The morning after the murder, local school trustees met in camera to discuss details of further revising the code of conduct to govern student behavior online, though none of the fifty year old plus members of the board was informed enough to appreciate how doing so previously might have prevented the killing of the young girl.
Calls over the area’s wireless network spiked to an all-time high between the hours of eight and ten a.m. that morning. Information passed rapidly from one household to the next like electricity, morphed into an almost enhanced version of the truth by each subsequent re-telling.
Among men in the workplace, the killing of Missy Bitson replaced “March Madness” as the primary topic of conversation. Among women it overrode grousing over children, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, in-laws and even household finance. Outside Missy’s school, students gathered in tight knots, expressing both feelings of outrage and grief, though at this age they were unable to appreciate the absolute finality of death itself. Inside, teachers planned for what to say to the students. Among male instructors there was a mental inventory being taken for anything that might have been said to the dead girl or done that could be construed by anyone—most especially in a re-counting to the police—as being either remotely inappropriate or suggestive.
Already a Facebook tribute page had been established, with over fifteen hundred members and as many Likes. A memorial of flowers, teddy bears and personal keepsakes began to pile up at the mouth of the alley where Missy was discovered.
If speculation were not yet rife among the collective imagination of Church Falls, with sufficient opportunity and communication, it soon would become so. Theory on the killing ranged wildly from the credible to the absurd. Among the former was the belief that the father was responsible, among the latter aliens from outer space. Later, between the two extremes, more reasonable hypotheses would emerge.
Opinion was split evenly among the populace over whether the killer was transient or a permanent resident living within the community.
Among those living locally, some of the less enlightened considered Wayne Wable “good for the crime”. Wable (with the unfortunate pronunciation wobbly) suffered from Cerebral Palsy. At forty-six years of age, he lived with his mother, a retired schoolteacher, the two occupying a four-room third floor walk-up on the southern fringe of town. They subsisted on a combination of her social security and retirement benefit, and his contribution of part-time earnings as a bag boy at the local Winn-Dixie. Personable and accommodating, to the uninitiated, Wayne could be nonetheless intimidating. Poor teeth, a speech impediment—making his words sound nasal and slurred, as if delivered from the back of his throat—and a tendency to lean close when speaking combined with his size to make Wayne an imposing if not suspicious man. That he frequented the Exxxotica and had once been discovered lurking within the girls change room at the local swimming pool did not help to ease this characterization. His mother’s explanation that Wayne had difficulty in reading the signs was discredited by his work stocking grocery store shelves: “Never had any trouble with him reading the labels here,” stated the manager when asked.
In most homes later that day, the killing became the topic of dinnertime conversation. Again, telephone calls within the local exchange spiked, though not to the record levels of that morning. The calls were, however, of greater duration.
Over a meal of lamb shank stewed with pearl onion, celery, carrot, tarragon spice and red wine, Henry Bauer confessed to his wife, Barbara, “It could be any one of a dozen patients I’m treating right now.”
“Do you really believe that, Henry? Here? I’ve lived in Church Falls all my life; know most everyone who lives here. At one time or another, I’ve checked out books for them at the library.” Between caring for her husband, her household and a quartet of three daughters and a son, Babs Bauer worked part-time at the local branch of the Warren County Library, one of the smaller branches in the system but, owing to Barbara’s initiative, one which shelves contained the most varied selection. “And their children, including Missy and her family.”
Barbara lowered her head, poking listlessly at her stew, though the recipe was her favorite and most consistently best. Henry had arrived home from the office late. Barbara had allowed the children to eat early, in front of the television, a thing she normally was loath to do but this evening, given the news of Missy’s tragic death, a concession she felt obliged to make. She knew Henry would want to talk, undisturbed. They sat at the dinner table alone.
“I know what I’m inferring, sweets. That it’s someone we know. Someone I’ve treated, someone you’ve served at the library. God,” he added, forcing a baby roast potato into an already stuffed corner of his mouth, “someone we’ve had over to the house. You’d be surprised what in some families occurs behind closed doors: nasty stuff, unspeakable, and unexplainable. You read enough to know enough, don’t you; books, the newspapers? Besides, just because we live in a community of ten thousand doesn’t mean it’s less likely than if we lived in a city of ten million. In a big city there’s a sense of anonymity, you tend to think of these things as random and abstract; one day it’s front-page news, the next, trash. Here, it’s like it’s personal, you know? That’s the difference. I mean, people do know people who kill, don’t they?”
“Do you have any ideas?”
Henry paused, as if he might have and was now going over the possibilities in his mind. He removed his eyeglasses, placing them at the side of his dinner plate. With one hand, he pressed what little remained of his thinning hair flat to his scalp; with the other, he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if hoping to exorcise the demon behind his eyes. Henry continued to grind his dinner between his teeth, like an automaton, chewing but not tasting.
“You know I shouldn’t say. There’s…any one of a number…” Then, “I shouldn’t say. Besides, it may be a transient, a seasonal worker from out of town. We can hope, can’t we? I’m more concerned that Dojcsak will have a heart attack or a stroke before he has a chance to complete his investigation.”
