The Man Who Never Returned

by Peter Quinn

  “Despite her kind insistence on driving me to my cabin, I preferred to walk. I told her I wanted the exercise. Although I didn’t say it, the truth was I needed to be alone. I was convinced that the inquisition was only going to grow more intense, and that all those powermongers who’d betrayed me and besmirched Joe would turn their skills at skullduggery and deceit into making me their scapegoat. I knew the forest would help me find a few moments of peace, and I wasn’t disappointed. The birds’ tuneful whistles, playful chirps and caws blended with the wind’s high and lonely swish as it moved amid the treetops to create the calming chorus nature alone can orchestrate.

  “There was no sign of anyone when I reached my cabin, though the trampled grass and frenzied weave of tire marks on the dirt driveway indicated a crowd had been there recently. I stayed shrouded in the forest’s shadows for several minutes. Sure that no one was about, I emerged and mounted the steps to the porch, pulled open the screen door and received a terrible shock.

  Sitting in the very same chair from which I’d watched Sheriff Scott first arrive with the news that the case had gone public was a man in a blue suit and red tie. His hat was in his lap, hands rested on the armrest. He had a handsome face. His blue eyes fixed on me. He didn’t speak but seemed relaxed and at ease.

  “If I could have, I would have turned and run back into the forest, but I felt a weakness in my knees. I thought I might faint.

  “He got up. ‘Please, Mrs. Crater, have a seat.’ He gestured to the spot he’d just vacated. I fell into the chair. I tried to say something but my mind was a scramble and no words would come. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ he asked. I nodded. He went over to the sink and returned with a jelly glass half-filled with water. I was chagrined that my hand shook as I held the glass to my lips and emptied its contents.

  “He brought over a wicker-backed chair, placed it directly in front of me, and sat. He leaned forward, hat hanging from his hands between his legs, and smiled. As he spoke, I noticed how straight and white his teeth were. ‘The door was open, so I let myself in. Sorry if I gave you a shock, but don’t be afraid, Mrs. Crater. I’m not one of those press hounds.’ Dropping his voice almost to a whisper, as though there were a danger someone might overhear, he said, ‘I’m a friend.’

  “Still trying to gather my wits, I wondered for a fleeting instant if I was having a hallucination brought on by stress. But I could see my visitor was real enough. Whereas a month or two before, I might have presumed such a declaration of friendship sincere, recent events had cured me of such naiveté. ‘I’ve no idea who you are,’ I said. ‘All I know is that you’ve entered my house without being asked.’

  “True, yet though you don’t know me, I know you. At least, I’ve a good idea of the person you are and the fix you’re in. That’s why I’ve come. In my line of business, I’ve seen too many innocent people get hurt. I don’t want that to happen to you.’

  “‘And what line of business might that be, Mister …? I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.’ At this point, despite his denial, I was sure he was a newspaperman who hadn’t left with the others but decided to stay and await my return.

  “He shifted in his seat, reached into his back pocket and, taking out a small leather case, said, ‘For the moment, let’s leave it at this, Mrs. Crater.’ He flashed a detective’s badge from the New York City Police Department. ‘I’ve seen a hundred cases like yours. Oh sure, maybe they didn’t have the same notoriety, but it was the same routine and same result. D.A.’s out to get a conviction so he can run for a higher office. Newspapers act as judge and jury. Cops like me pressured to do just about anything to put a case to rest. The accused bewildered and alone, sold down the river by some self-serving, low-life mouthpiece whose major concern is making sure the papers spell his name right. For the defendant it’s one long nightmare that ends when they strap him into the electric chair. Hate to tell you how many innocent people have been executed for crimes they didn’t commit.’

  “He’d touched a chord, expressing my fear of being made a scapegoat, of being convicted of harming the one man in the world I loved passionately, in the spirit and the flesh. A surge of emotion welled up in my throat. O Joe! Dear Joe! The horror of his fate as well as mine rose before my eyes. One day strolling together through fields of bright summer flowers; the next, plunged into awful darkness. My words came out in a choking sob: ‘O my God … my husband … I’m so afraid … afraid he’s been …’

  “‘Murdered?’

