THIS IS HOW I HEARD THE NEWS. I ignored Stefan’s reassurances about Ben as a parent and went over to help with breakfast and getting Naomi to school. While she dressed, I chatted merrily with Ben, pouring charm and energy over him: thick doughy frowning pancake that he was, I was syrupy sweet. Especially because the night before I had checked with Stoppard: in New York State an indicted murderer, even one accused of killing a spouse, retains custody of any children, unless there is evidence of abuse. Indeed, if Ben were convicted and sent to prison, should he ever achieve parole, under the law he would be entitled to Naomi even then.
“You’re really jumping the gun,” Stoppard said to me. “He’s probably told you the truth. She walked out of that house into town, got herself a room at the motel—”
“I checked that,” I told him. I had phoned the motel that was within walking distance of their house. No woman had taken a room on Sunday or the next day. I cut him off when Stoppard proposed other benign scenarios—I was furious at all the soothing talk. I knew better: I knew better the first time I met Ben Fliess and I should have clung to what I knew.
I told Stoppard about her will, that Wendy had named me as Naomi’s guardian.
“That’s in the event of both of them dying,” he objected.
“But it would apply if he goes to prison,” I argued with more hope than sense.
“I don’t think so,” he said. To make sure—Stoppard always makes sure—he called Jake Prosser, our divorce and child-custody maven, on his other line. No, not if there were willing relatives, Prosser said. They would take precedence, especially if the murderer preferred them. Ben had three first cousins. I asked if cousins qualified. Yes.
So I was sweet and sugary and helpful to Ben. I offered to pick up Naomi from school and start dinner if he needed to work late and I was relieved when he agreed.
Ben explained Wendy’s absence to Naomi by saying that she had to visit a sick relative in Florida for a while, he didn’t know how long.
Naomi picked at this scabby explanation, peeking under to see the real wound. She didn’t ask her father; she worried me with her questions on our way to school.
“I thought Uncle was Mommy’s only relative.”
I told her this must be a distant cousin her mother hadn’t mentioned to either of us.
“But why can’t I call her?”
“We don’t have a phone number where she is.”
“Why doesn’t she call us? She called when she went to Washington. She called when I stayed with you.”
Naomi had stayed with me for the week Ben and Wendy vacationed in the Caribbean. Wendy had phoned every evening at exactly six-thirty.
Naomi’s face lengthened while she waited for me to answer. I remembered Wendy’s anxious hello each night, easing only when I told her that Nommy was fine and handed the receiver to her eager daughter, stepping into the hallway, but staying right outside the door to eavesdrop enviously on their mother-daughter love affair.
“I don’t know, honey.” I caressed her hair with my hand and kissed her good-bye at the school doors. “She’ll be home soon.”
I ached for her and understood in a physical, almost sickening, way that I would never be able to replace Wendy, that Naomi had been robbed of her mother’s blind love, something precious and irreplaceable. And it hammered home the obvious fact that all these stupid men couldn’t see—although it was as big and bright as the sun—that Wendy would never leave Naomi in this way, never, never, never. Wendy’s heart would break even to think of her little girl’s face, that clear brow wrinkled, her deep blue eyes clouded with confusion, saying, “I wish I could talk to Mommy.”
Ben knew. At least he understood. He said to me Monday night, “Maybe I should tell her I don’t know where her mother is. I can’t keep this up. Maybe I should talk to Stefan about what I should say to her.”
“Don’t bother. Stefan doesn’t know, either. Wait as long as you can, then tell her as much of the truth as you can stand,” I said, ambiguously I suppose.
He stared at me stupidly, a cow blinking in the sun, and then surprised me with tears, developing slowly in his small eyes: “I think telling her might kill me.”
Naomi loved Ben. Before we left for school Naomi rushed from the table to him, burying her face in his belly, squeezing him with her arms, eyes shut in desperate rapture. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she kept saying the word over and over even when he pushed at her and complained that it was enough. A magic chant, I thought crazily, that’s what she’s doing, wishing for goodness, wishing for beauty: “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”
In my office I called Wendy’s many acquaintances, even old college friends, people who lived in other cities. No one had heard from her. There was nothing. She seemed to be at the other end of a hallway in my head, walking away, waving, leaving me alone with a terrible responsibility, moving farther away with every hour. But I could see her still and thought she might yet, somehow, come back.
