“There were copies,” Cromwell told McMaster. “And negatives. I’ve retrieved them from Womack, who retrieved them from the boy. I have them at the office, under lock and key.”
“Good work,” replied McMaster, his jaw working overtime to grind his molars into dust, his eyes fixed on the image before him.
“I can virtually guarantee there are no others, Leland.”
“You did well to get your hands on this,” McMaster said, taking his eyes from the photo, slapping it with a snap against his thigh. “You’ll be wanting to retain possession, I imagine?”
“It would be best. There’s no telling where this all may lead. If worse comes to worse, it wouldn’t do for either you or I to be accused of suppressing, or destroying evidence in the prosecution of a capital crime. If your son is involved, Leland, it would be tragic: for you or I to sacrifice ourselves as a consequence of a cover-up, would be wasteful.”
“You’re right, of course,” agreed McMaster sincerely, after only a moment’s hesitation. He replaced the photograph in the envelope, returning it to Cromwell. “What do you suggest we do?”
Cromwell resented the notion “we” had anything to do at all, that the problem conceivably could belong to anyone but Leland McMaster and his son, let alone the county prosecutor. He didn’t say this. Rather he suggested, “Leland might go away.”
McMaster turned his eyes to a set of French doors opening on to a flagstone patio. Beyond a formal garden planted with roses, the property stretched to the horizon. At dusk, the tree line turned from green to gold against the backdrop of an amber-colored sky. Leland seemed not to notice, preoccupied instead with calculating his acreage and the number of building lots each might realistically yield.
He said, “I could send him to college; out of state.”
“We spoke about this, Leland, at the arraignment of the colored boy. Your son’s testimony over Bitson’s behavior at the diner was critical in convincing the judge to indict. It will be critical in convincing a jury to convict. This,” he said, referring to the photo, “complicates things. It makes it impossible for me to risk calling him to the stand. If the defense gets hold of these, Leland’s credibility is shot.” Cromwell snapped his fingers.
“If he were away, would he be required to testify?”
“It’s a capital crime; he would, which is why I’m thinking farther away, Leland,” said Cromwell. “Overseas.”
“Like the Sorbonne?”
If Leland Junior was subpoenaed while attending college abroad, Jimmy Cromwell couldn’t prevent an appearance; he hadn’t yet been elected District Attorney and lacked the clout. Leland’s refusal to return could jeopardize the outcome of the trial, not to mention Cromwell’s reputation.
Even so, the decision was more problematic than Jimmy was prepared to admit to McMaster. If brought to light, the photo, together with his refusal to return home to testify, would make Leland Junior immediately suspect. The notion of a privileged child killer shipped abroad to attend college by his influential father to evade a murder rap—and, should it become known, aided and abetted in the exercise by the county prosecutor—would play poorly in the opinion of a conservative public and local press. On the other hand, if young Leland were to fight the good fight, perhaps willingly enlist and disappear for a time into the festering jungles of Vietnam, kill a few gooks and return home a decorated war hero with a Purple Cross, it might be considered punishment enough by the constituency Cromwell sought to appease. He suggested as much to Leland Senior.
“He could also return home in a pine box,” McMaster said to Cromwell, echoing a sentiment he had more than once issued to his son. “As a solution, Jimmy, I think it’s no solution at all.” McMaster drained his tumbler, moving to a sideboard to refill his glass. He did not offer another to his guest.
“Not having a child of my own, I won’t pretend to appreciate your dilemma,” said Cromwell, unsure himself as to the decision he hoped for Leland to make. “If nothing else, a tour of duty overseas spares your family its reputation. I can’t say the same if he stays, whether or not he actually faces an indictment. And there is one more thing you should consider.”
McMaster remained silent, as if waiting for a second shoe to drop.
“Semen, Leland. Extracted from the body during the post mortem. We’ve proven conclusively that it does not belong to the black boy. If your son is serving overseas, we can’t test his blood. There’s no way we can prove the ejaculate belongs to him.”
