Two Graves Dug

by Penny Mickelbury

  “I don’t seek revenge, Phillip. That’s not why I ask. Did you read the hospital report? Yes? Then you must know that such a thing cannot be allowed to happen again. I won’t ever have the love of my first grandchild again, but if I can prevent another parent from living in hell, that I will do. Promise me, Phillip, that you will make sure he won’t ever do again what he did to Anna Arlene.”

  I held my hands out to her. “I can’t make that kind of promise, Arlene. You know I can’t.” I was begging her.

  She refused me. “You told us that day in your office, Phillip, that you couldn’t...wouldn’t... find him. But you have. Now you can stop him. And you will. You must. And if there are really two of them, you must stop them both.”

  I all but ran out of Arlene’s office. I threw some money on the counter to pay for my meal and Jill’s soup, startling Bradley, and was out the door while he was saying good-bye. I was en route to Gertrude Bader’s office dizzy with overwhelming dread and something close to fear; for I wasn’t certain that I was truly prepared to hear what she had to say but I knew I was terrified not to hear it.

  I hung my overcoat on the rack in the reception area and experienced a brief moment of anxiety looking for my scarf and gloves, wondering whether I’d left them in the taxi—from which I had remembered to request a receipt—before I remembered that I’d left them on a bus stop bench beside Willie One Eye’s nephew, whose name I still did not know, to atone for my embarrassment for the remark about his lack of an overcoat.

  Dr. Bader gave me a quick, approving glance when I entered her office and waved me into a chair. She closed the file she’d been reading, removed her glasses, and began talking. There definitely were two rapists: an older man and a younger one. The younger one was the violent one, the one who had done the two murders. Because of the nature and level of his violence he probably had been institutionalized in the past, though it was impossible to say whether he’d been hospitalized or jailed; that would depend largely on whether he’d been caught when he was a juvenile or an adult.

  “Juvenile?” I managed.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Rodriquez. He’s been at this for quite some time, and he will continue if he is not stopped.” She said the words, unlike Arlene Edwards, without passion, but with no less force. “This other one, however, is a different story, and he’s the one who really worries me.”

  The breath caught in my chest and caused a pain. I was really worried about Gregory Jenkins. I was certain he was the younger one, the violent one. The murderer. And the shrink who was the professor who understood these people and why they did what they did was worried about the other one?

  “He’s probably never been caught, and because he’s older, he’s been at it for much longer. But he’s not violent. In fact, he’s probably quite gentle and non-threatening. He’s the kind the children won’t tell on unless they’ve got a very strongly developed sense of self and are surrounded by adults who trust them and whom they trust.” She tapped the folders on the desk. “All of these little girls live with adults who pay close attention to them, who notice right away when something is even the slightest bit different.”

  I thought of the parents: Carmine and Theresa Aiello; Patty Starrett; Daniel and Carla Esposito. Yes. These were people who would notice a difference in their children’s behavior and people whose children would mention an out of the ordinary occurrence. “Why are you more worried about him?”

  “Because it’s quite likely that he’ll never be caught.” She spoke with such quiet, convincing authority.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a teacher, a guidance counselor, a priest or a minister, a coach, a candy store owner. He’s one of the good guys.”

  “Then why hasn’t one of the victims IDed him?” I was getting steamed. “If he’s the teacher, why didn’t one of these kids say, ‘Mr. Jones did something bad to me’?” I stood up and began pacing. “One of the ‘good guys’ my ass!”

  “Senor Rodriquez?”

  “?Si?”

  “Sientese, por favor.

  I returned to my chair. I listened with growing dread as she explained that this rapist had direct and immediate access to children, but would steer clear of any children who knew him personally. He may teach at a middle school and have daily, direct contact with the elementary school students a block away, none of whom would know him by name or appearance.

  “And there’s another thing that sets him apart from other kinds of rapists.”

  I was still wrestling with the concept of there being different “kinds” of rapist. In my mind, a sick fuck was a sick fuck. Period. “What’s that, Doctor?”

  “The fact that he may actually derive some measure of sexual gratification from his activities.”

  “What?!”

