Investigation

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  “No, I don’t want anything. Or do you have Gelusil? Or Turns? Or something like that?”

  She shook her head; caught me pressing my hand into the burning spot where the ulcer was biting at Mogliano’s cousin’s spicy sauce.

  “Wait a minute.” She ducked into the kitchen, came back with a glass of milk.

  I took a small taste; it was sour, but I didn’t tell her. I waited until she went into her bedroom to get a suitcase for the boys’ clothes. Then I spilled the sour milk down the kitchen drain and rinsed the glass. I could hear her banging around, opening the sliding closet doors, displaying the rainbow colors of her clothing. When she came back into the living room, she was wearing a different outfit: a dark-blue denim pants suit with a light-blue turtleneck. She had tied a small red railroad man’s scarf over her hair, knotted in back of her neck. Her face was pale against the bright color. She held up an expensive leather suitcase; an over-nighter.

  “You think this will be big enough?”

  She sounded uncertain; as if she needed reassurance, which surprised me. She was nervous and on edge; I hadn’t realized how drawn and pale she really was. She looked from me to the suitcase, then back at me.

  “That’ll be fine. You want some help?”

  She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. It seemed to take a certain determination and resolve for her to go into the boys’ bedroom. But she went.

  I walked to the window, looked outside at the grassy lawn, then turned back into the living room. It had the impersonal feel of a motel room; there was no evidence of the kind of people who lived here. Something caught my eye; a bright-yellow object was sticking out from beneath a chair. I picked it up: a small plastic rectangular object with little protuberances along one edge, indentations along the other edge. A piece from a child’s game, building blocks that locked one into the other. I slipped it into my pocket, deliberately not thinking about what child’s hand had dropped it; and wouldn’t ever pick it up. There was something odd, something I couldn’t quite identify. The outside playground noises and the low humming of descending jets faded into the background as I became aware of the silence, ominous and total, within the apartment. I crossed the living room and stood just inside the open doorway of the boys’ bedroom.

  Kitty Keeler was standing between the two beds, her back to me. She held something in each hand; her arms were stretched outward as though she was offering what she held. She was rigid and motionless; then she swayed slightly, caught her balance; then, suddenly aware of the intrusion into her privacy, she whirled around and faced me, her arms still extended stiffly.

  She glared at me suspiciously, then she said softly, in a barely controlled whisper, “Look. Look!” She was holding a pair of rolled-up socks in each hand. Arrayed on either side of her, on each of the two beds, was a carefully selected outfit: small navy-blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, white turtleneck, set of underwear for each child.

  “Isn’t this crazy?” She began to laugh. “Look at this. I’m matching the socks to the charcoal-gray pants and I’m standing here and I’m wondering if I should match the socks to their shoes instead of to their slacks.” Her body shook with the deep gasping sounds of her laughter. She suddenly brought both hands up to her face and held the socks against her mouth, muting the sounds of her voice. When I moved toward her, she pulled her face up and shook her head. “No. No, don’t. Please, don’t touch me. But isn’t it funny? I mean, I’m standing here trying to decide what color socks they should wear. To be buried in!”

  It was there again, more clearly than before: the terrible expression of pain in her eyes; unblinking, unaccepting, unbelieving pain. Her mouth opened, but there was no sound now. She bent over suddenly as though kicked in the stomach, with that same kind of gasping, suffocating sound. I caught her, tried to ease her down onto one of the beds, but she pulled away and said wildly, “No, for God’s sake, I don’t want to sit on their clothes!” As though the clothes were their bodies.

  She pulled herself up straight, extended the socks again and said, “What color socks should they wear?” She blinked rapidly, but there were no tears in her eyes. “Well, don’t you think it’s funny? Don’t you?”

  “What color are their shoes?”

  She jerked her head back as though she’d been hit. She rubbed her cheek with a pair of the socks and stared, uncomprehending.

  “What color are their shoes, Kitty?”

  She let her hands drop to her sides and said quietly, “Saddle shoes. Blue-and-white saddle shoes.”