At five o’clock I went to the school to pick up Naomi. From two blocks away I noticed the police car. I ran to the entrance. There was a plain sedan with city plates parked alongside a patrol car. I pushed through the double wooden doors and there was Naomi, weeping in the arms of Mrs. Wylie, her kindly, matronly teacher. Behind her, rubbing his chin, frowning with confusion, was the school’s headmaster, Mr. Lassiter. I had stood in as Naomi’s family on Grandparents’ Visiting Day and knew her teachers. Naomi clung to Mrs. Wylie, resisting the coaxing of a thin nervous black-haired woman and a sleepy-eyed balding blond man. Two cops stood awkwardly back at the door, uncomfortable footmen.
“What is it?” I shouted, and they all looked at me as if I were scary. “Come here, Naomi,” I yelled, and she ran right to me. That felt so good, when Naomi came to me instantly, relieved at the sight of me, yearning into my arms with absolute trust.
Mrs. Wylie blathered what I had already supposed. “These people are from the Child Protection Agency—”
“Are you a relative?” the blond man demanded.
I looked at the cops. They would check. “I can take care of her. I’m her mother’s best friend—”
But it was no use. Mr. Lassiter, the headmaster, backed up my account of myself as a close family friend, but they wouldn’t allow it.
“Where are you taking her?” I asked, knowing it was hopeless and worried that a struggle would only frighten Naomi more.
“To a family shelter for the night.”
Naomi focused her eyes at me, her deep blue eyes, lifting her sweet smooth face, a face that had never known cruelty or want, and begged: “What do they mean, Molly? Where am I going?”
I grabbed her shoulders and squeezed. “Listen, these people are okay. They’ll take you to a good place nearby and keep you company—”
“I don’t understand. Where’s Daddy?”
“Can I ride with her there?” I grabbed hold of the nervous black-haired woman’s arm and willed myself to be pathetic, to be as humble and ashamed and needy as my poor mother. “Just so she feels safe.”
“Prolong the agony,” the blond man mumbled, his eyes half-closed.
“We don’t want a scene here,” the woman answered him, indicating Mrs. Wylie, who was aghast, staring at the city people as if they were bums who had urinated on her. The blond man also glanced sleepily at Mr. Lassiter, who stood tall but baffled, his back stiff with indignation, ready to give an order, yet confused that he had no authority.
They let me go with her. I took one of my business cards from my purse and gave it to Mr. Lassiter, instructing him to call Brian Stoppard, tell him what had happened and where I was going.
In the city car, I babbled at Naomi, making promises, promises I would have to keep: “You’ll be with me tomorrow. Everything will be all right. It’s just for one night. And then I’ll take care of you.”
“What’s wrong?” she shouted, almost angry in her fear. “I don’t understand what everyone is doing! I just want to know what’s going on!”
The blond man turned to her. “Let me explain, Naomi. Your mother had an accident, a bad accident.”
“Did she die?” Naomi said with great courage, her head up, demanding.
“Yes,” he said.
“Don’t!” I complained, but I had no energy, I couldn’t fight. I had known all along, but I hadn’t either. Wendy was gone. And I had no time to mourn her.
Naomi turned her head and looked at me for confirmation: her bright skin was now pale, her cheeks drawn, her mouth shattered. Is it true? her ocean blue eyes asked me. I took her face in my hands and kissed her forehead, wishing hard in my head for happiness to come and sweep us all away, back to our expensive co-ops, to our happy dinners, to a past that I had thought was also an inevitable future.
The blond man said in a monotone, without sympathy, without emotion: “Your father is helping the police about the accident. Helping them figure out how it happened. So for tonight, while he’s busy, you’re going to stay someplace safe, a nice place with other kids and grown-ups who will take care of you.”
“We know it’s very scary for you,” the nervous woman said.
