by Drew Franzen
“Daffodils are looking good, Ed; did you fertilize?” It was his neighbor, Kate, the Registered Nurse who had recommended to Dojcsak to wear orthopedic shoes.
“May have,” he replied without really knowing, his thoughts returning to his yard.
“The warm weather has encouraged the bulbs,” she said, observing the budding display of tulips and crocuses. “It’s early though; I hope we don’t get snow.”
“Or frost,” Dojcsak added, thinking it more likely, though this far north it wasn’t unusual to experience a modest or even heavy snowfall late into spring.
“Or frost,” Kate agreed. “Not feeling well? You look flushed.”
“The sun,” Dojcsak said.
“Or your blood pressure,” Kate ventured. Before he could object, she continued. “I saw Henry at the house this morning. Luba not feeling well either?”
“Come on, Kate.” Dojcsak was abrupt. “She isn’t now, and we both know she won’t ever be.”
“Sorry, Ed. Only asking. But she is doing better. Yesterday was the best I’ve seen her in months. Be thankful for that. Be more optimistic, appreciate the good days for the small mercy they are. She doesn’t have many left.”
Kate moved close, sitting on the step nearest to Dojcsak. Not yet noon and already drinking beer; breathing heavily, as if his rib cage were pressed too tightly against his lungs; and smoking freely, from four feet away the odor of tobacco obvious. Was it only she who considered his compulsion to shave—What; three, four times a day—an aberration?
Kate had arrived to Church Falls from Albany in the mid-eighties, having survived an unexpectedly acrimonious separation from her husband of only eighteen months. She first rented and ultimately purchased her small bungalow with the proceeds from her eventual divorce. Settling in next door to the County Sheriff and his wife had proven an unexpected blessing, particularly given the harassing telephone calls her ex had chosen foolishly to make in the months prior to the granting of a final decree and to which Ed had thankfully put a quick stop.
At the time, lonely and in a strange town, Kate thought she might like to seduce Dojcsak. More than once she had ineffectually tried. Once, when her sister visiting from Colorado had said to Dojcsak, “So, you’re the one Kate’s always gushing about. Are you happily married?” Kate had reached out instinctively and protectively for Ed’s arm and replied brazenly, “If he’s going to cheat on his wife with anyone, it’s going to be with me.”
She looked at him now, feeling more pity than lust, though her subsequent friendship with Rena had convinced her that pity was not a concession to which Ed was necessarily entitled.
Kate said, “It’s a tragedy about Missy isn’t it?” Her gaze shifted instinctively across the street to the home of the victim’s relations. “I saw her only last week, when I was leaving here. It was the day she died,” Kate said as if realizing it for the first time. “I told this to Chris Burke. Do you have any idea who did it?”
Dojcsak set aside his newspaper, resigned to finishing it later.
“I don’t—we don’t. There are no witnesses. We have no concrete evidence. The pathology, as well as the forensics, is inconclusive.”
“I shudder to think it’s someone I know. If it isn’t a transient, it must be.”
Dojcsak shrugged. “Could be your next door neighbor, Kate.”
“You’re my next door neighbor, Ed.”
“I’m speaking metaphorically, not literally.” Dojcsak reached for his newspaper, holding it out to Kate. “I’ve been reading the Times. Have you read the Times?”
“The war?”
“The family,” Dojcsak clarified.
“I’m a registered nurse, Ed. I know all about the family.”
“Then you know what’s happening in the home. Children battered, murdered by members of their own family. Fathers, brothers, even mothers. None of us are above dishing out a measure of torment and abuse.”
“I can’t imagine what motivates such people. What kind of madness drives someone to commit such an act against his or her own flesh and blood?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Kate, though I’m beginning to believe it’s inherent, passed down not by family, but a condition of the species.”
“Well, we are the only animal that kills from desire, and not necessarily need.”
“I don’t know, Kate. I wouldn’t say that murder is necessarily an act of free will.”
Kate pulled herself from the stoop. “Ed,” she said, “you don’t think it’s the father, do you?”
“Is there a reason you ask?”
“She came to me last year, Missy, to the clinic, looking for contraceptives. I couldn’t help her of course, she wasn’t yet sixteen and we’re not permitted to dispense to minors without a parent’s consent.” Kate seemed to be recalling. “She was twelve, not yet thirteen. A child. Naturally, my first inclination was to ask her why. ‘Not having sex, are you?’ I asked, more or less jokingly. She denied it, said it had to do with her period, which made me wonder if her mother knew of the visit. She said yes, and I said, why didn’t she come with you? She shut up then.”
“She was alone?” Dojcsak asked.
“She was with her cousin, Jordy.”
Dojcsak leaned in to Kate, elbows to his knees. The white of his eyes were discolored, like egg with a runny yolk. A network of purple vessels radiated across his cheeks like a bruise.
“The clinic is a zoo, Ed,” Kate said, turning away. “She never returned.”
“But you’re sure it was her cousin?”
“I see the boy almost everyday.” Kate indicated Jordy’s home across the street from Dojcsak. “He hardly attends class anymore. Most days he sits out on the front stoop, smoking, waiting to be picked up by friends. It was Jordy, I’m sure.”
