by Drew Franzen
Across the way, though the curtain was drawn, Jenny could see that the light in Jordy Bitson’s street-facing second floor bedroom was on, had been since she arrived home shortly after three this morning. As she’d done earlier, Jenny willed Jordy to come to the window. What are you up to, you little shit? Jenny wondered.
She’d been texting him all morning without a reply. Jenny was not pleased with Jordy, how he’d terminated their conversation last evening without even a fuck u gbye.
She flicked her butt onto the front lawn. A generous pile of butts littered the snow-flattened grass, exposed now by the recent and, hopefully, final thaw of the season. Inwardly, Jenny smiled, thinking of Ed with his rake, diligently trying to clean up her mess.
On the other side of the bedroom was a chest of drawers, a heavy oak bureau with mirror that once had belonged to Jenny’s grandmother, Magda. The nursing home to which she’d been committed hadn’t allowed her to keep it, preferring items of a personal nature to remain with the family lest they invest the elderly residents with too great a sense of independence. The piece had passed to Jenny, who hated it and preferred to stow her own clothing and personal belongings in her closet or beneath her bed: most of her personal belongings, though not all.
The ugly thing exerted on her a powerful yet inexplicable draw, pulling at her as if it were a high-power magnet tugging at steel. Try as she might, Jenny was unable to resist, compelled to cross the floor from the window to the chest, where she opened the top drawer. Jenny extracted a six-inch by six-inch zippered vinyl carrying case. Returning to her bed, she opened the case, ritualistically sorting its contents in a row atop her bed-sheet: a pair of needle-nose manicure scissors, a stainless steel emery board—wickedly sharp and hooked at one end—a three-inch kitchen paring knife, cotton batting and swabs, small squeeze-bottle of liquid antiseptic (whatever she was, Jenny was not totally crazy) and Band-Aids, in case she inadvertently cut too deep.
Jenny removed her tee shirt and sweats, stripping to her knickers and bra, struggling as she did to overhear the meat of a muffled conversation between her parents filtering from the kitchen below.
Taking the paring knife in her right hand, she inhaled deeply. “Okay babe,” Jenny said to herself, “let’s get creative.”
…
By six thirty the morning after the murder, Dojcsak was ready to go. He shaved—for the sake of time observing only an abbreviated ritual—showered, had cigarettes for breakfast and kissed his disabled daughter goodbye prior to leaving the house for the second time that day. He didn’t kiss Jenny; he assumed she was asleep, exhausted, no doubt, from the late evening before.
When told by her husband of the murder, Rena Dojcsak shivered. “It wasn’t an accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Dojcsak confirmed.
“Was she…was she… violated in any way?”
His voice flat, Dojcsak replied, “She was murdered, Rena.”
“I’ll send flowers.” Neither the Bitson nor Dojcsak families were close, though from indifference rather than animosity. Dojcsak didn’t approve but couldn’t prevent Jenny from associating with the murder victim’s cousin, Jordy, and while during high school Dojcsak had known the dead girl’s uncle, Drew, they had not been friends.
Outside the kitchen window the sky turned purple, a brief outburst of personality in its inexorable transition from black to blue. The first lick of a crisp North East breeze rattled the windowpane, promising the possibility, if not the absolute certainty, of a brighter day. Smoke from Dojcsak’s third cigarette of the morning polluted the air in the small room, creating an almost invisible barrier across the breakfast table between husband and wife.
Rena had long ago abandoned any hope of keeping Ed from smoking indoors, knowing that if he hadn’t done so to accommodate Luba’s illness, he would not do so for her.
Yesterday, the Sunday afternoon on the day of the murder, Rena had complained about Ed to her friend and next-door neighbor, Kate Bouey. They sat in the kitchen sipping coffee, out of earshot from Dojcsak, who sat in the front room drinking and smoking and whom Rena imagined was disinclined, anyway, to eavesdrop on the conversation. Except for a trip to the Quickie-Mart for beer, Rena hadn’t seen her husband move all day.
