Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  “Shut up, you stupid pikey. I’m making the call.”

  Pikey was derogatory term outsiders used for us. I glanced back and saw Doogan’s jaw tightening. His fists did the same. The name didn’t sit well with him. Somehow, though, he didn’t throw a punch. Instead, he kept his cool and tried reasoning with the idiot. “Suit yourself, Harris. But you might want to think about it. The government’s put a boatload of money into training this dog. Probably more than you make in five years’ time. He’s probably more valuable than you. You think they’re going to put a dog like that down?”

  Harris hesitated. Doogan continued, “Your boss has been eying this dog, believe me. He’s already thought about how he can use his skills. He’ll be pissed when he hears what went down here. First you rough up a lady, a cop even, then you threaten to shoot her three-legged police dog just because he tried to defend his master. How’s that going to look?”

  Harris waved his fist at him. “You better watch your mouth, boy. I know things about you.”

  Doogan tensed. His eyes darted my way before refocusing on Harris.

  Harris lifted his chin. “Yeah, that’s right, I know all about you. Bet folks around here would be interested to know you’ve got a record.”

  “That’s all in my past,” Doogan said. “I did my time.”

  Doogan was in prison?

  Harris cocked a thumb my way. “She looks surprised. Didn’t bother telling her about McCormick, huh?”

  I had no idea what or who McCormick was, but Doogan noticeably flinched and crossed his arms. Just a few seconds ago, he was bigger than life, willing to take a bullet for my dog; now he was anxious about Harris’s accusations? Stupid thing was, I could care less what Doogan had done in the past. It was none of my business. God knew, I had enough of my own past demons to contend with; no need to get mixed up in someone else’s.

  I shot Harris a dirty look and rubbed my wrists. “Enough of this crap, Harris. If you weren’t such a jackass, I’d be showered and at the sheriff’s office by now. Tell your boss that I’ll be there in an hour.” I touched Wilco on the head and turned toward the trailer, shooting one last look Doogan’s way. “Thank you,” I said.

  * * *

  I planned to spend the next hour with a hot cup of coffee and an even hotter shower. Maybe I’d even have a chance to talk to my grandmother alone. I’d tried the night before. After leaving Doogan in the park, I’d headed back to the trailer, hoping to get some answers. But when Gran wasn’t surrounded by well-wishers, she was busy with Gramps or finding endless other things that needed tending, none of which included her own granddaughter. I gave up on her, wandered out to my car and drank the night away.

  It didn’t look like I’d get a chance to talk to Gran this morning either. When I walked in, the trailer was dead quiet. I tiptoed past the relatives camped out in the front room: Aunt Tinnie, Gran’s oldest sister and a spinster, was curled under a hand-crocheted afghan. A couple of Gramps’ distant cousins, hardworking boisterous fellows, were sprawled on the floor. Tea cups, beer bottles, and an empty whiskey bottle lay strewn about the coffee table, along with the family Bible and colorful strands of rosary beads. Father Colm had probably led a rosary, after which family stories would have been passed around with the libations. I’d missed all that, choosing instead to mourn in my own way, apart and alone. Now, as I listened to the slumbering breath of family fill the room, rising and falling almost in unison, I wondered if I could ever be a part of all this again. Could I get past my wounds, past and present, and feel once again like I belonged with these people? My own family. Good people who’d dropped everything, their work and responsibilities, to travel here and support my grandparents during their time of grief, just because that’s what Traveller families did.

  Keep your mind on the task at hand, Brynn. That’s how you get through. Focus on the task. And right now, I needed to deal with Sheriff Pusser. So I moved about the trailer as quietly as I could. A cup of instant coffee for me, a can of Alpo for Wilco, and a hot shower. A half hour later, I was picking my way back through the trailer when a small noise drew my attention back toward the kitchen. Gran was standing there, the marks of sleep still evident on her face. Her blue eyes met mine and widened with question. She clutched the frilly neckline of her nightgown and scooted across the room to me. “Me Lackeen.”

