Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  Then I went to the kitchen computer and started writing up my detailed memory of the phone call...

  28

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Doug went off as he read my recap of the phone call. “What in hell...”

  “I have a call into Hennessey,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster in the face of his anger and disbelief. “I also have a half-assed tape recording of some of the call.”

  Doug put the memo down on his desk, “Really? Here? Can I listen?”

  I put the little recorder on his desk and pushed Play. He listened without moving until it stopped. “It’s not Memorex quality, is it?”

  I chuckled. “That tape was new before Sara was born, I think.”

  “What do you use it for, the recorder?”

  “Oh, I have taped interviews, but I hate that approach. Mostly I use it when I’m driving or otherwise occupied and have a thought about a column or editorial or how to handle a personnel issue – that kind of thing I don’t want to forget so I make a tape note.”

  He nodded, “That’s not a bad practice.”

  Harriet knocked on the door, “Mr. Stanton, Detective Hennessey is here to see you.”

  “Send him in, please,” Doug said.

  Hennessey came in with a smile, “What’s up, Jim? You called, and I was out; Dispatch radioed me as I was driving by, so I decided to stop. They didn’t tell me why you’d called.”

  “I didn’t tell them,” I said, picking the memo up off Doug’s desk. “Why don’t you sit down and read this first.”

  When he finished the memo, he flipped it over to see if there was more, then flipped it back and started rereading it. “You took your women out of town?”

  “I did. And I hadn’t been home for fifteen minutes when I got that call. I also taped a portion of it.” I picked up the recorder, hit Rewind, and then punched Play as I set it down again.

  Hennessey was quiet for a minute. “That’s chilling, isn’t it?”

  Doug couldn’t restrain himself, “Chilling? I’ll tell you what’s chilling, Detective, is that this bastard is keeping tabs on Jim and his family, is making threats against his little girl, and the lead detective on the case has no idea other than it’s chilling!”

  “I understand your concern, Doug. But this kind of communication is the only real lead we have in this case. It makes me confident that the perp knew Suzanne. It makes me confident that the perp isn’t some vagabond serial maniac. It makes me confident we’ll catch this guy if he keeps taking this kind of chance.

  “But no, I don’t have any other idea than to maintain surveillance on Jim here, the letter drop outside, and on Jim’s family.” He turned to me, “Where did you take them?”

  “To her parents.”

  “Maryland Eastern Shore, right?”

  I nodded, remembering that I had given him all the details the last time I’d taken Sandy to her parents’ home for safety. He continued, “I’ll contact the police down there, and give them a heads up. They’ll increase patrols near the farm. If I remember right, her dad’s a kind of hunting guide or outfitter, right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Does he carry a weapon?”

  “Right next to his Visa card.”

  Doug looked up at me with a question, “Visa?”

  “Wouldn’t leave home without it,” Hennessey said in appreciation. “My kinda guy; does he know all this stuff?” He asked motioning to the latest letter.

  “Of course,” I answered. “I couldn’t very well drop off his daughter and granddaughter for safekeeping without letting him know why.”

  “You think he’s up to it?”

  “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea, but I know he’s willing and equipped.”

  “’Bout all we can ask for in this kinda deal,” he replied. “I’ll take that tape, if it’s okay with you. I’ll send it to the state police crime lab and see if they can clean it up, maybe hear background noise, stuff like that.”

  “Of course,” I said, ejecting the tape cassette. “Time I get a new one, anyway.”

  He nodded and departed with my memo. At the door he stopped and held up the note, “You got the original of this?”

  “It’s on my computer at home.”

  “Put that on a disc for me later, will you?”

  I said I would; Doug got up and closed his door. “I don’t think I have much confidence in him.”

  “I do,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “He’s not from here, either.”

  “You know him socially?”

  “Not really. He’s on the DU Committee. I’ve had several talks with him. He’s originally from Ohio, near Columbus. Was a military policeman and then was discharged in California where his wife was from.”

  “He’s married? I didn’t know that.”

  “Divorced. He’s pretty up front about that. Married young and found out that when the novelty of the sex wore off, there wasn’t anything else he was interested in, so he asked for an out and she gave it to him.

  “He loved being a cop, just didn’t like the Navy. So after he got out, he attended a small school for his police officer’s license, and went to work as a Sheriff’s deputy in remote desert California.”

  “Remote Desert? Never heard of the place.”

  “I can’t remember the real name, but he told me it was almost Nevada. He went on for advanced study at Cal State, and then got his BA in criminal justice from there. He made detective there the same year he got his divorce. When a job with the Cincinnati force opened up he moved on. He was working as a D-three detective when he heard about this job and applied.”

  “D-three?”

  “Third grade, almost as high as you can go before you become management of some type.”

  “This all gives you confidence in the guy?”

  I nodded. “I get confidence from the way he handles himself, but also because he’s been successful in three stops – the navy, a sheriff’s office and in Cincinnati. I see it as positive that he’s been able to perform in new situations, different environments.”

