Death in Dark Places

by Drew Franzen

  Though not a religious man, if asked, Ed Dojcsak might characterize himself as being reasonably spiritual. He accepted the existence of A God, though not necessarily The God of his mother, or his youth. This God, he decided at an early age, was a conniving son of a bitch, having him confess his sins as if in the hereafter things might go easier on Dojcsak if only he would. As a cop, in this respect, Dojcsak imagined he and his God were much the same; if not in character, at least in the certain knowledge of how, in their un-Godly ways, they possessed power to manipulate the conscience of others.

  Dojcsak smoked, relieved himself, scraped his face (in that order) and dressed in a pair of well-worn yet serviceable chinos, one of the few pairs remaining to him that he was able—though with effort—to buckle over his ever expanding waistline.

  Rena had been up before him, her presence marked by the muffled sound of restless activity that typically accompanied her weekend chores. As it was Saturday, she hadn’t bothered to prepare him coffee. Whereas Dojcsak might otherwise have opted to take the car, today he covered on foot the short distance from his home to the Big Top Diner. It wasn’t the New York City Marathon, but for Ed Dojcsak it was a start, a modest fulfillment of the promise he’d made to Henry Bauer to begin taking better care of his health.

  Dojcsak slipped from the house quietly, thankfully managing to avoid Jennifer, who remained sleeping, and Rena, now in the cellar laundry room preoccupied with a week’s worth of laundry.

  Dojcsak sat at the coffee bar, among a group of Saturday morning regulars. The diner was packed at this time of day. Though he couldn’t say for certain, Dojcsak suspected that a place at the coffee counter had been purposely set-aside on his behalf; the center seat of eleven, five either side. A corner television was tuned to Fox News, recounting that network’s particular version of the latest battlefield updates from the Middle East. Though Dojcsak supported the troops, he didn’t necessarily support the war, as they called it nowadays. A card carrying Republican, he rejected the hyperbole with which the Administration characterized the fighters of ISIS; Dojcsak recognized the face of evil and to his mind they were not it.

  He ordered coffee and two deep fried apple fritters. (Of the diet, Henry Bauer had cautioned him to begin gradually, which Dojcsak now was attempting to do, his regular Saturday morning constitutional consisting typically of two eggs, bacon, home fries and, afterward, two of the sticky buns.) Dojcsak was self-consciously aware of the hush that greeted his arrival. He sat pressed between Andy Pardoe to his right, and to the left, His Right Honorable Worship the Mayor, Keith Chislett. Dojcsak sipped coffee, chewed his fritter thoughtfully, wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.

  “Farmer’s Almanac is predicting a mild spring with a hot dry summer,” Chislett said to no one and to everyone.

  “We need it,” said Pardoe. “It’s been a long winter.”

  Chislett concurred. “You’ll get away then, Ed?”

  For years and since anyone could recall, it was Dojcsak’s custom during the spring and summer months to hitch his small trailer to the car and to strap his twelve-foot run-about to the roof rack prior to disappearing into the Adirondacks for days on end, always returning with a catch worthy of mounting, framing and admiration, though Dojcsak refused to reveal the exact location of his haul. If pressed, he would say somewhere north of Diamond Point but south of Bolton Landing, knowing the information to be meaningless, the distance spanning a remote shoreline of more than fifteen craggy miles.

  “That’s the plan,” Dojcsak agreed.

  “The Broadmoor has a dynamite schedule this year,” Pardoe said, referring to the local theater. “Lady Be Good, a musical comedy, and Picnic, just to prove to the critics we’re serious.”

  “Mmm,” said Chislett, “powerful stuff,” though he himself was not familiar with either production. “The Board of Directors is thinking about adding weekday matinees; to encourage the tours.”

  “The buses?”

  “The buses,” replied Chislett reverentially, buses in the world of tourism being the Holiest of Holy Grails by which to validate a travel destination such as that to which Church Falls aspired to be.

  The waitress returned, offering coffee. Chislett accepted, as did Pardoe. Dojcsak declined, ordering a third fritter, washing the second down with the tepid remains in his cup. He asked for water; a tall glass, no ice. Without requesting permission, he ignited a cigarette.

  “Could be a good summer,” said Pardoe.

