Senator

by Richard Bowker

  It just didn't sound right.

  Perhaps, I though, she was so desperate to get me back that she was going to blackmail me into continuing our relationship. But that didn't sound right either.

  Finally I erased the tape. I didn't need it as evidence, any more than I needed the photograph of us kissing. And I sat back and tried to figure things out.

  I couldn't make sense of it. I remembered the Paul Everson case, the one that made my reputation as a defense lawyer; I remembered how I had gone over the evidence in my mind as I drove to work, as I brushed my teeth, as I lay in bed at night. How did Everson's wife die? Who had killed her? How did each piece of evidence fit into the puzzle? But it was easier as a defense lawyer; your job isn't to solve the murder, just to poke holes in the government's solution. So what if she was planning to divorce him? He could afford the alimony, and he wanted the divorce as much as she did. Of course, his fingerprints were on the knife. It was his kitchen after all. And if he was really that clever a murderer, wouldn't he have wiped the fingerprints off the knife? Poke enough holes, and you're a winner. You become famous; you become attorney general; you become a senator.

  The trouble was, I could poke holes in any solution I could come up with for Amanda's murder. And so I was left with nothing except the fear that whatever the real solution was, it was bound to destroy me.

  I decided to phone Detective Mackey. He liked me; maybe he would tell me something, off the record.

  A couple of calls to mutual acquaintances produced his phone number. The line was busy for a while, and then a woman answered. I groped for her name. "Hi, is this Tricia?" I asked.

  "Yes?" she said, with the dubious inflection of someone expecting a pitch for vinyl siding.

  "Tricia, this is Jim O'Connor."

  "Senator?" Still the dubious inflection. I often find it difficult to convince people that it's really me when I get them on the phone. Presumably people think I have servants taking care of all my personal business.

  "Sure, Tricia. How are you doing?"

  "Just fine, Senator. Um, I guess you want to talk to Bill."

  Bill? It took me a second to recognize Mackey's first name. "Well, yeah, but it's sure nice to hear your voice again. Been a long time."

  "I'm really sorry about this murder business, Senator," she said in a rush, as if worried she'd be overheard. "I've always admired you."

  "I'm grateful for your support, Tricia. Is Bill there, by any chance?"

  "Sure. Let me just go find him."

  "I'd appreciate it, Tricia."

  I heard the sound of the receiver clattering onto a table and a distant shout. I had to come up with something for Mackey, I realized. I couldn't just ask for information from him without easing into it. I heard footsteps, then the sound of the receiver being picked up. "Senator," Mackey said.

  "Mack," I said. "Sorry to bother you at home."

  "No bother, Jim. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, you remember you asked me before if I had any theories about this murder."

  "Sure."

  "Okay, well, I don't put much stock in this, but enough people have mentioned it to me that I figured I should share it with you. Of course, you guys have probably thought about this on your own."

  "What's that, Jim?"

  "It's the idea—the possibility—that whoever killed Amanda Taylor did it to get me into trouble. Like someone I put away when I was AG. Is Donato out of prison, for example?"

  "Oh, sure. Last I heard he was living in, uh, Lynn, I think. But jeez, Donato—"

  "I'm not specifically accusing Donato, that isn't it at all. Just an example of someone who might have a grudge against me. Here's a guy, you know, might be in the Senate himself, wasn't for me."

  "I don't get it, Jim. If they have a grudge, why not just kill you or something? What's this reporter got to do with it?"

  "Precisely the way I felt when someone suggested it to me. But say people knew she was writing this book, say someone breaks into her apartment looking for dirt about me. She surprises him, they struggle, and he kills her."

  I could feel Mackey losing interest. I didn't blame him; he expected better from me. "Seems pretty farfetched, Jim. But thanks anyway."

  "You're welcome. As I said, I thought I should just pass it along."

  "I appreciate it."

  "How are things going up there, Mack? Young Mr. Tobin still sticking his nose into everything?"

  Mackey chuckled. "We're cooperating closely on the investigation. That's what I tell all the reporters anyway."