Confirmation from a third source, Dojcsak thought, that Missy and her cousin Jordy were close.
Afterward, he watched as Kate crossed the lawn to home, thinking how life might be, the life of Ed Dojcsak in particular, had he chosen her and not Rena as a partner. How would life be had she borne to him sons to carry on the family name, and not daughters? And how would life be if the children were healthy: robust, active and charming and not sickly and loutish? They would attend college of course, Dojcsak providing them the opportunity he himself had been denied. They would graduate Summa Cum Laude, one becoming a doctor, the other a practicing attorney or possibly, an engineer. They would live successful and happy lives and bear Kate and he grandchildren: perhaps four, or six, or eight. Dojcsak would live to an old age, caring for Kate, Kate caring for him.
How would life be had he chosen Kate? Dojcsak supposed his own poor self-image prevented him from thinking too deeply in these terms. And as he was not aware even of the existence of Kate Bouey when he first met Rena and as Dojcsak was convinced his personal troubles had begun long before he married, he did not devote an inordinate amount of his energy or his time to the cause of this idle speculation.
Dojcsak folded his newspaper, tucked it beneath his arm and, though it was not yet noon, decided he was hot, hungry, thirsty, and that he needed a cold beer, though not before a cold shower. For the third time that day he would shave. As with many things and despite his best effort, Ed Dojcsak was locked into a pattern of simple behavior that, even had he been aware of it, he was powerless to change.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, Christopher Burke rolled to his belly from his back, ostensibly to complete the newspaper article he had been reading but in fact to prevent Renate St. Jacobs from grappling with his now dispirited penis; Burke’s organ burned from overuse. The small bedroom reeked of cheap marijuana and sex, and Burke would need to shower before returning home, perhaps twice.
“C’mon, Chris,” Renate said. She easily straddled Burke’s buttocks like the dancer she was, an acrobatic peculiarity that to him had come as a pleasant surprise. He’d never before been made love to by a dancer.
Renate was one half of the pair he’d observed earlier in the week, dangling her feet over the water by the Oasis. After leaving his colleagues that day, Burke had driven his vehicle languidly along the Hudson River shoreline, unhurried and unenthusiastic about questioning the instructors at Missy’s school, planning to smoke a joint, smoke a cigarette, and listen to some tunes before fulfilling his duty.
He hadn’t made it half way before he discovered her sitting alone by the river, idly tossing small pebbles into the water. Her low-rise denims exposed a silky pink thong, the thin fabric of her tight white top revealing the curve of an ample breast. Christopher parked. He watched, riveted by the undulating flesh visible beneath her arm as she raised it, pulled back, and brought it forward again in a quick release. Later, they’d smoked drugs and had sex, in a secluded spot by the river, in the back of Burke’s cruiser.
Renate had told Burke she was a former student of Missy’s dance instructor, Marie Radigan. Renate had been in private lessons and not a classmate of Missy.
“Marie was nice, but loopy. She was envious of us girls, competing with us, pushing us to be better, then finding ways to sabotage our progress, you know, as if she were afraid of the competition. I was good, Chris; could have been really good. I quit after four years. It was too much; got so she was driving me loopy, you know?”
“Anything else?” he’d asked.
“Well,” Renate said, “some of us in her private class showered after our lessons; the girls. Not many, most were too shy to strip in front of the others. You know how it is; girls, we mature differently.” At this, Renate smiled knowingly, fondling her breasts. “Anyway, those of us who did got the feeling we were being watched, spied on, you know? That someone was looking at us while we were doing our thing.”
“Did you mention this to Marie?”
“I guess not; it was Marie we thought was watching. Besides, what if she is a dyke? She’s harmless, right? If it made her day, helped her to get off, what the hell, right?”
Earlier that week, Burke had interviewed Marie, sensing in her none of the supposed loopiness described by Renate. Marie came across as being committed and taking her work seriously. Judging from her success in placing dancers with the local theater, she was good at it. She gave Burke nothing worthwhile in his investigation into the murder, saying only that the victim was one of her better pupils for whom she had high expectations.
After only ten minutes questioning, Burke suggested they meet for coffee, afterward; he was concerned about disrupting her incoming class, he confessed, smiling the smile on which Sara believed his parents to have spent a fortune. Marie promised to get back to him, if he cared to leave a card. He did, looking forward to a call that never came, leaving him to conclude, where it concerned the dance instructor, Renate’s characterization had more to do with envy than truth.
“My mother will be home soon, Chris; don’t poop out on me now,” Renate said petulantly.
“Lay off, Ren. Besides, this could be important,” he protested, attempting to read.
“More important than this?” She was urgent, purposefully grinding her crotch into his hips. Struggling to maintain his concentration, Burke read:
From the New York Times, WASHINGTON
____________________________
The FBI has smashed a child pornography ring involving sixteen people who traded and produced online videos that depict the sexual abuse and beatings of young children—some of them their own family members—authorities said Friday.