  “Gran.” In that instant, I forgave everything and folded into her. We stayed like that for a while, holding each other, absorbing one another’s pain, until I muttered the one word that I knew would push us apart. “Why?”

  She pulled back, her blues eyes moist with, what? Sadness? Regret? “Because there were things you were better off not knowing.”

  “Things? Things! Like the fact that my mother was alive all these years?” I heard one of the relatives stirring. I lowered my voice. “How could you have lied to me? You. Of all people.”

  She slumped forward, her eyes searching the floor for answers. I waited. When she raised back up, her gaze landed on the keys dangling from my hand. Wilco’s leash was clenched in my other fist. “Where are you going?”

  “The sheriff’s called me in for more questions.”

  She frowned. “Don’t go.”

  “I have to go. I don’t have a choice. Murder isn’t something you can just ignore and hope it goes away. There’s going to be an investigation. A lot of questions will be asked. You need to be ready for that.”

  “I won’t answer their questions. I don’t trust the police. You shouldn’t either.”

  “The police aren’t our enemy.”

  “You’ve been away for too long. You’ve forgotten how it is for us. How they’ve treated us.”

  It was true. Whenever a crime occurred in nearby McCreary, the cops came looking our way first, whether it was warranted or not. Sure, there are wayward among us. Yonks, we called them. Those of our clan who steal and scam. They’ve earned the title. But outsiders have judged us all by the actions of a few.

  Gran’s expression darkened. “But I’ve forgotten. You are one of them. You are the police.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Maybe you’re on their side now.”

  I placed my hands Gran’s shoulders. They felt small and bony. “There aren’t any sides, Gran.” Her jaw was set, her lips pressed into a thin slash. I could tell I wasn’t getting through to her. “The police are only trying to find the truth,” I said. “Don’t you want to know who killed her? She was your own daughter.”

  “Let it be, Brynn. Vengeance is God’s right, not ours.”

  What type of crap is this? Something Father Colm told her last night?

  She was on a roll: “The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance. He will bathe his feet in the blood of the wicked . . .”

  “Stop! Stop with the religious stuff. I don’t want to hear it.” I raked shaky fingers through my wet hair. “I’m not seeking vengeance, just answers. What is it that you’re keeping from me, Gran?”

  The tightness in her features crumbled. She jammed her hands into her armpits, almost as if she was hugging herself. I noticed a small tremble. Was she afraid? I reached out. She backed up, dropped her arms and threw back her shoulders. A different emotion crept into her features. Anger? Hate? Toward whom? Me?

  “Why would I tell you?” she spat. “So you can run to the police with it?”

  The words felt like a slap in the face. “Gran!”

  She shooed me away. “Just go. Go and see your police friends. Tell them all about us. Us gypsies.”

  “It’s not like that . . . ,” I began, but she’d already turned away.

  Back in my car, I was still seething with anger and hurt. What was going on with Gran? We’d always been so close, but now . . . I felt a wet swipe on my cheek. Wilco had taken his normal position as copilot and had given me an Alpo-infused lick on the face. “Thanks, boy. I needed that.” He licked me some more, and I slowly felt my anger melting away. That’s why I needed Wilco. No one could calm me, tame my inner
monster, like my dog. Dog breath and all.

  “I love you, boy,” I said out loud. He actually looked happy to hear it, although I knew better. I laughed as I turned the key in the ignition. “You know how to read lips, don’t ya, boy? You’re so smart.” Nothing made me happy like my dog. I let the car idle, heat blasting from the dash, and took a little time to love on my dog. As I leaned in to kiss the soft spot between his ears, something caught my eye. Or someone, that is. Down the road, I saw a couple of unfamiliar vans parked by the trailer park’s entrance. Outside, several people stood huddled together. One of them pointed my way. I rubbed a clear spot in my foggy window and squinted through for a better look. One of the men had a large camera balanced on his shoulder. The man next to him looked in my direction, pointed his microphone, and the cameraman swung his lens my way. Then they headed at a sprint in my direction.