  I figured that was a hint: He wasn't going to tell me anything he didn't tell reporters. Still, I had to plunge ahead. "Interesting thing about those tapes you guys found, Mack. Remember how I said she didn't appear to record our conversations?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, I was talking to my brother yesterday—you know my brother, Danny?"

  "I've had a draft or two at Danny Boy's in my time, Jim."

  "Great. Too bad he had to give the place up, huh? Well, apparently she interviewed him for the book, too, and he couldn't remember being taped either. So if you've got a tape of my brother, that suggests maybe she wasn't telling some of the people she interviewed that she was recording them. So maybe there were tapes of my interviews that someone stole."

  "That's an interesting theory."

  "Well, it's only interesting if you've got a tape of my brother's interview. Have you listened to all the interviews yet, Mack?"

  "We're leaving no stone unturned in this investigation, Jim. That's what I tell those damn reporters."

  I got the message. "Well, I'm just trying to pass along anything I think might help."

  "I understand." Mack seemed to hesitate a fraction of a second. "This is a tough case, Jim," he said. "The Monsignor is very interested in this case."

  "I understand, too," I murmured. "Good night, Mack. Tell Tricia it was nice talking to her again."

  "She's on cloud nine, Jim. Not every day a senator calls. I think I'm on cloud nine myself. See you."

  I hung up. Had it been worth it? Now Mackey undoubtedly suspected that something was amiss with Danny. What if he hadn't been going to talk to him and now decided he'd better? It wouldn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out that Danny was hiding something.

  Still. If Mackey had listened to the tape, would he have been so friendly with me? Maybe this suggested that he didn't have the tape and everything was fine.

  But policemen can act, too. Not as well as politicians, but well enough. Mackey wouldn't reveal anything he didn't want to reveal.

  I recalled his last comment—about Cavanaugh. And I wondered: Was that a warning?

  I stared at the ceiling, and I thought: Cavanaugh hates me.

  He's hated me since before he had a reason to hate me. And I suddenly realized: He's going to arrest me, tape or no tape.

  But Mackey's a good cop, I reasoned. Mackey won't let him. And even ignoring Mackey, Cavanaugh can't just march in and handcuff me. He's got his own career to consider.

  Maybe, I thought. Maybe not.

  I had to stop thinking about it. There was nothing I could do now. I tried reading the stuff I had brought home with me, but I couldn't concentrate. Get some sleep, I thought. I got up and went into the bedroom. The spread and blanket were heaped at the foot of the cheap pine bed. I could have sworn I had made the bed; could have sworn I'd brought the shirts to the laundry, for that matter. And then I remembered: the call from Scanlon last Friday. The sudden fear. Was everything about to unravel? I had every reason to be frightened, it turned out.

  I thought of the phone ringing in the empty apartment, minutes after I had left on Friday. Amanda almost never called me. Too late, I thought. Too late.

  And that made me feel very tired. I took my clothes off and found some clean pajamas to put on. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, and the single toothbrush in the holder made me feel lonely as well as tired. I went back into the bedroom and lay on the filthy sheets and felt sorry
for myself, and then I picked up the bedside phone and called home.

  It was past Liz's bedtime, I knew, so Kathleen would answer. "Hi, princess," I said.

  "Hi, duke."

  "I've been thinking about fractals," I said.

  "I bet," she said.

  "Honest. They've been preying on my mind. What was that term you used about my apartment when you visited me?"

  Kathleen thought for a moment. "Entropy?"

  "Yeah, that's it. Even I know about entropy. Things falling apart. So I was wondering: Is entropy related to fractals?"

  "Well, they're both science," she said doubtfully.

  "I mean, is it like, as things get more complicated, they're more likely to fall apart?"

  She considered. "It's kind of hard to follow," she said finally, in a tone that suggested she understood but that she despaired of making me understand. "Complex systems are really more robust than simple linear systems. I mean, the least complex state for a human being is when he's dead, right?"

  "I hadn't thought of that," I admitted.

