Murder by Moonlight

by Vincent Zandri

  “I also think his suicide came about not because of his wrongdoing in paying the expert or even having a love affair with Joan, but because he was depressed. And his having witnessed the Parker attacks—their gruesomeness, the apparent lack of motive behind them, the disfiguring damage it caused the once-beautiful Joan’s face…it all came together to cause a case of severe post-traumatic stress that induced his need for a final self-destruction.”

  “You think Bowman knew the kid was guilty without a doubt? And because he knew the kid was guilty, he lost all faith in his fellow man, not to mention his lover?”

  “He probably lost faith long ago. He probably also knew that somehow the kid would get off and maybe come after Joan again. Which is why he risked hiring O’Connor under the table in the first place. Then you come along with a mission to exonerate the kid.”

  I push my blue plate aside. Suddenly I’m not hungry. Aviva sets the rest of her sandwich onto her plate. A patina of sadness seems to drape us, as though a thin black fabric has floated down from the concrete ceiling and veiled us.

  “I’ll never be convinced of his innocence,” I say. “And now I’ve discovered a haunted camp where somebody died violently and where Chris spent a whole lot of his youth.”

  “I can see that you’re not going to give up on this thing,” Aviva intuits. “Good versus evil. That’s always your under lying motive when you take on a case. You give Christopher-the-murderer too much credit. He might not be the least bit evil. But he might abhor his parents and simply acted on animal instinct and tried to kill them both.”

  “I’m going to keep investigating. I believe in my fellow man. I believe in good.”

  “If it will give you some peace, then you should find out the whole truth.”

  “Uncovering the ultimate truth. One can only keep searching and hope to discover enlightenment.”

  A school bell rings.

  “Speaking of discovery and enlightenment,” Aviva says, standing, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Never ask for whom the bell tolls,” I say.

  “It tolls for thee,” she says. “For thee and me.”

  I call Ferrance from Dad’s hearse. Ask him if he would be so kind as to check the morgue for any kind of a story about a Boy Scout camp suicide that took place in Bethlehem back around 1999 or 2000. Also if Bowman has or had a son named Chuck Jr.

  He tells me he has no recollection of such an event or such a son, but that he’ll check on it for me as soon as he gets the chance. “Be a big-ass whiff if I missed Chuckie Jr.’s suicide by shotgun ten years prior to Chuckie Sr. eating his piece inside his Buick. But then, I wasn’t always on the crime desk. Mofos had me writing the TV and entertainment page for years and years, so I might have missed it.”

  “More likely my informant is feeding me a whole bunch of crap.”

  “I’m guessing you’re still working the case unofficially. Guess this little request proves it.”

  “Let’s just say I’m convinced Chris did it, but I’m not sure why he did it.”

  “Freddie the Fireman still figure into the mix?”

  “No, Freddie isn’t the hit man in this case. I’m back to thinking another angle. Evil versus good.”

  “Or maybe the kid just plain hated his parents.”

  “You too, huh?”

  Ferrance laughs. “What are you getting at, Moonlight?”

  “I had a discussion with my girlfriend about it. She said it’s perfectly reasonable to think that Christopher killed his parents for essentially no other reason than money or hate. I told her Chris doesn’t seem like that kind of psycho. She told me it’s possible he was simply acting on animal instinct.”

  “She could be right. Save the psycho-vampire-Goths for the Steven King novels. This is the video game generation. No feeling and zero emotion is pretty much the rule of law. Game over, play again. The prosecution is thinking pretty much the same thing.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that people have so little faith in their fellow man?” I start the hearse.

  A background commotion oozes over the connection. Ferrance says, “I’ve got to go, Moonlight. Some pregnant woman living in the South End projects just stabbed her husband in the back.”

  “She’s trying to kill the kid’s father before the kid is born?”

  “The father’s probably somebody else. She’s only sixteen. Jesus, Moonlight, where you been living these past few years? In a cave?”

  “I wish.” It comes out as a sigh.

