The Language of Cannibals

by George C. Chesbro

  Mosely parked in a corner of the lot, close to the picnic table, and got out. I followed him toward the table. There was a used condom draped over the edge of the trash can. Mosely picked up a stick, pushed the swollen rubber tube all the way into the can. “Fucking kids can’t even clean up after themselves,” he said with disgust as he heaved the stick away.

  Mosely eased his tall frame down on top of the picnic table, facing the river, rested his feet on the attached bench. I climbed up beside him, stared out over the breathtaking panorama before me—puffy cumulus clouds in a blue sky above me, sheer rock faces behind and on either side, and the broad, winding expanse of the Hudson below me. Closer to the Westchester side, a dozen sailboats were heeling nicely against a brisk wind blowing from the south. In the deep channel three quarters of the way across, three squat, muscular tugboats were shepherding a train of chain-connected barges loaded with what looked like concrete sewage pipes toward New York City.

  I said, “Nice view.”

  “Frederickson,” Mosely said in a slightly exasperated tone as he ran the fingers of both hands through his thick, curly hair, “I like it here in Cairn. I really do. I like the community, I like the atmosphere, I like the people, and most of all I like my job.”

  “And you feel that I somehow pose a threat to you, which is why you’ve been keeping track of my whereabouts.”

  Now he turned and looked at me, hard. When he spoke, his deep voice had developed a decided edge to it. “Cairn doesn’t need a holy terror, Frederickson; we’ve already discussed how you attract trouble, and we’ve already seen evidence of it. You also attract publicity, and the kind of publicity you generate could definitely end up making me look bad.”

  “Are you trying to tell me it’s high noon, Chief?”

  “I thought we’d agreed that I was going to take another, closer look at this case, and that you were going to let me do my job.”

  “Chief, I had two stops on my schedule when I came to Cairn; you were the first stop, and the Community of Conciliation was the second. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way back to see you.”

  This caught him by surprise, and it showed in his steel-gray eyes. “Oh? Why?”

  “To tell you that I’m now certain that Michael was murdered, and then let you get on with your job.”

  He shifted his weight around on the table so that he was facing me, crossed his arms over his chest, and narrowed his eyelids. “What the hell makes you so sure now that your friend was murdered? What did those friendly, peace-loving folks in the Russian embassy down the road tell you that they didn’t tell me?”

  “They didn’t tell you because they didn’t think it was important.”

  “What didn’t they think was important?”

  “The fact that Michael didn’t ask the owner’s permission before he supposedly took that canoe out on the river.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s enough. I’ve already told you that Michael hated even being near water, but that could have changed. His character wouldn’t. He would never have taken that canoe without asking permission. It means somebody nabbed Michael and drowned him. Either before or after they killed him, they stole the canoe and set it adrift, knowing that the empty canoe, whenever and wherever it was found, would be connected to Michael’s drowning; the police would naturally assume he’d been in it. Michael was murdered, Chief, and I wanted you to know it.”

  “And if I don’t start looking real hard for this murderer, the famous Dr. Robert Frederickson will. Right?”

  Dan Mosely and his apparent insecurity were starting to annoy me. I shifted my own position, turning to face him so that our knees were almost touching. “I think you may have an attitude problem, Chief,” I said tersely. “I don’t need any more of this ‘holy terror’ and ‘famous Dr. Frederickson’ shit from you. I came here because a friend of mine died under what I considered to be questionable circumstances. You were the first person I talked to about it, and I’m talking to you now. I’ve never suggested that you didn’t do your job or that you won’t continue to do it. Since you’ve indicated that you’ll extend me the courtesy of letting me know whatever you may turn up, I’ll be more than happy to get back to the city so I can get on with my own work. So get off my back.”

  Mosely continued to study me through narrowed lids for a few more moments, then abruptly turned away and resumed staring down at the river. “Who’d you talk to there?”

  “I spoke to everyone who was in the house.”