  She tapped a folder. “This one? He is motivated purely by violence. Control and violence. Most rapists of adults are driven by violence. But it often happens that pedophiles do seek and receive sexual pleasure from children because of their inability to achieve gratification from adults.”

  The feeling of wanting to smash something had returned. “So they’re still sick fucks, even if they’re not violent sick fucks.”

  Dr. Bader almost smiled. “Oh, they’re very sick fucks, Mr. Rodriquez, and very dangerous ones, don’t misunderstand me. They do irreparable harm to their victims. I don’t know that any woman—or man, for that matter—ever heals the part of the self that is destroyed by rape. I’m merely trying to explain to you why it is possible that this rapist, and others like him, operate with impunity for years, for decades. Do you understand? This man is smart and crafty and evil. He does not want to be caught and unlike our other rapist here, he most likely will not make the kind of error that will result in his apprehension.”

  I stood up, then sat quickly down with a look at Dr. Bader waved her hand at me, giving me permission to pace. “If anything could or would trip him up, what would it be?” I asked.

  She was nodding her head. “Good. Good. He naturally should not be in the presence of children this young.”

  “Hold it! I thought you said he was a teacher or a coach or—”

  “He is! That’s his job, but not his life. Listen to me: This man is probably fifty, maybe older. He will not have children at all, and certainly not children as young as seven or eight years old. Therefore, for him to be in the presence of a child that young would be a warning signal.”

  “Would he look like a grandfather?”

  “He could,” she replied. “But anybody who knew him would know that he was unmarried. That he didn’t have children, so he couldn’t have grandchildren. He also would be uneasy doing child-like things. He’ll look awkward sitting in the sand or making mud pies or riding the merry-go-round. He can’t skate or play ball with any grace. This man is not a lover of children, Mr. Rodriquez; he is a violator of children.”

  “A violator of children.” Yolanda repeated the words several times. I’d wondered how she would respond to what I had to tell her of my meeting with Dr. Bader, but she was relaxed and calm as she listened, questioned, concluded, with me, that Gregory Jenkins looked good for the rape and murder of the Calle and Cummerbatch children. He had access to both buildings and he had been arrested as a juvenile and as an adult for sexually- based crimes and had served time in an Ohio jail. He returned to New York, Yolanda thought, a couple of years ago, though it was not possible to be certain. “Computers can only tell what they know,” she said often enough for me to believe her. And if Jenkins was smart enough to use his father’s social security number, he was smart enough to have and use other ID, so there could be quite a lot the computer didn’t know about him.

  I read through the thick file that Yo had prepared as she talked me through it. We’d agreed that I’d pay a visit to Lt. Delaney, share with him what we knew of Gregory Jenkins, and shift as much weight off ourselves and on to the police as we could, all the while making every effort not only to cooperate, but to demonstrate that we certainly had
not interfered in police business. Yo had agreed to the plan, but she didn’t like it. “You’re really going to give them everything we’ve got on this Jenkins creep?”

  “Yep. It’s enough for them to rattle his cage. Maybe even enough to pull him in. Besides, I’m hoping like hell that they’ve got some information of their own.” They damn well ought to, I thought, as I got ready to leave. And, as I was feeling myself getting steamed again, I took some deep breaths. It would be really dumb to arrive at the precinct for a meeting with a lieutenant who could pull my ticket with an attitude. I reached into my pocket, retrieved the taxi receipts and gave them to Yolanda. “Where’s the one for lunch?” she asked.

  “Lunch?”

  “Lunch, Phil. Yours and Dr. Mason’s,” she said wearily.

  I walked out, the equivalent of hanging up the phone on her. The sound of her laughter followed me out into the cold, dark, night air. I walked to the precinct. It was a long walk but I needed both the exercise and the time to order my thoughts, which would take some doing, for these thoughts were the unruly kind. I thought how good it would feel to smash Gregory Jenkins; to smash whoever had beat up Jill Mason; to find and smash the other rapist; to smash some cop threatening my license because I was doing my job. Thoughts of smashing were not good thoughts. I forced myself to think, instead, of where Mike and Eddie might be at this moment. Since I hadn’t heard from them in almost four hours, I imagined that they’d found the squirrel and couldn’t risk losing him by stopping to call me. I imagined that they’d stay with him until he went to ground for the night and that I’d hear from them then. I would visit Jill Mason after my Lt. Delaney visit. Maybe she remembered something about her attacker. Or about who could be wanting to cause her such pain and harm. Maybe she’d open up enough to tell me whether there was any possibility that the attacks on her were related to the other rapes. Maybe one of those little girls really did know who this second perp was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe when hell froze the devil would ice skate. Now where did I hear that the first time?

