Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  "Nearly done now. Those facial vessels seem pretty occluded, but that's likely because he fought it so hard after he'd dropped. See there? His face and neck are a pretty red."

  "So?"

  "So the coroner will want to check for a strangulation bruise on the base of his neck, just to be sold this was really a suicide. Seems pretty damned obvious, though, and the pictures ought to show it."

  "Why did you bring me here, Bass?" I couldn't bring myself to look Will Palmer in the face. I kept wondering if badgering him might have contributed to what appeared to be a suicide.

  Bass pointed towards a pile of hay a few feet away. A large sheet of plain typing paper lay upon the straw, weighted down by the handle of a pitchfork. "Mr. Callahan, tell me what you think of that, but don't touch it."

  I crossed the floor, barely breathing. The hand-printed letters were large and written with a felt-tipped pen. I knelt in the dirt; examined the note and everything concerning its placement.

  PLEASE FORGIVE ME POP. I FEEL TERRIBLE ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO SANDY.

  In 1957, two researchers named Shneidman and Farberow analyzed the handwriting and content of 66 suicide notes. What emerged is that suicide notes have "positive," "negative," or "mixed" emotional content. Genuine suicide notes had a great preponderance of so-called "neutral" thoughts. The author is already dead inside.

  I heard a dry, retching sound. Jerry was outside, vomiting into the dirt. I tried to ignore the foul odor of excrement. The note seemed casually placed, which seemed odd. I read the words over and over: Please forgive me Pop. I feel terrible about what happened to Sandy.

  "What do you think?"

  "I don't know," I said. "This boy didn't strike me as having much capacity for remorse. Could you get a sample of his handwriting?"

  "Already on it."

  "Don't bother," Doc said. "The boy had terrible handwriting. He printed everything, so that somebody else could make sense of it."

  I nodded, casually. "And you know that because . . . ?"

  "He left me notes on livestock. One about a castration, for example. Hell, if I'd have done what I thought it said, I'd have cut the nuts off him and sent the bill to his prize bull."

  I stood up and dusted the knees of my jeans. "I want to talk to the father. I'd like to do that as soon as possible."

  Bass shook his head. "Maybe you haven't been paying attention, but Lowell Palmer owns this town. If he doesn't want to see anybody, I'm not going to try and make him."

  "You're the law, Bass."

  Bass gave a shark grin. "He's the law, Callahan. I'm just the Sheriff."

  "I'll be back in a little while," I said. "I'd be obliged if you'd wait for me."

  "We'll be here," Doc said dryly. "We still got to cut this boy down. Hurry on back, you don't want to miss out."

  Jerry, still kneeling in the dirt, watched me walk by. His cap had fallen off and the burn scar was dark with blood. He didn't say a word. Hungry hens scattered out of my way as I approached the two-story building. The interior lights were already on. I knocked once on the front door and waited for the devil to answer.

  "Who is it, damn it?"

  With courtesy: "My name is Mick Callahan, Mr. Palmer. I was here earlier today, talking to Wilson about Sandy. I need to talk to you, now."

  "Go away."

  The lie: "Mr. Palmer, Sheriff Bass and the State Police have both asked me to speak with you."

  "No."

  Respectful pleading: "Mr. Palmer, I'm sorry for your losses. I truly am. But this can't wait."

  "I said no."

  Authoritative: "Mr. Palmer, you want me on your side, not against you. Trust me, it is in your best interest that we speak."

  A silence, then, "You can open the goddamned door for yourself, can't you?"

  I entered a humid darkness, caught the faint scent of lemon wood polish. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I saw expensive antique furniture, a few oil paintings, and oriental rugs. The décor put the room in a kind of time warp, back to the early 1900s. Then I heard an odd whirring sound, oddly mechanical for the setting. I looked up and to my right.

  Lowell Palmer was in the wheelchair, descending the side of the staircase via a special elevator platform. His long white hair was unkempt, and the hands working the controls were contorted by age and arthritis. He had a checkered blanket in his lap. He was scowling. His presence seemed to chill the room by several degrees.

