter under his touch. I can’t tell if it’s the same flush of rage as the last time we spoke of Precious Doe, or if he feels as ill as I do. My ponytail is beginning to come apart.
Though his fingers bore into me, his voice is soft. “Clara, you have to tell me. No games this time. Who is she? Is she from around here?”
“Yes,” I say. “Her name is Trecie.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t often have visitors. On a warm day when my garden is in full bloom, a mourner might take a break from the confines of the bereavement room and wander outside to the parking lot. He or she might spot my cottage behind the weathered fence overcome with wisteria boughs. Perhaps the clumps of colorful gerber daisies (simple beauty) planted at each post draw them, the flowers’ sunny disposition a respite from the burden of lilies.
Occasionally, one might be bold enough to walk under my arch, to rest on my bluestone patio. What makes one person lounge in my chaise, face turned toward the sun, and another sit on the concrete bench, head gathered in her hands, I don’t know. I often watch them through the French doors, though. It doesn’t occur to them that they’ve trespassed, that this cottage of mine is not simply an extension of the Bartholomew Funeral Home. Some will even jiggle the handle of my glass door or peer through a window. They’re never aware of me staring back at them.
Today I will have a guest, someone invited. Well, not really. Mike called this morning wanting to discuss Trecie—“strategize,” he said. Yesterday, after executing the search warrant at Mr. Kelly’s house, he found many more videotapes. There were only four of Trecie, but she appeared in dozens of still images on his computer. I’m glad he told me all of this after I’d prepared Mr. Kelly’s body. I’d known too much as it was. Truly, I tried to reconfigure his pained expression, tried to remove the ugly grimace that contorted his face in death. I am not a magician.
The kettle wails as a car pulls into the adjacent parking lot. Through the bramble of hibernating wisteria, I see Mike bound from his police car. It’s a newer-model Crown Vic, dark green with tinted windows. Before closing the door, he reaches across the driver’s seat and removes a large cardboard box. Looking around my sitting room, I’m grateful I don’t own a VCR.
The kettle continues to call, so I busy myself in the kitchenette with the ritual of tea: a china pot and my two matching cups; a bowl with sugar cubes and twin creamer; a serving dish for a coffee cake I purchased this morning; dessert dishes, a knife, forks, and spoons. This is something Alma would do, not I. Never before. I remove the knife from the tray and cut two piece
s of cake.
He winds his way through my garden path, but I can’t wait for a knock. The box is too full, too awkward in his hands; I’ll have to meet him at the door. Reaching for my hair, I feel for the spots, careful to shield them with layers of hair pulled from other parts. Then I readjust my ponytail. I wish he could come another day, or never. When I turn the handle, his presence staggers me. In the glare of the fading afternoon sun, it’s difficult to believe this is the same man I saw ripping the sod from his wife’s grave. His hair is fixed and his clothes starched; he smells of peppermint. There’s no trace of the beaten man I saw that night. I lean into the frame and am cooled by a bitter wind.
“Hello, Clara.”
He walks the few feet over to my coffee table and places the box down. He doesn’t look to me; instead, he looks around the room. I latch the door and once again my face grows warm. He’s a policeman, a detective, after all. Perhaps he’s seeking clues about me I can’t see.
What does it mean that my couch and chair are camel colored with striped blue pillows and a matching down throw? That I spent too much for a Pakistani oriental, but that the rest of my hardwoods are bare? He must notice that my living room is a jungle of Boston fern, palm, ficus, and ivy. I’ve never been anywhere that inspired a photograph; there are no pictures on the walls. He walks over to a row of bookcases, sturdy oak things I bought from a consigner in town, a savvy man who haunts the houses of the dead, offering cash to families intent on cleaning out and quickly selling Grandmother’s house (unlike most of the residents of this town, he didn’t think it odd when I arrived in my hearse). I don’t have the kind of life that produces bric-a-brac, so the shelves are cluttered only with books. Mike’s head tilts sideways as he scans the titles, and I feel as though he’s peering into me. What must he make of my Dickinson and Pearlman, Dang Thuy Tram and Albert Camus, Dalai Lama and Dostoyevsky, an entire shelf of Sibley’s guides to birds?
“Don’t you have a TV?” he asks.
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