  The press.

  Young Pavees were warned about the press—an evil tool of the settled man, we were always told. That was probably the one thing the elders had actually gotten right. Whenever the press showed up, it meant bad news for the clan. I recalled an incident from my childhood when a camera caught a young Traveller mother disciplining her child. The press ran with it. By the time the national stations aired it, Travellers, or gypsies as they called us, were all painted as child abusers. Outsiders didn’t understand us, so it was all too easy for the press to peddle whatever stereotypical hogwash they wanted. What would it be this time? A crazed gypsy war vet and her body-sniffing dog?

  I crammed the car into gear and headed for the back way out.

  * * *

  Sheriff Pusser stood and motioned for me to take the chair across from his desk. He wore a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses. His usual toothpick dangled between his lips. “How’s your family doing?”

  “They’d like to know when my mother’s body will be released. They need to plan the funeral.”

  “I’ll see if the coroner’s got a timeline. A lot of the tests have to be sent out. We’re small-time here.”

  I probably should have wondered what tests the county doc was running, but I wasn’t used to civilian police work. In war, death was always straightforward and easily classified: small-arms fire, IED attack, suicide bomber, helicopter crash, RPG attack, and, my least favorite, non-hostile, which usually meant the soldier had taken his own life. Point being, there was rarely reason to question the cause of death. I didn’t think there was in this case either. My mother had been shot in the head. I’d seen the wound firsthand. So I didn’t even think to ask. Later, I’d regret not asking more questions.

  While Pusser shuffled through a manila file, I checked out his office. Framed certificates lined the paneled wall behind his desk. A dirty window looked out over the parking lot. Underneath it, the shelves of a pre-fab, particleboard bookcase bowed under the strain of a couple dozen operation manuals. I stared at it for a minute, thinking that one more book and the whole thing would come tumbling down. Sort of like the block towers we built as kids. I wondered if Pusser ever played with blocks. What I really wondered was who the pretty girl was in the frame on the corner of his desk. A picture of his wife as a young girl? A daughter perhaps? Pusser didn’t strike me as the family type.

  I glanced at him. He was still shuffling papers. Stalling, or trying to make me nervous? I cleared my throat. “Your deputy said this visit was urgent. He said there was a new development.”

  Pusser tossed aside the file and leaned forward. “Harris tends to exaggerate. I called you in this morning as a courtesy.”

  “Oh?”

  “One cop to another.”

  “Maybe you ought to just tell me what’s on your mind, Sheriff.”

  “It’s concerning your grandparents. We’ve been asking around about your mother. Most of your tribe members—”

  “Clan, not tribe.”

  He shifted. “Clan. Sorry. Some of them seemed to think she’d died years ago.”

  I shrugged.

  “But no one could remember going to her funeral, or when exactly she’d died.”

  I already knew that, of course. I thought back to that period of time when I was hell-bent on finding my mother. I was a good girl back then. Not only did I accept their explanation of her suicide, I obeyed their request and never asked about my mother again. Now, of course, I knew they’d been covering up for something else. It sounded as if Pusser knew that too.

  He shifted tactics. “Parks said that you didn’t know your mother.”

  “That’s right. She disappeared when I was a few weeks old.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Ran off, I mean. I always thought she’d met someone. Or maybe she just wanted out.”

  He raised a brow. “Out?”

  “Out of the clan. It can be . . . stifling.”

  “I understand.”

  No, he didn’t. But I let it go.

  He repositioned his glasses and made a couple of notes. “You never heard from her again?”

  I dropped my hand over the side of the chair and reached for the top of Wilco’s head. His fur felt warm, soft, comforting. “No.”

  “Had your grandparents heard from her? Maybe your grandmother?”