  "You have five minutes," Palmer said. His tone was brittle. "What the hell is it that could not wait?"

  I decided to ease in. "Five minutes, then. As I said, I am sorry for your losses. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a son and a daughter on the same weekend."

  Lowell Palmer grunted.

  "You know how they found Wilson?"

  "I do."

  "Do you think he was upset enough over Sandy to have committed suicide?"

  "Who knows? My pathetic son is dead. My worthless daughter is dead. I am now all alone in the world. Ask me later what I think."

  I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. The clock seemed to tick more loudly. "I have my own reasons for being here, sir. They are important. I apologize for this intrusion, but I need to know the answer to that question and a couple of others."

  Lowell Palmer slid off the platform and on to the garish Oriental rug; rubber wheels hissing, electric motor humming. He rolled over to face me. His large eyes were steady and devoid of emotion. I felt the short hairs at the base of my neck flutter and come to attention, stroked by an atavistic dread. I felt somehow small, defenseless, and out of place on this turf, but I kept my face a blank screen.

  "Were your children close, sir?"

  Palmer sneered. "My children were very close, as if that is any of your business."

  I wanted to lower myself to Palmer's level. I located a footstool. I sat down, consciously relaxed the upper body, softened my voice and leaned forward a bit. I did not like being near him. His breath was sour and his skin had a strange odor.

  "Poor Will must have been in shock," I said, softly. "But then I suppose you both were."

  Palmer reacted instantly. "Will was merely upset. I was suffering."

  "I believe you," I said, following his lead. "Really suffering."

  "This is a terrible thing," Palmer said. "You don't know."

  "You're right, I can't know." I forced myself to reach out and take one of Palmer's liver-spotted hands. I patted it gently. I had the sudden fantasy I was stroking a rabid dog.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I am so sorry for your suffering. It must be enormous."

  "That's true. I am in such pain," Palmer said. He pulled his hand away with suspicion, but found it difficult to resist having a rapt audience.

  "How can you be expected to deal with this?" I carefully left a space and waited. For a time it did not seem as if Palmer would rise to the bait again. Suddenly, he did.

  "I am an old man," Palmer whined. "Who will look after me now?" One solitary tear rolled down a wizened cheek. "They left me all by myself."

  "It must be a frightening thing," I said gently, "to be old and suddenly alone like this."

  "It is," Palmer cried. "You have no idea."

  "No," I said. "I'm sure I don't. But I would like to know. That is, if you are willing to tell me."

  "You are that therapist person, aren't you?" Lowell Palmer eyed me suspiciously. Then, just as abruptly, he relented. "I suppose I should talk to someone. Why not?"

  I nodded. "Good," I said. "That's good."

  Palmer laced his crooked fingers. "What did you want to discuss?"

  "I just need to have a sense of you, and of your family and its history," I said. "It's a long shot, but perhaps I can contribute to an understanding of this tragedy."

  "My whole life is a tragedy," Palmer sobbed. "Look at me. I sit in this chair, helpless, unable to enjoy my wealth and true standing. And I have always been surrounded by such weak, ineffective people. Now my worthless children are dead and
gone, both on the same weekend. These should be my golden years!"

  I decided to bore in on the obvious narcissism. He had the whole package; arrogance, the callused exploitation of others, a distinct lack of empathy, the glaring sense of entitlement. This was a textbook case. Palmer cocked his head, disturbed that I was ruminating rather than listening. I leaned in even closer to display my enthusiasm and thought, keep him talking.

  "Can you explain what you mean by worthless?" I asked. "It sounds like your children have been a terrible disappointment to you."

  "They have," Palmer sighed dramatically. "And I gave them my love, I assure you. I gave them all the love in the world."

  The sentence hung in the air like static electricity. I stopped myself from speaking; forced a thin smile and an expectant expression. "Go on."

  "I know what love is," Palmer said finally. "It is freedom. Did you know that, mister . . . young man?"

  He didn't remember my name. I was not a person to him. "Callahan. I think I'm following you. Please, do continue."