“I’ll think on it,” McMaster said, his back turned, indicating to Cromwell the discussion was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
ON THE FIRST Saturday morning following the murder, Kubiak woke early to the sound of mourning doves outside his open bedroom window. It was a fine spring day, a day to banish any thought of relocating south to Florida. The sky was high and pale, a pre-summer blue stretching like a vast carpet into space; the Face of God, Kubiak imagined, final sight for the space shuttles Challenger and Columbia crew as in that final, painless and mindless instant they became one again with the elements. Kubiak took comfort in this, as he supposed, too, must have the families of the fallen astronauts.
Though not a religious man, if asked, Art Kubiak might characterize himself as being reasonably spiritual. He accepted the existence of A God, though not necessarily The God of his mother, or his youth. This God, he decided at an early age, was a conniving son of a bitch, having him confess his sins as if in the hereafter things might go easier on Kubiak if only he would. As a cop, in this respect, Kubiak imagined he and his God were much the same; if not in character, at least in the certain knowledge of how, in their un-Godly ways, they possessed power to manipulate the conscience of others.
Kubiak smoked, relieved himself, scraped his face (in that order) and dressed in a pair of well-worn yet serviceable chinos, one of the few pairs remaining to him that he was able—though with effort—to buckle over his ever expanding waistline.
Rena had been up before him, her presence marked by the muffled sound of restless activity that typically accompanied her weekend chores. As it was Saturday, she hadn’t bothered to prepare him coffee. Whereas Kubiak might otherwise have opted to take the car, today he covered on foot the short distance from his home to the Big Top Diner. It wasn’t the New York City Marathon, but for Art Kubiak it was a start, a modest fulfillment of the promise he’d made to Henry Bauer to begin taking better care of his health.
Kubiak slipped from the house quietly, thankfully managing to avoid Jennifer, who remained sleeping, and Rena, now in the cellar laundry room preoccupied with a week’s worth of laundry.
Kubiak sat at the coffee bar, among a group of Saturday morning regulars. The diner was packed at this time of day. Though he couldn’t say for certain, Kubiak suspected that a place at the coffee counter had been purposely set-aside on his behalf; the center seat of eleven, five either side. A corner television was tuned to Fox News, recounting that network’s particular version of the latest battlefield updates from the Middle East. Though Kubiak supported the troops, he didn’t necessarily support the war, as they called it nowadays. A card carrying Republican, he rejected the hyperbole with which the Administration characterized the fighters of ISIS; Kubiak recognized the face of evil and to his mind they were not it.
He ordered coffee and two deep fried apple fritters. (Of the diet, Henry Bauer had cautioned him to begin gradually, which Kubiak now was attempting to do, his regular Saturday morning constitutional consisting typically of two eggs, bacon, home fries and, afterward, two of the sticky buns.) Kubiak was self-consciously aware of the hush that greeted his arrival. He sat pressed between Andy Pardoe to his right, and to the left, His Right Honorable Worship the Mayor, Keith Chislett. Kubiak sipped coffee, chewed his fritter thoughtfully, wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.
“Farmer’s Almanac is predicting a mild spring with a hot dry summer,” Chislett said to no one and to everyone.
“We
need it,” said Pardoe. “It’s been a long winter.”
Chislett concurred. “You’ll get away then, Art?”
For years and since anyone could recall, it was Kubiak’s custom during the spring and summer months to hitch his small trailer to the car and to strap his twelve-foot run-about to the roof rack prior to disappearing into the Adirondacks for days on end, always returning with a catch worthy of mounting, framing and admiration, though Kubiak refused to reveal the exact location of his haul. If pressed, he would say somewhere north of Diamond Point but south of Bolton Landing, knowing the information to be meaningless, the distance spanning a remote shoreline of more than fifteen craggy miles.
“That’s the plan,” Kubiak agreed.
