Loose Change: The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator

by Sean Huxter

  The bronze ones.

  “Here, ducky...” she said, dropping crumbs of left-over bread on the ground. She seemed puzzled they weren't eating. “Had enough today, have you? Enough people feeding the ducks, I guess.” She said this with a smile and a child-like lilt in her voice. I'm not sure what age she thought she was.

  She sat on the bench across from the ducklings, admiring them, seeing them not as statues at all. Mental illness can be ugly to watch.

  I kept my distance as the second man, the one who stood next to her across from the Cathedral, came by and sat next to her. She acted like she knew him.

  “Arthur!” she said, patting the bench next to her. He sat eagerly and they talked for a while, their voices lower now so I couldn't hear them. Weird, I thought. It was like watching a young girl on a first date. He, on the other hand, clearly was living in reality. He was calling her by name too. That much I could hear. He looked to be after something else.

  What? We're human too you know. You think because we're homeless we don't get it on occasionally? Well, we do. Live with it.

  Not long after, Orange Coat walked up the cobble pathway next to the ducklings and saw Aggie sitting with Arthur.

  “You get away from her you bastard!” He ran at Arthur, pushing him off the bench. Arthur landed with a slick thud and rolled before he got up and faced his attacker.

  Aggie was defensive now. She stood between Arthur and Orange Coat. “You go away! I keep telling you I don't know you! My Thomas, he'd deal with you if he knew you were following me! You're always following me!

  Go away! ” she screamed. She put her hands to her ears and issued a long squeal that hurt my ears, even from my distant vantage point.

  Orange Coat pleaded with her. “Aggie! You don't know what you're saying! Let me help you!” Through her continued squealing he turned and walked briskly away to the north, turning towards the Charles Street entrance of the Public Garden and crossed the street into the Common.

  Arthur got up and stumbled away as well, brushing the muck off his clothes.

  I had seen enough and tried to approach Aggie. Shaking, she had resumed her seat on the bench across from the ducklings.

  “Excuse me,” I said, softly, hopefully disarmingly. “Are you alright?”

  Aggie glanced at me, then away, crossing her arms in obvious frustration. “Those men won't go away. They aren't being very respectful of my Thomas! My lovely Thomas. He'd rescue me.”

  “Aggie,” I said, softly. “Who is Thomas?”

  She looked at me as if she just realized she didn't know me. “Thomas is my husband! For twenty years! He looks after me!”

  Oh boy. I hadn't seen her with anyone other than these two men, or at least not that I could recall. Yet clearly she thought she was married to a man named Thomas. She probably was, or had been. And if she was alone out here, could he have died? Could she simply be remembering Thomas in a demented haze?

  I didn't know how to ask her what her mental problem was. I really couldn't put it in words she would likely understand.

  “And who are you?” she asked, suddenly. “I don't remember you.”

  I told her my name. She didn't recognize it, nor should she. “I'm new here. I was just worried for you. I wanted to make sure you're ok.”

  “Of course I'll be ok, when my Thomas comes home,” she said. “He's working, you know. He goes off in the morning and he comes home in the evening. We have such a good life,” she said, smiling broadly. Again, that face that must have been beautiful not that long ago, revealed itself briefly. “Until he comes home, I tend our garden,” she said, waving her arms around her.

  “Your garden?”

  “Yes, isn't it beautiful?”

  I looked around the Public Garden.

  “Sometimes we get ducks, especially in the fall,” she said, pointing to the bronze sculptures.

  “Yes, I can see,” I said.

  “I feed them, you know.”

  “Yes, that's very nice of you.”

  “But don't worry. It's almost five. My Thomas will be home any minute. In fact you should go, because Thomas can be a jealous man! I sure wouldn't want to be you if my Thomas caught you chatting me up on a sunny day in our garden. No sir.”

  “Ok,” I said, slowly. “Can I come by and talk to you in your garden another time?”

  “You may. As long as you do so before my Thomas comes home. Otherwise he'd be angry!”