  Call me if you uncover anything else,” the reporter says. “I’ll check the morgue before I leave tonight.”

  “Take your time. Go get the scoop on the pregnant knife child. But don’t dare ask her why she did it.”

  He hangs up.

  I press End on an ugly conversation inside an ugly world.

  I’m not sure what to do next. I have an entire afternoon to myself. No other clients. No jobs. No real prospects for either.

  Downtown is not my friend. It’s more like the spider, peeking at me from around some corner, waiting to strike. I decide to head uptown, drive around a little. Maybe something will strike me over the head, give me a reason to live.

  I drive past Washington Park. Before I pass it by completely, I drive into one of the western entrances. I pull up to the lake and park the hearse. For a while I watch some ducks paddling along the surface of the still-unfrozen lake. I wonder why they don’t fly south in the winter like all the other birds. Get out of town while they have the chance. If I had wings, I’d be gone already.

  For a while I just sit staring out the window, my heart in my throat, my stomach tied in knots, trying not to think, trying hard to give my brain a rest. I pull out my cell, speed-dial my son’s number.

  My ex-wife answers after a few rings.

  “Yes,” she says. Casual, but obviously annoyed.

  “Am I interrupting? Thought I’d call the Bear, see how he’s doing.”

  “It’s eleven in the morning, Richard. He’s in school. Is there something I can help you with?”

  The knot in my stomach turns into a knot of twisted iron. “I just called to talk to my boy is all.”

  “You haven’t called in well over a month. He misses you. He’s not even ten yet. Why don’t you fly out and see him for a week? Or maybe send him a ticket to New York? I’d let him come for winter break.”

  I’m reminded of the recent past. When I had no choice but to relinquish custody back to Lynn because I was too broke to take care of the little guy. Now I miss him like I would miss a leg if it were severed.

  “You there, Richard?”

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m here. That’s a good idea. I’m working a case. I have the money.”

  “Good thing, too, since you owe me eight weeks’ child support.”

  “I’ll send you a check tonight. I’ve been busy.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him you called.”

  She goes to end the call.

  “Lynn,” I say, my eyes on the ducks floating on the lake.

  “What is it, Richard? I’m running late.”

  “Do you hate me for what’s happened to us?”

  She exhales. “Are you drinking?”

  “I’m serious and seriously sober.”

  “I don’t hate you, Richard.”

  “But you don’t love me, either, do you?”

  “It’s not that I don’t love you or hate you. I’m sorry to say this, but I’m not sure I feel anything for you anymore. You’re just sort of there.”

  “You have no feelings. It’s like our life is a video game.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing…I’m sorry.”

  I put the cell down on my thigh, watch the ducks as they fly off in the direction of the surrounding trees.

  “Richard? Richard? You there?”

  I can hear her voice coming through the phone speaker, tinny, distant, lifeless. In my head, she’s once more standing at the altar, looking lovely and starr
y-eyed happy, saying “I do.” I reach out with extended index finger, press End.

  For a while I just sit there, watching the ducks come and go, watching the splash and ripples they make in the water when they land. Ducks swim in the coldest of water. They don’t feel the chill. Not like us humans. I once heard of ducks swimming unaware of the dropping temperatures and the water as it freezes. Before they know it, their legs are stuck in the ice. They become trapped. They die like that out on the ice.

  For some reason, little Christina Riley comes to mind. It’s been days since I’ve thought of her. The little girl whose mom got convicted of killing her—the parole-proof mom who died of starvation and grief in prison. The little girl who I believe was snatched from her mom’s car in broad daylight. I wonder if she suffered when the animal who kidnapped her pressed that duct tape around her mouth. I wonder if he felt any remorse for the evil things he did to her.

  My phone rings, startles me.

  A hopeful glance down at the caller ID. Maybe the Bear came home for lunch.

  Ferrance.

  My heart sinks.

  I answer.

  “Not only does Bowman have a son, but he did indeed blow his brains out inside a Boy Scout camp cabin in the Bethlehem woods back in 1999. Shit, I missed it.”