  “You’re looking prosperous, Phil,” Lt. Delaney said when I walked into his office, my overcoat over my arm. Certain government buildings, like precinct houses, always were too hot, no matter the season. I went from freezing to sweating in the minute it took me to get from the front door up to the second floor where Delaney had his office. “Nice threads. You that kinda PI now, you dress from Barney’s New York?” I shook his hand and laughed, not even thinking about explaining to him how women like Gertrude Bader, Arlene Edwards, and Jill Mason made you feel like wanting to look your best. “I knew I had to come see you, L.T., and I remember how you never did much like the sloppy look.” Which was true, and I noticed that my remembering that just put me a few points ahead. Bill Delaney was the desk sergeant when I walked a beat uptown those years ago and, for whatever his reason, he had decided to like me, to look out for me, to teach me from the unwritten cop rule book. I had taken everything he had to give because, even though I knew I had no intention of doing twenty years on the job, I wanted to do the best possible job for as long as I was there.

  “So you and Temple pissed on each other some today.” It wasn’t a question so I didn’t try to answer it. “He can be a little intimidating, I suppose, but he did bring you a legitimate concern, Phil. You’ve got your toes in my pond.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told him, Lieutenant.”

  He cut me off. “I heard it once, I don’t need to hear it again. I know about your clients and I know about citizens’ rights. I also know that when you orchestrate that kind of mass action, you’re dancing right on that thin line, and I would be within my legal rights to pull your ticket.”

  “And why would you want to do that, Lieutenant? What would be your motivation?” I’d spoken softly and practically without inflection but Delaney flinched.

  “Because you’re endangering an on-going investigation, that’s why.” His tone held plenty of inflection.

  “And what part of that investigation, Lieutenant, would have been endangered if you’d shared just the slightest bit of information with the parents of those little girls? Don’t you understand that those people think you don’t give a shit about them or their children? They don’t know that you’re still investigating diddly. I’m not sure myself that you are.”

  His face flushed red and his lips turned into a thin, white, mean line. “That’s fuckin’ uncalled for.”

  I shrugged. “Prove it. Tell me you’ve already picked up Gregory Jenkins and got him in the pen downstairs.”

  “What do you know about Gregory Jenkins?”

  “I know he probably killed the Cummerbatch and Calle kids, and it didn’t take me a year to figure it out. Christ, Delaney, the guy works in the buildings where those girls lived. Why are you so pissed off at me?”

  He nodded at me, his jaw muscles working. “You just screwed yourself, Rodriquez. You just gave me the ammo I needed to nail your ass. Jenkins is purely police business.”

  I held up my hand to stop him and reached into my jacket pocket and extracted the Golson/Stein contract. “Jenkins is very much my business. I do security for the building he works in. The owners asked me to run background checks on all their employees. Jenkins’ address and SSN and age and some other stuff didn’t match. I wanted to know why, so I could inform my clients. That’s why I’m prosperous, L.T. I do good, thorough work and my clients appreciate it.” When I saw that he wasn’t going to take the contract from me, I put it back in my pocket.

  “Don’t push me, Phil. I mean that.”

  “How long have you known about Jenkins?” I asked, pushing.

  He glared at me and for a brief second I saw something in his eyes. Then he broke eye contact when he saw that I saw.

  That thing started to happen in my stomach and chest again. “Tell me you didn’t know about him before he did the little Calle girl, Delaney. Tell me you didn’t sit on this creep and let him kill again when you knew he’d killed the Cummerbatch girl.”

