Who Killed the Fonz?

by James Boice

  Richard said, “No, yeah, you’re probably right.” He thanked TJ for his time and waved goodbye to the dogs. He got back in the car and drove off, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He had to know for sure. He turned around, headed toward downtown to the Milwaukee Police Department.

  • • •

  “I’D LIKE TO SEE KIRK,” Richard told the Desk Sergeant sitting behind the dirty, nearly opaque bulletproof glass reading the Sporting News. On the cover was the kid from UNC who had hit the winning jump shot in the 1982 NCAA championship game against Georgetown, Richard remembered. The Next Dr. J, said the Sporting News. Richard had his doubts. No one would ever be better than Dr. J. And that included this kid, Michael Jordan.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the cop asked without looking up.

  “Well,” Richard said, “no, but—”

  “Then you may have a seat.”

  “It’s about Arthur Fonzarelli.”

  The desk sergeant looked up and said, “Fonzarelli?”

  “That’s right.”

  The desk sergeant stood and went in the back. When he returned he did not look at Richard. “He’ll be right with you,” the desk sergeant said.

  Richard waited, thinking about the first time he had ever been here. There had been a drag race, out by the airport. Fonzie against some greaser named Skizzy Scarlik. They chose Richard to drop the white flag to begin the race, because everyone could trust he would be fair. Fonzie giving him such a job was a major responsibility. It signaled a profound upgrade in social status. His father would not let him go, but he snuck out of the house to make it there. Howard noticed he was gone and came looking for him. Kirk and the cops came, arrested everyone who was there—even Howard.

  The desk sergeant’s phone rang, and he waved Richard up. He hit a buzzer, and the bulletproof glass door unlocked and Richard opened it and went through.

  The desk sergeant escorted him back, down a little hallway, past a break room. And then they rounded a corner and he found himself in a big, open, busy room. Cops in uniform leaned on corners of desks, sorting through documents. Other cops sat half-hidden in cubicles with phones to their heads. It was loud with the clacking of typewriters and shrill ringing of telephones.

  He found Kirk at a desk in the corner, out in the open with all the others.

  “Lieutenant Kirk, my name is—”

  “I remember you, Cunningham,” Kirk said, not looking up from his paperwork. “I almost didn’t recognize you the other day leaving the funeral home. You used to have the bright red hair. Not anymore, huh?”

  Richard was fifteen years old again. Coming up empty for words. Insecure, anxious.

  “What’s this about Fonzarelli?” Kirk said with no patience. His finger was tapping on his desk and he was looking all around the room, anywhere but at Richard. He never even made eye contact with him.

  Richard told him about the junkyard—the motorcycle and the blue paint. “I guess I was wondering, is it possible something else happened that night? Other than what we think?”

  Kirk looked down at his paperwork. He breathed heavily through his nose, almost snorting like a warthog. He didn’t answer.

  Richard said, “Well? Is there?”

  “No,” Kirk said.

  “But that blue mark. And the way the fender’s bent.”

  “Have you been up to that bridge lately? You haven’t. Know how I know? Because if you had, you’d see something there that might interest you. The guardrail is blue.”

  “You’ve tested it to make sure it’s the same paint?” Richard asked.

  “Yeah, we tested it. We used all the money and equipment we don’t have.”

  “Okay, fine, forget the paint. What about the fact that it was on the rear fender? Why would the rear fender be banged in if Fonzie went headfirst into the guardrail?”

  “You’re suggesting I haven’t done my job?”

  “No, sir. I’m not suggesting that.”

  “I remember when you left. Everybody was happy for you. Going off and pursuing your dreams. I was happy too. Know why? One less punk I had to keep in line.”

  “I wasn’t a punk.”

  “You all were.”

  “We were kids.”

  “You were a juvenile delinquent. I arrested you twice: once in 1956 for drag racing, then again in 1958 for violating curfew.”

  “That was an unjust curfew. It was completely arbitrary. You only set it because someone broke a window at the high school the night before and you couldn’t figure out who it was. It wasn’t legal. I was going to lead a demonstration against it—”

  “Inciting a riot,” Kirk said.

  “—but then I got locked inside at Arnold’s. To call for help on the pay phone, I had to break in to the jukebox for a dime. I’d almost got it open when you walked in.”

  “Caught you red-handed. Took you down for stealing—and for breaking my curfew.”

  “You sure did.”

  “Nothing but trouble.”

  “Nothing but a kid.”

  “Look. Just because you saw paint doesn’t give me cause to reopen the investigation. The case is closed. Go home. Go back to Hollywood, lay by your pool. Leave the real work to the real people.”

  Richard raised his voice. “Why won’t you take this seriously? What’s your problem?”

  The room fell silent. All the cops on the floor were watching.

  Kirk was looking at him now. “You want to know what my problem is? Read the morning paper. Yesterday we pulled in a guy with an Uzi and a trunkful of heroin. An Uzi. That’s my problem. A no-good, over-the-hill greaser who had it coming? Who thought the rules didn’t apply to him? And had to find out the hard way that they do? That’s not my problem.”

  Richard’s lip trembled. His hands curled into fists. “Take it back,” he said.