  “I sobbed as I hadn’t since I was a little girl. He took a silk, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it and gave it to me. I pushed it away. ‘It’s all right to cry, Mrs. Crater,’ he said in a voice fallen once again to a whisper. ‘Murder is a terrible word. Maybe the most terrible in the English language, and I got to think in a case like your husband’s, where he’s been gone for a month, without a trace, that’s what we’re dealing with: murder.’

  “‘No, no, no.’ I must have repeated that word a dozen times. Though I knew its probability—that it could be the only explanation for Joe’s deserting me—the horrifying finality of the word rent my heart anew.

  “He pulled his chair close, sitting almost sideways to me, and patted my knee, gently, as a parent would a distraught child. ‘I want to help you get out of this, Mrs. Crater. I’m not here as a cop, but as a person who believes you’ve suffered enough and deserve to be delivered from this nightmare. So please listen, and try to absorb what I’m saying before you react. I’m going to point you to the surest and, I believe the only, way out.’

  “He proffered his handkerchief again, and this time I took it. I stopped my sobbing, wiped my eyes and nose. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll listen.’

  “‘I don’t know whether you’re involved in your husband’s disappearance or not.’

  “‘I’m most certainly not,’ I said with all the emphasis I could muster.

  “‘What I mean to say is, sure, I believe you’re innocent, but so what? Remember what I said about innocent people being executed for crimes they didn’t commit? Think about all those who got a vested interest in seeing you erased. Pols who want this case to go away. D.A. who wants to be governor. A governor who wants to be president. And the press, just try to imagine how they’ll wring this until it’s dry. Jealous wife. Oversexed husband. Make it as low and dirty as they can. You’ll get sympathy from nobody, not even from the jury who’ll be swayed to believe this was a premeditated murder you did your best to cover up.’

  “‘Joe Crater is the noblest man I’ve ever encountered,’ I said. The urge to cry had passed, my sadness transformed into anger by not only his crude reference to Joe but the earlier insinuation that there was even a remote possibility I might have a role in his disappearance. ‘I shouldn’t think it necessary to have to remind a police detective that they have to find Joe, or his body, before anyone can be charged with anything, and should that dreadful day ever come, I can stand before any court, on earth or in heaven, and avow my innocence. I loved—I love—my husband. That’s the truth, so help me God.’

  “He listened with head down, right hand raised to forehead, a posture, I imagined, assumed by Roman Catholic priests hearing confession. When I’d finished, he looked up and stared at me with more intensity than sympathy. ‘You know, Mrs. Crater,’ he said, ‘if this were a fairy tale, everything you just said, all those wonderful sentiments, they’d mean something. But what counts now isn’t “the truth,” as pure and perfect as it may be. No, what matters is the reality of the situation you’re in.’

  “Rising from his chair, he began to pace. ‘You think that swarm of reporters you just fled was interested in “truth”? That’s why they came? Sorry, but if sending you to the chair sells more papers, not a one will lose any sleep. Same goes for the D.A. when it comes to advancing his career. And the judge? How many do you think have the nobility of your husband? Or is it more likely they all want to end this affair fast as they can?’

  “‘If
it comes to that, I will rely on a jury of my peers to ascertain the truth.’

  “‘A jury of your peers? In a fairy tale world maybe. In the world we live in, it’s going to be twelve highly impressionable pinheads who get their opinions from the Graphic and the Standard.’

  “He stood in front of the fireplace, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “The prosecutor and his minions will concoct a convincing scenario that puts you in your apartment the day your husband disappeared. They’ll threaten and browbeat that poor cleaning girl until she swears she saw you that day. They’ll dangle promotions in front of ambitious cops, drag witnesses out of the city’s dungeons and dives, and cut enough deals to get their testimony so that you’ll begin to think maybe you were where they say you were. They’ll weave a straightjacket of false testimony and circumstantial evidence Houdini couldn’t wiggle out of, and they’ll do it with all the skill and desperation of men who know their futures are riding on making you the scapegoat.’

  “I got up and went over to where he was standing. When I spoke, it was close to a shout. ‘Stop! What are you saying? That the situation is hopeless? That I’ll be convicted of a crime I didn’t commit?’

