‘Big bro, why not wait for the draft? Why join up?’ When he had said that he was just doing his duty, that he looked forward to serving under a president like JFK, she shook her head and said, ‘Duty to a military-industrial complex, that’s all.’ Later, when he was stationed overseas and she won a scholarship to the University of Nebraska in Omaha, she had sent him just a few letters. The last one had come in the summer of ‘62, after she had been at some sort of student conference in Michigan. The group was called Students for a Democratic Society, and they were going to change the world. Sarah had enclosed a manifesto about the group’s plans, and Carl had read the papers and tossed them. It was a mishmash of pie-in-the-sky dreaming, but one phrase had stuck in his mind: ‘We would replace power rooted in possession, privilege, or circumstances by power rooted in love, reflectiveness, reason, and creativity.’
Well, a few months after Sarah’s letter, the whole world saw that real power came from the splitting of atoms. Carl never heard from his sister again. That had caused many a late night, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how he—in the military—had survived the war and how his parents and his sister—a college student!—hadn’t.
He made himself a cup of instant coffee and tried to put Sarah and the damn letter out of his mind, the whole damn day out of his mind. His left leg was aching, which it usually did after a long day. It was well past midnight and nothing would be on television. He sat down in one of the two couches and put his feet up on the cluttered coffee table. From where he sat he could make out the open door that led to his office, which was almost a twin to his desk at the Globe in terms of its collection of papers and files. It was where he half worked on the book that all newspaper reporters say they’re writing. The other open door led to his bedroom and nearby bathroom. Large windows in the living room over-looked the sidewalk and streets and narrow park in this part of Comm Ave.
The walls were bare, except for a framed print of some skiers on a mountain in France that was left over from the previous tenant. In a cardboard box in a back closet were a small collection of framed photos, pictures of himself and his family, taken back when he lived in Newburyport. He had packed them with his Army gear. One of these days, he’d put those pictures up. But not tonight. And not tomorrow.
He thought about his gear. Uniforms and fatigues and an idealism he once had, back when the President issued a challenge for his generation and he had answered with enthusiasm. Now, all that was packed up as well, with the memories of a dead family.
At his elbow was his shortwave radio, and he switched it on, hoping to catch a BBC news broadcast, but all he got was static. Jamming again, and although the British complained often to Philadelphia, there was no proof that it was official jamming. Maybe it was the Zed Force. They were blamed for a lot of things. He moved the dial around until he got another frequency, then sat back, letting the coffee warm him up and trying to forget what had happened back at the Old Sod. As he listened to the proper-sounding announcer describe the latest crisis in Uganda, that nut Idi Amin exiling thousands of Asian residents, he felt sleepy and knew that if he didn’t move quickly, he’d end up spending the night on the couch.
He sat up and switched off the radio, finished the coffee and looked down at the next day’s Globe. Well, actually, it was now today’s Globe, and he started flipping the pages, yawning and scanning the stories and the headlines. McGovern makes a speech. Rockefeller makes a speech. Polls still show a Republican trouncing in a few weeks. Robbery in Dorchester. Secretary of Relief and Recovery makes a speech. Franco-German spy ring allegedly broken up in Seattle. Progress made in releasing interned B-52 crews from Mongolia.
After a few minutes, he wasn’t yawning anymore.
His story on the East Boston murder wasn’t there.
~ * ~
THREE
The next day Carl was at his desk for ten minutes before going up to metro to talk to George Dooley. It was ten in the morning and his head ached from the late-night coffee following the beer, and too much thinking. George was looking through the Globe’s competition—the Herald—and muttering to himself as he saw what the tabloid was covering. There had been a bad traffic accident on the Southeast Expressway and the photo showed a bleeding woman trapped behind a steering wheel, being scissored out by Boston firefighters.
George looked up and said, ‘There you go, young fella. If it bleeds, it leads.’
Carl pulled up a spare chair and sat before the desk. ‘If it’s written, does it appear?’
‘Hunh?’ George put the Herald down on his desk.
‘My story about the East Boston murder. Sawson, the vet. Why did it get spiked?’
‘Lack of room, Carl, lack of room.’
‘You said there was room in the metro section when I got in. You’re telling me the news hole got filled by something else in ten minutes?’
Dooley looked straight at him. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘And what replaced it?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember?’
‘All right, I won’t remember,’ Dooley said. ‘You see, I got some real work to do. For tomorrow’s paper. I don’t got time to worry about one that’s already done.’
Carl thought about last night at the Old Sod. Quota baby. ‘The story was okay, though, right?’
George picked up a pencil, started scribbling. ‘Sure. It was great. Here. Go down to the Parker House. There’s an announcement at one today about some new anti-orfie gang measures being proposed by the mayor. Get the story and get it on my desk by three.’
He glanced down at the piece of paper. ‘I was thinking about doing a second-day on the homicide, since the story didn’t make it in today’s paper.’
George didn’t look up. ‘Forget it. If there’s time, I’ll make it a news brief for tomorrow. I want the anti-gang story. Got it?’
