Death at Charity's Point

by William G. Tapply

  By then the month of May had seduced me. Grave thoughts and suspicions drifted away from me like dandelion puffs. Spring had settled into the city. Late-blooming tulips and daffodils nodded their heads to each other with quiet sociability. Pigeons swarmed and fluttered around old men with bags of stale popcorn. I paused to listen to a boy wearing dark glasses sing and play his guitar. He looked and sounded remarkably like the young Bob Dylan. I didn’t recognize his song.

  When I got to the end of the Common, I considered strolling up Charles Street to window-shop in the self-consciously quaint shops and maybe buy an ice cream cone.

  I reminded myself that I was an attorney with clients who depended on me. I had a lot of Important Business. I had trouble taking that premise very seriously. Nevertheless, I turned down Beacon Street, walked a couple blocks on the sunny side of the street, cut across at Dartmouth to Commonwealth, and kept on going to Newbury. I enjoyed looking at the chic ladies who toured the fashionable shoe stores there.

  It was nearly four when I arrived back at the office. I felt good, refreshed and cleansed by the walk. I pushed open the door and regretted that I didn’t wear a felt hat that I could toss onto a hat rack like James Bond while tossing a double entendre toward Julie.

  “I’ve made an important decision,” I announced to her.

  “You’ve had an important phone call,” she countered.

  “My decision,” I continued, “is to close the office this very minute, send you home to Edward, hang out the ‘Gone Fishing’ sign, and hie myself with all possible alacrity to the Squannicook River, where, with any good fortune, a hatch of Light Cahills should transpire shortly after my arrival, and where, given my consummate grace with the fly rod and intimate understanding of the feeding habits of the wily rainbow trout, I might capture half a dozen of those most worthy finny adversaries. Which,” I continued loudly as Julie tried to speak, “I shall, sportsman that I am, return unharmed to their watery habitat to be challenged another day by another angler. And then, my brain clear and my limbs tired, I shall return to my abode to savor a large tumbler of Old Dungarees poured over ice cubes and fall gratefully into my bed for a soul-cleansing sleep.”

  I gave Julie a big grin. “How’s that sound?”

  “Good. You had a phone call.”

  “Good? It sounds wonderful. It sounds idyllic.” I paused. Julie was not smiling. “What’s the matter?”

  “Harvey Willard called.”

  “Harvey?”

  “You know. The boy who…”

  “I know who he is, for Christ’s sake. What the hell did he want?” I felt my afternoon on the Squannicook begin to slither through my fingers.

  She shrugged. “He left a number. A pay phone, I gather. He said he’d be there every half hour to wait for your call.”

  “I wonder…” I looked at my watch. It was 4:07. “Damn it, Julie. I wish you’d said something when I first got in. I could have called him at four. Now I’ve got to wait nearly a half hour. I’ll miss the hatch at the Squannicook. You should have told me.”

  “I tried to.”

  I sat heavily on the sofa across from Julie’s desk. “Yeah, I suppose you did. Shit. It was such a nice day, too.”

  “Want me to try him now?”

  “Sure. Please. Won’t do any harm.”

  Julie poked at the buttons on the telephone, her forefinger stiff, her jabs sharp and swift as a woodpecker’s. She snuggled the telephone against her shoulder and gazed at the ceiling. After several moments she returned it to its cradle. “No answer,” she said to me.

  “I could wait until tomorrow,” I said.

  “You could.”

  “I mean, whatever it is can certainly wait.”

  “Probably.”

  “I really owe it to myself to get in a little fishing. No reason why a man shouldn’t go fishing.”

  Julie stared at me and nodded.

  “It’s not like this kid is a client or anything. Just some schoolboy. Probably worried about getting expelled. Thinks he needs a lawyer. He doesn’t need a lawyer.”

  “Nope,” said Julie, examining the backs of her hands. “Probably not.”

  “I mean, just because he plagiarized a history paper and George Gresham committed suicide…”

  Julie looked at me, her eyebrows arched expectantly.

  “Okay, goddamn it. You’re right. I’ll wait until four-thirty.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Julie.