“The Broadmoor has a dynamite schedule this year,” Pardoe said, referring to the local theater. “Lady Be Good, a musical comedy, and Picnic, just to prove to the critics we’re serious.”
“Mmm,” said Chislett, “powerful stuff,” though he himself was not familiar with either production. “The Board of Directors is thinking about adding weekday matinees; to encourage the tours.”
“The buses?”
“The buses,” replied Chislett reverentially, buses in the world of tourism being the Holiest of Holy Grails by which to validate a travel destination such as that to which Seneca Falls aspired to be.
The waitress returned, offering coffee. Chislett accepted, as did Pardoe. Kubiak declined, ordering a third fritter, washing the second down with the tepid remains in his cup. He asked for water; a tall glass, no ice. Without requesting permission, he ignited a cigarette.
“Could be a good summer,” said Pardoe.
“Could be; possibly the best yet,” replied Chislett. “After all, what with war, disease and the threat of suicide attacks, people are likely to stay close to home; avoid the airports, big cities, and trips overseas.”
“Unless,” Pardoe said, “we have another killing.”
“Ay-uh,” said the Mayor, lowering his voice. “It would be unfortunate, that.”
Kubiak said, “For the victim, Keith, or for the town?”
“I’m not a heartless man, Art. My sympathies go out to the family, but I do have to consider the greater good. I’m concerned for the loss of life as much—more—as for the loss of goodwill. It’s my responsibility.”
“Any progress, Art” asked Pardoe, “with the investigation?”
“Nothing I can discuss.”
“Nothing? No suspects, no clues?” Pardoe asked, as if for him it were difficult to fathom.
“This isn’t television, Andy,” Kubiak said, mimicking the words of the Medical Examiner at the crime scene. “These things take time.”
Chislett said, “The summer season is approaching, Art, we don’t have time. We can’t have people think we’re not doing all we can.”
“Or that I’m doing all I can?”
“Just saying, Art. Personally, I think you’re doing all that you’re able to do, but what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what the tourists—and tour operators—think. A lot is at stake. We need to solve this thing quickly.”
“We?”
“Yes, Art, we; the people in charge.”
Behind the service counter, on the same grill, the cook flipped pancakes, bacon, eggs, and home fried potatoes, afterward dragging his hands over an already greasy apron. The waitress barked orders: two, three, four in succession. The faint odor of onion and grease reached Kubiak’s nostrils. He said, “We have no witnesses, Keith. No one seems to have seen or heard a thing.”
“Nothing? No one? How can that be?” Around them other customers strained to overhear the conversation.
“It was a miserable day. People stayed indoors.” As if in his own defense, Kubiak added, “It got dark early that night.”
Lowering his voice, Chislett said, “There are less than ten thousand citizens in this town, Art. More than half those are children, half yet again are women. Eliminate the elderly and the infirm and what’s left? It’s been almost a week. Are you telling me you have no idea?”
Kubiak was telling him exactly that; he had no idea except to say the father—the obvious suspect—no longer seemed so obvious, having been home with his eldest daughter and his wife at the time of the killing. In separate interviews, they confirmed this. “This isn’t to say they aren’t lying,” Kubiak added, “only to say that unless Eugene Bitson breaks down completely and confesses to the crime, or they change their story, he is not our best suspect. I’ve talked to the man; my gut tells me it’s not him.”
In fact, though Kubiak had spoken with Eugene, the interrogation had been neither enthusiastic nor intense. From the outset, Art was skeptical of the likelihood in proving Eugene’s guilt.
The scent of fried eggs and bacon was heavy in the air. Kubiak summoned the waitress. “Eggs over easy, sausage, home fries on the side,” he said. (So much for wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.)
To Chislett, Kubiak said, “Christopher Burke and Sara Pridmore have been working overtime (watch the payroll, Art, the Mayor said in response to this) talking to teachers and students at Missy’s school.”