  "Fractals are beautiful," she said. "Entropy is just... nothing. Total disorder."

  "I guess I should clean up my apartment."

  Kathleen giggled. "It's impossible to reverse entropy. Ultimately, I mean. We all die, for example."

  "That I knew."

  "Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," she said, apparently realizing that I might not appreciate all this talk about death.

  "Don't apologize," I replied. "Never apologize."

  She was properly chastened. "Right," she said.

  "How's your mother?"

  "Fine," Kathleen said. And then: "I don't think she's very happy, actually."

  I wasn't surprised. "Be nice to her," I said. "This hasn't been an easy few days for her."

  "Okay." So why aren't you nicer to her, Daddy?

  "Listen, I've got to go to sleep. Kiss yourself good-night for me."

  She made a smacking noise into the receiver. "Good night, Daddy."

  "Good night, Kathleen."

  I hung up and turned out the light, feeling a little better.

  And as I fell asleep in the total disorder of my apartment, I thought of something I could do.

  I would get in touch with Paul Everson. He would be able to help me if anyone could.

  Chapter 10

  Enough for the moment. I will let myself sleep.

  It is snowing, a light, delicate snow that melts as soon as it hits the windowpanes. A trial run for winter, perhaps. I watch the rivulets of moisture slide and merge across the glass; I listen to the wind blowing the snow out of the gray sky. I should go for a walk, tramp through the woods for an hour or two, feel the cold wind and snow on my face, and try to clear my brain.

  But what if the snow is not a trial run? What if I become trapped in a blizzard in these strange woods? I'm a city boy. I read about stuff like that; I feel no need to experience it.

  It could be a blizzard for all I know. I haven't listened to any weather reports while I've been here; I haven't had any news whatsoever of the outside world. There's no TV here, no radio; just me and the computer screen, me and a brain that won't shut itself off.

  Instead of venturing outside, I have just gone into the kitchen and brewed another pot of coffee. The kitchen has marble counters, a Jenn-Air grill, a massive skylight. I'm not exactly roughing it here. If I'm cold, I turn up the thermostat. If I need food, I have a phone and a number to call. But still, I'm hidden from the world, and that was my goal. I don't need to suffer; I only need to understand. And that requires solitude.

  I stood in the middle of the kitchen waiting for the coffee, and I longed to grab a newspaper, to glance through a memo, to dictate one myself. But I've made that impossible for myself because I know that this is the only way to make it work. And now I sit with the coffee mug in my hand. The snow is still falling. The cursor is still blinking. The screen waits to be filled.

  It is time to think about Paul Everson.

  * * *

  Paul Everson and James O'Connor, Act One

  It was 1969, and the world was exploding.

  Not that it mattered a great deal to me. I had my student deferment to keep me out of trouble and no political beliefs to speak of. I figured I would go on to graduate school and get a Ph.D. in English. I had been successful so far reading books; why change? The job market was horrendous for English professors, but what else was I good for? I would get something. I worked hard; I would be all right.

  Paul Everson was my roommate, and a radical. He had long blond hair and a scrawny beard that at least made his acne less noticeable. He wore combat boots and a black beret. He truly believed that the Revolution was about to start and that it would start here, at Harvard. Where better? He wanted to be part of it. So instead of going to classes, he passed out flyers, he marched, he protested, he attended interminable meetings to argue ever-finer points of revolutionary doctrine and fashion ever-longer lists of demands. A huge poster of a smiling Mao dominated our living room at Adams House. Copies of the Old Mole and the Daily Worker were our bathroom reading.

  Despite our differences, we got along all right—mostly by ignoring each other. Everson made occasional attempts to make me see the error of my ways, but my utter lack of interest kept the conversations short.

  And then one fine spring afternoon the radicals took over a building.

  It was University Hall, a small administrative building in Harvard Yard. They threw the deans out and hung a sign from the windows proclaiming it Che Guevara Hall. The campus was in an uproar. Everyone had an opinion about the takeover, the demands, the administration's probable response.

  Everyone except me. I wanted to stay out of it.