  “Navy-blue socks,” I told her. “Do you have navy-blue socks?”

  She nodded dumbly, then moved to the chest of drawers, switched socks, and dropped one pair on each bed. Then she knelt in the closet and dug around for the shoes. She pulled them out and held them up toward me. “They’re dirty.”

  She fingered the soiled spots on the shoes and seemed unable to deal with the situation. She slumped against the side of a bed and was completely, totally vulnerable; defenseless. Her fingers trembled as she dabbed at a smudge on one of the shoes. A chill passed through her body; she shuddered and tightened her shoulders.

  “Kitty?”

  I called her a second time and she turned her face up toward me. It was devoid of all pretense, all masks, all armors; it was ragged and suffering and filled with despair.

  Kitty, did you kill your sons?

  Kitty, why did you kill your boys?

  Kitty, tell me all about it; you’ll feel better when you do. It will be over with once and for all. It’s the only way you’ll ever be free of it.

  Kitty, talk to me.

  All I said was, “Where’s the shoe polish?”

  I helped her to her feet, surprised at the fragility of her body; she seemed weightless. I put paper towels on the counter in the kitchen, painted the white parts of the shoes with the liquid polish, then asked her for small plastic bags for the shoes. As I cleaned up the counter, she put the shoes into the bags; all but one shoe.

  “There’s a broken lace,” she said in a helpless, despairing voice. She turned her face to me: defeated; no solution.

  “I’ll pick up a new pair tomorrow morning.” I took the shoe from her hand and put it in the plastic bag. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be all right.”

  We went back into the boys’ bedroom and she began folding the clothes, but she kept dropping things. Her hands were shaking and she tried to hide them, but without a word she stepped back and watched as I folded the clothing and packed the suitcase. Just as I was about to close the suitcase she came forward, reached a hand to touch one of the small navy jackets: just touched it lightly, wordlessly, then drew back.

  “Will it be all right? The clothes? Will they look all right? I want the boys to look good. Does everything match?”

  “Everything will be fine. Come on.” I handed her a bag of shoes. She seemed reluctant to leave the room.

  “Have I got everything? Have I forgotten anything?” Her hand went to her face. “I have the most awful feeling. Like, I’m forgetting something really important.” She turned, her eyes swept the room. “Oh, God, what? What have I forgotten?”

  “You haven’t forgotten anything, Kitty. Come on.”

  She turned to the small round child-sized table, touched the open coloring book, fingers slid over the incompletely colored picture of an astronaut. She picked up two crayons and put them back in the crayon box; closed the book; put it on a toy shelf. She studied the rows of toys and reached for a stuffed yellow duck. It was worn and bleached-looking.

  “This is Georgie’s. Do you think ... ?”

  “Sure, if you want to bring it, why not?”

  Kitty took a long, slow, deep breath; she pulled herself up straight, rearranged the expression on her face; took control of herself. She tossed the stuffed duck, with a quick sharp motion, against the wall. It landed, upside down, on one of the beds.

  “What would be the point?” she asked. Briskly, toughly, she said, “Let’s get
the hell outa here. This room is making me feel morbid.”

  I picked up her keys and sunglasses from the kitchen counter. “Put these on, Kitty, and keep your head low and we’ll rush right through that mob out there.”

  She took the sunglasses, held them without putting them on. She pulled her arm from me, stood motionless. There was a visible gathering of strength filling her; she was drawing on a kind of anger. She was no longer vulnerable; that moment was over.

  “I’m not worried about those crazy bastards out there, or any other bastards, Peters, so you can just stop playing Mr. Good Guy right now.”

  She pushed past me on her way out. The funny thing was, I really hadn’t been playing a role with her.

  We drove around to the back of the Kelly Brothers Funeral Home in the Bronx. One of the Kellys was there, waiting to take the clothing. He made soft, comforting, meaningless conversation with Kitty while I went into a phone booth and called the office. Tim sounded tense but excited; I tried to sound casual.