  “Same difference,” I muttered. I went into my office and slammed the door behind me. I sat behind my desk. Then I stood up and went back to the door. I opened it. Julie was hunched over some papers on her desk.

  “Listen,” I said, working hard to keep some anger in my voice. “Give me that number, will you? And go home, for God’s sake. No reason for both of us to be miserable on a beautiful spring afternoon. Just give me that goddamn telephone number and get the hell out of here.”

  Julie stood up promptly and handed me a piece of paper. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said. “Don’t mind at all.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed my chin. “Tight lines,” she said.

  “Ah, nuts!” I mumbled.

  I smoked a cigarette and finished the dregs of the day’s pot of coffee while I waited for the minute hand on the wall clock to fall to the six. It seemed to take forever. I forced myself to look at a magazine. My eyes grazed lightly over the New Yorker cartoons. Usually I thought they were funny, but my mind kept flipping to the little run below the bridge, where the river cut under the bank and the trout lay like cordwood at the tail of the riffle, waiting hungrily for a home-tied Light Cahill to float lightly overhead. I saw the silver flash, and my muscles remembered the throbbing tug of hooked rainbow trout on light tackle.

  At twenty-nine minutes past four I tossed the magazine aside and called the number Julie had written on the scrap of paper.

  “Yeah? Mr. Coyne?” It was Harvey.

  “Yes, this is Brady Coyne. How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Coyne, I gotta talk to you. It’s very important.”

  “Okay, Harvey. Go ahead.”

  “No. Not now. Not on the phone.”

  “Come on, Harvey. It’s all right. What is it?”

  “I have to see you.”

  “You have to see me.” I was losing what little patience I had left. “Look, Harvey. What is this all about, anyway?”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  “Well, damn it, you could have made an appointment with my secretary if you need counsel. I really don’t care for this—this intrigue.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s about Mr. Gresham. I really think you’ll be glad you came out to hear what I have to say.”

  “You want me to go out there.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s got something to do with George Gresham.”

  “Yes. Something important.”

  “Important.” I sighed. “All right, Harvey. Will tomorrow be all right?”

  “Yes. Perfect. How about twelve-thirty? We can meet in the Student Union—you know where that is?”

  “Yes. Near the theater. Okay. We’ll make it twelve-thirty in the Student Union.” I hesitated. “Do you want to see me professionally, Harvey?”

  “Huh?”

  “Professionally. As a lawyer.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I guess so. You could say that.”

  “All right, then.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Coyne.” The line went dead.

  I arrived at the Student Union at The Ruggles School at twelve twenty-five, again leaving my car at my very own slot by the Authorized Personnel sign. I bought a glass of iced tea at the counter, and found a table near the door so that I’d be sure to see The Beast when he came in.

  The place was crowded and noisy. Boys and girls, all dressed in jeans or shorts and tee shirts advertising beer and restaurants—“I got scrod at Legal Seafood’s last night”—moved from table to table munching hot dogs and squares of instant pizza. A girl with painted-on Gloria Vanderbilts
dazzled me with a sunny smile and asked with her lifted eyebrows if she could borrow a chair from my table. Hoots rose from the corner where a bumper pool table had drawn a crowd. And above it all, loud, amplified rock music thumped its insistent, vibrating rhythm.

  I felt isolated in this crowded chaos, middle-aged in my coat and tie and sensible shoes and graying temples, the more so since the kids all around me seemed unaware of my presence.

  I nursed the iced tea. The ash tray accumulated several cigarette butts. I glanced at my watch. Ten of one. Evidently young Mr. Willard didn’t appreciate the value of an attorney’s time. I decided to give him ten more minutes, by which time the brain-searing music would drive me outdoors screaming anyway. I tilted the glass back and steered a pod of marble-sized ice cubes into my mouth. They seemed warm. I watched the kids playing around me. All of it, I decided, was sex—the music, the uninhibited movement of healthy bodies, the loud talk, the bumping and laughing. I felt as if I were aging visibly.

