"Later when he was assassinated, I changed my mind. Then it looked more and more like a chill off, a bunch of out-of-town guys, maybe the Purple Gang from Detroit acting for the Torrance Hill mob, brought in to send Cody a message. They wanted a bigger slice of the action. Cody refused, so they sent in some muscle to show what they could do. A classic move, what they used to call ‘dressing down the joint,’ ‘giving the joint a shake.’ Afterwards Cody confronted them, there were hard feelings, and a few months later they had him killed."
As we walk back up the drive, I tell him what bothers me about his theory that Cody ordered the Flamingo killings.
"Seems like there's a big difference," I tell him, "between ripping up your girlfriend's face with a broken bottle and ordering your mistress and her lover killed. One's a hot, angry act that has to do with punishment. The other's totally cold-blooded."
Mace shrugs. "Depends on how you size the guy up. I saw him as a sociopath subject to flashes of rage but also cold and cruel. So, see, for me it can work either way. Also, who else had a motive?"
"Andrew Fulraine?"
"He wanted his kids back and was looking for evidence to get custody, but he was in New York at the time and wouldn't have had the slightest idea how to hire a hitman. Bottom line — he didn't have the heart. He was too fancy and wimpy. When he heard what happened, he burst into tears."
"What about her other lovers?"
"We checked them out. Cody and Jessup were the only current ones. Far as we could tell all the old ones had cooled off."
"What about someone you didn't know about?"
"You mean like someone who'd been spurned. Look, we did a thorough investigation. Since we suspected Cody from the start, we made a point of looking deep to eliminate everybody else. When a couple's killed like that, shot to pieces in their love nest, the motive's almost certain to be sexual jealousy. Jessup wasn't involved with anybody. He was new in town, been here less than a year, barely knew anyone outside his colleagues at the Hayes School. Barbara Fulraine had had a string of lovers, but she was a classy lady who ended her affairs in a classy way. Several were visibly upset when they heard the news. All seemed genuinely sad. We looked at Cody's old flames but couldn't find one who cared. Couple of them made it clear they weren't even sorry. Cody was the only one who refused to talk with us. He referred us to his lawyer, who told us to arrest him or buzz off. So if there was someone else, we didn't find him. And, God knows, we looked."
Back at the ruined gates, there's a quiet moment as Mace and I get ready to part. He looks me in the eye in the manner of a seasoned cop.
"Those drawings you did of the Zigzag Killer," he says, "they were knockouts. Law enforcement folks give you great references. After you called I checked you out, wanted to know who you were before I agreed to meet."
"Guess I passed the test."
"You did. But I'm curious about something, David. Why so much interest in a twenty-six-year-old crime that's been mostly forgotten by everyone else?"
"You haven't forgotten it."
"That's for sure. I doubt a day goes by I don't think about it."
"Then you of all people should understand."
The way he continues to stare tells me he needs a better answer.
"Put it like this," I tell him. "I was a kid when Flamingo happened. All of twelve years old. I was a student at the Hayes School. Mr. Jessup was my French teacher. I played soccer, and he was assistant coach of the lower-school soccer squad. I also knew the Fulraine boys. Mark Fulraine was in my class. Me and all my friends read about the case. The following autumn, we could talk of nothing else. It was morbid and romantic, and I guess you could say some of us got obsessed. In a weird way, considering the career I've had, I think for me those killings were a defining event. They haunted me. So now, twenty-six years later, I find myself back in Calista. With that in the background, how can I not make time to give the case my best professional look?"
Mace nods casually as if to say he's willing to accept my explanation, though he's still not completely satisfied.
We shake hands.
"If you come up with more questions, give me a call." He smiles. "Flamingo's one case I'm always happy to talk about."
5
The Hayes School: Standing now before its gracious Georgian façade, I'm suffused with melancholy. It was here that I, like all children at their schools, learned some of the awful lessons of life: that human beings compete; that competition can be ruthless; that those we love best may turn upon us and betray us; that those we respect most may show themselves to be flawed.