He rose up from the chair. ‘Got it.’
Back at his desk he looked across the room at George. As bosses went, he was all right, though he had the healthy ration of gruffness that all newspaper editors seem to share. From the first day, George had acted like Carl was just another reporter, which Carl was grateful for. George talked only about newspapers and his niece, Tracy, who lived in Rhode Island. A couple of years ago Tracy had developed childhood cancer and she had been lucky enough to be taken overseas for treatment, and she had done well. The first and only time Carl had seen George get weepy was the day a letter arrived from London, a note from his niece saying that she was feeling better. So Carl knew that more than just printer’s ink ran through that man’s veins, but something was going on this morning with George and the old vet story.
But he didn’t want to push it with George, not yet. He had other things to do. He opened up the top desk drawer and took out the folded piece of notepaper. Five names in a column:
Q. Dooley
T. Isaacson
C. Porter
N. DiNitale
F. X. Tilley
The handwriting looked shaky, and the name at the top—Q. Dooley—was more faded than the last name, F. X. Tilley. When Merl had first given him the list, an afternoon of research hadn’t turned up anything. Carl held the paper up to the light. Faint indentations were present next to each name. He laid the notepaper down on his desk and gently rubbed a pencil tip across the markings. Numbers appeared, next to each name:
Q. Dooley 65
T. Isaacson 65
C. Porter 68
N. DiNitale 71
F. X. Tilley 72
So. It looked like Merl had turned to another notebook page before copying the names, and the numbers written on the previous page had made the indentations. Numbers. Ages? Maybe, but the way the names were ordered ... years. That’s what. Something happened with Q. Dooley in 1965, and something happened to F. X. Tilley in 1972.
‘All right, Sherlock,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What next?’
Something cool and uncomfortable seemed to set
tle into the back of his throat. He knew what he should do, what would make sense in these times when the unemployment rate was still considered a military secret, and he had as good a job as could be got these days. What made sense was to throw away the list and go to the Parker House at 1 P.M., as ordered by his editor, and then do the next day’s story and the story after that. Never lift your head. Never think tor yourself. Just do your job. That’s all he had been doing these past four years, ever since leaving the Army. It was hard to remember that there was once a time when that would have never happened.
Carl looked down at the trembling writing from a fellow vet. What to do? Be a good little boy and follow orders, or do something for the poor old man with the taped-up shoes who once wore the uniform of this country? It was almost eleven. He saw Jeremiah King—self-proclaimed beer-trivia god—ooze in from the other side of the newsroom. Jeremiah looked over at Carl, smirked, and gave him a sloppy salute. That decided it for him. He typed the names and the dates on a piece of paper and left the newsroom. Time to get to work.
~ * ~
In a dark and dusty part of the Globe building, he sought out Grace. Behind the counter of the claustrophobic, overstuffed office were rows of shelves and filing cabinets, and to the left was a desk, piled high with phone books, almanacs, calendars, and file folders. A large woman stood up from behind the desk and came to the counter, moving quietly, a pencil in her hand. She wore black slacks and a dark red pullover sweater, and her gray-blue hair was done up in curls. Eyeglasses hung from a thin chain around her neck. On the counter was a nameplate that said ‘GRACE HANRATTY, Librarian.’ She cocked her head and said, ‘What do you need?’
‘Something chased down,’ Carl said, sliding the typewritten sheet of paper across. ‘Names and dates. I need to know what happened to these guys during these years.’
She picked up the piece of paper and frowned, as if it were a report card from her son, covered with D’s and F’s. ‘What’s this, you don’t even have first names?’
‘Nope.’
‘Or residence? Or place of business?’
‘Grace, I know it’s a lot of work—’
‘Jeez,’ she said, heading back to her desk. ‘Let me tell you, they ought to give me part of your salary, the work I do to make your lives easier.’ She sat down at her desk, made a dismissive motion with her hand. ‘I’ll let you know in a few days, if I find anything. But don’t hold your breath.’
~ * ~
He caught up with Detective Paul Malone in the Lane Street Division’s parking lot. The detective didn’t look happy to see him, but Carl matched him, stride for stride, as he walked around the rear of the brick police station to get to his car. It was cold and the wind was blowing dead leaves around the worn tires of the police cruisers. The lot was fenced in and the windows of the station were covered with chicken wire, the better to deflect tossed rocks or Molotov cocktails.
‘Sawson?’ the detective said. ‘The old vet? Nothing new there.’
‘Any usable prints from the apartment?’
Malone grinned. ‘No comment.’
‘Well, how about motive. Burglary, right?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s you talkin’, not me.’
‘Come on, Paul, you saw what the place looked like. Somebody had tossed it.’
They reached a dented dark blue Chrysler with one fender almost rusted through. Malone put his cardboard cup of coffee on the car’s roof and fumbled in his coat pocket for the keys. ‘Again, that’s you talkin’, not me. Maybe the old guy was just a slob. It happens.’