The FBI investigation, which involved postal inspectors and Canadian authorities, lasted nearly two years and identified more than two dozen children between the ages of four and fourteen who appear in the videos. More arrests are expected.
The ring, which spanned seven states and three Canadian provinces, involved a brutal form of spanking and children involved in various sex acts with other children and adults, frequently their own parents or relations.
Agents were tipped off to the network after an assistant school principal from Montreal was arrested for the second time, in May of 2014. When Canadian authorities arrested the man they found computer files depicting children being beaten with whips and paddles.
Despite the best efforts of Renate, Burke remained uninspired. He continued to read, learning that on the basis of internet transmissions and information retrieved from computer hard drives, additional suspects had been apprehended in Montreal Quebec, Vancouver British Columbia, Brewton Alabama, LeHigh Acres Florida, Vanceburg Kentucky, Wisconsin Rapids Wisconsin and, most interesting and important to Burke, Albany, Jamestown and Mineola New York. Among those arrested were a bank security guard, a Catholic Sunday School teacher (no surprise there, thought Burke), an elementary school teacher (or there), a computer programmer, a local Chief of Police and a city mayor, among other high profile and in authority individuals. Eight women had been detained, allegedly the mothers of some of the children appearing in the videos.
“Fuck me,” Burke said under his breath.
“I’m trying,” said Renate, “but you’re making it hard. Or…you’re not.” She giggled.
“It’s not what I mean. This.” He waved the article. “The world is full of fucking perverts.” Burke continued to read:
“I’ve been in this a long, long time, and we’ve always seen isolated cases, but they were just that—isolated,” said FBI Investigator Johnson C. Brown, who helped run the investigation.
FBI spokesperson Joseph Doeung said, “Since the popularization of the Internet, such activity has become more organized, particularly with the use of online chat rooms and social networks, though we have reason to believe this group has been operating for years, as far back as the early sixties. With the advent of computer technology, they’ve simply become more sophisticated, more widespread and more difficult to apprehend. This is a fine example of cooperation between federal agencies—on both sides of the border—and local authorities. We’re presently working with Sheriffs’ departments in thirteen states and Canadian provincial authorities in Quebec, British Columbia and Ontario.” The task is daunting, he went on to say, with the roots of abuse stretching back years, practiced almost ritualistically among families, friends and even, he said, entire communities.
Eventually, Renate wiggled her way to Burke’s shoulders, straddling his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. He completed the article, tossed the newspaper aside and with his penis beginning to respond and his mind fixed on an image of Marie Radigan and Renate cavorting naked together in a hot—no: a cold shower—he commenced to fondle her bare breasts. “Your nipples remind me of kisses,” he said, “Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses.”
“Mmm…mmm… melt in your mouth good.” She giggled, leaning her body forward to touch a swollen breast to his tongue. “Eat up, Chrissy; there’s more where that came from.”
…
Had she been aware of this activity, Sara Pridmore might herself have been compelled to utter the phrase, “Fuck me, the world is full of perverts”. But she wasn’t, so instead she set down her own copy of the Saturday New York Times. Sara sat silent in the small, comfortable kitchen of the Episcopal rectory. Opposite her at the breakfast table, Reverend Cassie McMaster sat sipping from a shared tin of diet soda. Cassie had prepared lunch, tuna salad sandwiches, which Sara ate without bread.
“You need meat on your bones, Sara; eat. You’re too thin,” Cassie said, offering the lunch.
Cassie herself glanced surreptitiously to the refrigerator now, as if for her everything inside that might be calorie laden and artery clogging was calling. Listening carefully, Cassie imagined she could distinguish (just barely audible over the hum of the compressor) the words, “Eat me Cassie. You know you want to, if not now, eventually. Eat me!” (Jesus, Cassie thought, before this is over, I’m likely to put on twenty pounds.)
“I eat.” Sara was defensive, not for the first time, about her physique. Political correctness deemed it thoughtless to ope
nly ridicule the overweight, yet thought nothing of tormenting the thin. Sara nibbled on celery sticks and baby carrots.
“You don’t,” Cassie argued, “seeds and nuts, like a squirrel—or a bird—but not like a real person, a proper meal.” Cassie had herself read the Times article, when finished passing it off to Sara. “Is it relevant, do you think?”
Cassie’s pretty and normally made-up face was drawn, drained of color like chalk. The little make-up she wore was carelessly applied. Crumbs from a shortbread biscuit littered her housecoat, in contrast, Sara thought, to her usually meticulous and well thought-out appearance. Cassie’s hands burned, post-traumatic eczema flaring with a vengeance.
“Apparently. The FBI thinks so.” Sara recounted her conversation with Joe Doeung, immediately feeling guilt over her lack of appropriate follow-up, thinking she’d need to also request a read-out of calls incoming and outgoing to the victim’s mobile phone.
Cassie placed her palm on the newspaper that lay open on the table before them. “The article says nothing about murder.”
“No,” admitted Sara. “It’s an escalation, of sorts; at least according to Joe Doeung.”
“Can this be connected with Missy’s death?” asked Cassie. “Does it mean she was involved in this business, Sara? Or Eugene?” Cassie shuddered to think.