  “Yeah, but who did the most talking over there?”

  “What difference does it make? I assume you’ll be talking to them again.”

  “Mary Tree.”

  “If you’re going to answer your own questions, why bother asking me?”

  “What else did she have to say?”

  I shrugged. “More town gossip. I’ve given you the salient points of our discussion.”

  “Did she mention her notion that there’s a death squad operating in the towns along the river?”

  “The subject was touched upon.”

  Mosely dug out a splinter from the weathered wood of the tabletop, casually tossed it into the air; the wind caught it and carried it over the edge of the cliff. “You think I’m a crooked cop, Frederickson?” he asked in an even tone. “You think I’m letting killers operate right under my nose?”

  “Chief, since you’re the one I’m counting on to nab the man or men who murdered my friend, I certainly hope not.”

  He was silent for some time. Finally he nodded slightly, said, “I interpret that as a vote of confidence, Frederickson. I appreciate it. I know I’m an honest cop; I like to think I’m also a good one. Yes, there’ve been execution-style killings around here lately, and they’re being investigated jointly by the police forces in all the river communities. I don’t have to tell you that we’re not immune to the problems you’ll find in the rest of the country; we have drugs and drug dealers; we have crazy people living on the streets. Except for the vagrant, we think the deaths represent a struggle for turf among drug dealers. The vagrant may have just gotten in their way. Check it out, if you’d like.”

  “Chief, I didn’t come here to investigate you. What about the vandalism and the threats to the leftist groups around here? I’m told that business started at about the same time as these execution-style killings.”

  “Those are being investigated too. The letters are almost impossible to trace, since they’re mailed from outside the county. As far as the vandalism is concerned, we can’t be everywhere at once. The place the Community of Conciliation owns covers four acres, much of it wooded, and with river frontage. It’s easy to get at. We suggested that they hire private security guards, but so far they haven’t done it.” He paused, laughed without humor. “I think they’re afraid that employing a security force will hurt their pacifist image.”

  “But what about the link—if there is a link—between the killings and the threats? Why would warring drug dealers concern themselves with a group like the Community of Conciliation?”

  Mosely looked down at his hands. “I don’t have an answer for that, Frederickson. I don’t think there is an easy answer.”

  “What about a guess?”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a guess. There’s been a change in the political makeup of Cairn and the other river towns, a rightward shift. Personally, I don’t think there is a link between the deaths and the threats, at least not a direct one. There are some types around here who actually like the idea of a death squad to carry out political killings, even if there isn’t such a group. They like the idea that drug dealers and child molesters are being taken care of without a lot of judicial fuss, and they’d like to see the same thing happen to people they consider communists or communist sympathizers. They weren’t prepared to actually start killing people, of course, but they thought it was a neat idea, if you will, to kind of climb on the bandwagon and piggyback vandalism and heavy threats on top of the actual murders; they wanted
—want—the Community and similar leftist groups to think there may be a death squad on their case. In short, the vandals and letter-writers are being opportunistic. They want the Community of Conciliation to set up headquarters someplace else, and they’re trying to scare them out of town.”

  “Some people might trace the rightward shift and the start of a lot of these troubles to the arrival of Elysius Culhane,” I said carefully, watching his face.

  Mosely made a derisive gesture with his right hand. “That’s Mary Tree talking again. You think Culhane’s a fool, Frederickson? You think he’d risk his reputation, career, and maybe a fine or jail sentence by getting involved in a nasty letter-writing campaign?”

  “The man’s mind and real motivations are a mystery to me,” I said even more carefully, “so I don’t have the slightest idea what he would or wouldn’t do. Some people think you might; some people think Elysius Culhane is the reason you’re chief of police in Cairn.”

  He didn’t like that at all. His jaw muscles clenched, and the acne scars ringing his neck stood out as blood rushed to his face. His head snapped around, and his gray eyes glinted with anger. He started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He took a deep breath, turned away again. “Did that woman tell you I was in Culhane’s pocket?” he asked in an even tone.

