by Lee Harris
“Why would you remember that in particular?” I asked.
“Because he dropped out of school. I never saw him again after that semester. He was the guy who lived in Phoenix. I would surely remember if he flew to Arizona with Heinz. Heinz died on that trip. I never saw him again, either.”
There wasn't much logic in what he was telling me, but he sounded as though he were explaining the facts to his satisfaction.
“Would it surprise you to know that I talked to Steve Millman this week and he said he was in that taxi?”
“Well, he should know,” Andrew Franklin said without a pause. “How is he? I haven't seen him for twenty years.”
“He sounds fine,” I said.
“Then who knows? Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me. Was there anything else?”
“Not at the moment. Thank you for your time.”
He hadn't sounded flustered or annoyed, and he hadn't asked how I had located Steve Millman. Just a faulty memory and a bit of haste to get off the phone. Certainly there was no indication that Franklin was deliberately lying.
Besides Franklin, no one on the corridor had had such specific information. Either he was wrong or Steve Millman was lying. It was much easier to believe that Franklin's information was incorrect. Steve had done himself no favor by admitting that he had traveled with Heinz and that Heinz had stayed at the Millman home. I believed him. He had nothing to gain by admitting this if it weren't true. In fact, it made him look worse. I couldn't figure out why he would say what I had heard him say.
In the years since I was released from my vows at St. Stephen's, I have done more than become a secular person. I have developed a necessarily skeptical outlook. People lie. People adjust the truth to make themselves or their situation appear more positive. People hurt each other both spiritually and physically. It is impossible to believe everything you are told. As I sat reflecting on this strange case with its even stranger cast of characters, I began to wonder if I had spoken to Steve Millman at all. Maybe Marty McHugh, for his own reasons, had enlisted a friend to play the part of Steve Millman. For all I knew, it might be someone who worked in the same company, who might even share an office with him. I picked up the phone and dialed Marty's number. He answered quickly.
“Marty,” I said, “what assurance can you give me that the person I spoke to on Monday was actually Steve Millman?”
“I know it was Steve. I tracked him down and when I called him, I recognized his voice.”
“I don't want to sound as though I doubt you, but—”
“But you doubt me.”
“I would like to talk to him again—without you on the line—so that I can determine for myself that he is who he says he is.”
“I don't see—”
“There are ways,” I said. “He can call with one of those telephone cards that disguises where the call is coming from.”
“Right. My wife keeps one in her purse when she doesn't carry her cell. Look, I'll call him and see what he says. What's your problem with having me on the line?”
“Maybe he'll be more forthcoming if it's a private conversation.”
“Yeah, right. OK, I'll get back to you.”
My concern was that if Steve said something Marty didn't want me to know, Marty could sever the connection. Or if the person playing the part of Steve was in Marty's office and I asked a question, Marty could scribble the answer and shove it over to him. Goodness, I thought, I had certainly become a doubter.
Just before twelve I called Mrs. Millman. She answered on the second ring, and I told her that I wanted to ask her some questions about the summer Steve came home from Rimson with a friend.
“What friend?” she said.
“He had a German-sounding name, Heinz Gruner.”
“I don't remember that.” “It was the last semester that Steve was at Rimson. I heard he flew to Phoenix with Heinz and Heinz stayed overnight.”
“With us?”
“Yes, at your house.”
“I'm not sure. I have two other children and sometimes the house was full of guests. I couldn't say if this boy came home with Steve and if it was when you said.”
“He and Steve were going to go hiking at Picacho Peak.”
“That's down near Tucson,” Mrs. Millman said.
“Yes. They were going to climb up one of the trails.”
“It's such a long time ago. I can't really say.”
“Did you talk to Professor Fallon last week?”
“Professor who?”
“Fallon. Herb Fallon. He was an old friend of Steve's from Rimson College.”
She didn't answer.
“I think he called you in the middle of last week,” I said.
“I don't remember that at all.”
I started wondering if her memory was failing. I could understand not recalling an overnight guest twenty years ago, but a phone call last week from her son's old college friend should have made an impression. “He was trying to reach Steve. He asked you for Steve's phone number.”
“I don't give that out. Steve doesn't like to get phone calls.”
“Well, thank you for your help,” I said, giving up.
“It's no trouble,” the voice replied.
That threw me for a loop. Had she forgotten or had Herb lied to me? He knew I had her phone number and might call her, so if he concocted the story of the phone call, he might easily be found out. But at this point in my investigation, I no longer had a sense of who was telling me the truth and who wasn't.
I picked up the phone again and called St. Stephen's. An unfamiliar voice answered and I asked for Sister Joseph. When Joseph came on, I told her I was not only not getting to the heart of the case, but on the verge of becoming paranoid as well.
Her laugh told me how preposterous she thought my statement was. “It sounds as though you're ready for a visit.”
“I am indeed. If you're available tomorrow, I can manage it.”
“Come in time for lunch.”
