Fall Guy

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  CHAPTER 16

  Something called the Certificate of Preliminary Letters of Testamentary was in the mail from Melanie Houseman’s office. So was O’Fallon’s death certificate. Dashiell began to explore the garden as if it were a brand-new place, every inch of it worthy of his attention. I sat on the steps and opened the mail, but it was too dark to read. I didn’t think reading a death certificate was exactly what Jin Mei had in mind, even though I was, as she had suggested, in a garden.

  I decided to do a round of tai chi, to see if that would clear my mind. As soon as I took the first stance, Dashiell came to stand near me to bask in my increased energy. By the time I’d finished the form, I felt clearer. I went inside to read the mail.

  There were only a couple of items on O’Fallon’s death certificate that I was interested in, but I read every word. It seemed, somehow, disrespectful not to. The single sheet had been issued by the Department of Health, and after the identifying information, O’Fallon’s full name, age and last-known address, there was a box that said, “Date and hour of death or found dead.” The date he died was there. The time his body was discovered was there as well. There would be no exact time of death. There had been no witness, no broken watch, no one claiming to have heard the shot. Eventually the ME would record an approximate time of death, a period of several hours during which evidence reveals he might have died. Because Jin Mei had heard him crying early in the morning and Parker had called 911 around noon, the time of death would probably be recorded as between eight and twelve that morning.

  I didn’t know if any more specific information would be coming my way, unless I could pry it out of Brody. I imagined that because O’Fallon had been fully submerged in hot soapy water, the ME might make a narrower assessment of the time he’d died, that the particular deterioration caused by or prevented by the water would help him to pinpoint a tighter time frame.

  After “Death was caused by…” there was a caution. It read, “Enter only one cause per line.” But only the first line remained, the other two having been crossed out so thoroughly that even holding the form under the light, I was unable to read what had been deleted. What was left was, “Immediate cause.” And typed alongside that, in capital letters, PENDING FURTHER STUDIES. It said the same thing, all in caps, farther down the page, after “Manner of Death.” None of the other choices—homicide, natural, suicide, undetermined—had been checked.

  Near the bottom of the page were my name and address, as executor, and the name of the funeral home designated in O’Fallon’s will, Redden’s on Fourteenth Street. After that, there was a statement certifying that all the foregoing information was a true copy of the record on file at the Department of Health. It also said the Department of Health did not certify the truth of the statements, that they had accepted the facts as stated but had not verified them. And even though, with this statement, they had neatly passed the buck for any sort of responsibility, their seal was affixed in the lower right-hand corner.

  I had the feeling that Brody would tell me that “pending further studies” simply meant the tox screens weren’t completed yet. I slipped the death certificate back into the envelope, pulling out and reading the preliminary letters of testamentary next. It was this document, issued by the Surrogate Court of the County of New York, which allowed me legal authority over Timothy O’Fallon’s estate. The note from Melanie said that the checking account had been opened and that I could stop by my local branch of Chase to sign the signature cards. After I had done so, her office would begin to pay O’Fallon’s bills, sending me the checks to approve and sign.

  The mail included a postcard from my Aunt Ceil, who was on vacation in Denmark, a phone bill, a letter from my congressman and a check for $80 from AT&T. If I cashed it, they would automatically become my long-distance carrier. I tore it up, dropped it in the garbage and picked up the phone.

  I called Maria Sanchez, figuring if I told her the sad news sooner rather than later, she might be able to fill O’Fallon’s time and not suffer the loss of income.

  “You need cleaning?” she asked.

  I told her no, I didn’t.

  “I’ll give you a good price.”

  I told her no again.

  “You want the key back?”

  I told her not to bother, that the lock had been changed.

  There was a silence on the line, and then she said, “Because of me?”

  “No,” I said, “not because of you. I did it before I knew about you.”

  “Then because of Mr. Parker?”

  “Yes,” I told her, “that’s right.” It wasn’t the whole story. But it would do.

  “He was a pig,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Mr. Parker. Always dishes in the sink, a dirty bathroom. He never let me vacuum the couch he slept on. A real slob.”

  Jin Mei was right, I needed time off. Even after a round of tai chi, I was still on overload. I fixed Dashiell’s dinner, looked longingly at the nylon bag with my swimsuit, cap and goggles, but there was no time for a swim, not if I was going to be here when Brody came. I grabbed an apple and curled up on the couch with O’Fallon’s notebook to see if there was anything I could learn about Parker while I waited for the bell from the front gate to ring. But it was later than I thought. Or maybe Brody was early. I hadn’t yet bitten into the apple or sampled O’Fallon’s notes when he arrived.

  Walking barefoot down on the cold stone flooring of the tunnel, I could see Brody waiting on the other side of the gate. He stood with his hands at his sides, looking as if he could do that all day. I imagine he could have gotten a job at Buckingham Palace, guarding the queen, or perhaps he could work as a mime, pretending to be the Statue of Liberty, his face painted green, his breathing barely discernible.

