by James Siegel
“Somebody told him.”
Belinda was our homegrown celebrity, Mr. Birdwell said. You know that weatherguy on NBC-Willard, what’s his name, Scott-who wishes happy birthday to 100-year-olds around the country? He put Belinda’s picture on a few weeks ago.
“He got to see her before he died, huh?” Rainey said, letting just a hint of tenderness seep into his voice.
“Yes. Before she died, too.”
“That’s nice.”
I sat down on Benjamin Washington’s cot. I tried to imagine that particular morning. Starting the day on OJ, Zyprexa, Haldol, and Seroquel, the breakfast of champions, then shuffling off in a half stupor to the TV room for a little Katie Couric and friends. And then that roly-poly weatherman with the bad toupee comes on and says: Let’s wish a big happy birthday to Belinda Washington from Littleton, California-she’ll be 100 years old. Happy birthday, Belinda.
Mwah.
“You know he was castrated?” I whispered to Rainey.
“Uh-huh, sure. I seen him in the shower.”
“You know why?”
Rainey shrugged. “Thought it was a war wound. Lots of people missing lots of stuff in here-not just their minds.”
“Benjamin Washington was a civilian.”
“Benjamin who?”
“Washington.”
“Nuh-uh. Briscoe. His name was Benjamin Lee Briscoe.”
“You sure?”
“Nah-I’m making it up. Course I’m sure. Maybe you talking about the wrong guy, huh?”
Okay, something was wrong. But I wasn’t talking about the wrong guy. I wasn’t. Yet something seemed oddly familiar about that name.
Briscoe.
I leafed through Benjamin’s childhood primer. A journey through the alphabet. At some point, someone had tried to teach him something. He’d scrawled his first name across the cover: Benjamin: age 9.
“How’d he get out of here, Rainey? You said he was all doped up.”
“Nah-I said he talked to himself. You said it’s the meds.”
“I bet he would’ve stopped taking them. Pretended to swallow them maybe, but spit them out instead. He would’ve wanted a clear head.”
“If you say so. That what Dennis did?”
“No.”
I WOKE DENNIS UP.
His eyes were dreamy-looking, peaceful, as if he’d been somewhere where he still had his tongue and could read license plates and road signs to his heart’s content.
“Dennis,” I said. “Just listen and nod your head, okay? Either yes or no, okay, Dennis?”
He nodded yes.
“You made a trade. That’s how your wallet ended up with someone else.”
He stared at me.
“His name was Benjamin. He was going to break out of here-he was going to run. Remember?”
No response.
“Maybe that gave you the same idea. Benjamin didn’t want his meds anymore-he didn’t need them. But you did-you needed them. You had a little money in your wallet; you had some ID in there too, maybe. Benjamin needed both. He was a ghost. He had no identity-none. And he was finally going out into the world.”
Dennis stared at me.
“You traded him your wallet for his meds. Every color in the rainbow. That’s how a black man who burned up in a car in California ended up with your wallet in his pocket.”
Dennis blinked.
“I know you can’t remember stuff. I know it’s all a fucking haze. Try to remember this. Just try. Yes or no?”
He nodded.
Yes.
FORTY-FIVE
I brought the detritus of Benjamin’s sad life to the dark and deserted lounge.
I bought a cup of mud-colored coffee from a machine and sat down at the table.
I opened the primer. Benjamin: age 9.
Every page contained a letter-first page letter A, second page letter B, third page C, and so on.
Benjamin had written each letter ten times, both in caps and lowercase. Then a word using that letter.
The A word was apple.
Then a picture of the word-a red apple in crudely drawn crayon.
Then apple was used in a simple sentence.
I eat apple, Benjamin wrote, in a 9-year-old’s syntax that he would never outgrow.
Happy hundred birthday.
I wish you hundred hugs.
It would’ve been hard to outgrow anything while being weaned on various mind-benders.
The B word was bed.
The bed he’d drawn looked pretty much like the one I’d just left in the ward. A child’s vision of it. Same color blanket. A small black scarecrow with crooked little Zs shooting out of his mouth.
I sleep bed.
For fifty years that’s what he’d done, until one day he saw his mom on TV, the one they’d told him had died in the flood with all the others. Then he woke up.
I went through each page.
Car.
Dog.
Elefant.
Fire.
Goat.
House.
Ice creem.
Jump.
Then the K page.
I stared at this word, because it wasn’t a kid’s word at all.
No.
I’d seen this particular word before.
When a folded letter fell out of a cracked picture frame and whispered come follow me.
See, I wasn’t talking about the wrong guy, Rainey.
The picture was a street filled with little stick figures raining tears. Their little stick arms were raised in childish terror. Of what? A blue giant. He was looming over them with a scythelike knife dripping thick, red drops of blood.
I stared at the sentence.
I live Kara Bolka.
K for Kara Bolka.
That’s why I was never able to find it. Why I could’ve scoured the phone directories from now till doomsday and still come up empty.
Greetings from Kara Bolka.
Kara Bolka wasn’t a person.
It was a place.
FORTY-SIX
Ten-hut.”