‘Was the apartment broken into?’
‘No comment.’
Malone sighed as he unlocked the door and got in. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Hey, Carl, hand me my coffee, will ya?’
Carl picked up the cup and held it close to his chest. ‘Come on. Coffee for one answer. Was the place broken into?’
‘Oh, you’re being such a shit today.’
‘Doing my job.’
‘All right, no signs of forced entry. Okay? So hand it over.’
Carl gave him the coffee, not feeling particularly triumphant. ‘So. What do you think? What’s your theory?’
The detective turned the key a few times as the engine ground with no success. ‘Goddam piece of shit. My theory? I’ll tell you my theory. He’s an old guy, living alone, no wife or girlfriend that we know of. What does that tell you?’
‘Tells me he’s an old guy, living alone, no wife or girlfriend.’
Another turn of the key, another grinding of the engine. ‘Blessed mother, I can’t be late for this flippin’ court appearance ... Carl, you’ll never be a cop. Your mind’s not devious enough. What I see there is the stuff I see all the time. Old guy living alone, likes to spend time with young boys. Sometimes it takes some money, and sometimes the young boys, they want a little more. The old man gets mad, the young boy-o gets mad, and bang-bang, that’s all she wrote. Probably one of those college boys across the river starvin’ for some extra green. Probably had an arrangement with our Merl Sawson and then it went sour. You’ll see. A couple of days, we’ll have it all tied up with some Hah-vad boy. Ah, Jesus, there you go!’
The engine finally caught with a burping roar and then gurgled down as exhaust rolled out the tailpipe. ‘There,’ Malone said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me ..
‘One more thing.’ Carl had his hand on the car door. ‘How much work you folks putting into this?’
The engine died. Malone pounded at the steering wheel with his fist and said, ‘Look, you know the drill. We’re having another bang-up year for murders in this fair city, and look at the crap I get to drive. We can only work the cases where someone’s connected, or someone’s raising a stink. Ain’t no one raising a stink for this old guy, and he ain’t connected. Money, Carl, money is what keeps us going.’
There was a rumbling noise from the other side of the parking lot, as three olive-drab deuce-and-a-half Army trucks drove in. The trucks looked new and recently washed. They parked and the rear canvas flaps were undone and soldiers jumped out, laughing and talking. They formed a line and moved toward the police station, heading into the basement entrance. All of them carried M-14s slung over their shoulders as well as small knapsacks, and a sergeant good-naturedly moved them along.
The detective spoke again as he restarted the engine. ‘You see where the money goes, Carl. It’s not this police division. Take it up with General Curtis, next time you see him.’
‘Is there a raid on for tonight?’
‘Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. Now, please leave me alone, all right?’
Malone slammed the door and backed the unmarked cruiser out of the lot. Carl stuck his fists in his jacket, and stared at the empty trucks, wondering how many deserters or draft dodgers would be crowded in there tonight. Not his problem, not his story, but the sight of those trucks made him feel slightly nauseated.
~ * ~
Andrew Townes either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering the door, and there was a Boston Police Department evidence seal on the door to Merl Sawson’s place. It was time to try the third-floor apartment, and after a couple of knocks the door opened just a crack. Carl made out a scraggly bearded face, brown eyes, a door chain, and an attitude.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr. Clemmons?’
‘Who’s looking for him?’
He slipped his business card through the barely open door. ‘Carl Landry, Boston Globe. I’m doing a story about the murder of your neighbor downstairs, Merl Sawson.’
‘Some neighbor.’ The card came back and the door opened wider. The man looked to be in his early twenties, with patched jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. ‘How do I know you’re from the Globe? Could be a cop or Army. Hell, you’re wearing an Army coat.’
‘You can call the Globe, verify who I am,’ Carl said, hoping he wouldn’t. ‘I’m wearing the coat because it keeps me warm. That’s all.’
The door slammed shut, and then with a rattling noise the do
or opened and the man motioned him in. ‘I’m Troy Clemmons, and I’ll give you a couple of minutes. That’s all.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, it’s more for kicks than anything else. Never talked to a real reporter before.’
The apartment was warm. It was a twin to its neighbor below, with the same kitchen, a small living room that connected to a porch that overlooked Winthrop Street, and a bedroom off to the side. But while Merl Sawson’s place was the cluttered home of a retired man, this place was...well, it was a mess. Dishes were piled high in the sink and along the counter. Pillows and blankets were strewn across the living room floor, along with old newspapers and textbooks. Tapestries and posters covered the walls. One was for a Grateful Dead concert this past summer at the Boston Garden, showing stylized pictures of the band members as skeletons. Next to it was a popular antidraft poster that had come out last year: it showed a flight of B-52s over Soviet Russia. Below the B-52s was a blasted landscape of red and black, showing cities burning, children crying, and parents covering their heads in fear. One of the B-52s had a caricature of a pilot that looked like General Ramsey Curtis, cigar in mouth, smiling and saying, ‘Sorry ‘bout that!’
Resurrection Day Page 4