I was pretty sure Animal had nothing to tell me about Jared. But the only way to know that was to show up and ask him. My guess was he wanted to even things up a little, which surprised me. Maybe he was spunkier than I gave him credit for. Or crazier.
Dowling was pretty quiet at this time on a rainy weekday morning. A car moved past the park now and then, carrying somebody to work somewhere. But to the extent that Dowling had a rush hour, it was over by now. Everybody else was sleeping in. The ground was soft from the wet summer, but the current rain was only a bit more than a mist. The park was empty as I squished through it. The trees that screened the Rocks deflected the light rain so that it seemed almost to have stopped. There was no wind. I could smell the lake. There was no sound. In the clearing where the Rocks started, lying on her back on the ground, was George. I stopped. She was dead. I’d seen too many bodies not to know. I jumped to my right and dropped flat on the ground behind the thick trunk of a big maple tree, and three shots tore through the low branches of the trees where I had been.
On my belly in the soaking leaf mold, I wriggled farther right, toward the big rock formation where the shots had come from, and nestled as flat into the muddy forest floor as I could. There was no sound. I took my gun off my hip and cocked it and waited. The rock formation he was behind was a good place to shoot from. I knew how it was supposed to go. I see George. I rush to her side and kneel beside her. He puts three slugs in me at close range and walks away. But it hadn’t gone the way he thought it would, and now he was stuck. The rocks were isolated, and there was no way for him to leave them without exposing himself. I could wait. So could he. He did. I did. The silence of the woods once the gunshots had receded was smothering. It had begun to rain harder. I could feel the drops now, hitting my back as I lay in the mud. Doesn’t get much better than this. I could outwait him. I could outwait Methuselah. I lay still. The silence pressed in on us. And the small rain down did rain. I smiled to myself. Ah that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again. Yes, I was a poetic devil, but at issue here, actually, was how well could I shoot. My gun had a two-inch barrel. And the cylinder held five rounds. I carried it because it was light, and because I had little need for distance shooting. But my guess was that he had a nine-millimeter with a longer barrel and maybe ten more rounds in the magazine. My gun would have to do. It’s a poor workman who blames his tools. The rain was pounding down now, and there was lightning in the distance followed apace by the roll of thunder. I took my Pirates hat off and put it over my gun hand to protect it from the rain. I didn’t need to keep my powder dry. The thing would probably fire under water, but I didn’t want it slippery wet in my hand. The lightning came again, and the thunder followed it more quickly. The rainwater plastered my hair to my skull, and the rain ran down over my forehead and into my eyes. I wiped it with the back of my wet hand. When I finished wiping, he was out from behind the rocks. No surprise. It was Animal, and he couldn’t stand the waiting.
“Come out, motherfucker,” he said. “Stand up and face me, tough guy.”
He had a nine-millimeter and was waving it around.
“Come on, cocksucker. You think you so big, you man enough, you come out here and stand up to me.”
He was probably fifty feet away.
“No sucker punching now,” he shouted, “no cops around, motherfucker, just you and me.”
It was hard to tell because he was yelling, but I thought he might be crying, too.
“Step out, you yellow cocksucker!” he said.
At fifty feet, I was pretty good with the little Smith and Wesson. The smart move was to drill him where he stood. I shook my hat off, which did no good, and put it on. I got up, screened by a low spread of white pine.
“One chance, Animal,” I said. “Put the gun away.”
He turned toward my voice. I moved left, and as fast as he could squeeze them off, he put five bullets through the white pine, tearing clumps of needles in their passage.
I stood sideways, aiming carefully, and squeezed off three shots at the middle of his mass, trying to group them around the lower end of his sternum. He yelled once, the way a weight lifter does when completing a lift, and stepped back. The gun dropped from his hands, and he fell sideways onto the wet earth. I stood for a moment, listening. Only the rain and the sporadic thunder. Nothing moved. There was no one else with him. I walked to him and looked at his gun. It was some sort of Italian nine-millimeter. I left it where it had landed and squatted beside him. He was dead. I moved over to George. She was dead, but less recently than Animal. I stood and looked down at both of them while I opened the cylinder and ejected the spent rounds and reloaded. I put the gun back on my hip and snapped the holster strap.
He’d killed George for talking to me. And he wanted me to see that before he killed me for slapping him around. I thought I’d scared him enough. I hadn’t. I guess he was spunkier than I’d thought. And the miscalculation had cost George her life and Animal his. Animal was bleeding from his chest. The rain was washing the blood pinkly away. When eventually I found out why Jared shot up his school, what would I have? The truth. Was that worth two bodies? The world had probably lost more for less. But they were alive, and now they weren’t. Maybe the truth wasn’t worth dying for. Or killing for. Maybe it never had been.
Too late now.
I looked at them some more. End of the line at, what, seventeen for her? He was maybe twenty-two. Then I stopped thinking and just looked at them as they lay in the mud, mindless of the rain.
After a while I went back to my car to call Cromwell.