  I got up and walked back to the Common.

  Chapter 5

  I found Old Fernie a few days later. A beautiful Sunday. He was sitting on a low wall on the main path, his salt-and-pepper afro blowing in this new fall wind. He was wearing an old Viet Nam era drab army jacket he probably bought at an Army Surplus store. He was sitting with a torn Dunkin Donuts cup in front of him. His usual haunt.

  “Patriots down by 5 in Miami!” he yelled in a rich baritone voice that I'm sure in another life could have put him on a stage somewhere. He usually carried a small radio with him tuned to live broadcasts of the game, calling out the plays as they happened like a town crier.

  “Fernie!” I yelled as I approached. “Well lookie here,” he said, calling me by name. “How the hell are ya?” He was examining me like a patient.

  “I'm good,” I lied. I was itching, truth to tell. I needed, and I knew I wasn't ever going there again.

  “You look good,” he lied in return.

  We shot the shit for a while. He was telling me about the Patriots game, not that I was overly interested, but I was interested in any time I could spend with Fernie right now. He had pounded me pretty hard a few weeks back, got me to get my shit together, and for that I would one day be grateful, I knew. But for now it was still a bit awkward between us.

  “Fernie, do you know a woman,” I began. I described her in detail. Her overcoat, her graying, fly-away hair, her confused look.

  “Yeah, I know her. Aggie Frederick. Poor woman. She's not well.”

  “So I gathered. What can you tell me about her?”

  “Not much. She and her husband been on the street for about a year now. You seen 'em around too, not that you'd have noticed, likely.”

  I nodded. “Probably not. You said husband?”

  “Yeah, they're married. They were inseparable when they first come around. They kinda kept themselves to themselves so I never really got to know them well. Health problems, I heard. Medical bills. She was in some hospital or other. Money ran out, he lost his job, insurance refused to keep paying, bam, they're on the streets. Damn shame. That woman needs help.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  “Alzheimer's is the prevailing theory.”

  “Alzheimer's? Really?”

  “So I hear. Look, why you askin' about her?” Fernie looked at me strangely.

  “Well I've kinda been following her.”

  “Wow. I'd never'a pegged you as a sicko stalker of disadvantaged older ladies.”

  “Funny... I'm a bit worried. She's being stalked for real. By two men. One's named Arthur...”

  “Arthur, yeah, I know him. Used to be a doctor somewhere down south. We call him Arthur Bones. Not sure his real last name. Botched some surgery or other, ended up killing a young mother on the table. Found out he'd been drinking and that's all she wrote for him. Tried reviving his practice in Boston, that didn't take the second word got out, and now he's on the street.”

  “He's been cozying up to her.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “There's this other man. He keeps offering her stuff. Bags. Some food. She refuses him and keeps telling him her husband would kick the crap out of him if he saw him stalking her, that sort of thing.”

  “What's he look like?” Fernie asked.

  I described the man. Fernie lowered his head and shook it slowly.

  “Fucking Alzheimer's,” he said. “My uncle died of it. He'd forget some members of the family but remembered the others perfectly. Forgot his whole family before the end. Man, just fuckin' kill me
if you ever find out I get diagnosed with Alzheimer's, ok? Promise me.”

  I did.

  “So what about this stalker?”

  “That ain't no stalker. That's her husband, Thomas.”

  Shit.

  “Shut up!” Fernie shouted, putting his hand up to me. He leaned into his radio. “Jesus. It's started.”

  “What's started?”

  “The President just announced first strikes against Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan!”

  Jesus. It's started.

  Bright and early the next morning I could barely believe what Fernie had told me. We were officially at war with Afghanistan. And with that country's history of fighting off invasion, including the powerful Soviet Union, I knew this wasn't going to end well for us, or quickly.

  I went looking for Thomas as soon as the sun allowed. I felt I had to apologize for interfering, or to offer assistance, something. Not sure what I could do. Imagine being married to a woman and having her push you away because her husband will kick the crap out of you.