That’s the way the soldier covered with shrapnel scars informed me I should probably wake up. That I had visitors.
Only I’d been visiting a place where little children cowered in terror before blue giants with bloody knives. I had trouble opening my eyes and focusing.
Detective Wolfe. He was standing there with a new partner who didn’t look much like a policeman. There was a palpable menace in the room.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Maybe not,” Wolfe said. “You said you’re a reporter but you’re not just a reporter, Mr. Valle.”
Dennis was up, too. Dried blood had formed around the corners of his lips.
“You’re famous,” Detective Wolfe continued. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”
The other man had pulled up a chair and placed one foot on it, resting his arms across his knee. Detective Wolfe might’ve been asking the questions, but his new partner seemed to be the one listening.
“For fifteen minutes,” I said.
“You’re being modest,” Wolfe said.
“No. Not really.”
“Come on, Tom. Fifty-six stories? That’s quite a fucking accomplishment. Maybe you should’ve let me in on it.”
“Why? It didn’t have anything to do with Dennis being attacked in the gas station.”
“No? You might, I’m just saying here, fall under the heading of unreliable witness. Given your habit of lying through your fucking teeth.”
“Old habit. I’ve been working at a newspaper for more than a year.”
“You’re on leave from a newspaper-you were sent to the corner for being bad. Something to do with someone getting shot.”
“That someone was supposed to be me. He missed.”
“He who?”
“The shooter.”
“Right. There’s a suspicion the shooter had your gun.”
“He stole it.”
“Yeah, t
hat’s what you told everybody.”
“That’s what happened. Why would I want someone to shoot me?”
“Maybe you didn’t. After all, you didn’t get shot, did you? Someone else did.”
The other man occasionally closed his eyes and nodded at something or other.
“Here’s the thing,” the detective continued. “Mr. Patjy was shot too. The shooter was nice enough to leave an empty cartridge outside. He was shot with a Smith amp; Wesson.38. Just like the kid in Littleton. Just like the gun you purchased-illegally, apparently, from Ted’s Guns amp; Ammo.”
Okay, it had just been a matter of time.
Time’s up.
“I told you. I was asleep in the car. I woke up and found Dennis in the bathroom.”
“Right. You like Doritos, Tom?”
“Not especially.”
“Somebody did. Their prints are all over the bags. The ones they dropped on their way out.”
I didn’t answer him.
“Back in New York, after you were arrested for-what was it, breaking and entering, malicious destruction of property, lying your ass off-after that, you were court-ordered into therapy. It was your get-out-of-jail-free card, wasn’t it?”
“I wasn’t going to jail. Not for a first-time offense.”
The other man squinted, furrowed his brow in thought.
“I’m asking if the court recognized you as having mental problems.”
“I had problems. I don’t think I would define them as mental.”
“How would you define them?”
“I was trying to get ahead. I made things up. That was a problem.”
“Now it’s my problem.”
“Why?”
“Don’t act stupid. I’ve just told you why.”
“I don’t see it that way. I didn’t shoot anybody. I didn’t cut out Dennis’s tongue. And here’s the wonderful thing-you can ask him. He’s right here. Give him a pencil. Ask him who attacked him in that bathroom. It’s the same person who killed Mr. Patjy. And yeah, I’m 99 percent sure it’s the same person who shot my intern in Littleton. He’s been following us.”
“Thanks for telling me. Maybe you forgot that withholding information in a homicide is a crime. Anyway, we still have a little problem.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that? Your friend here-no offense-is a fucking mental case. Which means whatever he says means 100 percent shit. He goes in and out-your words, not mine. Swats bugs that aren’t there. Which makes him just a little, only a tiny bit, less reliable than you are.”
That seemed to jar the other man out of his reverie. He trained both eyes on me.
“Aren’t you in the wrong ward, doctor?” I asked him.
He smiled. “Was my Freudian slip showing?”
“Kind of.”
I turned to the detective.
“You know, if you wanted to have me psychoanalyzed, you should’ve asked.”
“Really? What if I wanted to put my fist down your throat? Should I ask you that too?”
“Okay,” the doctor said, looking slightly alarmed. “We’re just talking here.”
“You’re just talking, doctor,” Wolfe said. “I’ve got a dead body and a vet who can’t speak anymore. You’re not a vet, are you, Tom?”
“Not unless ROTC counts.”
“Didn’t think so. I fucking hate it when I have to take in a vet.”
“Are you taking me in?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I didn’t do anything.”
“Right. But you speak with forked tongue. Maybe you’re just off your rocker. Is he off his rocker, doctor?”
“I’m not familiar with that diagnostic term,” the doctor said.
“Okay, use another term. Is he sociopathic, schizoid, delusional, paranoid? Doctor, doctor, give me the news.”
“I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes-I wouldn’t know. Sorry for talking about you as if you aren’t in the room, Mr. Valle.”
“For crying out loud-how long does a diagnosis take, doctor? Haven’t you ever watched an expert psych on the stand? Two minutes with the defendant and they just know he wasn’t responsible for his actions.”