While excelling in the performing arts, he added, she was shown to be a less than inspired pupil. Despite this, Missy had been granted the privilege to attend a once weekly advanced dance class in the studio of Marie Radigan. It seemed Missy attended church regularly, studying her bible and confessing to her sins, presumably, at the altar of her Aunt, Cassie McMaster.
“Couldn’t have done, Art,” offered Andy Pardoe at this point.
“Couldn’t have done what?’ asked Kubiak.
“Confessed her sins, Art. Reverend McMaster is High Church. Only Catholics Confess their sins.”
Be that as it may, Kubiak went on, where it regards Missy—and other members of the church, he imagined—she was not without sin. Kubiak admitted that according to forensics, though Missy may have had relations prior to her death, she was not raped. “From what we know of the girl, we have our work cut out to identify suspects from what appears to be a long list.”
Kubiak’s breakfast arrived. He reached for a shaker and salted heavily.
Exasperated, Andy Pardoe said, “She was thirteen, Art.” Kubiak looked to him as if he were naïve.
“It’s a crime of passion then?” asked Chislett.
“Appears so,” said Kubiak. “Though I won’t say the killing isn’t a direct result of sexual misconduct, it isn’t random. She may have brought it on herself, through her own behavior.”
“Brought it on herself?” said Pardoe.
Chislett explained. “What Art is saying, Andy, is she knew her killer. That’s a good thing; it reduces the likelihood of a repeat performance. Am I right, Art?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “If it was personal, to do with her behavior, then we may have seen the last of it. Reports of a deranged serial killer indiscriminately killing young ladies would not be good for the summer tourist trade.”
Pardoe said, “Bit like déjà vu, isn’t it? This conversation?”
Chislett said, “Don’t get nostalgic, Andy. It isn’t déjà vu at all.”
Pardoe said, “But…”
Chislett cut him off. “No buts, Andy; we’re not talking swallows to Capistrano, here. It’s like Art says: function of the girl’s behavior.”
Kubiak said, “These things take time. We’ve had help from the State Police, canvassing for witnesses, but ultimately, the responsibility to question possible suspects is mine, and I’m only one.”
Chislett studied Kubiak thoughtfully: his size; his bulk, struggling like an overcooked breakfast sausage to remain encased within his trousers; the florid complexion, and the bloody lacerations where, apparently, Kubiak had carelessly nicked himself while shaving, as if so much damage could be possibly caused by a safety razor. A strange man, Chislett thought, always was, not particularly incompetent at law enforcement, but an ostrich where it regarded his own family. Looking at him now—persp
iring, quaking—Chislett wondered if Art Kubiak might not be seriously ill.
They sat in silence for a moment before Kubiak placed a ten-dollar bill on the countertop: enough to cover his meal including a generous tip. He wrapped his third fritter, “to go”, in a paper napkin, pulled himself from the barstool and departed thirty seconds later with: “Goodbye, I’ll keep you informed,” for the benefit of the Mayor.
At home, Kubiak raked the snow-flattened front lawn, not so much dismayed to know Jenny was smoking but that she did so in such utter defiance of him. He tilled soil in the garden, even though it was far too early in the season to plant, and enjoyed the scent of a lilac bush in early bloom. A burst of color had appeared in one errant patch of the yard: enthusiastic yet premature daffodils?
They reminded Kubiak of a painting: Monet. Or was it Manet? No matter, an Impressionist at any rate. Or was it Realist? He had been to the Met once, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of few weekends over twenty-five years of marriage that he and Rena had managed to spend away. They had walked, admiring the ancient and more recent artifacts, taking lunch in the cafeteria so as not to lose time by leaving the premises, remained late until the doors closed. Afterward, they’d walked Central Park, dined at Tavern On The Green (though he could hardly afford it, Jenny at the time having only recently arrived) then made love upon returning to the hotel. (All this at a time when Kubiak was capable. Or willing? He was never sure which, or if there was a difference.)
The Body In The Water Page 25