  Alzheimer's is devastating. It ravages the brain. Turns it into Swiss cheese. You slowly lose chunks of your life, and eventually, inevitably, the rest of it.

  One thing it usually leaves for last is the older memories. So you can remember your husband – but as he was twenty years ago, not as he is today. It's heart-breaking.

  I didn't find Thomas after looking all over the Common. I didn't see any of them, Thomas, Aggie, or Arthur.

  That is, until I walked up to the Soldiers and Sailors Monument.

  The Solders' and Sailors' Monument in Boston Common is a tall, stone pillar with a statue at the top crowned by thirteen stars, holding an American flag, a laurel wreath and a sword. America the Beautiful! And today, at her base, covered in blood: the body of Arthur Bones!

  I ran down the hill to Tremont Street hoping that the new beat cop was on duty this early. He was. I yelled to him to come quickly and ran back up the hill. He scrambled out of his car and ran up to the top of the hill where I was standing. Alerted by the commotion, Old Fernie ambled up as well.

  I pointed, shaking, to the body at the base of the pillar. I had to kneel down and catch my breath before I fell over.

  “Nobody moves,” the cop said. He bent down to check the body. He put two fingers on Arthur Bones's neck and waited. He stood up, wiped his fingers on his coat and pushed the talk button on his radio.

  “Officer Turley, Boston Common, requesting a bus at the Soldiers' Monument on the Common! Body of a male, approximately forty, multiple stab wounds. No need to hurry. We need to set up a perimeter and get Homicide up here pronto.”

  That was how I first met Officer Turley.

  Everything he had asked for had arrived. A Coroner's van took Arthur Bones's body away, while we stood around being questioned by detectives and uniformed officers. Turley got me.

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “I seen him around, but I didn't know him.”

  “What were you doing up here this early?”

  “This is kinda where I live,” I said, gesturing all around me. “So you just happened by?”

  “Just out for an early morning constitutional.”

  “Look, just be straight with the answers, please. This is a murder investigation.”

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm the victim?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “

  No ,” I said, more assertively.

  “Ok, and your name?”

  I gave him my name. “No address at present. I suppose that means you can take me in for vagrancy.”

  “Leave it. I'm not here about you. Look, I may want to question you again. Where can I find you? Be specific, please.”

  I said, “If I'm not somewhere on the main strip of the Common, you may find me in Public Alley 437. Dumpster about half-way up.” That's where I kept a blue plastic tarp to keep the rain off at night.

  “Thank you.” He turned away, writing further notes in his notebook.

  Fernie walked up to me. “You didn't mention Thomas, then?” he whispered.

  “No. Not yet. Perhaps it'll come to me as a repressed memory later, if I need it.”

  “You're too good, my man,” he said and walked back down the hill to his wall.

  Chapter 8 With the excitement over I continued looking for Thomas and Aggie. I suspected Thomas had had another run-in with Arthur Bones. Maybe things had gotten out of hand and Thomas had knifed Arthur. Think about it for a moment. Your wife no longer remembers you, and she's taking a shine to someone like Arthur Bones, a drunk who had killed a young mother on the operating table. I think I'd be out for blood, myself.

  They weren't at the Gazebo, so I looked around the rest of the Common. Then I crossed Charles Street into the Public Garden. The mother duck and her ducklings hadn't seen them either so I left the Gardens and walked back up Tremont to the Cathedral, pausing for a rest at the Park Street T-Station buildings. Officer Turley was standing near his car talking to more of the homeless, trying to find anyone who knew anything about Arthur Bones's brutal murder.

  I had had second thoughts about keeping what I knew about Thomas to myself so I aimed myself towards Turley's cruiser. As I was walking Aggie came out from around the Inbound T-Station entrance crying “Murder! Murder!” She was coated in blood and held a bloody knife in one hand. She stumbled towards the police car and collapsed in a red-stained heap on the pavement.