  Doug nodded, “A bit like you?”

  I thought about that. “Maybe. It’s gratifying to learn that your success isn’t connected to your longevity, but you start to wonder if you have the wherewithal to last. That takes adapting to the changes inevitable in any long-term situation.”

  “Can’t find that out by moving every three years or so, can you?”

  “Nope, you can’t; but I believe that when I stop growing it’s time to be going.”

  29

  I parked the car at the turnout below the bridge at the south end of the lake, and walked the now-familiar trail to the edge of the river the folks called the “inlet” and looked out over the vast expanse of marsh.

  The sun was in the final stages of setting, but it was still warm on the skin. There were no birds flying as yet, and I sat on a fallen log often used for that purpose and watched the sky, fingered the duck call hanging on its lanyard around my neck, and waited.

  I was thinking about the story, wondering why anyone who knew Suzanne would take her and most likely kill her. I had heard of missing children showing up years later after being kidnapped, but I couldn’t remember any of them being bright, talented, and happy eighteen-year-old girls.

  I watched as a small squadron of ducks zoomed over my head, wings locked, and in a sweeping arc that indicated to me that they were looking for a place to land. I raised the call and, thinking “hello there” I made the “high ball” greeting call... a three-note, high-octane blast. The ducks continued their swinging arc out over the marsh, and as I called again, I saw them tilt in my direction, again without flapping a wing; they were coming to take a look.

  I leaned over to put my face behind a bit of foliage as I watched them pass over my head, and turning slowing, I could see them looking for the mouthy hen they’d heard. They continued east away from me, and I raised my call again. This was a different “come back” call that got an instant, wing
-locking response and the birds turned sharply to fly back over the open piece of water I was sitting on, looking again for that mouthy hen.

  We played this hide-and-seek game on and off for the next thirty minutes as the evening gloaming continued to fall around us. The birds were responding to the call, though with no decoys they never got closer than twenty yards or so, but I congratulated myself on a job well done, and walked back to my car. The opening day of the duck season was just over one week away, and I had myself as ready as I could be.

  As I walked, I found myself feeling refreshed and composed. I realized I was hungry and put my mind on fixing that issue and let the Suzanne Czarnopias story rest in peace for the remainder of the night.

  30

  I was being briefed on the effort to find the source of the rumor that I or some other “newcomer” might be involved in Suzanne’s disappearance when my desk phone buzzed and the receptionist seemed to whisper, “Mr. Stanton?”

  I put my hand up to stop Randy’s dissertation, and reached for the phone, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Stanton, there are two gentlemen here to see you...” she lowered her voice even more ... “They’re cops, I think.”

  “That’s okay; tell them I’ll be up in just a minute. I have someone with me but we’re nearly done.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell them.”

  I hung up the phone, and nodded to Randy. He started where he’d left off, “so the bottom line is that this rumor, while it has reached most of the community, seems to have developed out of thin air. We can’t trace anyone’s version back more than one or two sources. It’s very...”

  He was interrupted by my door opening, and two men dressed in business suits walked in. “Mr. Stanton?” One of the men, a middle-aged man in a gray suit that matched the remaining hair around the sides of his balding head, stood in front of me holding his hat in his hands as the other, a younger man in a modern blue suit, was standing between his partner and Randy, his back mostly to me.

  I stood up, “That’s me, what’s going on?”

  The older man flipped open his badge wallet, “I’m Detective Sherman, this is Sergeant Miller, we’re from the New York State Police, and we’d like you to come with us.”

  “Why? Is something the matter? Is it about my family?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. We want to ask you some questions that’s all.”

  “Questions?” I was confused. I looked at Randy and saw the fear and concern in his eyes. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Should you be?” The gray man answered.

  “I wouldn’t know why.”

  “Then, please, come with us, and we’ll figure that out at the post.”

  I looked around at my desk, and turned to Randy, “Notify Doug, get Cindy on the story.”

  He nodded and started to get up, but the man called Miller put his hand out in a “stop” gesture, and Randy sat back in his chair.

  “Let’s go,” I said as I walked around my desk. Miller opened the door, and walked ahead of me with Sherman bringing up the rear. I could see all the folks in the newsroom watching, and heads turned again as we made our way through the business office and reception area and then out the front door to their car.

  They put me in the back of their vehicle, a four-door sedan. Miller rode with me as Sherman drove out to the state police post on the east end of town. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked Sherman.

  “We just have some questions.”

  I sat back and considered the situation. The drive lasted less than five minutes, and when we pulled into the post’s parking lot, Miller drove to the back door. When we went inside, we came immediately to a desk and behind that were two small cells with bars and locks, and then another door, presumably leading into the station proper. A uniformed officer sat at the desk, and Sherman addressed him, “Nate, this is Mr. Stanton of the Sentinel-Standard. We need to talk with him in a few minutes; can you accommodate him back here so we can get ready?”