  “We gotta take a ride back to Queens,” I told her. We drove in silence all the way out to Kew Gardens.

  Tim was behind his desk. Ed Quibro sat, straight as a stick, on one of the chairs in front of the desk. He jumped to his feet and, with a sort of sweeping motion, invited Kitty to sit in his chair. She froze him with an insolent smile, slumped into another chair, slid her legs out straight, folded her arms over her body.

  “Well,” she asked Tim, “now what?”

  Ed Quibro walked around the desk, collected a stack of typed papers. “Mrs. Keeler,” he said in his precise, flat, monotonous voice, “I’m going to give you the typewritten transcription of your statement as given to me on Friday night, April eighteenth, 1975. I ask you now to read it over, carefully, and indicate if you would like at this time to make any corrections in your statement. If this statement is accurate to the best of your knowledge, I am going to ask you to sign your name at the bottom of each page.”

  Kitty rubbed her eyes, then said to Quibro, “Go ahead and ask me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said you were going to ask me to sign my name. At the bottom of each page. So go ahead and ask me.” She reached up and snatched the papers from Quibro and said, “Forget it, just forget it.” She reached for a pen from the leather cup of pens and pencils on Tim’s desk. “Where do I sign? The bottom of each page?”

  She began flipping through the pages, signing her name without reading any of the endless questions and answers.

  “Mrs. Keeler,” Quibro protested, “I must caution you to read over this statement carefully and—”

  “All right. You cautioned me.”

  Tim came alongside of her. “Mrs. Keeler, it would be wise for you to read what you’re signing.”

  She looked up directly at Tim and said tersely, “You want these pages signed? You got them signed.” Deliberately careless, she lifted the corner of the next page and, without even looking, scrawled her name. She stood up, tossed the signed documents across the desk at Quibro. “There. I’d like to be taken home now.”

  “There are a few things we have to go over with you, Mrs. Keeler.”

  Suddenly wary now, she drew back; seemed to slow herself down. She gave her attention to Quibro, first glancing at me. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “There is a question of timing, Mrs. Keeler. Particularly a question as to the time you claim you last saw your sons alive. You see—”

  Kitty leaned on the desk, her hands planted firmly, her face jutting toward Quibro’s. “Listen, you, I didn’t claim anything. I told you exactly what was what that night. And I signed your goddamn papers. And I’m sick of you and this office. And I’m going home, right now.” She turned to Neary. “We can go back to our apartment now, can’t we?”

  There was a strange, significant silence in the room. Kitty looked from one face to another, aware suddenly that no one was meeting her questioning stare. A slow, certain panic began to build; she tried consciously to control it, locking her hands one inside the other, taking deep, silent breaths. Finally she sat down again as though drained totally of energy; covered her eyes with her hand, shook her head.

  When she looked up, directly at me, her expression was different from any I’d yet seen: unmasked, yet not revealing anything but a blank, empty exhaustion, appealing to me to take over for her. She had turned to me naturally, as though I was her one ally in the room. I ducked my head down toward my cupped hand, lit a cigarette, then handed it to Kitty. She took it without a word; when Tim began to speak, she forced herself to turn toward him; it seemed an effort for her to concentrate and she seemed uncomprehending, puzzled, too weary to follow what he was saying.

  When Tim finished speaking, Quibro extended some papers at her, assured her of the legality of what was happening. Finally it penetrated; the knowledge seemed to give her new energy. She stood up, hands rigid at her sides.

  “Wait a minute. Just wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about? Protective custody? Custody? What does that mean? Custody? Oh my God, my God, you’re not going to put me in jail, are you?”

  She stumbled back, unaware that she cried out. Her knees buckled and I caught her before she slid to the floor. She hadn’t passed out; it was more like she’d been knocked over by a strong and unexpected wave. She struggled from me as soon as she caught her balance, whirled around, confronted me.