  “Could be; possibly the best yet,” replied Chislett. “After all, what with war, disease and the threat of suicide attacks, people are likely to stay close to home; avoid the airports, big cities, and trips overseas.”

  “Unless,” Pardoe said, “we have another killing.”

  “Ay-uh,” said the Mayor, lowering his voice. “It would be unfortunate, that.”

  Dojcsak said, “For the victim, Keith, or for the town?”

  “I’m not a heartless man, Ed. My sympathies go out to the family, but I do have to consider the greater good. I’m concerned for the loss of life as much—more—as for the loss of goodwill. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Any progress, Ed” asked Pardoe, “with the investigation?”

  “Nothing I can discuss.”

  “Nothing? No suspects, no clues?” Pardoe asked, as if for him it were difficult to fathom.

  “This isn’t television, Andy,” Dojcsak said, mimicking the words of the Medical Examiner at the crime scene. “These things take time.”

  Chislett said, “The summer season is approaching, Ed, we don’t have time. We can’t have people think we’re not doing all we can.”

  “Or that I’m doing all I can?”

  “Just saying, Ed. Personally, I think you’re doing all that you’re able to do, but what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what the tourists—and tour operators—think. A lot is at stake. We need to solve this thing quickly.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Ed, we; the people in charge.”

  Behind the service counter, on the same grill, the cook flipped pancakes, bacon, eggs, and home fried potatoes, afterward dragging his hands over an already greasy apron. The waitress barked orders: two, three, four in succession. The faint odor of onion and grease reached Dojcsak’s nostrils. He said, “We have no witnesses, Keith. No one seems to have seen or heard a thing.”

  “Nothing? No one? How can that be?” Around them other customers strained to overhear the conversation.

  “It was a miserable day. People stayed indoors.” As if in his own defense, Dojcsak added, “It got dark early that night.”

  Lowering his voice, Chislett said, “There are less than ten thousand citizens in this town, Ed. More than half those are children, half yet again are women. Eliminate the elderly and the infirm and what’s left? It’s been almost a week. Are you telling me you have no idea?”

  Dojcsak was telling him exactly that; he had no idea except to say the father—the obvious suspect—no longer seemed so obvious, having been home with his eldest daughter and his wife at the time of the killing. In separate interviews, they confirmed this. “This isn’t to say they aren’t lying,” Dojcsak added, “only to say that unless Eugene Bitson breaks down completely and confesses to the crime, or they change their story, he is not our best suspect. I’ve talked to the man; my gut tells me it’s not him.”

  In fact, though Dojcsak had spoken with Eugene, the interrogation had been neither enthusiastic nor intense. From the outset, Ed was skeptical of the likelihood in proving Eugene’s guilt.

  The scent of fried eggs and bacon was heavy in the air. Dojcsak summoned the waitress. “Eggs over easy, sausage, home fries on the side,” he said. (So much for wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.)

  To Chislett, Dojcsak said, “Christopher Burke and Sara Pridmore have been working overtime (watch the payroll, Ed, the Mayor said in response to this) talking to teachers and
students at Missy’s school.”

  While excelling in the performing arts, he added, she was shown to be a less than inspired pupil. Despite this, Missy had been granted the privilege to attend a once weekly advanced dance class in the studio of Marie Radigan. It seemed Missy attended church regularly, studying her bible and confessing to her sins, presumably, at the altar of her Aunt, Cassie McMaster.

  “Couldn’t have done, Ed,” offered Andy Pardoe at this point.

  “Couldn’t have done what?’ asked Dojcsak.

  “Confessed her sins, Ed. Reverend McMaster is High Church. Only Catholics Confess their sins.”

  Be that as it may, Dojcsak went on, where it regards Missy—and other members of the church, he imagined—she was not without sin. Dojcsak admitted that according to forensics, though Missy may have had relations prior to her death, she was not raped. “From what we know of the girl, we have our work cut out to identify suspects from what appears to be a long list.”

  Dojcsak’s breakfast arrived. He reached for a shaker and salted heavily.

  Exasperated, Andy Pardoe said, “She was thirteen, Ed.” Dojcsak looked to him as if he were naïve.

  “It’s a crime of passion then?” asked Chislett.

  “Appears so,” said Dojcsak. “Though I won’t say the killing isn’t a direct result of sexual misconduct, it isn’t random. She may have brought it on herself, through her own behavior.”