  I gave him until nearly one-fifteen. The hell with Harvey Willard. I nearly tipped over my chair getting out of there. The bucolic peacefulness of the campus outside, the glorious quiet of it, startled me. I headed for my car. Before I got there, though, I acknowledged that, broken appointment or not, I wanted to see Harvey, even if he’d changed his mind about seeing me.

  I found Bartley Elliott’s office. In the corner, one elbow resting atop a four-drawer file cabinet, stood Alexander Binh. He was studying a sheaf of papers. I nodded my head to him. He glanced at me, twitched his head in minimal greeting, and returned to his papers.

  A new girl sat behind the receptionist’s desk. She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Did you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No. I’ve got to see Mr. Elliott. It’s important.”

  I felt Binh’s eyes on me. When I looked in his direction, his head was bent over the papers as if he were trying to decipher some fine print.

  “What was the name?” The girl’s voice was neither hostile nor friendly. Professionally neutral.

  “Coyne. Brady Coyne. I’m an attorney.”

  She turned down the corners of her mouth and shrugged. “Big deal,” her expression said. But she went to his door, knocked reverentially, heard a muffled response from within, then disappeared into the office. A moment later she reappeared.

  “Okay. You can go in.” She seemed to take it as a personal defeat.

  Elliott’s handshake was hearty. “Good to see you, Mr. Coyne.” He gestured me to a chair. “Sit. Please. Now. How can I help you?”

  “Harvey Willard. He called me. Asked to meet me. I waited over an hour for him, and he didn’t show up. And I would like to see him. Any way we can track him down?”

  “I’ll have to check his schedule. Don’t know if he has an afternoon class or not. What’s it all about, anyway?”

  “I’d really rather not discuss it just yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk with him. You understand.”

  “Oh. Surely.” His frown said clearly that he didn’t understand. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go see if I can get him for you.”

  Then Bartley Elliott left, and I was alone in his office. Waiting again. I was not enjoying this day at all. An hour in the Student Union and now in Elliott’s office. My rear end was getting tired, and my patience had a cramp in it, too.

  I lit a Winston and glanced at the volumes that lined Elliott’s bookshelves. Lots of important stuff on constructing relevant curriculum, disciplining adolescent miscreants creatively, and refining leadership techniques. Nothing that tempted me to pull it down and riffle through its pages. Not a single book on fishing for Oregon steelheads or hitting long irons from downhill lies.

  I lit another Winston. I stared out the tall window behind Elliott’s desk at the crisp, green campus dappled by the shade of the big old beeches and maples. In the distance I could see the fields where Warren Baker’s baseball team practiced.

  The door burst open.

  “Come on! Something terrible! Come with me, Mr. Coyne.” Elliott’s eyes were wide. He gestured wildly with both of his hands.

  “What is it?”

  “The police. Harvey. Come on!”

  I followed Elliott out of the office. As I hurried past him, I glanced at Alexander Binh. He hadn’t moved from his place by the tall file cabinet. He was staring steadily at me with his narrow, expressionless eyes.

  I jogged behind the running Headmaster to a green station wagon with “The Ruggles School” stenciled on the door. He leaped behind the wheel, and I jumped in beside him. When he turned the key in the ignition, the motor sputtered, coughed, belched, and died. “Oh, goddamn shit,” muttered the Headmaster. He banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Catch, you bastard,” he ordered the automobile.

  The engine obeyed on the second try. Gravel flew as Elliott spun out the winding driveway and under the arching old trees. Students, strolling the paths, stopped to stare after us. Then we were speeding through quiet, suburban streets. Elliott slipped through one yellow light, but he was forced to skid to a halt at the next light. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel, mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit.” The way he was hunched over the wheel, goosing the accelerator to make the engine roar, made me decide it would be fruitless to ask him what had happened, and where we were going, and what it all had to do with Harvey Willard and me.

  Elliott turned onto a divided highway and demonstrated that the green school wagon could do ninety with only a minor shimmy in the front end. Up ahead I noticed the flashing of red and blue lights. Elliott slowed down as we approached a cop in the middle of the road waving the traffic into the far left lane. Elliott stopped by the cop and leaned over me to speak to him.