  “What are they trying to do to me, Joe?” Her voice was low and furious, but her face looked drained and defeated. Her eyes were dark and shining and staring as though she didn’t trust herself to blink. There was a slight nerve-twitch at the corner of her right eye. The minute she was aware of it, she pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to maintain control. The fingers of her other hand dug into my arm, either for emphasis or because she literally needed to hang on to someone. “What are they trying to do to me?” she demanded a second time.

  “It’ll be all right, Kitty,” I said softly; her total focus on me created a peculiar intimacy. It was as though we were totally alone, confiding in each other. Not quite realizing what I said, I told her, “I promise, Kitty. It’ll be all right.”

  CHAPTER 13

  IT HAD BEEN DECIDED not to hold Kitty Keeler in a cell, although technically it was permissible. There was nothing altruistic in the decision: the reasoning was that Keeler might fall apart and have to be hospitalized for hysteria. That would make for sympathetic press coverage; the news people didn’t play favorites—they went in whichever direction made the best headlines.

  Since Kitty had been placed in protective custody late Saturday night, it wasn’t until Monday morning that it made the newspapers. All day Sunday, radio newsbreaks gave carefully sketchy details: that Kitty Keeler was being held as a material witness in an undisclosed location.

  She was temporarily housed in a motel near Kennedy Airport in a large suite with a policewoman and a few detectives. Tim didn’t want me anywhere around Kitty at this time; he didn’t want her to feel hostile toward me as being part of this whole custody idea. I notified George; not just because I had promised Kitty that I would but because she was entitled to have someone contacted. The first thing George did was fall apart; then he called Sam Catalano, his good friend. Sam Catalano, playing it nice and safe, called me. He didn’t want anyone to think he’d been doing anything sneaky, which of course is just what he had been doing, hanging around George Keeler in his off time. He’d told George to contact a lawyer; that was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

  “Yeah, as long as you didn’t tell him any particular lawyer, Sam.” There was a silence. “You didn’t do that, did you Sam?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I think you’d better tell me what ‘not exactly’ means.”

  Silence. Then, “Well, George didn’t know any lawyer to call, aside from his regular attorney, who doesn’t handle things like this. So ... I told him to call Vince Martucci. He’d know a lawyer.”

  When Sam Catalano becomes a frien
d of the family, he becomes a friend of the family. “That wasn’t too wise of you, Sam. I wouldn’t mention this to anyone; at all.”

  Sam’s voice went a little hollow; I knew he was about to wheedle a promise from me that I wouldn’t tell anyone; at all; about his advice to George. Before he could, I assured him that we should both just forget it.

  “Oh, listen, Joe, before I forget. Do you think you were mistaken, in the name of that narcotics cop? You said Steve Werner? I’ve been calling all over and nobody ever heard of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Steve Werner, Joe. You said he was a narcotics cop and—”

  “Must have been two other guys, Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I figured Sam must have been bothering people enough. “Look, Sam, you show up at the Kelly Brothers Funeral Home Monday; stay close to George. He might need a friend.”

  I assured Catalano that my suggestion was an official assignment and that I’d cover him with Tim Neary.

  There were a couple of guys in the squad office on Sunday morning, none of them working too hard, all of them complaining about how hard they were working. When Tim Neary surprised us by coming to the office at about nine-thirty, newspapers disappeared, containers of coffee were forgotten, typewriters and telephones went into action. Tim browsed around for a couple of minutes, then signaled me into his office.

  As he dug through the pile of updated reports on his desk, Tim asked me the same question four times, using about four different lead-ins: Didn’t I think that Kitty Keeler would break? Didn’t I think that the pressure of being held, on top of the circumstantial case, on top of the confirmation of the Scots girl’s statement, would have an effect on her?

  “Kelleher is talking about bringing the case to the grand jury, Joe. He feels we should be in pretty good shape, what with the established times of death, Keeler’s statement about when she last saw the boys alive, the telephone calls to Martucci, MacDougal’s statement. On top of Keeler’s known reputation. Jesus, Joe, she runs with some pretty bad guys. Well, Joe, wadda ya think? Think she’ll finally break at the funeral?”