  Palmer struck a pose, cupping his chin in one hand as if trying to project wisdom. "True love is the freedom to love in any way one chooses, without restraint and without limitation."

  "I see."

  "Do you? I taught my children that kind of love."

  "Without limitations."

  "Yes. And now look how they have chosen to repay me!"

  "By abandoning you." Palmer nodded and manufactured tears. I forced myself to pat the old man's hand again. "I'm enjoying this discussion, Mr. Palmer," I said. "And I promise you, I'm listening very carefully."

  Nineteen

  Sunday Night 8:02 PM

  The ride back: tires moaning on blistered asphalt. The high beams sliced ahead into the night, occasionally catching the wide, mysterious eyes of a nocturnal hunter at the roadside. Jerry played with his sore lip, wriggled his brows, and sat there brooding. Perhaps he was embarrassed that he'd been of little use during the afternoon. Finally, he couldn't take the silence any longer.

  As we passed the weathered radio station and entered Dry Wells, Jerry spoke. "You're not really buying this, are you, Mick? Don't you think this is all a little too convenient?"

  "You saw the note," I said.

  "So Wilson Palmer killed Sandy, and then decided to hang himself the very next day because he felt so bad? And that's it?"

  "That is entirely plausible, given the facts. Jerry, I know you want to believe otherwise and why you want Sewell to go down for this, but we have no proof."

  "Look, I don't fucking a word of it," Jerry sputtered. "And I can't believe you do, either."

  "You saw the note. Bass will get the State Police to hire a graphologist, but let's assume the handwriting matches Will Palmer's. If nothing else turns up as evidence, it may be that simple."

  Jerry sulked. "And old Bobby Sewell is a choir boy, or just kind of misunderstood? Come on, Mick."

  "I can dislike somebody without having to think he committed a couple of murders. Besides, what would Bobby Sewell have against Will Palmer?" But then a few more tumblers clicked in my head.

  Jerry felt a change in the environment, and suddenly turned towards me. "What? What were you just thinking?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Let's drop it. Look, we tried. We came up empty. Tomorrow, I'm out of here."

  I pulled into the motel lot, parked in front of my room. I shut off the engine and searched for something else to say. Jerry hopped out of the car. He stopped a few feet away; fists clenched, visibly upset.

  "I'm not leaving," Jerry said. "I still think Sewell killed Sandy."

  "Maybe you're wrong."

  "He's a fucking bully, and she dumped him. Man, she said on the air that she was afraid of her boyfriend. I don't know about Will Palmer. Maybe he just did himself out of grief. But I feel damn sure that Sandy was murdered and that it was Bobby Sewell who killed her. I'm going to find a way to prove it."

  A lone coyote wailed a blues riff, perhaps a mile or two south. "What if you do and Bass doesn't care to listen?"

  "Then I'm going to call the state cops. Mick, I have to get Skanky away from them before something bad happens to her, too."

  "You do what you have to do," I said. "Me, I'm leaving tomorrow. You may not believe this, but I don't really have a choice."

  "Fine," Jerry said. "I never thought I'd see this."

  "See what?"

  He started pacing, rubbing the scar on his forehead, working himself up. "The hot-shot crusader I used to look up to is bullshitting himself. You know something stinks to high heaven, but you want to believe it's over. Man, your old self would have been all over this town with a television crew a couple of years ago. Now you're fucking off, even if you've got to close your eyes to the truth."

  "Jerry, listen to me . . ."

  "You really let me down, man."

  Jerry slammed the car door and vanished into the gloom. I don't know how long I sat there in the dark car, listening to that one miserable coyote wail his guts out, but it was long enough to know that Jerry had a point.

  Twenty

  Sunday Night, 8:30 PM

  "I'm sorry I woke you."

  "I don't mind," Hal said. "Tell me the rest." There was a slight echo on the line in. All I could hear for a moment was rest, rest, rest tapering off into transatlantic static.