42
DIBELLA SHOWED UP about forty-five minutes after Cromwell, and stood with us in the rain in the grove while the Dowling crime-scene specialist did what he could with the soaking crime scene. They both wore raincoats and hats. I didn’t. I figured I had nothing to lose by getting rained on some more.
“Two more dead,” Cromwell said.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did DiBella.
“I don’t like some know-it-fucking-all from the city coming out here and killing people in my town.”
“Actually, that’s person,” I said. “Singular. I didn’t kill the girl.”
“And you don’t think she’d be alive if you hadn’t kept sticking your fucking snout into everything around here?”
“She might be,” I said.
“On the other hand,” DiBella said, “she’s probably alive if whatsisname over there, Yang, doesn’t shoot her in the fucking chest . . . several times.”
Cromwell shrugged.
“How many times he shoot at you?” Cromwell said.
“Came pretty fast,” I said. “I’d say eight.”
“How much brass you find, Clyde?” Cromwell said to the crime-scene guy.
“Eight from the nine, three thirty-eights. Dead guy had six rounds left in his piece. One in the chamber, five in the magazine.”
“Thirty-eights are mine,” I said. “I reloaded.”
“You thought there’d be more people?” Cromwell said.
“I always reload,” I said.
From the periphery of my vision, I saw DiBella nod approval.
“So, if that’s the case,” Cromwell said, “then he probably shot her someplace else and brought her here.”
“She’s been dead awhile,” Clyde said.
“How long,” Cromwell said.
Clyde looked up at Cromwell squinting against the rain.
“Harry, I got no fucking clue. I do fingerprints and look for clues. I don’t know shit about corpses.”
“ME’ll tell us,” DiBella said.
“I want your gun,” Cromwell said to me. “Ballistic comparison.”
I nodded and took it out of its holster, unloaded it, and handed it to him.
“I’ll need it back,” I said.
“How do I know you didn’t shoot her?” Cromwell said.
“ME’ll tell you that she was shot with a nine,” I said.
“You coulda had a nine
.”
“Sure, and before you came, I ate it and the brass.”
“Maybe you didn’t call us right away.”
“C’mon, Harry,” DiBella said to Cromwell. “You know he’s legit. Besides, the crime scene matches his story.”
“He could have arranged that,” Cromwell said.
“Why, for crissake?” DiBella said. “You’re just sulky ’cause there’s another shooting in your town.”
“I don’t like it,” Cromwell said.
“For crissake, Captain Healy vouched for him to me,” DiBella said. “Shit happens.”
“I don’t like it when it happens in my town,” Cromwell said.
“Nobody does,” DiBella said. “But it’s gotta happen someplace.”
“We through here?” I said.
“What’s your hurry.”
“My dog’s home alone,” I said. “She’ll need a walk.”
Cromwell looked puzzled.
“You need to borrow a piece until they return that one?” DiBella said.
“Got one in the car,” I said.
“I hope it’s locked up safe,” Cromwell said.
“Gun safety is job one,” I said.
Cromwell looked at me and then at DiBella and then at the bodies on the ground and then at my stubby .38, which he was still holding.
“You can shoot,” Cromwell said after a time. “I’ll give you that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Come by in a couple days,” Cromwell said. “I’ll see that you get the gun back.”
“Am I free to go?” I said.
Cromwell stared at me for a minute.
“Yeah. Get some dry clothes. Come in tomorrow, give us a statement.”
I nodded and turned toward the street. DiBella came, too.
“Where you going?” I said.
“You’re unarmed,” DiBella said. “I’m walking you to your car.”
43
MY BACKUP GUN was a .357, which was heavy to wear, but I thought it worth the weight on this occasion. I was with Major Johnson and the bald guy with the prison tattoos who had shown such instant affection for me the first time we met. We were sitting on a bench at the edge of a hot top walkway in a playground in Roxbury. I was once again uniquely white.
There were black children playing on the swings and slides that the park commission had set up. There were black mothers and grandmothers, most of whom were younger than I was, watching the kids. There were some black teenagers smoking cigarettes and looking bad in gangsta-rap jeans and hats on sideways.
Past the play area, I could see Jose Yang and two of his people coming toward us. They sat across the hot top walkway from us on a bench just like ours. The management team of Los Diablos was as black as everyone else, except for Yang, whose skin tone was lighter, but far darker than mine.
The scary-looking teens watched us covertly. I was an aberration, and they would naturally have stared at me. But I was with two legitimate gangbangers, and I knew the kids were struggling to look just as dangerous, while desperately trying to do nothing that would annoy any of us.
Nobody spoke for a while. Jose Yang looked at me without expression.
“I killed your brother,” I said.
Yang’s face didn’t move. No expression. The men on each side of him didn’t do anything.
“Why?” Yang said.
“He tried to kill me,” I said.
“Tell me.”
I did. In outline form. Yang listened without any reaction.
“He shot the broad for talking to you,” Yang said when I was finished.
I nodded.
“What it looks like,” I said.
“And he tried to backshoot you?” Yang said.