  “‘Hear me out, Mrs. Crater. If you doubt me, I’ll give you chapter and verse on people as perfectly innocent as you who got railroaded into the electric chair.’”

  Struggling to exert some self-control, I said with vehement firmness, ‘Please leave this moment. I’ve had enough.’

  “He smiled. ‘Yes, it’s exactly that tone you’ll need when you preempt their well-plotted lies by relating a passion play of your own. Act one: Joe comes back to Lake Belvedere in the middle of the night and wakes you from your sleep. He’s distraught. There’s liquor on his breath. He won’t tell you how he came, only that “a friend who wanted you to stay out of this” drove him back. You know it’s a woman. You know, though you’ve closed your eyes to his affairs. Standing in this very spot, you listen to your husband pour out the story of his infidelities. You cover your ears and tell him to stop. He grabs you, pulls your arms to your sides and makes you listen.’

  “‘O God, this is obscene!’ We stood face to face in front of the hearth. This time I made no effort at self-control. ‘Get out, right now! Get out or I’ll fetch Sheriff Scott!’

  “‘The very words and passionate tone that you used with Joe. You can see for the first time in memory he’s drunk. He seems possessed by some fit of madness. He lets go of your arms. They ache from his grip. Suddenly, without planning it, you slap him. He seizes you by your shoulders and throws you against the fireplace. Without thinking, you pick up the poker from its stand.’ He paused, reached down and took the poker in his hand.

  “It crossed my mind that I was dealing with a lunatic—a homicidal lunatic—but instead of striking me with the implement, he pressed it into my hand and closed my fingers around the brass handle. ‘You don’t remember swinging it. It’s as if you blacked out. All you remember is looking down at his crumpled body, the bloody wound on his skull. You kneel and cradle his lifeless body in your arms.’

  “The poker made a loud clang as I dropped it onto the hearthstone. I walked to the door and opened it. ‘I’ve heard enough,’ I said in a steady, calm voice. ‘I’m going to get the sheriff. Whether you wish to go or stay is up to you.’

  “My visitor stayed where he was. I suppose I should have been frightened that he might repossess the poker and attack me with it. But I no longer cared. As far as I was concerned this was the last of the endlessly ugly surprises I’d endured since Joe’s disappearance. If it all ended here, in a pool of my own blood or on some distant day in the electric chair, either way, so be it, I would be reunited with my beloved Joe.

  “‘I’m almost finished,’ he said. ‘Act two: You roll the body in a sheet. Pull it into the woods. Heavy, yes, but somehow you find the strength. A week goes by. There are times you think—really believe—it’s all happened in a dream. You meet the train the following Saturday. You tell your neighbors you’re worried. That evening, unsure any longer what’s real and what’s imagined, you go back to the body. You’re certain that if you can see it one more time, see the decay, smell the stench, confront the reality, you’ll be driven to call the sheriff and turn yourself in. But, incredibly, it’s gone. All that’s left is a few torn remnants of the sheet. There are bear prints everywhere. You gather the fragments of the sheet and burn them when you get home. In the morning, sunk in a mind-numbing stupor of guilt, horror and the inability to accept the unintended consequences of an act of self-defense, you start to sound the alarm that Joe’s missing.’

  “‘You’re insane,’ I said.

  “He left the poker where it was and walked toward me. He stopped to pick up his hat. ‘Unfortunately, I might be the only sane person you’ve met in these proceedings. Everything I just said is a lie, of course, but it’s your only chance to avoid the electric chair.’

  “‘I’ll take my chances with the truth. I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.’

  “‘And we know where the truth got him.’

  “‘To heaven, if I remember correctly.’

  “‘The truth often will. In your case, it’ll be an express, powered by 2,000 volts. Ever see somebody die in the chair? Not neat and painless like they make it out.’

  “I made no answer. He walked past me, onto the porch. He put his hat on at an insouciant angle, covering his eyes. ‘The final act: Black Widow becomes wounded wife. The press goes from attack to defense. Embarrassment of the police at not being able to find a Supreme Court judge turns to elation. Lynch mob becomes adoring fans. What woman, betrayed and threatened by a drunken husband, wouldn’t have done what you did? The D.A. and the pols he’s indebted to, right up to the governor, can hardly contain their joy at the way your story ends the affair, removes the case from their jurisdiction as well as the need for further investigation. The judiciary, burned by the present scandals, can’t believe their luck in seeing the case shipped off to Maine.’