It's summer now. School is out of session. But the campus is open for two summer programs, a day camp for soccer players, and a high school theater workshop. When I arrive, the soccer players are practicing on the school's lush green athletic fields, while the theater students are in the midst of a dress rehearsal. I stop by the school auditorium, watch a couple of scenes from Shakespeare's As You Like It, then wander off.
The smells here bring back memories: polished stone, freshly waxed wood floors, the lingering odor of bad school food. ‘Fish eyes and glue’ and ‘mystery meat’ were among our gleeful descriptions of Hayes specialties.
Off the main foyer, lined by glass cases filled with sports trophies, is the corridor that leads in one direction to the Headmaster's office, in the other to the school Common Room. I walk through, then enter the gym, immediately noticing several unfamiliar features — new Plexiglas basketball backboards and differently colored markings on the floor. Most of all, I'm impressed by the volume of the space. It used to seem so vast. Now it strikes me as small, almost intimate.
I've come to revisit the site of a boxing match I fought here under Athletic Department auspices. In fact, it was a mean, ferocious battle waged to settle a bitter personal feud.
Tom Jessup, acting that day as coach and referee, appeared to view it as simply another fair if particularly combative bout. Perhaps, as I and my opponent were being bloodied as we flailed away, he was daydreaming about his new socially prominent paramour. Or perhaps, as I believed at the time, he unfairly refereed the bout so I would lose, my opponent, after all, being Mark Fulraine, scion of a founder of the school.
I walk to the end of the gym where the boxing ring was set up. Mats, perhaps the very ones we trod upon that day, are piled neatly in a corner. The vaulting horses are in their niche; the climbing ropes are hoisted to the ceiling. Taking a seat on the bench in front of the radiators, I feel the grid against my back, the same grid I leaned so hard against that day while my friend, Jerry Glickman, laced up my gloves.
Funny how many things come back when you revisit the scene of a traumatic event, details I would not remember were I not now at the site. As the memories flood in, I set my sketchbook on my knees and begin to draw, working to recapture the awful drama of that day.
There'd been much anticipation surrounding our fight. People knew we hated one another, that Mark, president of the Lower School Student Council, had deeply offended me, calling me ‘Jewboy’ because he didn't like a caricature I'd drawn of him for the school paper. After he spat out the epithet, we stared at one another, me incredulous, he, perhaps, equally shocked that he'd uttered such a vicious affront. Then I swore I'd knock his fucking block off.
Just as we were about to come to blows, a teacher intervened, which led to our being called separately into the Head of Lower School's office. Mr. Leonard, who owned that kingly title, decided that since our rancor was high and we were approximately the same weight, we should settle our differences in the ring.
An idiotic solution. Had I been Head of Lower School, I'd have suspended Mark till he issued a public apology. But the Fulraine family was a major benefactor of Hayes, people felt sorry for Mark because his sister had been kidnapped, and, anyway, in those days, genteel anti-Semitic remarks were not uncommon in the homes of Calista's social and financial elite.
Since our feud erupted on a Monday morning, Mark and I had five full days to look for
ward to our bout, scheduled to follow regular optional boxing practice on Friday afternoon. In that time, we carefully kept our distance so as to avoid exchanging further words.
My friends, all two of them, Tim Hawthorn and Jerry Glickman, assured me I'd win if I kept my head.
"Make him fight your fight," Jerry coached me.
"Sucker punch the creep, then sock him," Tim advised, smacking his fist into his palm.
Both pieces of advice seemed valid enough, though I had no clear idea what they meant. All I knew was that I was facing the fight of my life, and, unlike other student fights, it was being sanctioned by the school. Though participation in a grudge match was a fearful prospect, at least I could count on it being fairly refereed. Mr. Jessup, who had boxed as an undergraduate at State, was, I knew, not only an honorable guy but was also a favorite teacher, and, I then believed, my friend.
Friday, 2 P.M., the day of the match: I enter the Lower School locker room. Mark's already there wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts, one foot on the bench tying up his sneakers. We glare at one another as we suit up side by side.
"It's going to be fun whipping you ass," he taunts.