  “Sure thing.” He turned to me, “please empty your pockets and remove your belt...” he stood to look at my shoes. “You can keep the loafers on.”

  I turned to Sherman again, “Am I under arrest?”

  Sherman looked surprised, “No, of course not, but we need to keep you safe and secure for a little while, and this is just standard procedure to ensure you and all of us are okay.”

  I had taken several POW survival training courses in the service, and this all clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. “Sure, detective. No problem.”

  “Nate” had a plastic bag and was holding it open for me as I dumped keys, pocket knife, change, and wallet into his bag. “Can I keep my handkerchief?”

  He nodded and smiled, “Don’t forget the shirt pocket, your watch and your belt.”

  I tossed in my ink pen and business card wallet and my wristwatch, and then slipped my belt off my trousers.

  Nate led me to the first cell, and as I entered he let the door clang shut with a certain dramatic effect.

  Sherman looked at me through the doors. “We’ll make sure there’s an interview room available and be back in a while.”

  I didn’t say anything, just sat down on the bunk and looked at my surroundings. Compared to some of the situations I’d been in during POW training, this was a motel. I checked my center and found my pulse rate steady and composed. My fear was a bubble in my belly, but my mind was processing just as I would have hoped it would.

  I considered my situation and realized this might be some kind of charade to relieve pressure for the lack of concrete action on the part of the police. I thought about the rumor of some newcomer being responsible for Suzanne and tried to think of a newcomer, say five years or less, who might have a higher profile than I. I came up empty.

  Then I thought about the fact that the home I lived in was known to locals as “the Brown house” after the family that had lived there for more than forty years despite the fact that we were the fifth owners since the last Brown had departed the property.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I wondered what really constituted a newcomer in this part of the world. The smile helped. It stayed on my lips as I leaned back on the bunk’s postage stamp-sized pillow, clasped my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. I knew I had to relax and let this play out; knowing I had nothing to hide made that a lot easier.

  31

  With no windows or clocks there was no way of judging the time when Nate woke me up, but by the way I felt, I guessed it would be the same day, maybe after lunch.

  Sherman was at the desk near the small cells waiting as Nate led me to him, “Sleeping beauty is awake!”

  Sherman didn’t smile or show any sign of appreciation for Nate’s wisecrack. He was holding my personal effects bag. He opened the inner door and motioned me to enter the station proper.

  “At the end of the hall; the door on the left,” he said, gently putting his hand on my back as if to guide me. The door was locked, and I waited for him to open it, and then went in and looked around – no windows, no art on the walls – I guessed one of those walls was a disguised window for filming and observing. I waited for more instructions.

  “Sit, anywhere.”

  I sat and waited.

  “You have no police record in this country, but you sure act like someone who’s been down this road before.”

  I sat quietly; waiting for a question. I had decided that I wasn’t going to play games with this issue and I would only answer when asked. Obviously, this was about Suzanne, but everything I knew of that case had been published in the newspaper.

  He tilted his head in a pose to show me he was curious. “What, nothing to say?”

  “I’ll respond to questions, but I’m not here to pass the time of day with you.”

  “I don’t get it. No declarations of innocence? No demands for a lawyer? No promises of retribution?”

  “Why? Would any of that do any good? You’d tell me you just want to ask questions, that
I’m not under arrest, and I can’t ever remember making a threat in my life.”

  “No? Never? You never told anyone what would happen to them if they continued doing or saying whatever?”

  I thought about it for a second, and then looked him directly in the eyes, “Oh, I’ve made promises before, but I don’t think I’ve ever made a threat.”

  “You terrify me, Stanton.” He opened a file, “Do you know where you were on August twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-three?”

  “Not off hand.”

  “Not off hand? That’s your only answer? You don’t perceive some kind of danger when a police detective wants you to recall your whereabouts on a specific date more than a year ago?”

  I knew that date as well as my daughter’s birthday, but what I was doing on that day didn’t hold any specific marker in my memory. “Sorry. I can probably find out where I was if I had time and was at home.”

  “How could you?”

  “My wife keeps a journal. If we were doing much of anything on that date, she probably recorded it in her journal.”

  He was nodding, “And she did.”

  That got me to look him in the eye again. “You read her journal?”

  “I did. We got a warrant and searched your house while you were napping. Nice place. Our techs were very careful in the search, I doubt you could even tell we were there.”

  “Where were we on August twenty-seventh of eighty-three?”

  “South Lake Volunteer Fire Department’s annual summer picnic and fund-raiser; you and your family got there about three and left just at dark, around nine-thirty according to Capt. Jenks, the South Lake’s commander.

  “Nice guy; he was impressed with you folks, and really liked the story and photo of him and his Pumper Campaign thermometer that you ran in the Monday edition.”

  I remembered then.

  “Knowing that, why am I still in custody?”

  “You’re not in custody.”