Trask said, “Wait until the guys on the second shift hear this. Scott Carpenter in my home. Can I shake your hand?”
Trask stared at his hand after they accomplished this feat. “Damn, I’ve touched the most famous right arm in America.” He got misty-eyed.
Scott said, “I wished we’d had more time to talk earlier.”
He grinned at us impishly. “That shit Twitchell and those stupid administrators grabbed me at the police station. They’re as worthless as the cops. They tried to warn me about talking to you guys. I think that Mrs. Twitchell is hot-looking for an old broad. But she’s stupid. It’s her I’d never talk to. She’s a bigger bitch than my wife.”
He grabbed some of the older-looking bits of debris and led us to a tiny kitchen, all torn lace and faded plastic flowers. He dumped his trash near enough to the garbage can and invited us to sit at the kitchen table. “Jesus, Scott Carpenter in my kitchen. They told me you were bad guys and to keep you out.” He pointed to me. “I thought you were kind of a shit at the police station the other night.” He belched loudly. “But you know Scott Carpenter. Shit.” He looked from one to the other of us. He scratched his stomach and squinted at us. “Are you bad guys?”
“The worst,” I said. “Mrs. Twitchell hates us.”
“But my wife likes you. Can’t talk enough about what you did for the kids in teaching them. Though she’s probably right about that. I haven’t been able to get anything through their thick skulls.” He switched topics abruptly. “My wife always tries to act better than herself. She’s the one who wanted the divorce. Old, fat Jerome Horatio Trask who couldn’t see over his gut to his prick wasn’t good enough for her.” He guzzled half a beer, excused himself profusely for his rudeness, and without asking plunked two cold cans of Strohs in front of us. We popped the tops and joined him.
“I know those people laugh at me behind my back. I don’t care. What can I do for you two?”
“We’re trying to find out who killed the kids.”
“My ex-wife didn’t do it. She’s too worried about being clean and neat. Everything has to be perfect for her. I was fifteen years ago.” He patted his gut. “I had a washboard stomach and could fuck for hours. To hell with her.”
“We didn’t suspect your wife,” I said.
“No, huh? Too bad. If she’d done it, I might get to see the kids more often.” He drank.
“We need some information,” Scott said.
“No problem. You want to know what my idiot son has been up to.” He shook his head sadly. “I honestly don’t know.”
For a moment, I thought elements of total sobriety existed in that statement.
He drank. “But what the fuck, kids are kids, you know. They grow up. They move out. My boys aren’t the brightest, but if they weren’t so goddamn lazy, they could make something out of themselves. It’s all my ex-wife’s fault. She coddles the little bastards. Boys need to get straightened out by someone they fear.”
He went on to propound his philosophy of child rearing, a sort of mixture of Rambo and Attila the Hun.
After another solid snort of beer, he switched topics again. “Now, these parents are strange. The Twitchells and the Conlans. They don’t like you. They don’t want me talking to you, threatened me in fact.” He roared with laughter. “Stupid fuckers!”
“Why not talk to us?” Scott asked.
“Beats the living shit out of me! Those rich assholes think they run everything, and when something blows up in their stupid faces, they try to cover everything up. My kids’ll get screwed if they’ve got anything to do with it. They underestimate Jerome Horatio Trask.” He rolled a muscle or two in his arms. It resembled someone moving reserves of old fat from waste-storage locations. “I wrestled in high school. Almost went to the state championships one year.” He sighed wistfully and got dewy-eyed.
“What happened?” Scott asked.
“I got a girl pregnant. Everything got fucked up. I almost didn’t even graduate. Barely escaped marrying the bitch. The bastard parents were well connected. All those fat cats have it in for us working stiffs.” He ranted on about the evil capitalist bosses for a few minutes.
I got him back on track by asking whether anything else unusual had happened since Susan’s murder.
“One thing. One of those coaches from school called for Eric. They never call here. They don’t like me. Just because I go to the games and cheer for my boys. Those assholes don’t know shit about coaching, and they don’t like to hear it from somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
I tried to get the name of who had called. But try as I could to jog his memory, it was lost among the Dorritos and beer already crammed there. As we moved to the door to leave, Trask said, “How’d you throw that second no-hitter in the Series?”
“Skillfully and carefully,” Scott said.
An echo of laughter rolled around the room. Trask said, “I’ll never forget watching it. No-hitter in game five, then bing, no-hitter in game seven. Let me shake your hand again.” This accomplished, he stared at his hand again.
In the car, “We believe this one?” Scott said.
“Maybe. I want to talk to friendly Harry Conlan and find out why he joined in the group to stop us.”
We arrived at the Conlans’ a few minutes later. Only Paul was home. Mom and Dad were out doing last-minute Christmas shopping. He was too polite not to let us in, but we remained standing in the front hallway.
“Tell me your connection with Becky’s drug schemes,” I said.
He paled and looked close to tears.
“Go easy, Tom,” Scott said. He turned to Paul. “Can we sit and talk quietly for a few minutes?”
Paul shook his head no, but we led him to the room where we’d talked to the Conlans earlier in the week. Paul paced the room as we sat. I tried asking questions. For several minutes, he wouldn’t answer.