  “Okey didn’t lie to me. Huh.”

  “You thinking Chuckie Bowman Jr.’s suicide wasn’t a suicide? You wanna show me the camp in question? Maybe there’s something to your gut, after all.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Tell me where to meet you.”

  “Meet me at my loft. We can go together in my dad’s car.”

  “The hearse.”

  “Come on, Ferrance. Everyone is dying to take a ride in it.”

  “That ain’t funny, bro.”

  “What happened with the pregnant knife lady?”

  “She killed the son of a bitch. Claims he beat her on a daily basis.”

  “Who do you believe?”

  “Ain’t my business to believe. Ain’t my business to have feelings.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Where’s your loft, Moonlight?”

  I give him the directions.

  Suddenly, I have a reason to live again.

  Barely.

  Ten minutes later, Ferrance shows up at my loft. Since he’s wearing loafers, I tell him I’ll loan him my extra pair of work boots. Which means I have to head upstairs to my office in order to retrieve them. Unlocking the door, I step inside, check the message machine for any calls. Or more exactly, anyone looking to hire an out-of-work, head-case PI.

  Nothing.

  I rummage through the closet for the boots. I find them. They’re dusty. I blow the dust off them, watch the bunnies float to the floor. Closing the door behind me, I carry them back down the stairs with me.

  When I step back into the loft, Ferrance is lying on the floor, on his side, his feet bound behind his back along with his wrists. He’s been hog-tied. Duct tape hastily wrapped around his mouth and head. There’s blood coming from the top of his head and it’s trickling down over the gray tape.

  It’s the last thing I see before I feel the blow and the boots fall out of my hand and the evil world goes black.

  The demons have caught up with me.

  When I come to, I’m being dragged through the woods.

  There’s two of them.

  One of them’s got me by the torso, arms locked under my arms, heaving me by my shoulders, my boot heels dragging along the frozen, leaf-covered earth. Glancing to my left, I see that Ferrance is being dragged in the same manner, his blue bare feet making a scraping sound against the ground.

  My head hurts.

  I try to lift it, get a good look at who’s abducted us from my own home. But I can’t lift it up. No matter how hard I try, I can’t work up the strength. It’s chin against chest all the way.

  One thing’s for sure: they can’t be women. Takes a lot of strength to drag a full-grown man’s deadweight body even for a few feet. Whoever these guys are, they’re dragging us a lot farther than a few feet. Dragging us into the deep woods. I can’t be sure where the hell we are. But somehow I know precisely where we’re going.

  Then, I see the abandoned Boy Scout camp.

  They pull us up the rotting stairs onto what’s left of the porch, our feet dragging the whole way, my boot heels slapping against the soft wood. I’m trying to work against them by making myself as deadweight as possible. I’m not about to help the bastards.

  Ferrance has gone stone still, chin against chest, eyeballs rolled up into his sockets. He’s drooling. The blood coming from the wound on his head is getting thicker. It’s running like a crimson stream down over the duct tape onto his neck.

  The one carrying me drops me on the porch.

  I must pass out again when my head hits the floor. Because when I wake up I’m already inside the cabin, my eyes open, my vision blurred as I peer up to a rotted, vaulted, timber-and-beam ceiling.

  We’re dragged across the living room and then dropped onto the kitchen floor. That’s when I get my first good look at one of the men. He’s a stocky guy, dressed in black, including black gloves and a ski mask. He approaches a door that I’m guessing accesses a basement. I’m wondering how I never noticed the door when I made my inspection of the place. Maybe I was too freaked out by the upstairs…the blood spatter…the evil vibes the place gives off. Maybe I just wanted out. The stocky one is breathing hard. But he still manages to pull a key from the ring on his belt and unlock the door. Turning, he mumbles, “The reporter first.” Then he steps aside.

  That’s when I get a look at the second man.

  Bitch is far thinner than the first one, and taller. He, too, is dressed in identical black clothing. Same pants, shirt, and parka-style jacket. Same ski mask and gloves. Two of them must have purchased the clothing at the same Army/Navy on the same day. The stocky man is bent over, hands on his knees. He’s sucking wind.