I was running late for my lunch with Maddie, so I dashed. She had suggested a diner that I vaguely remembered from my youth, a place that cooked large, tasty dishes. It was frequented by hometown adults for lunch and dinner and by high school kids in the evening, especially after the local movie finished.
Maddie was already in a comfortable booth and she grinned and waved as I came in, then slid off the bench to hug me. I apologized for being a few minutes late and grabbed the menu, which was so large, I felt daunted.
“They have good luncheon specials,” Maddie said, directing me to a section that had several choices that suited me. As I glanced down the list, we exchanged family gossip. I waited till our orders had been taken before broaching the subject that had brought us together.
“I've been thinking about Heinz since you called,” she said. “I never saw him again after we graduated. He went off to some college in the Midwest and I went to Ithaca College for two years. So I didn't see him the last couple of years of his life.”
“Think back, Maddie. Think back to your last two years in high school. Did anything happen to him? Was there any gossip about him?”
“Gossip? About Heinz Gruner? There was nothing to gossip about. I don't think he dated, at least not anyone I knew. He studied, he played an instrument, but I don't remember which one. He was always in the honors classes. I'm not being helpful, am I?”
“Let's keep going. Did you remember to bring the yearbook?”
“Right here.” She handed it across the table. I opened it and flicked to the page where Heinz's graduation picture appeared. He was smiling and his dark hair was unkempt. I smiled too and read the few lines below the photo. It mentioned his achievements briefly, his interests, and at the bottom said he was going to attend Harvard University.
“That's interesting,” I said aloud. “Heinz was expecting to go to Harvard when the yearbook was printed.”
“But he didn't. He went to Rimson College in Illinois.”
“May
be his grades weren't good enough for Harvard.”
“Possibly.”
I flipped some pages and found the history club. There was Heinz in the first row. Near him were several boys and girls I remembered from my two years in the school. He wasn't in the science club or the math club but he was in the chess club and the English club. Obviously his talents were centered in the arts.
“Did anyone in our class go to Harvard that year?” I asked.
“I don't think so. Paul Garner went to Princeton and Eric Wallace went to Yale. There may have been others.”
Heinz's name and photo did not appear in any sports groups, but he'd apparently acted in several school plays. Why had he written Harvard down if he didn't go there? And was Alfred Koch involved in his choice?
“Maybe Harvard was his first choice,” I said, “and Rimson was his safe school.”
“Rimson wasn't exactly the kind of school that kids thought was safe. It was a tough school to get into.”
“But maybe not as tough as Harvard.”
“Why does it matter?” Maddie asked.
“I don't know that it does. I'm just trying to clear up questions that have come up. Nothing fits, Maddie. Something very strange went on in the last days of Heinz's life. People I've spoken to have lied to me and—”
“Why would they do that, and how do you know they did?”
“I know because I get different answers to the same question. And they have to be doing it to protect someone, but I'm not sure who or why they would do that. It's very confusing.”
“I can see that. It's as if you have no anchor to hang on to.”
“That's just what it feels like.” I finished turning the pages of the yearbook and handed it back to her. “Do you know who his friends were in high school?”
“One guy.” She opened the yearbook and turned to the photos. She looked intently at the pictures. “Here he is, Don Shiller.”
“I remember him,” I said. “Not too tall, good in math.”
“That's the one. He and Heinz always ate together in the cafeteria.”
I looked back through the years, recalling the cafeteria with its long tables and horrible food, and saw the two boys sitting opposite each other, eating and talking. I had taken algebra with Don, and he had seemed to catch on to everything while I was slow to grasp what it was all about.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“I don't think I ever saw him again,” Maddie said. “But his folks still live in town. They're in the phone book.”
“Good. That's someone out of the Rimson circle. At least he won't be influenced by the students on Heinz's corridor.”
“You are something, Chris,” Maddie said. “You really think you'll figure out what happened all those years ago?”
“I'm a lot closer than I was when I started. I just need to hit the right person or get some new piece of information that will make sense of all the little pieces I've assembled.”
“Well, good luck.”
That was what I needed, I thought.
At home I found the Shiller listing and called it. Don's mother answered. She didn't remember me—I hadn't thought she would—but she gave me her son's home phone number. He was teaching mathematics at a college in Pennsylvania and was generally home in the evening. I hung up feeling almost relieved that I could spend the rest of the afternoon away from the Heinz Gruner case.
I reached him after dinner. He actually remembered me from my two years in his high school. We reminisced for a few minutes and then I turned the discussion to Heinz.
“Heinz,” he said, and his voice changed. “He was my best friend. I was destroyed when he died.”
I explained my interest in Heinz's death, and he said he would do anything he could to help. I asked if he knew that Heinz intended to go to Arizona to hike in the mountains.
“He wrote to me in the spring of that year. He said his parents were giving him a trip to Arizona as a birthday present. He asked if I could come, but I couldn't. I don't think there was any special reason, just that money was tight in my family and I had a job waiting for me when the school year was over. I wish I had gone. He'd be alive today.”
“Why do you say that?”
