Red White and Black and Blue ds-12

by Richard Stevenson

  "It's true," Podolski said, "that I didn't see as much of Greg after his thesis was accepted as I did in the previous months.

  Which I was actually sorry about. I always enjoyed talking with Greg. He was quite bright, and I always thought somebody that smart could be led away from his rather simplistic ideas about the vaunted glories of laissez faire capitalism. And he loved to explain to me how my supposedly socialist ideas-I'm actually a kind of Jack Kennedy accomodationist Democrat-were a form of the very tyranny the founders of the republic had rebelled against.

  "Greg and I spent a lot of time poking and jabbing at each other on these matters, without either of us ever giving an inch. But we respected each other, and Greg's thesis on the half-century erosion of the work ethic in the German Democratic Republic was a well-written and nicely argued piece of work. I had encouraged Greg to turn the thesis into an article for, say, the National Review — I know an editor there-and he seemed quite eager to do that. I know he had just about finished a draft when he died, and he was planning on showing it to me. So, really, I was just stunned when he fell off Quad Four and was killed, and pretty soon out came an official verdict of suicide, of all things."

  Was this the Greg Stiver Insinger and Jackman had described to me? Could there somehow be two Greg Stivers?

  I said, "Wasn't he anxious about getting a teaching job? His friends said he was, and he'd been turned down by two colleges."

  "I think there were a couple of things that didn't pan out, yes, but one of those institutions-someplace out near Rochester-Hall Creek Community College, I think I recall had a spot that opened up unexpectedly. Greg knew somebody out there who tipped him off to the opening and was lobbying for him. So the job situation wasn't all that bleak, in my estimation. And then suddenly Greg died. It was 76

  Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson appalling, really. One of those deaths that, when it happens, is just incomprehensible."

  "Did you attend the funeral?"

  "I did. It was depressing too. No acknowledgement of the absurdity of Greg's death at all. But then I do understand that that isn't what funerals are for. For absurdity we go to Beckett or Sartre, not Calvin."

  "Who attended the funeral? Did you know the people there?"

  Podolski fidgeted. "You know, I'm really curious about who is asking questions about Greg's death five years after it happened. So does this mean that someone besides me is suspicious of the suicide verdict?"

  "Yes, someone is," I said, and I wasn't lying because I knew as soon as I said it that I meant myself. "There's no evidence of foul play. At this point it just has to do with someone Greg was involved with. May I ask what you knew about his personal life?"

  "Not much. I knew Greg was gay. He was active with the Log Cabin Republicans. Or had been. I know during his second year in the graduate program he cut back on most of the extracurricular stuff so he could concentrate on course work and on his thesis. And of course on playing rugby supposedly."

  "Greg played rugby? This is the first I've heard that."

  "That's what he told me. Though I sometimes wondered.

  He'd come to see me all banged up-bruised, a split lip, a shiner one time. It happened every so often, and he'd shrug it off and say rugby was just something he needed to do to burn off tension. But I have to say, I knew a few other rugby players, and none of them ever looked like they'd been run over by a truck the way Greg did. And this seemed to happen regularly. It occurred to me he might be-let me just put it bluntly-in an abusive relationship."

  "You never asked him?"

  "Once I did, actually. I thought I had to. I said something about his black eye, and had somebody socked him one? This was a chance for him to open up if he wanted to. But he didn't pick up on this. He said oh, no, it was just a wicked weekend game with some of the rougher players in his league. I let it go after that, thinking that either he had to work this out on his own at his own pace, or that maybe I was just imagining the whole thing as to any abuse.

  Educators used to be inattentive about this sort of thing, and now maybe we've overcompensated and we've gotten hypersensitive. It's hard these days to know when to butt in and when to butt out."

  "Any signs of a rugby team at Greg's funeral?"

  "Not that I noticed. It seemed to be mainly family and friends of the Stiver family, plus a few other faculty and students from the econ department. There was somebody from the Federalist Society I recognized."

  "Both of Greg's parents were there?"

  "I believe so. Why wouldn't they be?"