  “You’re clearly out of shape,” Tall Thin Man says.

  “I’m not as young and virile as I used to be,” Stocky Man explains. “It’ll happen to you, too.”

  My vision keeps cutting out, like a video camera that won’t stay focused because the battery is running dry. And I’m hearing something mechanical running. An engine of some kind. Sounds like a lawn mower or a snowblower. But I know it can’t be either. The pain in my head has reduced itself to a dull throb. I know I’m hurt, but not badly hurt. If they don’t keep hitting me over the head, the bullet frag might not shift and I won’t die. I also know it’s only a matter of time until I get some of my strength back. I’ll need that strength if I’m going to live to see the dusk.

  The thin one bends down, picks up Ferrance by the shoulders, drags him through the open door. Stepping to the side, he drops the reporter and allows gravity to take over. When he pounds down the wooden stairs, the entire log cabin trembles.

  Then it’s my turn.

  The stocky one bends down, shoves his arms underneath my own, picks me up, drags me over to the open door, throws me down the stairs.

  I rattle down the wooden stairs, each one of the treads banging against my head, ribs, and back. By the time I come to the bottom, where I land on top of Ferrance, I think I’ll pass out for the third time and, on this occasion, probably buy the farm. The air is knocked out of me. Insides feel ripped, shredded, and a sick wet feeling fills my stomach. My vision goes from blurred to outright distorted.

  Stocky Man comes down the stairs after me. He bends down again, slips his hands under my arms, drags me across the dirt floor. My head hangs so that I’m staring up at thick wooden beams, at wires—and at the meat hooks and chains hanging from them. There are two or three exposed lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, just like the ones upstairs. The fact that they are lit up tells me there must be a generator feeding them juice. That explains the mechanical engine noise I was hearing upstairs.

  The basement floor is hard-packed
dirt and to my right I make out two big, fifty-gallon drums. Thick, black industrial plastic is draped over the sides of the drums. There’s a garden hose coiled neatly on the floor like a sleeping snake. It’s got water trickling out of the nozzle.

  The stocky one reaches up to his face with his right hand, pulls off his ski mask. It’s Maxwell Okey. His black hair is thick and standing up on end. He reaches into the pocket of his parka, pulls out an eyeglass case, retrieves thick eyeglasses, slips them on. He smiles when he does it, like he’s doing something as uncomplicated and innocent as getting up from a nap.

  He turns to the tall, thin one.

  “It’s OK now,” he says.

  That’s when the tall one takes his mask off.

  That’s when I see his face, and I know for sure that Ferrance and I are as good as dead.

  Doc Robinson is worked up in a lather. The bearded vet stands poised and eager over Ferrance’s still body while he focuses a glassy, man-eater gaze on the older, chubbier Maxwell Okey.

  “Can we start now?” the vet begs.

  There’s a kind of trembling in the good doc’s voice. Rather, an excitement, but also a loathing. The kind of trembling that might come from a junkie who’s about to shoot up for only the second or third time, a junkie who had a choice not long ago, but who now is hopelessly hooked. No wonder he was able to work up the strength necessary to drag Ferrance’s body all the way out here. He did it by plain old force of will.

  Upstairs, the sound of footsteps on the kitchen floor. What I take to be two sets of footsteps against the rotting floorboards. If I were the type to believe in miracles I’d say it’s the police. But I’m not the type to believe in miracles anymore.

  “They’re here,” Maxwell says, his smile growing broader. Then, back to Robinson. “You know what to do, Doctor,” he says, running one of the chains through a block and tackle device that hangs from one of the thick wooden beams.

  The doc drops to his knees on the dirt floor, pulls out a scalpel like the one he pointed at me just a few days ago, and begins to cut away the reporter’s clothing. It’s then I know precisely who cut the screen on the window in the back of the Parker garage, and the surgically sharp instrument he used for the cutting.