“He’s killing himself,” Rena said to Kate. “Slowly but surely. It’s painful to watch, you know. What’s worse is, he’s taking me down with him. It’s hard I have to take care of Luba; if he gets sick,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder toward the front room, “God knows what I’ll do. I don’t feel that strong an obligation to him anymore.”
“He is sick, Rena; with grief.”
“Grief? For who, Kate: Luba or himself? Ask me, he’s sick with self-pity.”
“Do you talk to him? About his drinking?” Rena regarded Kate as if this were no longer an option. “I could,” Kate offered. “I’ve done couples counseling in the past. It might help.”
“He ignores his own doctor, Kate; you’re only a nurse. Why should he listen to you?” It was said with neither malice nor judgment, but laid out between them as a simple declaration of fact.
“No reason, really. If you don’t think it’s such a good idea…” Kate left the thought unfinished.
Rena Dojcsak did not encourage her. Moments later, Kate said goodbye: to Rena, Luba, who was asleep, and to Dojcsak, who sat in his reclining chair, slumped to one side. Jenny was not at home.
“Bad luck, Ed,” Rena said to Dojcsak now, her dark eyes heavy with concern. “Bad luck has plagued Maggie Bitson since she was a child. If something like this had to happen, I’m not surprised it happened to her.”
Fatigue making him abrupt, Dojcsak snapped, “It has nothing to do with luck, Rena, bad or otherwise.”
“Oh,” she replied, refusing to meet his gaze. “I know your philosophy, Ed. But I don’t accept it. We may not be entirely blameless for our misfortune, but there don’t always have to be consequences.”
“Consequences are what distinguish good behavior from bad.”
“I don’t know about that, Ed.” Rena moved to the countertop, retrieved the coffee pot, refilled Dojcsak’s cup and her own. She sat. She sipped her coffee slowly, steam rising from the hot liquid. “I prefer to believe, sometimes, bad things do happen to decent people.”
“It’s how we atone, then,” said Dojcsak.
“Atone for what, Ed? Our sins: mine, yours? Hell, you don’t even attend church. As far as God is concerned, you’re not even on the radar. Besides, following your twisted logic, how do you account for our children?”
“Luba’s done nothing to disappoint us,” Dojcsak replied, on the cusp of becoming defensive.
“Christ, Ed, she’s dying. To a parent, what could be more disappointing?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Do I? Do I ever?”
Dojcsak stared quietly into the black pool of his coffee mug, reluctant to be drawn into a bout of self-recrimination. As Luba’s condition deteriorated and Jenny’s behavior turning further beyond their ability to control, episodes such as this had become more frequent and rancorous.
After a moment, Rena said, “Have you any idea who might be responsible?” With one look, Dojcsak conveyed to Rena all she needed to know. “You should speak to Angelique.”
“A soothsayer?”
“Psychic, Ed, she refers to herself as a psychic.”
“Psychic, mystic, fortune-teller; I don’t see the difference, Rena, even if you do. Are you still seeing that witch?”
“You know I am, and before you dismiss her completely, remember, she helped to discover the bodies of those girls who went missing last summer, the one in Saratoga, and before that, the girl in Hudson Falls.”
“It wasn’t a miracle, Rena, only a lucky guess. One girl loved horses, had been hanging around the paddocks: probably got herself into trouble with a stable boy. Even the newspapers had drawn conclusions of their own. The other was a runaway who was ba
dly decomposed. They suspect a hit and run. Being so close to the roadway, her body was going to be discovered eventually, anyway. Besides, if she’s such a genius, why can’t she say who killed the girls? Bodies are the easy part; who, how and why are more challenging.”
“Look, Ed, if it’s your pride, I can speak with her on my own. You don’t have to talk with her yourself.”
“I’ll do this my way, Rena, without interference, in my own time.”
“Will your time be time enough?”
Changing the subject, Dojcsak said, “I’ll see my mother today.”
“Today? You saw her yesterday; have you forgotten? She isn’t getting better, you know.”