  "I've been told Greg's father, Anson, is a nasty piece of work, and they didn't get along."

  "I didn't know that, but then Greg never talked about his family at all with me. He preferred to talk economic theory 78

  Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson and history, and it was the nature of our relationship that he could do that with me and just lose himself in it, the way some people lose themselves in drugs or sports memorabilia or line dancing. I'm a little bit that way myself with economic theory, although I do manage to have a life otherwise. My wife sees to it that I come out of my academic cave from time to time, and I am grateful to her for that."

  "What about political figures? Were there any at the funeral?"

  Podolski tugged at his beard as if to stimulate memory.

  "None that I'm aware of. Why do you ask? Is your investigation politically related somehow?"

  "Possibly. It's too soon to tell what my investigation is really about or where it might lead."

  "Does somebody think Greg might have been pushed off Quad Four? I have to say, I've been haunted by that possibility ever since he died. I assumed at the time that the police would have considered foul play, and then they rejected it based on the evidence they had. Of course, if they had asked my opinion about Greg committing suicide, I'd have told them that to me it was unlikely. But they never asked. Apparently they based their conclusion on the physical evidence and little else."

  "The Albany cops did talk to Greg's neighbors, Janie Insinger and Virgil Jackman, who told them that Greg had been anxious and depressed for many weeks. Did Greg ever mention Insinger and Jackman to you?"

  "Not that I recall."

  "Those two also told me that Greg was romantically involved with a political figure he met when this man visited one of Greg's classes at SUNY. Do you know who they might have been referring to?"

  More beard tugging. "None comes to mind. Political figure?

  On rare occasions members of the State Legislature are on campus for one reason or another. Or the governor. Who was governor five years ago? George Pataki, I guess. Or-I have to ask-do you actually know who the politician was that Greg was getting it on with and you're just being coy with me?"

  "I'm trying to be discreet. Call it coy if you want to."

  "Then I suppose I could figure it out. I could ask around the department. But why don't you just tell me who it was and save me a lot time?"

  "Kenyon Louderbush."

  "The Tea Party guy running for governor?"

  "Yes."

  "Yuck."

  "Republicans can be sexy. I've read that one reason Laura Bush has stuck with her doofus of a husband for so many years is, she considers him a hot number."

  "That's enough about Laura and W behind closed doors. As my students sometimes say, TMI."

  "Couldn't Louderbush have visited a class without your knowledge?"

  "Possible but not likely. I'm vice chair of the department, and faculty always give me or Doris Carpenter, who's the chair, a heads-up as to any visiting royalty. Legislators have to be wined and dined, at least figuratively speaking. And 80

  Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson

  Louderbush is one of those budget-committee characters whose presence in the department-or on campus at all would be taken very, very seriously by the powers that be around here. No, I would have known about Louderbush showing up on campus. I really doubt that that's where
the two of them met."

  This was getting confusing. I said, "I keep getting different stories from different people as to who Greg Stiver was and how he led his life and what his state of mind was in the months before he died. He was depressed, he wasn't depressed. He was an isolated economics wonk in an abusive relationship, or he was an eager young man looking forward to launching a career in academia who let off steam regularly by charging around and getting banged up on a rugby field.

  Greg's story gets more Rashomon like by the hour."

  Podolski seemed to be gazing at my bandaged ear. "It looks like you're into rugby pretty heavily yourself, Donald. Or is your own story also more complicated than you're letting on?"

  "You could say so, yeah."

  "Anyway, I love your bag."

  Chapter Nine

  Loitering in a car outside an elementary school is a good way to draw unwanted attention if you're not the parent of one or more of the pupils inside. So I parked in what appeared to be the staff lot, locked the shoulder bag in the trunk of the Corolla, and strode up to the uniformed security guard outside the main entrance. The stout, seventyish, Caucasian man was shifting this way and that, looking as if he was about ready to finish his shift and get the heck off school property and go somewhere and have a smoke-I could smell it on him-and a brew. The curb fifty feet away was lined with idling school buses, their drivers poised, awaiting the onslaught.