  Mrs. Black told me that he’d questioned both Gran and Gramps already. Given their mistrust of the settled law, I wasn’t surprised that Gran hadn’t mentioned the letter. She wouldn’t think twice about lying to Pusser and withholding crucial evidence. Clan loyalty. Of course, she’d lied to me too. Her own family. Some things you were better off not knowing, she’d said. I didn’t understand what she meant, but now I needed to decide what I was going to do: tell the police what I knew, or stay loyal to Gran. Think, Brynn . . . think . . .

  “Ms. Callahan? Had your grandmother been in contact with your mother? Did she know she was alive?”

  “Not that she had said. Not that I was aware of, anyway.” Over-explaining. A sure sign that someone’s lying. “I mean, she’d never mentioned it to me.” Shut up, Brynn.

  He leaned back in his chair and inhaled. I kept my eye on his toothpick, half expecting, half hoping that he’d suck it down his throat. Anything to distract him from this line of questioning. “I’m afraid I’m having trouble putting this all together.”

  You and me both, buddy.

  “A lot of people thought your mother was dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you thought too?”

  “Not at first. I just thought she’d left.”

  “But then you learned that she’d died?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you at that time?”

  “Around fifteen.”

  “Who broke the news to you?”

  “Gran.”

  “When you were fifteen?”

  “Uh-huh. Around then.”

  He squinted. “But there wasn’t a funeral?”

  “No. That would have been against the rules.”

  “The rules? What do you mean?”

  “God’s rules. Or maybe just clan rules. I’m not sure.”

  He stared at me a bit harder. I squirmed a little. “She committed suicide,” I explained. “She wouldn’t get a Christian burial. Not back then anyway. Now things are different.” With the church. Not the clan. Suicide still signified an eternity in hell. At least in the mind of the elders. Never mind that someone might be suffering from mental illness . . . or PTSD, for that matter.

  He pulled out his toothpick and started to say something, then decided against it. Instead, he stared at me for a beat or two, then tossed the toothpick into the garbage can. It missed. A collection of toothpicks stuck out from the carpet pile like tiny spears.

  “Suicide,” he repeated. “So she left when you were young. No one really knew why or where she’d gone. And nobody heard from her in all those years, not even your grandmother.” He leaned back and extracted a new toothpick from the plastic cylinder he kept in his pocket. He inserted the fresh one between his lips, chomping down hard. “Tell me,
Ms. Callahan. If no one had talked to your mother since she left the clan, then how’d they learn that she’d committed suicide? Who told them?”

  And there it was. He knew someone was lying. He probably thought it was me. I hoped he thought it was me. The last thing I wanted was for him to go after Gran.

  He locked stares with me. Gran was right. I shouldn’t trust the police. At least not these police. I kept my mouth shut and held firm.

  “I was hoping we could help each other,” he said. “You and me. Work together on this. It’s your mother. You must want to know who murdered her.”

  He was looking for information. And I had some. Not what he was hoping for, I knew, but a small bone I could throw him. Something to buy a little time, keep him off my back, or more precisely, Gran’s back. At least until I could figure things out. “There is something I didn’t tell you.”

  He smiled. A crazed jack-o-lantern type of grin with a toothpick shooting out between a gap in his teeth. I stood and pulled my cell from my side pocket. “I forgot about these earlier. They’re photos that I took at the crime scene. Before Doogan went crazy thinking it was his sister and screwed things up.”

  He snatched the phone from my hand. “What the hell?”

  “It’s something we did as MPs. Part of the task. We photographed bodies as soon as we discovered them just in case we were mortared and had to evacuate before we could do a full recovery. Stuff like that happened a lot. The photos were sometimes all we had to make an ID later.”

  Pusser was shaking his head. “And you’re just now telling me this?”

  I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t keeping it from him, I’d forgotten about it. Finding the body set in motion a whole lot of mental crap. I wasn’t myself these days. All the more reason why I couldn’t return to police work. I needed time, time to get my head screwed on straight.

  “I’m sending these to my number. Is there anything else I should know about?”

  Yeah. Tons. Unfortunately, it all led back to my grandparents. “Nope. But I’d like to see the case file you have on my mother.”