  I unlocked the gate and pulled it toward me. For a moment, he stood there, still not moving.

  “I don’t have the answer to your question,” he said.

  “Which question?”

  “Why. What it was Tim wanted.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He hesitated and for a moment I thought he was going to leave. I stepped back and waited. After another moment, he walked in. I watched him walk down the tunnel and head for the garden before I closed the gate and locked it with the key. I could have had a system where I buzzed people in without having to walk out to let them in, but then I’d be depending upon other people to make sure the gate clicked shut, people whose security didn’t depend on it the way mine did. I had seen how people handled a similar situation at the dog run, being careful to secure the gate when they went in, being careless when they left. I didn’t want to bet my life that the kid who delivered pizza or the UPS guy would give a shit if my gate was locked or not. I didn’t want to be surprised one day by a visitor I would not have invited in, especially considering the work I did.

  Brody walked to the center of the dark garden, stretched his back and then turned around to see where I was. I headed toward him, feeling suddenly that I was at least as hungry as I was tired, thinking it might not be such a bad idea to have to walk out to the gate one more time, to pay for a pizza or some chicken Milanese.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You forget meals, too?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “That’s a bad habit. At least that’s what my mother used to say.”

  Brody smiled. A real smile.

  “You have your phone with you?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, dial this number.” I gave him the number of the pizza place, not even embarrassed that I knew it by heart.

  “What do you want on it?” he asked.

  He knew the number, too. I began to laugh. It felt really good. I waved a hand to him. “Whatever,” I said, “except anchovies,” and started to laugh again. “And mushrooms.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t get meatballs on it either,” I told him.

  “How about sa
usages?”

  I shook my head.

  “You want a plain pie?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” He took out his phone and just held it for a moment. “My wife used to say she didn’t know how I was still walking around, all the meals I skip, the junk I eat.”

  “Used to? You mean, except for tonight, your eating habits have improved? Or did she just give up on you?”

  He nodded. “Totally. Three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him.

  “Yeah. Me, too.” He dialed the pizza place. “Let’s stay out here,” he said. “Is that okay?”

  “Someone told me I should spend time in a garden today, that I needed to clear my mind.”

  “Always a good idea.”

  “Difficult to do.”

  “Not for him.”

  Dashiell was rolling on his back in the ivy.

  “Guess he needs to empty his mind, too.”

  He took off his jacket and put it over the top railing. “What’s he got on his mind?”

  “He hasn’t said.”

  He nodded. We sat for a while without talking. It had been a long day. Sometimes it seemed they all were. I bet Brody would have agreed but I didn’t bother to ask his opinion. When the bell rang, we could hear the sound coming from behind the closed cottage door. While I was unlocking the gate, Brody took out money to pay for the pie. I tried to argue with him, but he insisted. The truth is, I never care about stuff like that. I could pay, or he could. I can open a door for myself, or be gracious when someone else does. My view of myself isn’t locked into trivial expressions of courtesy or generosity. And I was too hungry to have a prolonged argument.

  There were a table and chairs in the garden, but I sat on the top step. Brody followed me, putting the pie behind us, in front of the door. Dashiell came over, his tail swinging happily from side to side.

  “Ignore him,” I said. “No matter what he claims, he’s eaten already.”

  Speaking of gracious, I got up, stepped over the pizza box and went inside to get some beer, napkins and paper plates. While I was there, I picked up Parker’s phone and the matchbook and slipped them into my pants pocket. I took O’Fallon’s notebook and slipped it under one of the couch cushions.

  “The reason I asked you to come here tonight…”

  “I thought it was the other thing, about O’Fallon, about why he named you as executor. I didn’t even know you could do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Name an executor without permission. It seems…”

  “Do you have a will, Detective?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Did your attorney ask you whether or not you had informed your executor of your decision and had received said person’s approval to be so named?”

  “I see your point. So, if not that, why did you call?”

  “Dashiell found something at O’Fallon’s apartment, something I thought you’d want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Parker’s cell phone. I called it, to cancel the appointment I had with him. I’d told him he could come to Tim’s tomorrow, to get his things. Then I changed my mind. I wanted more time to look at things myself, before he started claiming them. The number he gave me, for his aunt’s place, it was a wrong number.”

  Brody nodded.

  “I remembered seeing a cell phone number in Tim’s address book, so I called that. I was at Tim’s apartment at the time and the phone rang there. The only trouble was, I couldn’t see the phone and I wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from, so…”

  “You asked Dashiell to find it.”

  Dash looked at Brody when he heard the words, then looked at me for clarification. I waved a hand at him, to tell him he wasn’t working, he was just waiting for pizza, nothing more.

  “Right. And he did. And that’s why…”

  He was looking at Dashiell again. “You said you’d been a dog trainer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you taught Dashiell how to do pet therapy?”

  “No. He didn’t need me for that.”