  "Sir, I'm looking for Jennifer Stiver. Is she likely to come out this way?"

  "Prob'ly."

  "So, school's out in three minutes?"

  "Yeah, about that. But the teachers won't be out yet. They mostly stay late."

  "Will Jenny be in her classroom?"

  "Prob'ly."

  "I'm her cousin Donald from Minneapolis. She doesn't even know I'm in town. Aunt Elva thought I should surprise Jenny and she'd get a kick out of that."

  "That's nice. She's in room twenty-six. Just tell the office first."

  "Thank you, sir."

  I stood aside when a bell went off, the entire building seemed to tremble on its foundations, and the doors burst open and unleashed a hopping and skipping swarm of small people jabbering and hollering. The loading of the buses by the drivers and cadres of aides was carried out as efficiently as any UPS overnight sorting operation. None of the hundreds of first-to-sixth graders wandered off or fell under a bus or sneaked behind a bush to smoke pot. Within a fast five minutes, the buses shut their doors and roared down the street in a mighty convoy behind which lesser traffic would soon creep along, in Buddhist-monk-like synchronicity with a universe that was orderly and moral twice a day.

  I nodded at the security guy and ambled inside the building, a one-story concrete slab and glass structure with classroom wings extending out from the administrative core and, presumably, a cafeteria and gym in the rear. I waltzed past the office-a sign said OFFICE-and turned down a corridor, hoping this was the wing with room

  It was. The door was open, and I peered inside. My idea was, if I approached Jennifer Stiver in any number of other situations, she would likely tell me to buzz off, or even run away. If I approached her in her workplace, she might possibly do either of those, but she might also be such a slave to professional decorum that she'd be willing to talk to me.

  "Ms. Stiver?"

  "Yes?" She looked uncertain. Was I a parent or stepparent or other family member of a student who she wasn't quite remembering?

  "I'm sorry to bother you in your classroom. I'm sure you're up to here with end-of-the-school-year responsibilities. But I know how close you were to your brother Greg, and I'm sure you were devastated by his suicide. I'm Donald Strachey, a private investigator, and I've been hired by other people who cared about Greg to look into the circumstances of Greg's death, and I'm hoping you'll be able to clear up some inconsistencies I've run into about Greg's state of mind in the weeks prior to his death."

  She stood next to her desk glaring at me. She was taller than she looked in her Facebook photo, her amber hair was even more meticulously unruly, and her big china-blue eyes were bright with anger.

  "You're working for people who cared about Greg? And who exactly would those people be who supposedly cared about Greg? I think you're a fucking liar is what I think you are. Did you by chance call me last night at home?"

  "I did. You hung up on me. Can you say fucking in an elementary school? I'm surprised."

  "Well, your shock would disappear in a hurry if you spent a day with today's sixth graders."

  "Do you wash their mouths out with soap, or how do you handle present-day potty mouthery?"

  "No, I do not wash their mouths out with soap, nor do I touch the children in any way whatsoever that could be construed as corporal punishment. What I do is, I explain, without actually saying it, that fuck is a rude word, and life is nicer for everybody if we refrain from using rude words in the same way we should all try to refrain from using rude 84

  Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson behavior. Sometimes this argument makes an impression, although often it doesn't. Back when I was a naive beginning teacher I once asked a boy if he used language like that in front of his parents. He said yeah, he did, and if they didn't like the way he talked, they could go fuck themselves."

  "Gee. And you're not allowed to Taser the children?"

  "No. Even though electronic zapping would not involve touching a child, it's not permitted. But I am allowed to Taser uninvited classroom intruders such as yourself, or at least to call security. First, though, let me ask you something. Are you by chance working for a life insurance company?"

  "No, why?"

  She relaxed a little now and looked not so much outraged as merely nettled. "Well, who are you working for, and what's your interest in Greg's death? Greg died more than five years ago. His insurance company, Shenango Life, not only refused to pay out benefits but seemed to be hinting that I had something to do with Greg's suicide. I was the intended beneficiary of his fifty-thousand-dollar policy, and they acted as if I was an accomplice in an attempt to defraud the company. When you called last night, I thought, oh God, it's Shenago Life driving me up the wall all over again."