  “No. But it was suggested that you might be a bit more sensitive to his views of law and order than to other points of view because you owe your job to him.”

  “I was appointed by the mayor after a vote of the town board and trustees.”

  “Sure,” I said easily. “That’s how democracy works.”

  He sighed again, studied the backs of his sinewy hands. “Look, Frederickson, I’m not going to try to bullshit you. You’re goddamn right I pay attention to Culhane’s opinions, the same as I pay attention to the opinions and views of the mayor, the trustees, the board, and the owners of all those mansions on the north side of town. They’re the power structure in this town, and if I don’t perform this job to their satisfaction, they’ll get somebody else in here who will. I have to consider politics, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enforce the laws in an evenhanded manner. There are politics involved in any job like this. In that sense Cairn is no different from New York City or East Podunk. It doesn’t make me a crooked cop.”

  “A good, honest answer, Chief,” I said, then paused to clear my throat. “But then, the question would remain as to why Elysius Culhane chose to sponsor you, and not someone else who was also honest and equally sensitive to the political dynamics of law enforcement.”

  “Now you’re pushing it, Frederickson.”

  “You opened the subject when you insisted on hearing my version of the town gossip. Did you and Elysius Culhane know each other before you came here?”

  Again, the man’s jaw muscles clenched, but his tone remained even. “I’d never met the man before, Frederickson. I have to assume I was hired because I was the best candidate. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  “You have any more stops in Cairn?”

  “No, Chief, I don’t have any more stops in Cairn.”

  “Then, may I assume you’ll be leaving town?” He paused, looked at me. His smile was thin, but not without warmth. “Before Gregory Trex gets out of the hospital, and before a ‘60 Minutes’ crew shows up on the steps of Town Hall?”

  “I’ll be leaving town forthwith.”

  “I will be in touch, Frederickson.”

  “So you told me.”

  He nodded curtly, slid off the table onto the ground. “If you don’t mind, there’s somebody else who’d like to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Trex.”

  “Gregory Trex wants to talk to me, and you want me to talk to him?”

  “Not the son, the father. Jack Trex.”

  Mosely drove me back through the center of town, and then south into an area of Cairn where the old, clapboard houses were undoubtedly worth much less than the land they sat on. He stopped the car at the side of the road, pointed to a dirt driveway that led in the direction of the river. I got out, and he drove away without a word. I limped down the tree-lined driveway, went around a corner, and found myself on a lawn beside a ramshackle, weather-beaten house sitting high on a stone foundation only two or three yards from the high-tide mark of the river. Two goats inside a large wire enclosure munched contentedly on the grass—cheap, perpetual lawn mowers. It seemed Jack Trex was a working fisherman; there was a battered dinghy and a Boston Whaler tied up at a floating dock that was missing half its planks. Nets for catching shad hung on drying racks, and there were a half dozen crab pots.

  The goats brayed at me. I brayed back, went up to the front door, and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Jack Trex, who was leaning on crutches. The veteran was wearing baggy brown corduroy trousers and a faded green T-shirt that almost matched the color of his eyes, and which emphasized the bulge of muscle in his chest, arms, and shoulders. He was not wearing his artificial limb, and the pants cuff where his left leg should have been was hanging loose and empty. His thinning black hair was unkempt, but he was clean-shaven, except for his gray mustache, and his pale green eyes were clear, reflecting no trace of hostility.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Frederickson,” Trex said warmly. He shifted his weight on his crutches in order to free his right arm, then extended a large, thickly callused hand, which I shook. “I appreciate it very much. How about some coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said in a somewhat tentative tone. I hadn’t known quite what to expect from the father of the disturbed young man I’d twice beaten on and humiliated, and the genuine warmth and sincerity of his greeting took me by surprise.

