As I was appraising her, she was appraising me, though with a lot less appreciation. She made one pass over my white Nikes, blue jeans, Irish tweed jacket and white shirt and probably decided I was a high school teacher accused of molesting a student. SEX CRIMES—ASSAULTS—FELONIES OF EVERY KIND.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked, clearly hoping I would say no and leave.
“I would like to see Miss Grey, please.”
“May I say who is calling?” I gave her my name. She repeated it into her intercom like it was a disease that required treatment with penicillin. When Cynthia emerged from her office and hugged me, she pretended not to see.
“What’s her story?” I asked Cynthia when we were safely inside with the door closed.
“She thinks most men are sexist pigs.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Did you stare at her chest?”
“Well, I, you know …”
“So, go back out and tell her that it’s not true, that most men aren’t sexist pigs.”
“Pass.”
“Uh-huh.”
After we sat down, Cynthia told me, “I’m actually very glad to see you.”
“Even if I am a sexist pig?”
“We’ll have to work on that. Anyway, let me tell you what happened. A man came into my office this morning, wants to take action against his former employer for age discrimination. What happened was, he became a grandfather for the first time; he was pretty excited about it. A couple of days after the child was born, he cruised the office showing pictures, telling everyone the boy was named after him. He showed the picture to his boss. The boss says, ‘I didn’t realize you were that old.’ The next day, the boss takes him aside. My client thinks he’s about to get a bonus, maybe even a raise. After all, he was the firm’s sales manager and in the previous nine months had quadrupled the office’s sales volume. But instead of the bonus, he was fired. His boss said the decision was ‘based on the numbers,’ that the office ‘simply wasn’t doing well.’ My client, who is fifty-eight, was then replaced by a man in his early thirties, a man my client had trained.”
“Are you taking the case?”
“Age discrimination is complicated,” Cynthia replied. “Very difficult to prove. You are not going to find a signed memo stating, ‘Get rid of the old geezer.’ It’s much more subtle than that. Plus, you have to file in federal court, which has a backlog that stretches into the next decade. Hours upon hours of depositions have to be taken, massive amounts of paper …”
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked if you’re going to take the case.”
“Of course I am. You don’t fire people because they’re old any more than you fire them because they’re black or gay or female. It’s wrong. It’s illegal. I’m going to get these guys. Want to help?”
“Help?”
“It’ll be fun, working together,” she assured me. “What I need is to find former employees, anyone who has been fired by the company in the past five years. That’s first. Then … What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I told her. “Listen, you’re right, working together would be fun, but … not right now. I have a few things I need to do, first.”
“A few days probably won’t make any difference,” Cynthia said cautiously.
We spent the next half minute listening to the ticking of her antique clock. Finally, Cynthia asked, “Why don’t we talk about the reason you came?”
“I just wanted to see you, say hi. Can’t I do that?”
“Since the moment you walked in you’ve been waiting to tell me something. Now’s a good time.”
“Have you had any contact with Joseph Sherman since the other night?”
“At Le Chateau? No. I…”
“None at all?”
“What’s happened?”
I took a deep breath and let her have it. “He’s dead.”
Cynthia reacted to my news by not reacting, by not moving a muscle.
“I see,” she said finally, quietly. “Did the police …”
“No. When the cops found him he was already dead. He either committed suicide or was murdered; the cops aren’t sure yet.”
My expression must have told her something because, in a flat, lifeless voice, she said, “But you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“He was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“C. C. Monroe.”
“Possibly.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Go after the killer.”
“When?”
“When I’m ready.”
“I see,” she said as if she actually did, then added, “Sunday?”
“Maybe before then.”
“No, I mean …” Cynthia took two tickets from the top drawer of her desk and handed them to me. “Do you want to go to the Vikings football game with me?”
“Sure.”
“They’re playing the San Francisco 49ers,” she said. “Are they any good?”
“They’ve been known to win a game or two,” I answered, convinced that Cynthia was doing exactly what she once accused me of: posing. Only I didn’t pursue the issue.
“I’ll pick you up at your place,” she said. “When would be a good time?”
“Eleven?”
“See you then,” she answered and returned the tickets to the desk drawer. “I have to get back to work.”
I went to the door and opened it; she stopped me with her voice.
“You seem to handle it so well,” she said, looking at me, her eyes pleading.
“So do you,” I told her.
She turned to the papers scattered on her desk and I stepped through the open doorway. What choice did either of us have? So much violence. It’ll mess your mind if you let it. At best, it leaves you with a numbing awareness that the world is often very dark and very cruel. Occasionally, it goes beyond that, squeezing your heart and scrambling your brain and making you want to scream to high heaven. I’ve seen it burn out a lot of good men; it almost got me. But there’s a trick. The trick is not to fight it and not to linger over it. The trick is just to let it happen. The trick is to take it for what it is—a part of life—and let it go.