  "I'm not surprised," I said, "that you were Greg's life insurance beneficiary. Greg's relationship with his boyfriend if that's the correct term for his friendship with Kenyon Louderbush-was apparently troubled. I guess he wasn't about to leave that violently unstable guy fifty thousand dollars."

  I didn't know what the cold look she gave me meant, but she abruptly walked over and shut the door to the classroom.

  "Okay, sit down."

  "Thank you."

  "If Mrs. Weaver, the principal, drops in, I'll say you're a friend."

  "I told the security guy I was your cousin from Minneapolis."

  "Fine. Cousin Donald. Just so no one thinks you're a guy I'm dating. If word went around that I was dating an aging kickboxer, I'd be really embarrassed."

  "No kickboxing for me, not to worry. If it's my banged-up appearance you're referring to, it's only rugby. My boyfriend thinks I'm getting a little old for that stuff, but I can't seem to give it up."

  This fib had the approximate intended effect. "You're gay.

  Okay. Now I'm supposed to see you as less threatening than I did two minutes ago. All right, I do. So, did you actually know Greg?"

  She was perched on the edge of her desk now, and I eased onto one of the sixth graders' chairs in the front row. Stiver needed to feel as if she was in charge of the situation, and that was fine with me because in all the most important ways she was.

  "No," I said, "I didn't know Greg at all. I'm just learning about him. I've met his neighbors on Allen Street, Janie Insinger and Virgil Jackman, and I've met his thesis adviser, Professor Podolski. They all spoke well of Greg and were very sad when he died. The thing is, someone has hired me to look 86

  Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson more closely at Greg's relationship with someone else who was very important in his
life: Kenyon Louderbush. You knew about that, I take it."

  A tight look. "Of course."

  "And you were aware that it was abusive? That Louderbush beat Greg?"

  "Yes." She shook her head and looked as if she might cry.

  She walked around and plopped onto the chair behind her desk. "Look, here's the thing if you really have to know. I tried to get Greg into therapy so he could put an end to this horrible, masochistic self-destructiveness. But he wouldn't do it. He said he had to finish his thesis, and that was the only thing he had the energy for. Then when the thesis was done, it was some other reason. He was going to be moving away from Albany, and he said there was no point in starting therapy around here and then quitting, and he would do it after he got settled wherever he ended up. My hope, of course, was that he'd move somewhere far away from Kenyon, and he'd be okay at least until he found someone else who would treat him the way he thought he deserved to be treated. That is, really, really badly."

  "That had to do with his father? Insinger and Jackman both said Greg had been beaten as a child by his father. Your father."

  "Our stepfather actually, Anson Stiver. Our dad, Jim Cutler, died in a car accident when Greg and Hugh and I were one, four and six, and Mom married Anson the next year and he insisted that we all change our last names. I'm glad," she said, nodding approvingly, "that Greg was able to talk to someone else about how Anson beat him and Hugh almost from the day he moved in. Greg told me he'd opened up about it to a few people, but I never knew who they were.

  Kenyon, of course, knew. But to him, that knowledge just gave him the means to exploit Greg in his sick way."

  "So Hugh was also abused? But not you?"

  "I have no idea why I was spared. Maybe because Mom and I were close when I was young, and I was a girl, and Mom wouldn't have put up with Anson hurting me. But she looked the other way when Anson beat Greg and Hugh. I think she saw it as the price the family was going to have to pay for financial security. Well, it was way, way too high a price. Hugh was so traumatized by his upbringing that he left Schenectady as soon as he turned eighteen, and he hasn't been in touch with any of us since then. Greg actually grew up to be a sane and functioning adult and one of the nicest people I've ever known. Of course he was so fucked up by the abuse from Anson that he must have thought at some level that for him intimacy could only be violent. It all just makes me so really, really mad."