  “Brought it on herself?” said Pardoe.

  Chislett explained. “What Ed is saying, Andy, is she knew her killer. That’s a good thing; it reduces the likelihood of a repeat performance. Am I right, Ed?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “If it was personal, to do with her behavior, then we may have seen the last of it. Reports of a deranged serial killer indiscriminately killing young ladies would not be good for the summer tourist trade.”

  Pardoe said, “Bit like déjà vu, isn’t it? This conversation?”

  Chislett said, “Don’t get nostalgic, Andy. It isn’t déjà vu at all.”

  Pardoe said, “But…”

  Chislett cut him off. “No buts, Andy; we’re not talking swallows to Capistrano, here. It’s like Ed says: function of the girl’s behavior.”

  Dojcsak said, “These things take time. We’ve had help from the State Police, canvassing for witnesses, but ultimately, the responsibility to question possible suspects is mine, and I’m only one.”

  Chislett studied Dojcsak thoughtfully: his size; his bulk, struggling like an overcooked breakfast sausage to remain encased within his trousers; the florid complexion, and the bloody lacerations where, apparently, Dojcsak had carelessly nicked himself while shaving, as if so much damage could be possibly caused by a safety razor. A strange man, Chislett thought, always was, not particularly incompetent at law enforcement, but an ostrich where it regarded his own family. Looking at him now—perspiring, quaking—Chislett wondered if Ed Dojcsak might not be seriously ill.

  They sat in silence for a moment before Dojcsak placed a ten-dollar bill on the countertop: enough to cover his meal including a generous tip. He wrapped his third fritter, “to go”, in a paper napkin, pulled himself from the barstool and departed thirty seconds later with: “Goodbye, I’ll keep you informed,” for the benefit of the Mayor.

  At home, Dojcsak raked the snow-flattened front lawn, not so much dismayed to know Jenny was smoking but that she did so in such utter defiance of him. He tilled soil in the garden, even though it was far too early in the season to plant, and enjoyed the scent of a lilac bush in early bloom. A burst of color had appeared in one errant patch of the yard: enthusiastic yet premature daffodils?

  They reminded Dojcsak of a painting: Monet. Or was it Manet? No matter, an Impressionist at any rate. Or was it Realist? He had been to the Met once, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of few weekends over twenty-five years of marriage that he and Rena had managed to spend away. They had walked, admiring the ancient and more recent artifacts, taking lunch in the cafeteria so as not to lose time by leaving the premises, remained late until the doors closed. Afterward, they’d walked Central Park, dined at Tavern On The Green (though he could hardly afford it, Jenny at the time having only recently arrived) then made love upon returning to the hotel. (All this at a time when Dojcsak was capable. Or willing? He was never sure which, or if there was a difference.)

  The sun was warm on his face. Carefully, he trimmed back the cedar trees that had encroached on the space in his driveway and front walk. Feeling ambitious, Dojcsak struggled to pull an extension ladder from the garage. He set it at a precarious and dangerous angle against the house and with much huffing and grunting hauled his bulk thirty feet and twenty-eight rungs to reach a clogged gutter. Within minutes, he abandoned the effort, finding the task overly arduous and ultimately futile. Perspiring and breathing heavily, he returned the thirty feet and twenty-eight rungs back to terra firma, making a mental note to have someone tend to the gutter before the arrival of the heavier, spring rain.

  Dojcsak finished in the yard, collected his implements, hosed down the drive and the front walk, replaced the garden hose and entered his home to quickly shave. He retrieved a beer from the icebox. While inside, Rena commented: “You look like death, Ed. As if you’re having a stroke.” (If she truly believed this, she didn’t bother to telephone 911.)

  Outside, Dojcsak collected his Saturday New York Times from the front stoop, where he remained to read. Renewed violence threatened the Middle East (what else is new?) and Obama threatened to extend the War on Terrorism from Iraq to Iran. The Greeks were threatening to repudiate the Euro and, for good measure, ten billion dollars worth of outstanding international debt obligations. In Paris, Marine Le Pen was threatening to force legislation requiring the registration of all Muslim immigrants.