As I was leaving the office, I heard Cynthia’s voice plaintively delivering instructions over the intercom to her secretary. “I don’t want to be disturbed,” she said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I HAD STOPPED outside my office door, my hand in my pocket fumbling for my keys, when I saw them approach: two men, their suit jackets unbuttoned, one on either side of me. They moved deliberately down the corridor, trying to act casual, almost pulling it off. They stopped six feet away, keeping their distance, keeping their edge. I looked from one to the other.
“Minneapolis Police Department,” the man on the right said, fishing a shield out of his outside jacket pocket and holding it up for me to inspect. I looked at the other. He showed me his shield, too.
“What did I do?” I asked.
I couldn’t figure out what crime I had committed and the detectives who picked me up were no help at all. I only knew it was big, capital B-I-G, because they took me to Room 108 in the Minneapolis City Hall. Room 108 is Homicide.
“What’s it all about?” I asked, but Sean O’Connell, chief of the Minneapolis Police Department’s Homicide unit, wouldn’t answer me, either; wouldn’t even look me in the eye. The young Hennepin County assistant attorney who sat next to him had no trouble with eye contact, however; no sir. He stared fiercely at me without blinking, like he wanted to burn a hole through my skull. His name was Paul Aasen and he didn’t like me at all. He got right to it, a police stenographer taking down every word.
“Do you know a Mr. Randy Sullivan?”
“Possibly.”
“I will ask the question again: Do you know Mr. Randy Sullivan?”
“I do.”
“He is a gambler, a bookie?”
“If you say so.”
“What do
you say?”
“I don’t.”
“It would behoove you, sir, to cooperate with this office.”
“Fuck you.”
“Jeezus, Taylor,” O’Connell moaned.
“You, too, Sean,” I told him. “You drag me off the street, drag me down here, no explanations, no nothing. I don’t need this. If you want to arrest me, arrest me; read me my rights, I’ll call my attorney and we’ll take it from there. Otherwise, you tell me what’s going on or I’m leaving.”
Nice speech, I thought. Gritty, loaded with defiance. But Aasen had a speech prepared, too. It went like this: “Mr. Taylor, this is a field investigation; you are not in custody. Therefore, we are not obliged to advise you of your rights. However, you will answer my questions. You will answer them here and now, without further obfuscation. If you refuse, I will subpoena you to appear before the grand jury and you will answer them there. If you refuse again, you will be held in contempt.” Aasen smiled, slipped a piece a paper out of his folder, glanced at it, returned it to the folder and smiled again. “Your license comes up for review in January,” he added.
“So it does,” I admitted and sat up straight, folding my hands neatly in front of me, a model of decorum. The additional threat to my livelihood hadn’t been necessary. Bullying me with a contempt citation was more than sufficient.
“Do you know a Mr. Randy Sullivan?” Aasen asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he what is considered a bookie?”
“Yes,” I answered, telling myself I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know; Randy had a jacket, after all. I helped hang it on him.
“Were you employed by Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“Why do I have the feeling that you already know the answers to these questions?”
“In what capacity?”
“Mr. Sullivan believed he had been cheated during a recent poker game and he engaged me to determine who the cheater was,” I answered, taking on Aasen’s speech patterns.
“And did you discover the identity of this alleged card cheat?”
“I did.”
“Who was the card cheat?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” I told him. Now it was my turn to play. “‘No license holder shall divulge to anyone other than the employer, or as the employer may direct, except as required by law, any information acquired during such employment in respect of any matter or investigation undertaken or done by such employer.’ Subdivision four, section thirteen, Minnesota statute three-two-six-point-three.”
“Randy Sullivan was killed this morning,” Aasen said, just like that.
“What?”
“Do you have problems with your hearing?”
“You sonuvabitch! You bastard! You little pimple-faced bastard!”
“Was he your friend?”
“Yes!” I answered the sonuvabitch. Randy was my friend; I realized it the moment I knew he was gone. Goddamn it. “Who killed him?”
“I will ask the questions.”
Goddamn sonuvabitch … “Who killed him?” I yelled and lunged at him. As I tried to go over the table, Sean met me, pinning my arms to my sides.
Aasen didn’t even flinch. “What was the name of the alleged card cheat?” he asked calmly, looking down at his file.
“Heather Schrotenboer,” I answered without thinking.
Aasen nodded but did not look up. “Miss Heather Schrotenboer made a statement earlier today, freely, without compulsion, in which she admitted that she’d won—without cheating—seven thousand two hundred and fifty-five dollars off Randy Sullivan—and you—in two separate card games …”
“She said that?”
“She claims Mr. Sullivan was infuriated by losing to a woman, that he demanded she return her winnings and sent you to collect them.”
“Not true,” I said.