  But my roommate was inside the building. And somehow that changed things.

  Everson's parents called after dinner; the takeover had made the national news. His mother started to cry when I told them he was involved. "Please," she said, "if there's anything you can do..."

  I couldn't think of anything, but I promised to help.

  My father called next; just checking. "It's hormones, is all," he informed me. "Spring comes, and you gotta do something. If those guys had girl friends, none of this stuff would happen."

  "They're totally sincere, Dad," I responded, feeling oddly defensive.

  "Sincerity doesn't make up for stupidity, Jimmy. Keep your nose clean."

  But that didn't seem so terribly important all of a sudden.

  The Revolution required a response. That was one point Everson kept making in our infrequent political debates, and it was a point I was now beginning to accept. Neutrality, ignorance, and ironic detachment all were unacceptable. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. I couldn't wish away the horrors I saw on the nightly news. I realized that I had to make a choice.

  The hours passed. Mao stared down at me from the living-room wall. There were meetings everywhere to discuss the situation, but I didn't feel like attending. If you weren't in University Hall, you might as well be alone in your room. I tried to go to sleep, but sleeping didn't seem like an acceptable choice. Finally I got dressed and went outside.

  The confrontation was coming; you could smell it in the air, like an approaching thunderstorm. I walked over to the Yard. The gates had been locked that afternoon, but they weren't guarded; the police evidently had something better to do. It was easy enough to climb a wall and enter the forbidden zone.

  There were plenty of other people who had done the same thing. A lot of freshmen, who lived in the Yard, were also up and about. We hung around in front of the occupied building, trading rumors and speculations, until I was tired of talking. Then I just stood there, gazing into the windows at the protesters, who looked exhausted and worried. I stood there for a long time, cold and confused. And then I no longer felt like standing still, and I walked inside.

  The first-floor hallway was littered with empty Coke bottles and potato chip bags and crumpled flyers. The place smel
led of unwashed adolescent. Someone had scrawled the phone number of Legal Aid on a wall. A Crimson reporter was interviewing a gaunt, bearded fellow on the stairway. A girl lay sleeping or passed out on the polished wooden floor.

  I looked inside an office. The file cabinets were all open, and manila folders were strewn everywhere. On the windowsill was a photograph of a woman with two young children; the glass in its frame was cracked. A few hoarse-voiced students were arguing about the appropriate course of action when the pigs arrived. Should they fight? Go limp? Chain themselves to the desks? Had anyone remembered to bring chains? "Seen Paul Everson?" I asked the room.

  "Upstairs, maybe," someone replied.

  "We've already won this battle," the interviewee was explaining to the reporter as I passed them on the stairs. "The question is: Where do we go from here?"

  Upstairs there were more bodies and more debates; the stench was even worse. I wandered around for a while and finally found my roommate sitting on the floor by himself in a corner of the ornate Faculty Room, under the grim portrait of some ancient Harvard president. Everson was smoking a cigarette; his eyes were bloodshot. I sat next to him. "Welcome to the Revolution," he said, not looking at me.

  "Your mother asked me to get you out of here," I said.

  "She worries too much," he replied. "Nothing's gonna happen. They'll negotiate." He said that last word with a sneer.

  I shook my head. "They're gonna take the place back. Soon."

  "Well, I don't give a shit. I'll survive."

  We were silent for a while. Someone started playing the guitar, badly. Everson looked at me. "You didn't come here because my mother told you to," he said.

  "I got bored," I replied. "This was something to do."

  He nodded. "Just taking a stroll through the Yard at four in the morning and thought you'd drop in." He stubbed out his cigarette on the parquet floor and lit another one. "You don't know which fuckin' end is up, do you, O'Connor?"

  "I'm trying to educate myself, Everson. That's what Harvard is all about."

  "Well, this certainly has been an education. Don't know if we should let you drop in just as we're about to graduate, but what the hell. That's what anarchy is all about." He smiled, and then he started to nod off; the hand holding the cigarette dropped onto his leg and he jerked awake as the tip scorched his jeans.