  “He went down the steps into the yard. I looked around. There was no car. ‘It’s a bit of a walk back to town,’ I said.

  “He looked up at me, pushing up the brim of his hat. They say if you look hard enough into a person’s eyes, you can see his soul. Peering intently into his eyes, I saw nothing. ‘I’m a cop. I’m used to walking,’ he said.

  “‘Goodbye then.’ I suspected he had a car parked down the road, out of sight.

  “‘I’m trying to help. I hope you believe that.’

  “I smiled wanly. Trying to help. How many times had I heard that refrain? Eventually, even the innocent grow wise.

  “‘Here’s the happy ending: Your case is heard up here, where everybody’s on your side. Most you get is six months. When you’re out, the village wraps its arms around you. The play ends. Your life begins anew.’

  “I went inside. The screen door slammed reassuringly behind me. I turned and locked it, putting hook into eye, a small measure that, silly as it might sound, made me feel safe. From outside, I heard his voice: ‘Think about what I’ve said, Mrs. Crater. I’ll stop by tomorrow and see if you want to talk more about it.’

  “I never wanted to talk—or think—about what he’d said ever again. I lay atop the lovely, hand-sewn, red-and-white quilt that Joe and I had purchased at the Methodist Ladies’ Annual Picnic the summer before, on a July day as they exist only in Maine, broad sky lit with crisp, clear sunshine. Joe’s scent, masculine and wonderful, still lingered on it. Exhausted, I fell into a profound sleep and didn’t awake until morning. A moment later, as the parting words of my visitor from the previous night came back to me—I’ll stop by tomorrow—I heard a car pull up outside. I jumped to my feet, looking for a place to hide and, glancing furtively out the window, I saw it was the sheriff’s car.

  “Abner Scott had come to see how I was faring now that the invasion of newspapermen had withdrawn from Lake Belvedere. Reassured by his presence, I asked him to stay for coffee, and he accepted. As
we sat waiting for the pot to percolate, I told him of my visitor. It sounded so strange in the retelling, almost unbelievable even to me, that I wondered if he would credit it. I ended with the stranger’s promise to return today.

  “‘What he say his name was?’ the sheriff asked.

  “I went to reply but was utterly chagrined to realize that in my shock and confusion, I’d never pressed him to find out. My face reddened with embarrassment, I replied, ‘I don’t know. He never told me.’

  “‘Don’t matter, woulda used a phony one, for sure.’

  “‘He showed me a detective’s badge.’

  “‘Five & Dime’s got a full stock of ’em.’

  “‘It looked real. A New York badge. I could see that plainly.’

  “‘Extra dollar or two, you can get a badge to say what you want.’

  “‘It feels as though it could have been a dream.’

  “‘It weren’t no dream, but one of those perverts follows the press wherever it goes. You always find one where you find the other, like worms in a graveyard. Probably mental. Most of ’em is. This kinda thing is irresistible for ’em. They can scare you, but they’re usually harmless. Just out for thrills. I’ll stick around, have a talk with him when he returns. Maybe they can get away with that guff down in New York, but not in Lake Belvedere. Be the last time he bothers you, I guarantee.’

  “Sheriff Scott stayed all day, sitting in the rocker on the porch, smoking his pipe and whittling. I served him lunch, and in the afternoon, we enjoyed coffee and pie together. He left around dinnertime but promised to swing by that evening to make sure my visitor hadn’t returned.

  “The detective—whoever he really was—never reappeared. I suppose he might have tried but, seeing the sheriff’s car parked outside my cabin, changed his mind and went in search of some other scandalous events where, if the sheriff’s analysis was correct, he could scavenge amid the wreckage of people’s lives in search of vicarious thrills. Sheriff Scott later reported to me that he had checked with the New York police and that they assured him no member of the department had been anywhere near Lake Belvedere on the day in question.