“I’m afraid expert testimony isn’t my forte.”
“You’ve got to have a forte, doctor. You don’t go anywhere without a forte these days. Take mine, for instance.”
“Which is?” the doctor asked.
“Closing cases. It’s the marine in me. Don’t leave anybody on the ground. Nobody. Not ever. I’ve got one on the ground and one in a hospital. And I’ve got this world famous bullshit artist over here telling me he didn’t do anything.”
“You want my opinion?” the doctor said.
“Sure.”
“He didn’t do anything.”
“What happened to ‘I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes’?”
“Call it a first impression.”
It was decidedly odd being talked about as if I weren’t there. I was back in the New York City courtroom-my lawyer against theirs, debating my fate as I sat there and mostly kept my mouth shut.
“He was in that store, doctor. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars his prints are all over the Doritos,” Detective Wolfe said. “Otherwise he would’ve gone in and told the Indian to call an ambulance after he found Mr. Flaherty with his tongue cut out. But he didn’t go in. So either he was in that store first and saw the dead Indian, or he was in the store first and he killed the Indian.”
“And then cut out Mr. Flaherty’s tongue? The man he was escorting back to a hospital for treatment?” the psychiatrist asked. “Forgive me, but I think both events are twinned. He did both or he did neither.”
“Okay, fine, he did both.”
Major DeCola walked in and said that he needed to examine Dennis and would we please clear the room.
Now.
Court recessed.
FORTY-SEVEN
I’ve forgotten to mention something.
I told you right at the start. I’m a little shaky on the time line-on specificity. What happened when. When what became known or just suspected.
I called that laboratory-Dearborne Labs. In Flint, Michigan.
Remember?
That letter from Dearborne Labs in Wren’s cabin. To Mr. Wren: Preliminary results of your specimens have confirmed your concerns. Please see attached lab workup.
But the attached workup wasn’t attached.
So I called them.
I wanted to know if Wren’s medical problem had anything to do with him fleeing town.
“Hello,” said a young-sounding woman’s voice.
“Hello,” I said. “Hello, this is John Wren. I sent you some specimens a while ago and I never got the results back. Naturally I’m concerned about my health and would like to get an answer one way or another.”
“Your health?”
“Yes. You tested some specimens and I’m waiting for the results.”
“Right. You mentioned your health?”
“That’s right.”
Silence.
“We test soil specimens here, Mr. Wren.”
“Soil specimens.” I echoed stupidly. “Right. That’s why I’m concerned. Because I haven’t been feeling good and I thought there might be something in the soil.”
She asked my name again; she told me to hold. Then she came back on the phone and told me the results had been sent to me more than three years ago. Why was I calling now?
“I forgot,” I said.
As it turned out, there was something in the soil.
“You were right,” she said.
“Okay. Great. Remind me what I was right about.”
“It’s hot.”
“Hot? What do you mean?”
“You might want to get yourself a Geiger counter, Mr. Wren. The soil you sent us-it’s radioactive. Can I ask where you got it from?”
She could ask, but I didn’t have to answ
er.
I hung up.
I was still concerned about Wren’s health.
Back in Wren’s cabin, when he’d called me from Fishbein.
When I attempted to take the edge off and chat about fishing rods.
I told you. I’d done a story on a professional fishing contest up in Vermont. I’d sat around with men whose arms resembled twisted cord, who liked kicking back at night sucking on filterless Camels and swapping fish stories.
I fit right in.
I took notes for the article. I picked things up.
That’s what journalists do. We learn a little about everything, just enough to be wrong.
The men talked about their rods as if they were old girlfriends. Debating the merits of one over another with a nostalgic and loving eye.
I asked Wren about the rods leaning up against his wall. What kind they were.
He’d hesitated and said: trout rods.
There are all kinds of fishing rods.
Freshwater and saltwater, fiberglass and graphite, casting and fly.
There are twelve-foot rods, four-foot rods, and every size in between.
There aren’t any trout rods. Or flounder, tuna, or swordfish rods, either. That’s not how fishing rods are categorized-by the fish. Anyone who took fishing seriously, who’d retired to a deserted fishing camp to spend his days pulling lake trout of the water, would’ve known that.
One other thing.
Everyone has cleared out. I used to see them in the parking lot when I peered out the windows. Salesmen, RV-ers, families caught between point A and point B, even the semipermanent residents like myself who took their motel rooms by the week.
No more.
The motel’s deserted. It’s down to me.
It’s what you do before a siege.
You clear the area.
You isolate the target before you go in.
FORTY-EIGHT
I was still a free man.
I still had time.
Until they matched my prints; as someone who’d been on probation, they were on file. Until Detective Wolfe convinced some assistant-assistant DA that you didn’t really need all that much evidence when you were dealing with a convicted liar.
Maybe you didn’t.
Even though someone once calculated we lie a hundred times a day. To our bosses, employees, clients, spouses, kids, citizens, policemen, bill collectors, relatives, friends. To caseworkers from Children’s Protective Services. And to ourselves. And after we lie to ourselves that there’s a god, we go and lie to him, too.