Naomi continued for a moment to look into my eyes wonderingly. The closer I got, the deeper were her blue eyes, fathomless as the ocean. I thought my love for her would drop in and disappear, inadequate. Then I saw she understood the facts: the clear water swirled and was muddied by pain. She pressed her head into me. I expected wailing. I looked for more tears. She merely squeezed tight and kept still, playing possum, I guess, hoping to feel nothing, hoping terror would pass her by.
On arrival, they wanted to separate us, to take her in without me. I glanced at the institutional building through the car’s window. It had the look of a police station and in fact they had converted an old precinct house into rooms with cots, brown blankets, and used toys. I stalled, holding on to her, ignoring their coaxing.
The blond man whispered in my ear: “We have to question her about it. She may have seen something.”
“I love you,” I said to her over and over. She didn’t move or cry. Her arms squeezed my waist with all her strength, her bones without joints, stiff as metal.
“You don’t want a scene,” he whispered. “It’ll scare her.” He waited again. “I’ll have to ask the cop to drag you out,” he threatened.
I let go. Opened my arms and left her vulnerable.
She held on. They pulled her off and then she wailed, crying in terror and frustration. I looked away, couldn’t watch her go—I didn’t want that picture to haunt my memory.
The cops offered to drive me home, but I waited, searching the windows for a sign of her.
“You don’t want to stay here, ma’am,” one of the cops said, a reference to the neighborhood.
They gave up and left me. Eventually Stoppard arrived with a police detective, a friend of his, a lieutenant who, although not working on the case, had found out the details. I don’t think I’m really in his debt, but I might as well not name him, since he broke rules by leaking information and might get into trouble. The lieutenant went inside to check on Naomi. Stoppard explained that there was no way to get her out until the morning and that I could have her only if Ben and his cousins agreed. Ben was under arrest. The lieutenant returned and claimed that Naomi was okay. The police psychologist had questioned her, given her some food, and she was watching television with the other kids. I was powerless: I had to surrender Naomi to the state and hope she could survive that night—the worst of her life—without my protection.
I asked the lieutenant to tell me about the case. We drove to a place off Union Square. It was a dark working-class saloon, not gentrified. I sat at a decrepit old-fashioned wooden booth while they ordered food at the bar. I had a drink that had no taste and no effect. Once he had his steak, the lieutenant settled himself and talked. Stoppard kept his eyes on me; his look was evaluating, almost cruel. The lieutenant was a small man, with long thin black hair that he combed straight back, exposing a bulbous forehead. He had a row of small pimples above his eyebrows and spoke with a raspy smoker’s voice. “They arrested Fliess this morning when he arrived at work. Joey said everybody there assumed he was being busted by Giuliani for insider trading.” The lieutenant smiled, saw nothing on my face but despair, and returned to cutting up his steak.
“What happened? What did he do to her?”
He glanced at Stoppard, who nodded reassuringly. “It’s not official, you understand? They want to keep it tight for a couple of days—”
“I just want to know—for me,” I explained. “That’s all. Tell me, okay?”
The lieutenant put down his knife and fork. He rubbed his pimples, leaned forward over the table, and met my eyes. Not kindly, but with a steady gaze, giving me his full attention and time. “They found her body in a dumpster in the parking lot of a shopping mall in Westchester. She had been bludgeoned. With something heavy, not made of wood, probably metal. There was no sex indicated, no other bruises. They believe he killed her sometime Sunday night, probably outside the house, got the body into a garbage bag, and put her in the trunk of the car. They figure he must have put the girl, who was probably asleep, into the backseat of the car and started driving around. He stopped at a hardware store about fifteen miles away and bought a shovel and a pick.”
Stoppard grunted. “They did quick work to find that out.”
“He paid for them with a credit card!” the lieutenant said, almost gleefully.
Stoppard shook his head. “He’s not a smart man.”
“He killed her in a fit—he didn’t know what he was doing.” The lieutenant caught my eye and lowered his head, embarrassed. “Anyway, he probably stopped somewhere else and got rid of the weapon. He obviously planned to bury her. The mall is under construction, it’s deserted, and behind the dumpster there’s a field. He may have started to dig there. Probably the little girl woke up, it was late, and he decided to just toss the body into the dumpster. Then he drove into the city.”