“The man is a wreck,” Bab’s replied.
Bauer contemplated only fleetingly whether to reveal more about the victim to his wife, decided against it knowing in the short run it would be salacious, in the long term it would all come out anyway. They finished their meal in silence, retiring early to bed shortly after a mindless but still amusing episode of the sitcom Modern Family.
…
As chance would have it, on the morning following the murder, rumor obviated the need to inform Missy’s closest next of kin. Leland McMaster—grandfather on her mother’s side—learned of the murder from an automobile mechanic arriving early for the morning shift at McMaster’s Chevrolet-Oldsmobile dealership.
“It’s all over the internet,” he’d said to Leland.
“I didn’t even know she was missing,” McMaster replied in response to the man’s expression of regret.
“Perhaps they didn’t want to worry you, Lee,” the man said, distressed at having inadvertently related the news this way.
“That must be it,” said McMaster, knowing this was not it at all. “Helen isn’t well,” he continued. “The girls understand that.” In a gesture of condolence, the man laid a hand on Leland’s shoulder before turning away.
Afterward, from his office, McMaster telephoned his wife. Without preamble, he informed her, “Missy is dead, Helen.”
“Dead? Was there an accident?”
“She was killed, Helen.”
“Killed? Was there an accident?”
“You don’t understand. She was killed. Someone killed her.”
McMaster sensed rather than heard the shallow intake of her breath. He imagined Helen sitting, hand to her chest, gripping the fabric of a loose cardigan in her gnarled fist. To keep from falling to the floor, she would claw with the other at the armrest of her wheelchair, bony fingers clutching like the talons of a greedy bird seeking purchase on a tree branch. Leland imagined her odor. Not rank, as s
he was forced by a home care worker to bathe daily, but somehow musty, as if the smell of old age had attached itself to her skin and now was impossible to wash away. At only sixty-three years of age, Helen’s physical and mental condition resembled that of a woman much, much older.
“Who would want to do such a thing?” she wanted to know.
“Is Sandy there?” he asked, knowing the day nurse would be in the house but perhaps not by her side. “Have her fetch you a drink, Helen; brandy would be best.”
Thank God for the nurse, he thought. Without her, he would be otherwise compelled to return home to care for Helen, be forced to cut his workday short and to miss today what would be the busiest in a three-day “Red Tag Sales Extravaganza”.
Over the years Leland had become resigned to Helen’s physical disposition and the resulting confinement, in time encouraged to view her disability as a gift, allowing for a guilt-free transfer of responsibility for her care to an emotionally disinterested third party. Though still robust, Leland was himself approaching seventy-seven years of age and unable to cook, clean and tend to the most intimate and shameless of her bodily needs. In truth, he had never been sufficiently inclined. The marriage was never a happy one. What had compelled him at the age of almost thirty to mindlessly and impetuously marry the compliant sixteen year-old? Leland couldn’t say or wouldn’t admit (though in his most private moments, fist wrapped tight around his swollen penis, thumbing through early black-and-white photographs he had taken of Helen as a very young girl, he was able to recall).
Initially, Helen’s father was despairing at the notion of this older man wedding his little girl, relenting only under pressure from Helen’s mother, who claimed her daughter could do worse, and would likely be hard pressed to do better. Stalwart that he was, Leland upheld his vow of marriage, if not fidelity, for over fifty years, in his mind one having little to do with the other. In the early years, he consented to remain for the children, a decision over which he expressed no regret.
For a man lacking formal education, Leland McMaster had done well. For a man who had started out in used car sales with a local dealership—eventually acquiring the dealership itself—Leland had done especially well. After returning from Korea in nineteen fifty-three, he’d taken a small inheritance and with it purchased over five hundred acres of farmland, forest and rolling hill north of the Hudson River, five miles from town; some called it folly, Leland called it foresight. If, as he suspected one day it must, residential development ever breached the beachhead of the river and moved north, he would make out like Croesus. Over the next twenty years, Leland sold off the land in parcels to developers and private interests, keeping one hundred-fifty acres in abeyance for his own use—a home and what eventually would become a one hundred acre commercial and retail complex. The builders stripped the native vegetation to construct the houses located on the ridge below McMaster’s property, leaving him with a clear view south to the river, east to the Adirondacks, and north to the Tongue Mountains. The development and sale allowed Leland to become, inarguably, the wealthiest man in Warren County.
“Shall I telephone someone?” It was the nurse speaking to him. Having retrieved the phone from Helen it appeared she now was seeking relief. “She’s not completely incoherent, sir, but almost. From what I gather, there’s been a death?”
“Our granddaughter,” Leland said.
“I’m so sorry,” Sandy said. Unasked, Leland explained the circumstances. “She’ll need someone to be with her after I leave, sir. She shouldn’t be alone.” Though who, the nurse could not imagine. In the three years since attending to the needs of Helen McMaster the woman had received few telephone calls and even fewer visits from her children.