  The people standing around issued a collective gasp. Turley dropped his notepad and ran towards Aggie, shouting into his radio. He knelt by her sobbing body and just kept a hand on her, lest she rise up and make a break for it.

  Minutes later another cruiser came to a halt next to us and a paramedic truck, its sirens slowing, pulled up and the techs got to work getting Aggie onto a stretcher and into the van.

  “Bag and tag everything!” Turley shouted. “She's evidence! Everything she's wearing. Everything she's carrying. Evidence!” Turley was on the radio to detectives within seconds, recounting what had happened.

  Turley eyed me as I slunk back into the Common. Now I

  really had to find Thomas.

  Chapter 9 It took more than a day to find Thomas. He was in different clothes, a coat that didn't make him look like a traffic cone, his shoes shiny, he even looked showered. These are things us homeless people can get access to if we know the right shelters and charitable institutions. My discerning nose told me I was a bit overdue for a good scrubbing myself.

  Thomas was sitting sullenly, head down. I imagine someone told him what had gone down with Arthur Bones, and with Aggie. “Thomas?” I said, tentatively.

  “What do you want?”

  I told him my name. “I saw you and your wife the other day. She

  acted as if she didn't know you.”

  “She didn't. She doesn't. Not anymore.”

  “I know she has Alzheimer's.”

  “So? Who are you anyway?”

  “Let's just say I'm a friend. I know people who have been through

  Alzheimer's. My friend's uncle went that way. It was brutal. I can't imagine what you've been going through.” My sympathetic voice gradually got Thomas to lower his guard and he opened up to me.

  “Aggie and I have been married a long time,” he said. “I had her in care for a while, until my insurance ran out. I lost my job, the money ran out, and the hospital just put her back out into my care. No money, we lost the house, had nowhere to go, but I was damned if I was going to let her go it alone. I've been out here fending for the both of us, feeding us, keeping us safe.

  “And then, over the past few months, she just stopped remembering me.”

  “I saw you handing her food, and she just yelled at you to go away. Said her Thomas wouldn't approve. You're her Thomas and she didn't even remember you. That has to be rough. And then this Arthur guy shows up.”

  “Yeah. Fu
cker thought he could take advantage. But I was never far. I saw what he was up to and made sure I was there to put a stop to it. I had words with him. I told him to leave my Aggie alone. He said that she wasn't mine anymore – that she couldn't even remember me, and so she was fair game. Bastard! What kind of a

  sicko tries it on with someone that far gone in her mind?”

  I nodded agreement.

  “Poor Aggie,” he said. “I suppose Arthur tried to force himself on her and she lashed out. I didn't know she was carrying a knife or I'd have been more careful myself. What do you think will happen to her now? I mean it would be self defense, right?”

  “Yeah, most likely.”

  “Of course it was! She was probably being attacked!” At this point tears formed in his eyes and he began sobbing. I let him go for a while. The man'd been through hell. He deserved a break-down.

  A few minutes later he said, “I love that woman. With all of my heart. Even if she doesn't remember me. What'll happen to her now?”

  I considered.

  “Well, I'm guessing they have enough evidence to convict a regular person for murder. But look, she's obviously not in her right mind. Even the most inexperienced public defender will see she never gets to trial on grounds of mental incapacity. No one can argue against that. She'll likely be institutionalized until she can be declared fit to stand trial, and we both know that's never going to happen.”

  “But what happens if they force her to trial?”

  “They won't.”

  “Yeah, but I don't know that for certain! I need to know. And they won't let me see her or talk to her. We don't have any paperwork. We don't have our marriage license. They'll have to do some computer searches just to confirm we are who we say we are, and they're not about to let just anyone in to see her. I have to know. Is she going to be ok?”

  “Look, I can ask Officer Turley, the cop who patrols the Common. He's likely to know.”

  “I'd appreciate that,” he said quietly. I left him alone with his thoughts, glad I didn't have to be him.