“Is it true that you told Miss Schrotenboer, several times, that if she did not return the money Randy Sullivan would harm her? Is that true?”
“Randy wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s all talk …”
“Did you tell Miss Schrotenboer that Mr. Sullivan would harm her if she did not return the money?”
“I suggested it.”
“Did Miss Schrotenboer agree to return the money?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t say.”
“I see,” Aasen said. “And did you inform Mr. Sullivan that Miss Schrotenboer refused to …”
“Yes.”
“… Return his money?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give Mr. Sullivan the home address of Miss Schrotenboer?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” Aasen said again and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I will have a transcript prepared for your signature immediately. Please wait.” He nodded to the stenographer, who switched off her machine and carried it by its tripod out of the room.
“You didn’t tell me what happened,” I reminded him.
“When Mr. Sullivan arrived at Miss Schrotenboer’s apartment at approximately eleven-fifteen, he was carrying a baseball bat,” Aasen answered, making a production number out of gathering his papers. “Miss Schrotenboer shot him six times in the chest.”
“She murdered him,” I muttered.
“I agree,” Aasen said. “But I doubt there is much I can do about it.”
That caught my attention.
“You gave her an ironclad case for self-defense,” Aasen said when he saw the expression on my face. “You told her Mr. Sullivan was coming, you told her he was dangerous. She will go into court looking like a ten-year-old and sob and weep and tell that to a jury. A sensitive young woman menaced by dangerous men simply for having the temerity to excel in a male-dominated activity, albeit an illegal one … I cannot beat her. She set up your friend and killed him and I cannot beat her in court. Nice job, Taylor. Well done.”
Aasen gathered the rest of his papers and headed for the door. He called to me over his shoulder. “I will send a copy of the case file to the Private Detective Services Board. They will have plenty of time to examine it before your license comes up for renewal.”
I stared at the door after Aasen slammed it shut. O’Connell pulled his chair next to mine and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“What were you thinking?” he asked.
Heather Schrotenboer stood on the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street in downtown Minneapolis, waiting for the light to change. When she saw Sean O’Connell and me leaving city hall she smiled and waved. O’Connell grabbed my arm.
“It’s okay,” I told him but he didn’t believe me.
Heather came over to where we stood on the city hall steps. “How are you?” she asked, like we were dear friends meeting by chance. O’Connell was right to restrain my arm.
“So, how does it feel to kill a man?” I asked.
“Interesting,” she answered, giving O’Connell a weary once-over.
“Listen, they won’t hit you now; they’ll wait,” I told her. “They’ll wait a couple of weeks, a couple of months, maybe even a year. But they’ll do it. Count on it. They’ll come at you like this: A man pulls up next to you at a stoplight and looks over; maybe he has a gun, maybe he doesn’t. Your doorbell rings, a college kid says he’s collecting for the Clean Water Act; he could be telling the truth. You walk across the street and hear a car engine accelerate … You know how easy it is to kill someone, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” Heather demanded.
“The Mafia.”
“What?”
“You think you can run a book in this town and not be connected? Randy worked for the Mafia and you killed him instead of paying your debts. That’s bad for business—it gives other gamblers the same notion. Yeah, the Mafia will have to do something about you.”
With that, O’Connell and I walked past Heather, her mouth hanging open; I brushed her aside with my
shoulder. She got off on fear? I just gave her a few months of it. Perhaps more.
“There are probably two hundred full-time bookies working the Twin Cities,” O’Connell told me after we were out of earshot. “I don’t think any of them is tied to organized crime.”
“I know,” I admitted.
O’Connell began to laugh, a deep, rich Irish laugh that shook his whole body. “The Mafia. I don’t believe it, the Mafia …”
TWENTY-NINE
I STOOD ON THE free-throw line I had painted across my driveway and faced the hoop attached above the door to my garage. I was poised to shoot, a Kevin McHale autograph-model basketball raised slightly above my head. Yet, I did not shoot. It was my habit when I was alone with too much on my mind to crash the boards, even in winter. Shooting baskets helped clear my head; it brought me comfort. Only now it seemed absurd, what with Amy dead and Sherman and now Randy.
And the men I’ve killed …
Four men, all of them with a lifetime of priors: one hundred seventeen arrests, eleven convictions, twenty-two years served, combined. Two had been shot, one killed with a knife, one blown to hell-and-gone with a hand grenade. The oldest was forty-two; the youngest seventeen; their average age was twenty-four. One was married, the others were single; they had five children among them. Three were black, one was white. Three of them were trying to kill me when they died, and the fourth … The fourth died because I could not think of a reason, any reason, for allowing him to live.
And that was how I chose to live with my sins, reducing them to mere statistics, notations in a box score.
In each case I was exonerated by a review board for “acting within the course and scope of my employment.” How nice for me. And each time the verdict had come in, I’d crashed the boards.
Penance Page 22