"There's an ambulance outside waiting for you," I respond.
Every student, upon admittance to Hayes, is assigned one of two teams, Eagles or Mustangs. Thereafter, no matter the sport, all intramural teams are demarcated this way. Mark Fulraine was a Mustang, thus the tanktop he pulled over his head was a vivid fighting scarlet. Since I was an Eagle, mine was but a muted blue.
Together we strode into the gym to receive our gloves, headguards, and mouthpieces. Another match was in progress with at least a hundred boys seated about the ring. Normally less than twenty spectators attended Friday practice, but that afternoon interest was high as word of our impending battle had spread through Lower School.
Mark was popular; I was not. He was a star athlete, a football player, graceful and handsome with manly features and a head of unruly golden locks. I, dark-haired, skinny, sometimes gawky, was not particularly good at sports. Moreover, I was disliked on account of my sarcastic manner and for being one of the smartest kids in sixth grade.
As we walked forward, I could sense the waves of approval washing over him and feel the disdain directed at me.
"Give it to him, Mark!"
"Beat the crap out of him!" yelled Mark's brother, Robin, who would be acting as Mark's second.
I think I might have choked out of sheer loneliness if Jerry Glickman hadn't come forward then to encourage me and help me with my gloves. Since psychology is half of any battle, choking up would have doomed me for sure. But thanks to Jerry, despite the favoritism of the crowd, I managed to keep my head.
"He's too cocky," Jerry whispered. "He's riding for a fall."
Filled with gratitude, I looked around for Tim, my other friend. Appalled to find him in Mark's corner whispering encouragement, I heard mumbling in the audience: "Hawthorn's turned. Hawthorn's rooting for Fulraine!"
You will be betrayed.
That was the first lesson I learned that Friday afternoon. But strangely instead of eroding my confidence, Tim's betrayal gave me strength. I'll show him! I remember thinking. And at that I focused my anger on my betrayer, glaring at him so hard I forced him to lower his eyes.
The Hayes School, now coed but in those days exclusively for boys, prided itself on its instruction in manly sporting arts and values. Hayes boys, we were taught, played fair and true. Hayes football players never shirked a tackle, Hayes basketball players always leapt for heaven, and, in the boxing ring, Hayes boys gave all with honor and heart.
Mr. Jessup came over to check my mouthpiece and gloves.
"Everything okay?" he asked. I nodded. "Best now you do like Mark, shadowbox a little to warm up," he advised.
I nodded again, then stood and joined Mark, flamboyantly shadowboxing around the ring. Then Mr. Jessup beckoned us to the center to instruct us in the rules.
"Three two-minute rounds. Compulsory ten-count on a knockdown. Break when I tell you. If either of you wants to stop, say so and it's over."
Mark and I nodded.
"Good! Now come out swinging. May the best man win!"
Mark and I briefly touch gloved hands, Jessup stood back, then Mark and I began to fight.
I don't remember much about the bout, have no memory of particular blows. But I do remember they came fast and hard, and that after a slow start, to my surprise, I began to give as good as I got. There was ebb and flow; at times I became the aggressor, pursuing Mark across the ring. Other times he backed me against the ropes with a flurry of hooks and jabs. I remember Jerry encouraging me while offering me water during the breaks. I also recall Robin Fulraine yelling taunts from the opposing corner. At one point, I remember connecting a right and feeling great satisfaction as Mark's eyes clouded and blood spurted from his nose. I wasn't aware of how bloodied up I was myself till the second rest period when I looked with shock at the red towel in Jerry's hand.
"You're a mess, but you're doing great," Jerry assured me.
Mr. Jessup came over.
"You okay?"
I nodded.
"Good! Terrific fight," he said, then moved away.
If I had managed to hold my own in the first two rounds, things fell apart for me in the third. Perhaps it was exhaustion, also Mark's superior athletic ability. Whatever the cause, I realized I was getting beaten. Then suddenly, I remember, I felt my legs give our from under me as I was rocked by a terrific blow to the chin. I fell to the mat. I remember Mr. Jessup giving me a ten count as I struggled to stand up, then shaking my gloves and staring deeply into my eyes while motioning Mark back. I remember standing there stunned, barely able to raise my gloves, as Mark attacked, hitting me in the stomach, then letting loose with a vicious blow to my lower belly that sent me down again.