Scott asked, “Is it that bad?”
“I can’t talk to you guys.” Paul stopped in front of the couch where we sat. He held out his arms pleading. “I want a pro career.” He closed his fists. “I’m so close. I can’t get thrown out of sports. Maybe I did some stupid stuff, but it can be taken care of. My dad says everything’s going to be fine. But you two keep stirring things up. And now Roger’s dead. I’m afraid I’ll be next, or one of my other friends. Don’t you understand? Two people I knew are dead. They say Jeff’s got an alibi for one. I guess that’s true, but, maybe he’s nuts.”
“Paul.” I said his name softly. He stopped. I repeated his name, then said, “Obviously you’re in the middle of something that’s way over your head. Tell us and we’ll help.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. “They’ll kill me, too.”
“Who will?” I asked.
He stumbled to the French windows and stared at the expanse of whiteness that stretched to the fields beyond. He leaned his head against the glass. I saw a cloud of mist form on the cold pane from his labored breathing.
“Please leave,” he said.
“Paul, if you know who killed Susan and Roger, you’ve got to tell us. If you’re in danger, tell someone, your mom and dad, the police, Coach Montini. You can’t hold all this in.”
“I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything,” he said dully.
“You just said—” I began.
“Well, forget what I just said. It’s nothing you or anybody else can do anything about.”
“At least let us try,” I said.
Something snapped in him. He turned to us, raging. “You think you understand so goddamn much. Some smartass teacher playing detective. You can’t figure out anything. You’re so stupid. You’re such shit.” Tears and sobs mingled with his shouts. “Get out. You’re in as much danger as anybody. Get out and leave me alone.”
“Yes, you’d better go.”
We whirled to the doorway. Mr. Conlan strode toward us. Mrs. Conlan stood behind him.
“Leave my home,” he said.
“Not until I fin
d out why your son is so frightened.”
“My son needs you to leave.”
“Don’t you care about what’s destroying your boy?”
“You are. You’ve disturbed this family too long.” He reached out to touch his son. The boy knocked the arm aside and fled. Mr. Conlan said, “Sylvia, call the police.” She marched to the coffee table, picked up the phone, and punched three numbers.
Our movements to exit at this point were slow enough to salvage some dignity but quick enough to cause her to drop the receiver.
It was three. We decided to try Susan’s parents. The funeral had been the day before. I thought they might be at home. I didn’t know how much they’d welcome our presence or our questions, but we had to try. I needed to know more about Susan.
We rode through quiet streets lined with massive naked trees. The Warrens lived in the Wheatfield Forest subdivision. The homes were among the oldest and smallest in the area. An elderly man answered the door. I explained that we wanted to talk to the Warrens. He seemed uncertain, but after a moment’s hesitation let us in and led us into the living room. Five minutes passed before the Warrens joined us. Mr. Warren wore a gray suit. His wife had on a severe black dress and white blouse. An open Bible, red bookmark ribbon slashed across the open page, gleamed in the middle of an oaken coffee table. They sat down. Mr. Warren rested his elbows on his knees. Greasy oil held his hair plastered to his head. Mrs. Warren crossed her legs at the ankle and stared anxiously forward.
I expressed my condolences. Mrs. Warren gave a weak smile of appreciation. I talked about helping Jeff and wanting to learn all I could about his relationship with Susan. I finished my explanation. “We’re trying to find the murderer. Can you tell us anything of her life in the past few weeks? Had she changed any? Said anything? Any obvious problems?”
Mrs. Warren answered, “She was the same as she’d always been. All three of us attended services Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. We prayed together at every meal.”
Mr. Warren added, “She never complained, never appeared troubled.”
“She was a good girl.” Mrs. Warren unclasped her hands, smoothed her dress, and continued. “She’d escaped so many of the silly traumas of most adolescents.”
“Jeff said you sent them to a family-planning clinic.”
Mr. Warren looked confused. Mrs. Warren clutched her throat guiltily. She said, “I never told you, Allan.” She patted his arm. “I knew you’d be angry.” She turned to us. “Our daughter was a good girl. But I am a realistic woman. She told me they weren’t doing anything, but I insisted she go.”
Mr. Warren patted his wife’s hand. “You did what you thought was best,” he said.
“Could you tell me what you thought about Jeff Trask?” I asked.
“She brought him around occasionally,” Mr. Warren said. “He was always quiet and well-mannered. He always brought Susan home at least fifteen minutes before her curfew. We’re glad you’re helping him. He couldn’t have murdered her.”
“He was good to her,” Mrs. Warren said. “He isn’t of our faith, yet he went to church with us once in a while. Susan hoped he would go more often.” He hadn’t mentioned churchgoing. Maybe this was true love.
“She’d emerged from her shell these past few months, but that was a welcome change,” Mr. Warren said. “She was always an introverted girl. She even talked about attending the summer religion camp we help sponsor every year. Jeff said he might go along. We told the police we couldn’t believe he killed her. He was so mild-mannered and polite.”