Upon learning of Luba’s illness, Ed and Rena had confined Magda Dojcsak to the care of a local nursing home. Dojcsak hadn’t put up much fuss at Rena’s suggestion to move his mother from their home and the second floor bedroom she’d occupied for years. With the necessary gadgetry needed to sustain life—wires, oxygen tanks and tubes—it was no longer practical for Luba to continue to share a room with Rena and Ed. Magda herself hadn’t complained, prepared as always to accept the sacrifice of what she considered her inevitable fate.
“She likes it when I visit.”
“Sure, Ed, like she knows it when you visit.”
“Okay; I like it when I visit,” he replied.
Of course, Rena thought but didn’t say, it satisfies your sense of obligation. Instead, she asked, “Shall I make you a lunch?”
“No, I’ll eat out. And don’t bother with supper either. I won’t be home.”
“Suit yourself.” Studying her husband’s expression, Rena sighed, stood, and said, “Shave any closer, Ed, you’ll strike bone.”
…
With this thought percolating in his mind, Dojcsak left home, pulling from his driveway and directing his late model Crown Victoria along the River Road toward the center of town.
As expected, the sky had begun to clear, the sun becoming a crescent over the tree line, lacking in warmth but emitting enough light at this hour for Dojcsak to successfully negotiate the strip of asphalt that last evening had caused him such grief.
To his right, the river was flat, a sheet of plate glass with a fine film of mist rising from its surface like Spanish moss. The Hudson was at its widest and deepest at this point, three miles below Church Falls Bluffs, the steep precipice from which the village had taken its name. The dam had been constructed in the forties, in an effort to control the flow of water as it passed through the village. Prior to that, residents and farmers living within the flood plain had been plagued by frequent overflows, the problem often extending into the village where the channel narrowed and the river became a tumultuous sluice. With the building of the dam, property damage had been greatly curtailed, even if the death toll from recreational activities surrounding the waterway each summer continued steadily to rise.
The police building was a two-level field stone structure located on the south side of the river. Constructed in eighteen sixty-two by Dutch immigrants to the region, it was jointly occupied by Dojcsak’s small force and a chapter of the town’s volunteer fire department.
On the first level, the building contained two aging but adequately maintained pumper-trucks, equipped with the appropriate fire-fighting gear. Dojcsak’s office was located on the second level, together with a cubicle shared by Officers Sara Pridmore and Christopher Burke. A third office served as the local police detachment’s center of command.
Dojcsak’s window overlooked the original Town Square, out over an expanse of yellow, still snow-flattened lawn and to the river beyond. The river was swollen now with runoff from the unusually harsh winter. Barely visible through still winter-naked trees was the recently developed town center, a triangle of new construction which included municipal offices, a community theater, and a commercial complex of over a dozen units housing shops, galleries, and a café serving espresso, latte, cappuccino, and various other exotic concoctions for which Dojcsak resented paying four dollars a cup. The local police detachment was scheduled to relocate to the new municipal facility by the end of the year, with Dojcsak’s current workplace converted to a museum.
Initially, Dojcsak had complained to town council over the move, arguing that the cost and nuisance of the relocation was disproportionate to any possible benefit. Mayor Keith Chislett had explained to Dojcsak—as if speaking to a dull child—that as the village was expanding north, so must the hub of government activity. Dojcsak had complained of the price for take-out coffee and the cost of a restaurant meal on the north side of the bridge, to which His Worship the Mayor replied caustically, “If you’re arguing for a raise, Ed, take up a part-time job. The museum will be looking to hire wardens. With your experience, it should be no problem to qualify.” It was well known that Dojcsak and Chislett did not get along.
In the office, the command center was presided over by Dorothy O’Rielly. Dorothy was a five-foot tall ball of tightly compressed energy, the human equivalent of Indian rubber. Possessed of the vigor of a hound, properly channeled, her intensity could be set to useful purpose. Misdirected, her zeal turned caustic, taking on a stridency that had the power to bruise. Though Dojcsak was grateful for the selflessness with which she contributed unasked to Luba’s convalescence, one evening a week and every second Sunday providing Rena respite from the unremitting burden of his youngest daughter’s care, toward him, she made no effort to conceal an observation that he was himself not up to the obligation.