“I won’t be home before nine, Sandy. Clean her, feed her and put her to bed. A pill and a stiff shot will keep her sedated. Don’t worry; she’ll be fine.”
Though uneasy with the prospect of leaving the disabled woman alone, Sandy had other commitments. For three hours each week she tended to the needs of Luba Dojcsak, allowing the child’s mother respite from her daughter’s unrelenting and terminal condition. Sandy wasn’t scheduled, but tonight she could drop by the house unannounced. Though Ed wouldn’t talk, perhaps Rena would be willing to reveal a tit-bit of insider information with which Sandy could regale her family and friends? Sandy Belak could only hope. (Not that Sandy was a gossip, simply a means of communication.)
After speaking with his wife, McMaster went about his business, arranging for the disposition of sales personal, for the complimentary beverage service and snacks, balloons for the children, key chains for the adults. No detail was too small or overlooked. Later, he completed a requisition to replace inventory, which owing to the attractive financing and lease rates being offered would encourage vehicles to move from the lot and into the community. Leland took an early dinner at Rascal’s Café, one of the many fine food emporiums that had sprouted in response to a surge in tourism along the river. Though tourists didn’t buy vehicles, the influx enhanced the financial status of the service industry workers and local entrepreneurs who did.
At four that afternoon the restaurant was near deserted. What few eyeballs there were seemed focused uncomfortably at Leland: Fuck-em, he thought, it’s a small town. Except for the server, he wasn’t approached. Leland consumed his meal in silence, adopting the look of a man both stricken, aggrieved and, most importantly, unapproachable.
Returning to his office, McMaster telephoned Seamus Mcteer. “I spend a lot of money with you, Seamus. In fact, considering ad count, I’d say the dealership is what keeps your newspaper in business.”
Seamus was obsequious. “I understand, Leland. I appreciate the trade. But there’s my journalistic integrity to consider.”
Mcteer had as much integrity, journalistic or otherwise McMaster thought, as a watery turd. “Anything you print about my granddaughter or my family, you run by me first.”
“You can’t expect me to agree. Besides, tomorrow’s edition is near put to bed.”
“You’re a practical man, Mcteer. Anything you print regarding my family or the investigation, you clear with me first. I won’t have you turn this into a sideshow. Anything you learn, you bring to me first. You don’t and I will pull the plug. Besides, that black boy Drew Bitson has a son of his own, doesn’t he? Surely to Christ, he could be responsible.”
By nine-thirty that evening, with half a dozen transactions in the book and Leland preparing to leave, the telephone rang. He was alone, with the switchboard on auto-answer. Never one to whiff at the opportunity of a potential sale, Leland depressed the button for the incoming line. He answered. The voice was male, gruff, but to Leland sounding contrived: a boy playing at being a man. Alternately, the caller threatened the proprietor of McMaster Chev-Olds with one thing or another, chiefly among them, extortion.
Leland shouted him down. “Make up your mind; which is it and what makes you believe you can blackmail me?”
Lacking sufficient disclosure from the calling party and unwilling to negotiate blind, (he hadn’t become the county’s most successful horse-trader by prematurely revealing his cards, had he?) Leland replaced the receiver, effectively walking from the “deal”. He set the alarm, locked the door behind him and with an uncharacteristic tremor inserted the key into the ignition of his Cadillac de Ville before pulling from the lot toward home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ABBEY FRIEDMAN DRANK coffee from the ceramic mug purchased as a stocking stuffer last Christmas by her daughter. On it was a picture of a glib rabbit chewing carrots, inquiring, “What’s up Doc?”
Friedman hadn’t slept well. Not since returning home after being summoned from bed to inspect the murder scene and the body of the dead child. A forty-minute drive through dense fog and an hour at the location—standing in the damp, waiting in the rain—ruined her appetite for sleep and would probably leave her with a bout of the flu. She had tossed and turned until the flashing red digits on her bedside clock urged her body fr
om between the sheets and to wake.
Abby pondered the mug. As Jews, the Friedmans didn’t keep Christmas but were compelled, at the insistence of their only child, to honor the occasion with a tree, fireside stockings and gifts. Since moving to Albany from Israel six years previous, Abby and Harry Friedman had struggled to ease the trauma of dislocation for their little girl by indulging her.
“If I don’t have Christmas, my friends will talk. We’re in America, mom, not Israel. I’m as much an American as I am a Jew,” she had complained in perfect Hebrew, an irony that, if lost on the child, was not lost on her parents. “You know how cruel kids are, Daddy,” she reasoned as if espousing a uniquely American observation gleaned from the sound bite psychology of daytime, talk-TV. “You wouldn’t want me to be damaged, would you?”
For Martha Friedman, what the suicide bombers of Hezbollah and Hamas could not achieve, the influence from her American peers would, Martha coercing from her parents a grudging acceptance of her gradual but inexorable transition to things gentile, from Jew.
The Blood On Our Hands Page 10