  “I’m Elliott. From the school.”

  The policeman glanced at the car. “Sure. Okay. This way.” He gestured to the side of the road by a large sign announcing “Rest Area,” where I counted three cruisers, all with lights flashing and doors hanging open, four ordinary sedans, and an ambulance.

  Elliott pulled up behind the ambulance and we climbed out of the car. We were on a paved parking area. Beyond that lay a grove of big pines, underneath which were scattered picnic tables and green trash barrels. At the far end of the parking area, close to the highway, stood a tight knot of men. We trotted toward them. A narrow river passed through a culvert under the highway there. Elliott shoved his way through the crowd, saying, “Excuse me. Please excuse me. I’m from the school. Where is he? Damn it, let me through, will you?”

  I stayed close behind him as he wedged himself between two uniformed policemen.

  “Oh, Jesus!” The Headmaster’s voice was a prayer.

  The body of Harvey Willard lay on its back, legs in the slowly moving water, arms outstretched, head thrown back. His mouth gaped. His eyes stared up at the sky, which he couldn’t see. On his cheek I saw an ugly, reddish-purple bruise, the color and size of a ripe plum.

  Beside him knelt a white-haired man with a black bag by his side. He was holding a stethoscope to the boy’s chest. Elliott and I stood with the quiet circle of policemen, watching.

  “… dead, all right,” the old man was saying. He picked up Harvey’s arm, which moved stiffly, and he grasped the fingers one at a time and wiggled them. Then he gripped Harvey’s chin and pushed and pulled gently at it. He was talking to himself.

  “At least twelve hours,” I heard him mutter. He stood up painfully. His thinning white hair contrasted strangely with the brick red of his face. He moved slowly to where we stood and spoke to a barrel-chested man with the shadow of a heavy beard.

  “Sometime last night, I should say,” he declared wearily. “When your boys have finished taking their pictures you can move the body. Take it to the hospital. I’ll have to order an autopsy.”

  The policeman nodded. “How do you figure it?” he asked the old doctor.

  “Drugs, maybe?” He shrugged wearily. “Some small bruises on his throat. Big abrasion on his face. No broken bon
es that I can detect. Hard to examine him here. Could even be hit-and-run. He may be all mush inside. I’ve seen ’em like that. We’ll know soon enough.”

  The doctor shook his head. His shoulders sagged. He pushed past us and climbed the slope. He looked as if he were mounting the stairs to go to bed after a long day. Elliott turned to the policeman who had been talking with the doctor.

  “I’m Bartley Elliott,” he said. “Headmaster at The Ruggles School. This boy was a student of ours. I appreciate being called.”

  The cop stared blankly at Elliott. “Oh, sure. Figured you were next of kin, so to speak. The kid had a wallet with the school as his address. You mind going to the hospital to make an official identification?”

  “Ah, okay. That’s fine. This—” he turned and gestured at me “—is Brady Coyne. Mr. Coyne is an attorney. Friend of Harvey’s.”

  The big cop studied me. “That so? You got any idea what this kid was doing out here in the middle of the night, Mr. Coyne?”

  “No,” I said. “Harvey called me yesterday afternoon, wanted to talk with me today. So I came to the school to meet him.” I glanced at the body, which two white-coated men were moving onto a stretcher. “He didn’t show up.”

  “Suppose he didn’t,” said the policeman. “What’d he want to talk to you about?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Well, suppose we try to figure it out,” suggested the policeman. “Why don’t we come on over to my car and we can sit down, nice and comfortable.”

  I followed him up the slope. “You go ahead and follow the ambulance, Mr. Elliott,” he said. “You can make the I.D. at the hospital.”

  Elliott nodded to me and shuffled away.

  The policeman introduced himself to me as Captain Kevin Shanley. He was, for the time being, the officer in charge. He led me to his police cruiser, which was angled off the highway. The lights on its roof were still flashing blue and red, both front doors hung open, and the radio was crackling. We slid into the front seat. Shanley shut off the radio. He found the stub of a half-smoked cigar in the ash tray, lit it, and looked at me.