  “Want to visit your old jail cell, Cunningham? That can be arranged.” He called out, “Sauer!” An officer in uniform arrived. Early thirties. Kirk said, “Get this guy out of here before he does something he regrets.”

  Sauer took Richard gently by the arm. “Come on,” he said. There was kindness in his voice. Like he knew well how impossible Kirk could be. Richard turned and went with him.

  As he led him back the way he came, Officer Sauer said, “It’s not you. Since June, he’s been acting like there’s a nail stuck in the bottom of his shoe.”

  “And how’s that different from usual?”

  Sauer chuckled. “Not different. Just worse. It’s this election. The governor’s got Kirk’s head in a vise about keeping big crime stories out of the papers through election day. He’s afraid Sealock will use it to make him look like crime is running amok on his watch. That heroin we picked up yesterday is exactly the kind of thing he has in mind—and the papers are already running with it. Meanwhile, he’s got the big boys here riding him to make more arrests, bigger and more spectacular ones so we look better. If Sealock is elected, he’ll be taking a hard look at budgets—ours included. So Kirk’s getting it from all sides.” He led Richard through the lobby and opened the door for him. “By the way,” he said, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Richard thanked him and left.

  • • •

  HE HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT LUNCH but he was no longer hungry. As he drove he felt like inside of his head were the ends of two pipes that did not meet; they were an inch apart, and he could not figure out how to join them, so both just dripped and dripped.

  They dripped and dripped on his way to Sealock’s house.

  He went there without calling ahead, hoping to catch him. He had not planned on seeing Sealock again. They had said their goodbyes. But he didn’t know who else to talk to about this.

  It was a straight northern shot up to Whitefish Bay, up I-794 to the Lincoln Memorial Drive split, which went along the beach, and he rode that up all the way past the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee until it tucked back inland. The horizon was endless, and Lake Michigan looked like the ocean.
>
  When he got to Sealock’s street, there were black official-looking cars in the driveway. Richard rang the doorbell. Church bell–like chimes rang out inside.

  “Richard,” said a woman’s voice behind him. Margo Sealock was coming around from the side of the house. “I didn’t think we’d see you again. Is everything okay with the commercial?”

  “Is he here?” he said.

  “You look ill. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know exactly. He’s inside?”

  “He’s on the phone with his press team, putting together a statement about the drug bust.” She read his face. “It’s urgent, isn’t it. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  As she stepped onto the porch she lost her footing on the edge of the first step and stumbled. He reached out and caught her by the elbow. She laughed at herself.

  “You’re okay?” he said.

  “Fine,” she said. She put her hand on the doorknob then stopped and turned to face him. She said, “You know, I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

  The door opened and Sealock appeared in the doorway. “Richard,” he said, surprised.

  Richard looked back to Margo. “What did you want to tell me, Mrs. Sealock?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just—I hope you’ll show him for who he is.”

  Richard was moved at her protectiveness for her husband. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sealock. That’s what I absolutely intend to do.”

  • • •

  IN SEALOCK’S OFFICE, RICHARD STOOD in the middle of the room. Drip, drip, drip went those pipes in his head.

  That dent on the rear fender. That blue paint. Kirk.

  Sealock said, “What’s up, Richard?”

  “It’s Fonzie.”

  “Fonzie?”

  “Yeah. It’s all just not sitting right with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dropped off the commercial at the stations—”

  “Okay.”

  “—and on the way back I passed this junkyard. Called TJ’s. Do you know it? Fonzie’s bike was there.”

  “Fonzie’s was?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean, his bike-bike?”

  “Yeah, the one he was riding when he, you know. It was just right there, right out in the open.”

  Sealook looked away, trying to process this. “Why was it there? Shouldn’t it be in a police impound lot or something?”

  “The cops let him have the unclaimed wrecks.”

  “Here. Take a seat.” They sat down in the leather chairs. Sealock sat close to Richard. Their knees were almost touching. Sealock was thinking out loud. “I guess if it was an accident there’s no reason for them to hold on to it any longer. Go on. Fonzie’s bike at the junkyard.”

  “Right. Well, I took a look at it.”

  “At the bike.”

  “At the bike. And the darnedest thing. There was blue on it. Like a streak of blue, on the back fender.” It did not sound like much, Richard could hear it from Sealock’s perspective. It sounded a little crazy, a little yeah, so what?

  But Sealock understood. He was staring through Richard, processing this, seeing the importance of it. “Why was there blue?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Fonzie wouldn’t have been riding around with something like that on his bike.”

  “Yes. Yes. So I brought it to Kirk.”

  “The bike?”

  “No, I mean I just went to Kirk. To tell him about it. You know, to help. And ask, you know, did they notice it and what did they think it was. Thinking, you know, it’s nothing, but—”

  “But he’s your friend.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “You have to be sure, and you want to help.”

  “Right. Yeah.”

  “So what’d Kirk say?”

  “He blew me off. He says the blue mark is from the bridge and that’s all there is to it.”

  Sealock scrunched his nose. “From the bridge?”

  “Yeah, he says Fonzie hit a blue spot on the bridge or something.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If that’s what happened,” Sealock said, “the blue should be on the front of the bike, not the back.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. And otherwise, it’s perfect back there. Not a scratch.”