  Trex stood to one side and held the door open for me. I stepped into an enormous kitchen; judging from what I’d seen of the exterior, it had to be the largest room in the house. Trex stroked his gray mustache, studied me. There seemed to be a hint of amusement in his limpid, expressive eyes, and perhaps other things that I couldn’t read.

  “I don’t wear the prosthesis around the house,” he said in his deep, raspy voice. “It chafes. Does the sight of an amputee bother you?”

  “No.”

  “It does some people.”

  “Well, Mr. Trex, there’s no doubt in my mind that it bothers the amputee a lot more.”

  Jack Trex chuckled. “You’ve got that right.” He pointed to a round wooden table ringed with wooden chairs in the center of the room. “Have yourself a seat. The coffee will be ready in a minute.”

  I sat down while Trex propelled himself across the kitchen to a counter where a coffee grinder was situated. He poured beans into the canister of the machine, turned it on, then busied himself preparing the pot and filter. Still not knowing what to expect, I contented myself with looking around the kitchen while the other man prepared the coffee.

  To my left were two gas ranges and ceiling racks with an assortment of pots and pans hanging from them. There was an overriding odor of fried fish; since shad, the only Hudson catch that could be commercially sold, only ran in the spring, I suspected that Jack Trex ate a good deal of what he caught during the rest of the year.

  There was an easel in one corner, but there was nothing on it. Behind me, a scarred rolltop desk was set against the wall next to an open door that looked as if it led into a gloomy, poorly lit living room. The desk and the rickety card table set up next to it were overflowing with magazines, newspapers, clippings, books, jars of pens and pencils, and notepads. Hanging on the wall over the desk were two framed quotes. One was from George Orwell, referring to his definition of political language as the use of words to defend the indefensible. The second quote was from Lenin: “The fastest way to destroy a society is to corrupt language.”

  It had struck me when I viewed his painting that Jack Trex was not your average Vietnam veteran, or average anything, and nothing that I was seeing served to disabuse me of that notion.

/>   The big man at the kitchen counter must have seen me looking at his work space. He leaned back on his crutches, cocked his head slightly, said, “This is a nation built on, and held together by, illusions.”

  “Aren’t they all?” I replied in a neutral tone.

  I waited for more, but it seemed there wasn’t going to be any—at least not at the moment. Almost five minutes passed before the coffee finished brewing. I rose, helped Trex put the pot of coffee on a tray, along with mugs, cream, and sugar. I brought it back to the table, and we both sat down. Trex poured for both of us. The coffee was strong, good.

  “But I believe that the United States is—or was—truly unique,” he said, picking up the thread of conversation as though no time had passed. “How’s your history, Frederickson?”

  “Assuredly not as good as yours.”

  “Somehow I tend to doubt that.”

  “I have a revisionist mentality; I’m skeptical of any account of any event that happened more recently than five hundred years ago.”

  He smiled, nodded. “Still, I think you’d agree that this nation of ours emerged from the Second World War indisputably the greatest economic and military power that had ever existed.”

  “No illusion there, Mr. Trex.”

  “The illusion was that our transcendent power as a nation meant that we were the greatest people.”

  Resisting the impulse to shrug, still wondering what Jack Trex wanted with me and what I was doing there, I said, “A not uncommon trait of most people in most nations, Mr. Trex. American chauvinism pales in comparison to that of at least a half dozen nations I could mention.”

  “But I bought it,” Trex said in a low voice that seemed to be growing even raspier as he spoke, as if he had a cold. “I believed America was not only the mightiest but the greatest and finest nation, and that we were the finest, most noble people in all the world. It really made me very angry when people in this country, and even people who were citizens of other countries, didn’t acknowledge this. I mean, it just seemed so obvious to me.”

  He paused and raised his eyebrows, obviously extending an invitation to respond. My response was to sip at my coffee as I met his gaze over the rim of my mug. His pale green eyes had begun to glow, and it struck me that Mr. Jack Trex had caught himself an obsession. He’d experienced an epiphany of sorts and was still struggling to come to terms with the brightness of his vision.