“From what I heard, he fell from one of the trails. I'm sure I could have prevented that. We knew each other well. We got along. If he wasn't feeling well or the heat got to him, he would have told me. His death was the greatest tragedy of my life.”
“Don, I don't think Heinz died in an accidental fall.”
“What are you saying?”
I explained. He listened carefully, then said. “That's incredible. I've always thought he just got sunstroke and collapsed. You're telling me someone murdered him?”
“That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying someone was with him. Whatever happened on that trail, the other person didn't report Heinz's fall. That person also took Heinz's two suitcases, probably rifled through them, and sent one back to his parents.”
“No return address.”
“Right. So what I want to know from you is, did he tell you who was going to Arizona with him?”
“Can I call you back tomorrow night on that? I actually saved some of his letters and I can put my hands on them. And I'd like to give all of this some thought.”
I gave him my number. “I'll be here tomorrow night.”
The next morning I drove north at a leisurely pace in order to enjoy the scenery, especially my glimpses of the Hudson River. It was a fine day. Elsie had agreed to pick Eddie up from school, so my time wasn't limited. I arrived about eleven thirty and stopped first at the Villa to see the retired nuns. A couple of them had begun to show their age, not only in their looks but also in an unaccustomed lack of energy, in aches and pains that forced them to move more slowly, to pause in their meanderings.
When we had all exchanged our bits of news, I walked over to the Mother House and went up the stone steps to where Joseph's office was. I knocked, heard her voice, and stepped inside.
“Chris, how good to see you.” She stood from her desk chair and came to hug me. “You look wonderful. Have you persuaded Jack to give up the East Coast and a buy a house in Arizona?”
I laughed. “Jack is one of those people who hardly believes there's life west of the Hudson. But I think he may agree to a visit some winter. I don't know how many generations of his family have lived in New York. That means a lot to him. Is anything happening with the convent?” She would know that I was asking about its future.
“Nothing has changed. We're still talking and thinking and weighing options. Let's go down to lunch. We'll do our talking when we come up.”
Whenever I return for a visit, I shake a lot of hands and answer a lot of questions. Often Joseph and I eat off trays in her office. I was happy this time to have the chance to see all the faces at all the tables. But it was hard not to notice that the number of tables had decreased. A few of the middle-aged nuns had left; a few of the older ones had died. That was the problem, and I had come to accept that the situation would never be reversed.
We had a tasty and pleasurable lunch. As always, a bag of homemade cookies was presented to me to take home to my family. I would have two happy faces at the dinner table that night.
When the lunch and the small talkwere over, Joseph and I went back upstairs and sat in our usual places opposite each other at the long table. I had all the paperwork I had collected from the case, and I placed it on the table where we could refer to it. The early parts of the mystery were known to Joseph, of course, as she had been right there with me in Arizona.
“Why don't you start with what happened after we returned from our glorious trip?” she said.
That was easy enough. I began with my conversation with Dean Hershey, who had overnighted the list of students’ names, and continued with my calls, especially the one to Prof. Herb Fallon. She agreed as I talked that it was difficult to imagine that these men could remember who had left first at the end of the semester,
who had gone where, who had traveled alone, and who had gone solo. I observed her listing the names and making notes next to them.
I included my visits to Mrs. Gruner, her helpfulness until the moment I found the letter from Alfred Koch, and her subsequent death and burial.
“Have you had an opportunity to talk to Mr. Koch?” Joseph asked.
“I saw him Wednesday,” I said, recounting the unsatisfying meeting in his office at Columbia.
“Why do you think he's hiding anything relevant?”
“I suppose because I think many people are hiding relevant information. Heinz is dead. His parents are dead. I'm clearly not going to broadcast whatever his secret is to the world. Who would care?”
“It may not be clear to him. And perhaps it's what Mr. Koch did, not what Heinz Gruner did, that he wants to keep secret.”
I considered that. Possibilities flew through my mind. He had had Heinz's SATs altered. He had bribed someone to eliminate a police report. He had coerced a teacher to write a better recommendation to Rimson. I'm starting to think like a cop, I thought.
“I hadn't thought of that” was all I said.
She told me to go on and I finished the story, including my phone call to Don Shiller and what might be the most important event of all, the discovery of Steve Millman and my conversation with him.
“Why couldn't he call you himself?” Joseph asked.
“The excuse was that it's easy to get the number of a caller, but it's not a good excuse.”
“And Mr. McHugh monitors everything both of you say.”
“Yes.” I then told her that I had requested a call without Marty on the line.
“I doubt whether he'll do it,” Joseph said. “Under the guise of keeping Mr. Millman's location secret, Mr. McHugh was able to hear the entire conversation.”
“Why would he want to do that?” I asked, knowing that I, too, had considered this possibility. “If Steve killed Heinz, whether by design or by accident, what difference would that make to Marty McHugh?”
“Maybe Mr. McHugh was a third man on the mountain and doesn't want to be implicated in Heinz Gruner's death.”