I shrugged.
“He tried to shoot me from cover,” I said.
“But at the end, he come out,” Yang said.
“Yes.”
“And you come out.”
“Yes.”
“Face-to-face,” Yang said.
I nodded.
“He was looking at you when he died,” Yang said.
“He was.”
Yang stood suddenly and walked down the hot top walkway to the far end of the park and stood with his back to us, looking out at the tightly packed neighborhood around us. None of us on the benches did anything. After a time, Yang turned and walked back down the walkway and stood in front of me. He looked at me. I looked at him.
“He straight?” Yang said to Major.
“Yeah.”
“You believe what he say?”
“Yeah.”
“Why you come tell me?” Yang said to me.
“Didn’t want to be looking behind me the rest of my life.”
“He was my brother,” Yang said.
I nodded.
“He a fucking fool, too,” Yang said.
I nodded.
“Never knew how to act,” Yang said.
“He stood up,” I said. “At the end. He came at me straight-on.”
Yang nodded.
“You got some big balls coming here like this,” Yang said.
“Had to be done,” I said.
“Like killing Luis,” Yang said.
“Yeah,” I said.
Yang nodded some more. He looked back at the corner of the park where he had stood, as if there was something there only he could see.
“I got no problem with you,” he said finally, still staring at the far corner of the park.
“Good,” I said and stood.
Yang’s gaze came slowly back from the corner and settled on me. He nodded.
“Sorry about your brother,” I said.
Yang nodded again. He didn’t speak. I had nothing else to say, so, with Major and his pal behind me, I turned and walked out of the park.
44
I SAT IN A BIG maple captain’s chair in the a small office in the Bethel County Courthouse and talked to Francis X. Cleary, the Bethel County Chief Prosecutor.
“I’ve heard a lot about you already,” Cleary said.
He had longish silvery hair, which he combed straight back, and high color, and pale blue eyes that were very bright and never seemed to blink.
“So you are fully prepared to admire me,” I said.
Cleary laughed.
“I’m maintaining a wait-and-see attitude,” he said. “You convinced the Clark kid did it?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know why.”
“And you care why,” Clearly said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t,” Cleary said. “We got his confession. His accomplice supports it.”
Cleary spread his hands, palms up.
“Slam, bam,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
He grinned at me happily.
“You had a shrink talk with him?”
“Naw. If the putz that’s representing him goes for an insanity defense, I’ll have somebody talk to him and say he’s legally sane. If not, why waste the taxpayers’ money.”
“You’ve talked with him,” I said.
“The kid? Sure. We’ve had several conversations with him. Always, of course, with his attorney present.”
“Lawyer seems a little weak,” I said.
“You want to do time,” Cleary said. “Hire him. I wouldn’t let him search a title for me.”
“Off the record,” I said. “Just you and me. What do you think?”
“About the kid?” Cleary said. “Oh, he did it. No doubt. But . . .”
“But?”
“But, there’s something wrong with him,” Cleary said.
I nodded.
“Besides the fact that he shot up his school,” I said. “For no good reason.”
“Besides that,” Cleary said. “I been doing this a long time. I like it. I like putting them away and not letting them out. It’s why I’m still doing it. I’ve talked to a lotta killers, a lotta whack jobs. But this kid . . . there’s something missing, and I don’t know what it is.”
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“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m not in the business of helping people I’m prosecuting. I’m in the business of throwing away the key, and I’ll do it with this kid, and never look back. But . . .”
“There’s no sport in it,” I said.
“Everybody wants to bury the kids, bury the crime, forget about it all. Parents want to bury him and move on. School. His fucking lawyer.”
Cleary shook his head.
“It’s barely an adversarial procedure,” I said.
“At least the other kid’s got Taglio.”
“Good defense lawyer?”
“Decent,” Cleary said. “I mean, he’s got no case, but he’s trying.”
“If I can get somebody,” I said, “will you let my shrink evaluate him?”
“So he can show up in court and say the poor lad’s crazy, and I’ll have to get my expert and put him on the stand and we’ll have dueling shrinks?”
“No,” I said. “The eval will be private, just with me. I won’t make it available to anyone. Without your say-so.”
Cleary looked at me, frowning.
“There’s something wrong with him,” I said.
Cleary kept frowning.
“Fish in a barrel?” I said.
Cleary grinned.
“I talked to Healy about you,” he said.
I nodded.
“And I got a professional courtesy–type call from an attorney named Rita Fiore at Cone, Oakes and Beldon,” he said. “In Boston. Used to be a prosecutor in Norfolk County.”
“I know Rita,” I said.
“Led me to believe that if I was nice to you, she’d come out some day and fuck my brains out.”
“Ever met Rita?” I said.
Cleary grinned.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s why I’m being so nice.”
“Can I send in my shrink?”
“Yeah. Call me when you’re ready.”
I stood up.
“Healy say nice things?” I said.
“Sort of,” Cleary said. “But he made no mention of fucking.”
“Isn’t that good,” I said.
School Days Page 13