  Dojcsak reviewed an advertisement for a flaxseed based dietary supplement proclaiming three bowel movements a day to be necessary to the maintenance of good health. If I had three movements a day, Dojcsak marveled, my asshole would sting like an open wound. In an article titled, Children Beaten on Video, he read how the combined forces of the FBI, the U.S. Postal Service and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had smashed a child pornography ring involving at least ten people who produced and traded videos depicting the physical and sexual abuse of children, some as young as four years old. Many of the indicted families were located in small communities throughout New York State and Ontario, Canada with many parents subjecting their own children to the abuse. According to an FBI spokesperson, the investigation was ongoing.

  In the early days following the death of Missy Bitson, Dojcsak perceived a sense of quiet anxiety settle like a bad smell over the citizens of his own small community. But not fear. By now, most—like Dojcsak and Keith Chislett—accepted, almost welcomed, the notion that Missy’s fate had more to do with her own behavior, possibly even the interminably twisted roots of her own family tree. (Did they recall Maggie, pregnant at fifteen and married to Eugene a year later, the outcome of that union estranged now and living in New York City?) What could the killing possibly have to do with them? There was a sense of false security, Dojcsak believed, fueled by the twin necessities—at times like these—of gossip and commiseration.

  They were wrong of course. Dojcsak knew this with certainty. Families at risk—those having daughters between the ages of ten and say, fifteen or sixteen—remained at risk, notwithstanding the reputation of the dead girl or the part it may have had in her murder. As father to such a daughter, Dojcsak had witnessed first-hand the possible consequences of female adolescence (though he himself had failed miserably to manage the hormonal metamorphosis that occasions the tumultuous transition through puberty).

  Jenny, for instance, had begun to scar her body at an early age. Before passing from grade school to junior high, she had started the ritual of disfiguring self-abuse, cutting her skin with a variety of common and easily attainable household utensils or school supplies; at the dinner table idly hackin
g at her fingers with a butter knife, or perforating her skin with a ball point pen while doing homework. With their disposable income tied up in the care of Luba, the Dojcsaks could ill-afford the services of a child psychologist for Jen. They relied, instead, on Henry Bauer for guidance.

  Sitting in Bauer’s office one day while the doctor referred to a six-inch thick medical text, Dojcsak half-listened while Henry explained.

  “Deliberate Self-Harm Syndrome they call it, a form of self-injury or mutilation. Ah, here.” He opened to a page halfway through the volume. He read: “Some psychologists claim self-mutilation is an attention seeking action, a cry for help or a way of getting revenge.” Over half-glasses, he studied Rena and Ed for a reaction. Both Dojcsak and his wife remained impassive. Bauer continued. “It is estimated there are over two million chronic self-injurers in America today. Common to the overwhelming majority of cutters is mounting anxiety, anger and agitation, reaching a point, ultimately, where they experience an intolerable and uncontrollable situation from which they feel there is no escape other than perhaps to cut. They experience an irresistible need to cut, seeing no alternative. The cutting is done alone and in private and followed always by rapid, but only temporary, relief.”

  “Are we to blame?” asked Rena.

  “Your preoccupation with Luba may have something to do with it,” said Bauer, adding for the benefit of the parents, “though I suspect it may have more to do with the simple fact Luba is dying.”

  Dojcsak said, “But the girls aren’t close. Why is Jenny so upset?”

  “With children, it’s difficult to know how or why identical circumstances affect some one way, others differently. You’ll need to keep an eye on her, be vigilant. Usually it’s only surface tearing, but in extreme cases patients may cause themselves serious harm.”

  However well intentioned, Bauer’s advice did not prevent Jenny from carving a patchwork of rudimentary patterns on the flesh of her forearms and inner thighs alternately resembling a layout for tic-tac-toe, or plaid. Dojcsak was helpless to adequately manage in his daughter this relentless struggle, this display of defiance capriciously dispensed or hysterically applied. Uncomfortable, embarrassed, and unable to understand even slightly, Dojcsak sought not to understand at all. In truth, he hadn’t much tried, ceding the responsibility and subsequent accountability early and often to Rena, practicing a policy of avoidance, at all times seeking to maintain an appropriate distance between his maturing daughter and him. As far as Dojcsak knew, Jen had stopped cutting. Not having seen her in so much as either a tee shirt or short pants for almost seven years, he couldn’t say for sure.