  Brody raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s innate. All predators know how to tell the weak from the strong. For the wild ones, once they do…” I drew my pointer across my throat. “That’s how they survive.”

  “Sounds like the predators I deal with.”

  “Except that domesticated predators, like dogs, don’t think of humans as prey.”

  “How do they think of us?”

  “As family. So when we’re hurting or in trouble, they don’t have us for lunch. They nurture us.”

  Brody looked at Dashiell.

  “All I had to do was teach Dash manners so that when he goes to a nursing home or the church where I met Tim, he behaves appropriately.”

  Brody took a pull on his beer. “What about protection work? Does he…?”

  I nodded.

  “Is that why you didn’t need me at O’Fallon’s when I offered to be there?”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s good,” Brody said, “very good. What else?”

  “It depends on the circumstances, on what’s called for.”

  “Any rescue work?”

  “He wasn’t down at Ground Zero, if that’s what you’re asking. And anyway, most of those dogs specialized in cadaver recovery.”

  “And Dashiell, does he do that, too?”

  “I’ve started him on that. It’s not that it’s really something new to him. If I give him a scent and send him, he’ll do his best to find it, no matter what it is. Except…” I stopped, looking first at Dashiell and then at Brody, both of them concentrating hard on me. “Except that if a dog’s only done rescue work, if he’s only come up with living people, he can get really depressed after a day of finding bodies. Or body parts. So I’m getting him used to it, just in case.”

  Brody turned away. Maybe he was skipping the news, too.

  “Some people think it’s the handler’s reaction that causes the depression with cadaver work, that to a dog, it’s all the same.”

  Brody was shaking his head.

  “I don’t believe that either,” I said. “Anyway, there’s another side to it. Even when the work is brutal, it’s what he wants to do. He really loves to work. It’s a religious experience for him. It’s therapy. It’s self-defining. It’s not the icing on the cake, it’s the cake itself.”

  Brody was smiling. He reached out and touched my arm.

  “I know, I know. I get carried away. It’s just that most dogs never get the chance to…”

  “You don’t have to explain. I know exactly how he feels.”

  “Oh,” I said. Another thing his wife had complained about, perhaps.

  I ate some pizza. Brody did, too.

  “Sometimes I think it’s just easier than real life,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “Work.” I leaned back against the rail.

  Brody took a deep breath and let it back out.

  Dashiell began to vocalize, a kind of singsong sound he made to let me know he was running out of patience. I shot him a look and he lay down.

  “It’s hard getting the training materials,” I said. “I know most of the groups training cadaver dogs use chemical scents—you know, the pseudo formulas. But until we understand it all, until we know exactly what the dog’s keying on, I’d rather use the real thing.”

  “Any bodies buried here?”

  “Not quite that real. I’ve used extracted teeth, and some blood products. My dentist has been very helpful.”

  “Good,” he said again. “How far along is he?” Gesturing toward Dash with his half-eaten slice of pizza, getting the dog’s hopes up.

  “Maybe halfway to where I’d want him. All the scent work he’s done helps. He’s got the culture down cold—how to quarter, how to keep his mind on the task at hand. But he still needs more experience with…”

  “The dead?
”

  I nodded. Cadaver recovery wasn’t something you’d ordinarily talk about, but sometimes, in order to be useful, you ended up doing things you never imagined you’d do. If anyone would understand, I knew Brody would. He took out a cigarette, lit it, kept the match in his hand. He wasn’t in any rush to get Parker’s cell phone. He had no idea what was on it. But I did. I pulled it out of my pocket.

  “This may be one of the reasons why Parker was so anxious to get back in there and to do it when none of you guys were around. Also, I think I saw him, the guy who wanted to see Parker in hell.”

  “That would be me.”

  “No…listen.” I handed him the phone.

  He flipped it open, then played the messages, his eyes getting darker as he listened.

  “I found this, too.” I showed him the matchbook from Hell.

  He looked down at the phone, but didn’t say what he was thinking.

  “The matchbook was in a jacket pocket. I found it when I was packing up Parker’s clothes. The cell phone was another story. It was hidden under the couch cushions. That’s probably why the uniforms didn’t find it. My guess is that Parker was sitting on his stash the whole time. Literally.”

  Brody remained silent.

  “There was cash there, too,” I said. “It’s still back at O’Fallon’s apartment.” I picked up my beer, put it down again. “They really messed up. Parker said they were very young, right out of the academy.”

  Brody had no comment. He just sat there, the smoke from his cigarette curling toward the center of the garden like a graceful wave good-bye.

  “I met the dwarf,” I told him. “In fact, I played poker with him.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “I came out ahead,” I said.

  “No kidding.”

  I wondered if I should add that I’d used the money I’d found as a stake, that there was more there now than when I’d found it.

  “Parker was there,” I said instead. “And a bunch of his deadbeat friends.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Bill, Ricky and a hairy-looking guy they called Ape.”