I remember writhing on the mat in pain and blood, feeling I was going to throw up. It was so obviously an illegal blow, Mr. Jessup should have stopped the bout right there. Instead he methodically counted me out, yanked me up, then raised Mark's arm in victory. Then amidst cheers from the crowd, he instructed us to shake hands... which we did.
Later in the locker room, Jerry beside me while I bent over a sink trying to stanch a cut on my lip, several kids came up to say I'd gotten a rotten deal, that after the low blow Jessup should have stopped the fight and called a draw. Better still, Mark Fulraine came over to apologize.
"The low blow was an accident. I don't fight dirty," he said solemnly. "I still don't like that picture you drew," he added before going off with his friends.
Still later, showered and dressed, crossing the empty gym, I remember watching as a school janitor mopped our blood off the white rubber cover they used to protect the mats.
Contrary to schoolboy mythology, Mark Fulraine and I did not become friends. But after our fight he showed me decent respect, his way, I guess, of saying he was sorry for what he'd said. Suddenly more kids seemed to like me, too. On Graduation Day, there was an exhibition of my sketches in one of the hallways of Lower School. Several boys made a point of introducing me as ‘class artist’ to their parents.
* * * * *
I've been drawing here in the gym for nearly an hour. Now, hearing the sounds of kids returning from soccer practice, I put down my pencil and examine my work. I've got the fight down pretty well, I think. Rather than depicting myself as victim, a role I dislike, I've drawn Mark and me as equally fierce competitors. I also have Mr. Jessup as he appeared to me that day, aloof and out of touch; Jerry, my friend, rooting for me in my corner; and Tim, by betrayer, half turned away, treason in his eyes. But it's my depiction of the audience I like best, their intense interest in the outcome, enjoying too the suffering and debasement of the loser.
As for Mr. Jessup, though he never acknowledged that he'd refereed unfairly, in class he continued to praise my work. Still I soured on him. I assumed he'd favored Mark because of the Fulraine family connection to the school. It was
only later that I found out that Mrs. Fulraine had hired him that spring to give private tennis and boxing lessons to Mark and Robin, and that, in the early days of their romance, those coaching sessions served as the pretext for Tom to visit the Fulraine estate, where, afterwards, while the boys frolicked in the family pool, he and Barbara Fulraine retreated to her bedroom to make frantic, illicit love.
* * * * *
Tom Jessup had a secret. I was convinced of it. There was something different about him that spring, the way he spoke and moved, which, perhaps because of my hurt over his betrayal, I was eager to understand. The sincere and boyish young schoolmaster, previously so generous and kind, seemed somehow to have changed.
Almost immediately upon his arrival the previous autumn, our new French teacher had become one of the most popular instructors at Hayes. Young, eager, not jaded like the older masters, he had that rare teacher's gift of making a foreign language come alive. Though a conscientious objector, he hadn't fled the country but had served heroically as an army medic in Vietnam. After discharge, he'd worked his way through State, majoring in romance languages. In short, a man I could admire.
But in the spring, his teaching went flat. It was clear that whatever was going on in his interior life was not concern over the education and coaching of pubescent boys. Until the Flamingo shootings the following August, I had no idea why he'd changed. Then it was all over the newspapers, his affair with Barbara Fulraine. The most surprising part of their story, at least to Jerry Glickman and me, was the news that they'd met at Hayes the preceding April on Parents Day.
In September following the shootings, when school resumed for the new term, that meeting became a subject of endless speculation. Jerry and I, then new seventh graders, spent hours going over the events of that day, trying to imagine how it had occurred. We remembered Mrs. Fulraine. Even if nothing dramatic had followed, it would have been impossible to forget her, she was so beautiful, gracious, and glamorously dressed.
Dream of The Broken Horses, The Page 6