That was the life choice I had helped make for Wendy: stuffed into a Hefty bag and tossed onto a garbage heap. With my help, that was how life ended for my friend—her brain smashed by her husband, her child a sleeping witness to the disposal.
“When they arrested Fliess today,” the lieutenant said, “he was strip-searched. He was wearing a woman’s panties and bra. Then they discovered he had another apartment in the city. There they found a whole closet full of women’s clothes, and also they found videotapes of him dressed up. He says he made them himself, set up the camera on a tripod.”
Both men looked at me—what did I know? The lieutenant had already told me the detective on the case would stop by my apartment later tonight to ask questions. By then I would have to answer them.
“Will he be out on bail?” I asked.
“Sure, he’ll make bail,” the lieutenant said.
“And then he has custody,” I said, not asking. Stoppard nodded. “How long will it take for him to come to trial?”
“That depends—”
“What would be average?” I asked.
“A year,” Stoppard said. “Year and a half.”
“And until then, for that year and a half, he goes on just as before?”
They nodded. I discussed with Stoppard how we might get Naomi out of the shelter first thing in the morning. He promised he would rouse Jake Prosser to work on that right away and that he would call a friend in the DA’s office and ask for any favor that might help. I kept my attention on the details. If I did otherwise, if I allowed myself to feel, I would have collapsed. Stoppard and I talked them out while we walked back to my building, where there had also been excitement—the police had come to search the Fliess apartment.
At home, there was Stefan to deal with—solicitous, offering tranquilizers, chattering away with reassurances about city psychologists and family shelters.
Then the detectives assigned to the case arrived.
“Did he ever hit her in front of you?”
No.<
br />
“Did she ever tell you he had hit her?”
No.
“Did you know he liked to dress up in women’s clothes?”
No.
Stefan’s sweet shocked chipmunk’s face was astonished. He covered his mouth as if he had to restrain himself physically from contradicting me. You know that I had no choice—I had to avoid becoming an enemy of my neighbor Ben Fliess. I couldn’t be a witness against him. I couldn’t be part of the community’s outrage or participate in his ostracism.
I had lost my mother, who gave me life. I had lost the first Naomi, my benefactor, who had given me an identity. I had lost Wendy, who gave me happiness. I had one left to preserve.
That night, once I was rid of them—the experts, the maintenance men of civilization—I sat in the bedroom we had converted into a gym and waited for daybreak, fighting off images of poor little Naomi hugging nothing but loneliness in that place. When I pushed that picture away, I saw the rebuke of Wendy’s face, moonish and loving, her pale eyes wide with amazement that Ben was about to strike her. I felt with her the terrible fear she must have known. Even if she understood what was happening for only a second, for a wink of consciousness, the agony of that moment would have stretched out forever, covering everything with its pain. She died not living to see her daughter grow up happy and beautiful, but abandoned to a killer’s mercy. She died not surrounded by people who loved her, but with blows of hate. She died not satisfied by a life of completed deeds, but unfinished, right in the middle of her story.
I had lost all the women who created me: mother, sister, friend. All gone but for little Naomi, who was now my daughter. I swore I wouldn’t lose her.
So I waited in the dark, keeping company with the restless souls of the dead, and prepared myself to play host to the murderer next door.
GRIEF
AT SEVEN-THIRTY THE FOLLOWING MORNING BRIAN Stoppard and Jake Prosser picked me up in a limousine and we set out to rescue Naomi from the shelter.
The long black car and its driver’s somber uniform were reminders that soon there would be a funeral for Wendy. I couldn’t get myself to ask Stoppard what was usual in homicides, where they were keeping her body and when she could be buried. Instead I listened to him speak confidently of our mission. He spoke in a soothing voice, patting down his wavy white hair while he assured me that Ben was going to be declared an unfit parent and punished for the murder. Stoppard’s skin was evenly tanned, browned out of season not by ultraviolet machines, but due to his frequent vacations to warm climates. He wore a charcoal gray pin-striped suit—he was both elegant and comfortable in his finery. As if for contrast, Jake Prosser sat by the other window like a caged animal, head hunched low, peering outside with suspicion and resentment in his eyes. I took the jumpseat facing them and rode backward against the flow of the world.
The Murderer Next Door Page 9