  Sealock had his hands on his hips. His face had become gray and heavy. “Kirk,” he said, shaking his head, pulling on the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  Richard watched the man’s back, the side of his face. Richard watched it closely because it was a gauge for how he himself should be feeling about all this. He wanted to know how he felt about this, and what he should do—and Sealock’s reaction was paramount to that decision.

  “Richard,” Sealock said, “Kirk is a hugely important person in this city. And what you’re suggesting . . .”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.”

  “No, I think you are though.”

  Richard wondered: Was he?

  “Tell me,” Sealock said, “what exactly did Kirk have against Fonzie?”

  Richard said, “Are you kidding? What did the Jets have against the Sharks?”

  “Just hated him, huh?”

  “Hated him.”

  “Was it something Fonzie did?”

  “It wasn’t what he did so much as who he was. Fonzie’s very existence in this town was a living, breathing insult to Kirk. Always undermining his authority. He was always the one guy Kirk could never quite touch. He was smarter than Kirk, faster than Kirk, and cooler than Kirk. And everyone knew it. No matter how far up the ladder Kirk climbed, it must have been like Fonzie was always still there, a constant reminder of just how small and meaningless Kirk was. And I’ll bet that just humiliated him.”

  Sealock said, “Look, can I tell you something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I mean, something sensitive. Highly sensitive. That you can’t tell anybody else. Ever.”

  Richard’s pulse quickened. He was excited to share Sealock’s confidence and have his trust.

  Sealock said, “I don’t really know how to say this. Look, don’t get me wrong, okay? Kirk’s an excellent cop—as far as we know, anyway. But I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. I never have.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “He’s been around too long, has become too entrenched, has too many allegiances—and unfortunately not all of them are to justice and the people’s well-being. I think he lost sight of the purpose of the law and can only see the law. You know?”

  “I do. Exactly. He’s always been on some power trip.”

  “I want to shake up the top brass over at the police department once I’m elected. Get some fresh blood in there, enact some real, positive justice reform, some real change. Kirk knows that, I don’t make any secret of it, it’s part of my platform, I talk about it all the time. When I’m elected, he’s out. And I’ll see to it that his replacement reopens the investigation into Fonzie’s death. We just need some evidence. Something firm. Maybe there’s something at the crash site. Have you been out there yet, to the bridge?”

  “I’ve been avoiding it.”

  “The cops could have overlooked something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Could be anything—a clue someone who only knew Fonzie as well as you did would notice. It’s a long shot, but why not take it? Otherwise, we don’t have much to work with.”

  “I’ll go now.”

  “Later might be better. When it’s darker and there’s less traffic.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Later.”

  Richard had not wanted things to go in this direction. But hearing the words come out of Sealock’s mouth made him realize that things already had. They had already gone in this direction, way back at the police station, the minute Kirk blew him off. He had not wanted to admit it to himself. It was too big, too awfu
l of a turn for an old rivalry to have taken.

  When Richard left Sealock’s house it had grown almost completely dark, but one fact had become completely illuminated: Lieutenant Kirk had something to do with Fonzie’s death.

  • • •

  RICHARD PARKED THE TEMPO UNDER the bridge on a little bank used for fishing. He stepped over discarded lures and empty Michelob bottles. He walked up the embankment. He had a flashlight from Joanie’s. He kept it off for now. Up above, the stars in the dark sky watched him.

  He stood at the guardrail and looked down at what Fonzie had seen as he died. A shimmering abyss. It was so dark he probably did not even see it approaching. Richard imagined it felt cold. That’s the only way he knew it was coming. Only a few seconds. And then the cold and the darkness were everywhere, were everything. Maybe Fonzie kicked and fought, panicking. It was only natural. Or maybe he was cool. Either way, in the end it did not matter.

  It was close to nine o’clock. There was no traffic. The city had gone home for the night. He threw his leg over the Jersey barrier and climbed over.

  He walked along the shoulder forty or fifty feet until he came to the spot where Fonzie had crashed. He knew it was the place because of all the flowers people had placed there, and all the pocket combs, and little messages. The wreckage and debris had been cleaned up—even the shattered glass of the bike’s headlight. There was nothing left. No evidence. No clues.

  The flowers covered up most of the wall. He knelt down and turned on the flashlight. With his free hand he moved aside the flowers so he could see the rail. He put the flashlight on it and was disappointed to see blue. The rail was in fact blue. A long strip of blue, going the whole length of the bridge. And it was deep blue, the same shade as the streak on the bike, or at least close to it. There was a dent where Fonzie had hit. It looked small. Innocuous. The blue paint there was not even nicked.

  “Hey,” called a voice. He dropped the flashlight. He looked back. It was a cop, sitting inside a Milwaukee Police Department cruiser. “Cunningham,” said the voice, “I’ve been looking all over for you, what the hell are you doing?”

  It was Officer Sauer. He was leaning across the passenger seat from behind the wheel, looking confused through his rolled-down passenger window. He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door, got out. Faced Richard over the hood, putting his arm on it. “You’re not thinking of jumping are you?”