  “Fuck you, you self-righteous little prick!” He’d pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. “You couldn’t cut it on the job but you think you can slide in here and tell me how to do my job? We didn’t let Jenkins do a goddamn thing! We didn’t know for certain that he’d done the Cummerbatch kid.”

  “But you thought it, goddammit! You knew about his past! Oh, God. Oh, shit.” I collapsed into my chair and held my head in my hands. How would I ever tell Bert and Angie Calle that the cops could have arrested the creep who killed their daughter but chose not to?

  An ugly sound came from Delaney and I looked up at him. “No wonder you couldn’t make it on the job, Rodriquez. You’re soft. Look at you, going to pieces. We deal with this shit every day. How far d’you think we’d get if we folded like that? We don’t have the time for that bleeding heart crap.”

  “You ever talked to the parents of any of these kids, Delaney?” I thought about Pam Starrett. And about Yolanda. “You ever looked into the eyes of a little girl who’s been raped? Into the eyes of a grown woman who was raped as a little girl? They have the same look in their eyes and it doesn’t ever go away. They don’t ever get over it, Delaney. They don’t ever heal.”

  “That’s stuff for the head shrinkers, Rodriquez. I’ve got a case load to worry about and I can’t close cases if I’m overwhelmed by the touchy-feelies.”

  “But what about the people part of the job, L.T.? You cared about the people once. I remember that about you.” And I did. He was never a touchy-feely kind of guy, but he once had cared about the people he served. Had once believed, in fact, in service.

  He shrugged. “What about ‘em?”

  What about ‘em? You know Carmine Aiello, don’t you? I wanted to scream at him. Fat, ugly, mean, Wop bastard? Only he’s not just a fat, ugly, mean, Wop bastard, he’s a little girl’s daddy, and the husband of that little girl’s mother. And he takes that little girl to a shrink almost every night and sits there waiting, hoping
, maybe even praying, that the shrink can put that little girl’s soul back together. That’s what about ‘em I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t violate Carmine’s trust that way, or his daughter’s privacy. So I got up and grabbed my coat and walked toward the door.

  “I don’t want to hear this on the street, Rodriquez. I don’t want to hear a single word about Gregory Jenkins from any of those families you represent, or I will have your license. Is that clear?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak so I didn’t try. I just nodded at him and left. My smashing desire had returned and I ran down the steps and out of the precinct and down the block and far enough away to outrun the inclination to return and indulge the desire to smash Lieutenant Bill Delaney.

  I was shivering so I finally put my coat on and buttoned it. I had an extra scarf and pair of gloves at home, but that didn’t help me now. I raised my coat collar and stuck my hands deep in my pockets and walked toward 3rd Avenue where I could get a taxi. I called Jill Mason on the cell phone to tell her I was coming and to remind her not to press the buzzer unless and until she was certain it was me ringing. Then I called Yo to tell her about my Delaney meeting and where I was going next and to ask if she’d heard from Mike and Eddie.

  “You’re going to need some sensitivity training to aid your interaction with the cops,” she said dryly, ignoring the pig-like snort that was my reaction. “Eddie and Mike said they treed the squirrel and that he’s in for the night, so they’re going in for the night. Eddie said to meet him at Jose Y Miguel’s for breakfast at seven-thirty. And Phil. Sandra’s grandmother wants to see you in the morning, too. At eleven. She wants to tell you something about Itchy Johnson. Only she said ‘Malachi’ Johnson. She knows, him Phil, from the old days in Harlem.”

  I tried not to behave like a bumpkin when I got inside Jill Mason’s loft. I’d seen this kind of elegance only on screen or in those magazines that try to teach people like me how to decorate their homes. The openness in the loft was breath-taking, and that sensation was enhanced by the view: two walls of glass placed the entire southern tip of Manhattan, including the Statue of Liberty and the Hudson River and New Jersey, right in the living room. And the view would be equally magnificent on a cloudy or foggy night; then it would feel cloaked in gauze and, despite the size of the room, almost cozy. The only thing I could say about the furniture was that I liked it and that it was terribly expensive. Ditto for the art work— though some of it I did recognize— and the rugs on the floor, which made their own artistic and creative expressions.