Dojcsak hauled his bulk the seventeen steps from first floor to second, along the narrow corridor to the makeshift dormitory where coffee, artificial whitener, paper filters, and the ten-cup coffee maker were kept. His stomach bubbled, cursing him for three cups at the crime scene, two cups at home and cautioning him against the dozen more to come. Dojcsak ignored the threat.
Christopher Burke lay atop the sofa. Obviously, he had not returned home since parting with Dojcsak and Sara three hours earlier in the alley where the body had been discovered. The steady rise and fall of his broad chest and the shallow inhale and exhale of his breath indicated to Dojcsak his Deputy was still deep in sleep.
Burke’s face was overcast, shadowed with beard, his dark hair pulled tight in curly knots around his square jaw and flat cheeks. If Dojcsak begrudged Burke anything, he sometimes begrudged him his good looks, jealous of the injustice that concentrates in some people all the best ones. Burke had the frigid appeal of a Greek God, Dojcsak thought, observing the younger man more closely. It was no wonder to the senior officer that women were attracted to him.
As a young man girls hadn’t much liked Ed Dojcsak. In fairness, he supposed he hadn’t much liked them. As a child, Ed learned they could be cruel. Dojcsak’s height hadn’t caught up to his weight until he was in high school. Up to then, he’d paid a terrible price: humiliation bordering on despair. Afterward, it was a skin condition. By the time Ed Dojcsak could appreciate himself for the good-looking young man he was, it was too late for any chance at self-confidence or esteem, though at nineteen a new position with the police went a significant distance toward redressing the oversight.
Dojcsak did not imagine Christopher Burke to have ever had the same problems.
“Wake up, sunshine,” he said to Burke now, nudging the younger man. “Rise and shine.” He said it more urgently, fearing Burke might sleep the long day away. (And who could blame him, knowing as he probably did the hours before them held only grief, recrimination and despair?) Burke stirred. Dojcsak said, “You haven’t been home.”
“And they say you’re no Colombo,” Burke said without malice, his bunched knuckles busily wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. It’s morning. Duty calls. Shower and shave, I’ll make coffee. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Burke stretched his long body, reached for his jacket and extracted a cigarette from a half empty pack. He ignited the tip with a disposable lighter and momentarily
contemplated the flame.
Inhaling deeply, he said, “Where’s Sara?”
“Not here,” Dojcsak replied as if it should be obvious.
“So, what’s the plan, my man?”
Dojcsak shrugged. “We do our duty; we investigate the crime.” He spread coffee from a pre-measured packet to cover the filter he’d carefully placed in the basket of the coffee maker.
“You’re not an experienced investigator, Ed; might be easier said than done.”
Dismissing Burke’s skepticism, Dojcsak replied, “Our only responsibility is to the victim; to assemble facts and to determine motive, opportunity and means. That’s simple enough. How the State—or the good Lord for that matter—interpret and apply the evidence we collect is a matter for their conscience, not ours.”
Unconvinced, Burke replied, “Haven’t got much to go on.”
“It’s a small town, Christopher. How many child killers can there possibly be?”
Burke agreed. Through a cloud of smoke he quoted Seamus Mcteer: “The possibilities are limited.”
Coffee was ready. Dojcsak extracted two large mugs from an overhead cupboard, pouring for both Burke and himself. Burke ignited a second cigarette from the remains of the first.
“You said last night you joined the police to be a policeman. Here’s your chance. Be a policeman. If you’re concerned with the larger issues, you should have studied law.”
“It’s not the larger issues keeping me up at night, Ed, it’s my wife, and not in a way I appreciate. In another two months,” he lamented, “it will be the kid.”
With an audible sigh, Dojcsak said, “I’m not an experienced investigator Christopher, but I do know that in a murder investigation the evidence that results in the apprehension and conviction of a suspect is usually gathered within the first twenty-four hours of the crime.”
“CSI?” Burke asked.
“Colombo,” Dojcsak said, eyeing a wall-mounted clock, “and in the case of Missy Bitson, we’ve squandered half our opportunity already.”