  My eyes traced a crack in the ceiling. It had the odd look of a phallus, pencil-sketched on the wall of a toilet stall. "I've read about this," I said. "First time I've ever seen it. I asked this old man about his two dead children and I got virtually no affective response, no emotions of sadness or grief. So I probed him a little about the tragedy of his own circumstances, and he broke down and cried."

  "What do you make of that?"

  "Total self-absorption. At first I thought he was lost in some in some kind of denial. I asked him to tell me about Sandy's mother and he described her as a harridan who tormented him with her neediness. I asked him about his first wife, Will's mother, and he described her as demanding and annoying. Oh, he would add the occasional requisite disclaimer like, 'I hate to speak ill of the dead, but . . .' or 'I know she did her best, but . . .' Hal, his meaning was clear. He was too good for everyone." I reached across the end table, checked the time, and wondered if I would sleep tonight.

  "I was listening intently to the meta-message. I'm telling you he didn't mean a single kind word he said, only the disparaging ones. Underneath it all was such emptiness. I've never seen such a mentality of victim-hood and self-righteousness."

  "Unpleasant."

  "Analyst Otto Kernberg's definition of evil was 'malignant narcissism.'"

  "Let me play devil's advocate," Hal said. "Perhaps you were somewhat predisposed to hate him because he helped to destroy your stepfather all those years ago?"

  I considered. "Perhaps I was, yes."

  "We already knew he was a sociopath. Could his advanced age have anything to do with the rest of it?"

  "No. This was more than just a character disorder. Let me finish, and you'll see what I mean. You'll see why I feel disgusted."

  "Go on, then."

  "I kept on sympathizing with him. Sometimes he would look at me suspiciously, but I made it safe for him to complain. Hal, he even started trashing his children. Will was a dilettante and a womanizer who'd never been any good. He called Sandy a slut and a disappointment. In other words, he had a nifty list of everyone else's shortcomings but absolutely no sense of his own culpability. No grief, no sorrow for anyone but himself. The old bastard was as close to pure evil as anyone I have ever encountered."

  I stretched out flat on the motel bed and turned out the light. It felt safer in the darkness, with warm starlight streaming in the open window. "I never wanted to believe in evil, but after a few years of this work, you see things. Hear things. It slowly comes to you that there probably is something that has nothing to do with abusive or neglectful parenting. A genetic freak that comes along, once in a while."

  Hal said,
"I suspect there is more to this story."

  "Bass, Doc Langdon and Jerry were waiting, so I took some chances. I asked him if he thought he had been strict enough with his kids. Hal, he thought about it. He allowed as to how he had probably been too loving and lenient with them. He took that question and turned it into a statement about his superiority as a parent."

  "How does it all add up now, son? Do you think that Will beat Sandy and then went over the edge? What happened?"

  I lay there wishing I hadn't quit smoking. Or drinking, for that matter. "We'll probably never know. I think it's likely that she was arguing with, or perhaps about, her brother. If it was Will who beat her, then that's what he felt guilty about. But he had a lot of other things on his mind."

  "Such as?"

  I gathered my thoughts. "Here it is. I have an evil old bastard who is apparently terminally ill. Both of his adult children are dead. I did not see him under professional circumstances, but I have no witness to what he said. So why bother?"

  "Bother with what? You've lost me."

  I squirmed. The springs squeaked, and my mind gave me some more unpleasant sexual images. "Incest. Palmer wants to believe he's progressive in some way, but he's just a damned pedophile. He said kids should be encouraged to play with one another, and that adults should be allowed to 'pleasure their own kin.' His words."

  Hal sighed. "That's foul."

  "Let's just say I'm satisfied that there was enough mental illness in this family to account for a mysterious and devastating pregnancy, a homicide, and the subsequent suicide of the victim's brother by hanging. And ironically, none of that has to tie in to that first body to make sense."

  "What a weekend."

  "Tell me about it. And if there is any more psychopathology in this stinking town I don't want to know about it."

  "I don't blame you," Hal said. "But the important thing here is that you have tried to do the right thing. Have you given this enterprise your best effort?"

  "Yes, but it all seems to have come to a dead end. I can't tell you how much I want to leave this place. I am half-tempted to pack up tonight."