Mrs. Warren dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she clutched in her hand. Her husband put his hand on her arm. “God will give us strength,” he assured her.
They could give us no information as to Susan’s activities that final Sunday. She’d left with Jeff at noon. They hadn’t known anything until the police arrived at the door. As to who could have killed their daughter, they had no idea. It was after four by the time we left.
“I don’t think they had a realistic view of their daughter’s life,” I said.
“What parent does?” Scott asked. “My parents could have figured out anytime in thirty-seven years about my sexual orientation. They never did. They didn’t want to. If the Warrens are strongly religious, maybe that’s what they did see.”
“Or maybe that’s what Susan wanted them to see.”
“What we don’t have is a reason for someone to kill her,” Scott said.
“Yeah. So far this drug thing is a bust.”
“Not funny,” he said, then suggested, “Maybe Becky killed her in a fit of revenge.”
To that, I had no answer. As far as I could see, Becky had no reason to kill Susan.
We stopped at the Trask home. I wanted to check on how Eric was and see whether he could tell us anything about the attack.
Eric met us at the door. His mom was out Christmas shopping. “You look okay. How’re you feeling?” I said as we stepped into the living room.
White bandages covered his fingers. He reported that the doctor said he’d be fine. He wouldn’t lose any body parts. “I was lucky. You saved my life.”
We talked doctors for a while, then I said, “You know Roger’s dead.”
“Yeah, man, that’s awful. Roger was cool.”
“Had you talked to him since you were attacked?”
“The guys came over as a group last night. They snuck some beer past my mom. We had a great party. I’m still not up and around as much as I want, so it was great to see them.”
“How’d Roger seem?”
“Normal. He told about a million jokes, like he always does.”
“Who in the group was connected with Becky in selling stuff? I’m especially interested in Susan and Roger.”
“Nah. Forget those two. They were pretty straight. Susan hardly ever said boo. Roger was the life of everything. He drank a little beer like everybody, but that’s all. Kids hoped Roger’d be in class with them because they knew he’d keep it interesting. Everybody liked Roger.”
“Everybody but one,” Scott said.
“Well, yeah,” Eric said.
“About drugs and the group,” I reminded him.
“Well, we all bought small amounts once in a while. Most of us didn’t really buy all that much. What little I know of the actual setup is that she had kid distributors at each grade level. They’d pick up stuff at her house mostly, I think, although I’ve never seen it. Like on Sundays, people knew to come over to the Conlans’ to buy drugs.”
“All people knew?”
“Well, some anyway. Maybe ten or so kids would show up.”
“Who were the dealers?”
“I don’t know. Some kids came over because they were friends of friends and they’d heard it was a place to buy. Some were dealers. I don’t know which were which. I never asked. I was never part of it. I didn’t even know their names.”
“What happened Wednesday?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Last thing I remember is the wall outside the gym doors. I didn’t hear or see anything. Somebody grabbed me and then I got belted in the head. That’s all until I woke up in the hospital.”
“Are you covering for somebody right now?” Scott asked.
“No, Mr. Carpenter, honest,” Eric replied.
In the car, I announced, “We’re going to see Mrs. Twitchell.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Scott counterannounced.
“Somebody’s dealing bullshit. I intend to find out who.”
“She’s head of the board. They could fire you.”
“She’s covering up something.”
“So you say. Why not check with Frank Murphy?”
“Frank is conducting a sociological tea for the good citizens of River’s Edge. And I’m pissed at the idiot parents. We’re going to find the murderer.”
“Your job could be on the line,” Scott said.
“I can handle it.”
Mrs. Twitchell answered the door. She let
us in but stopped us three feet inside the door.
“This is incredibly impudent and shows extremely poor judgment on your part,” she said.
I barely avoided shielding my eyes from her outfit: solid white pants, clinging to the bulges around her hips and thighs, and a clinging orange-gray sweater vest that revealed amazing amounts of breast. Her red high heels gave the outfit a vague Christmas sheen.
I said, “Perhaps it is a rotten decision. If so, then I need to get what I came for.”
“You have thirty seconds to explain before I throw you out. I would use that time to convince me not to have you fired in the morning.”
“Bully somebody else. Becky’s done something and you’re covering for her like mad … more than usual is my guess. Why? Did she kill Susan?”
“Get the hell out of my house.” Her eyes glittered angry daggers. She grabbed several folds of my overcoat and pushed toward the door. A foot taller than she, I moved less than an inch. She yelped in frustration and backed off.
“You must have had some inkling of your daughter’s problems after all the reports you got at home. Don’t you realize how much help your daughter needs?”
She advanced upon me again. I suspected an invitation to dinner was not forthcoming. We left with her icy silence forming glaciers behind us.
In the early-evening darkness, we drove to the White Hen on 191st and Wolf Road. Most mornings in the summer, I walk the two miles there for the daily papers. The people who work at the Mokena store are great. They make the best sandwiches. Try the chicken salad on rye, with lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayonnaise, and American cheese. Throw in a pickle from the vat on the counter and it’s perfect.
We hurried to my place to eat. Scott had a speaking engagement that night.
Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Page 13