Damaged Goods: A Jack McMorrow Mystery

by Gerry Boyle

  I heard Roxanne going upstairs, probably with clean laundry. Her footsteps were over me now. Sophie’s room. I heard the basket hit the floor, a drawer open.

  I sat, pulled the tub to me. Roxanne was right; Mandi revealed next to nothing. I picked up the stack of papers, separated the half I’d already skimmed. Started working through the other.

  More drawings: women with flowing hair and flowing dresses. A whole set of a bride and groom, the bride’s gown trailing behind her, the groom in a tux, his head cocked as he looked at the woman. No wedding on the horizon for Mandi. Why the pictures?

  Another poem, some sort of haiku:

  This room

  holds me

  so tight

  I can

  not breathe.

  And another, written on the same page.

  My imagination

  is the window

  they cannot close

  or lock

  or pull the shade

  or put a screen over

  or shut in with steel bars.

  I see the sky

  when it’s not there

  sometimes blue

  sometimes clouds

  some blow fast

  and some just float

  take me away like the dandelion fuzz

  that the wind carries

  but when I land

  and open my eyes

  I’m still here

  Until I dream

  Again

  Bars. A sky she can’t see. A suffocating room.

  A jail cell.

  Upstairs, drawers were opening and closing. The closet door slammed shut.

  I put the poems aside. Leafed through a bunch of wrinkled clippings from People magazine, 2002. Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. Jennifer Aniston and Keanu Reeves. A story about Cameron Diaz, one sentence underlined. “Cameron was so skinny when she was young, the kids called her ‘Skeletor.’”

  Someone had written: “And now you’re famous! F—- them!”

  Roxanne passed overhead, headed for our room. She called down, “Jack, you call this making a bed?”

  I kept flipping through the papers. More poems. What looked like the start of a story, written in pencil on yellow legal paper:

  Marisa liked to take walks in her neighborhood and pretend it was Paris. She talked to herself as she walked, speaking what she thought sounded like French. But Marisa didn’t speak French. She had never been outside of Massachusetts. The only foreign language she heard was Porchagese (???), from the old guy who lived two doors down from her house. She didn’t know what he was saying to her but when she was 13 and started to get boobs she decided he was sketchy.

  The story ended there. I kept going.

  A yellowed newspaper photo: Ben Affleck at Fenway Park, the word “hottie” written under his face. I turned the clip over. July 9, 2002. The Quincy Patriot Ledge, a newspaper from outside of Boston.

  Then a page from what must have been a journal. No date.

  Who decides who we are and what we are? Do we have a choice? Or are we made, like cookies. You put the dough on the sheet. It has no choice of whether it’s gonna be chocolate chip. It just is. What made me what I am? If it was my mother, I still love her, I guess.

  Roxanne tossed sheets down the stairs. I was almost through the stack. More People: a picture of Jennifer Lopez, a story about Reese Witherspoon. Scrawled on the clipping: I want your life.

  Stuck to the back of Reese Witherspoon, a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it and another newspaper clipping emerged. I unfolded that, too, like a set of nesting dolls. It wasn’t a story: just a picture. A woman in handcuffs, standing by a deputy. It was a perp-walk photo, a cruiser behind them, another cop closing the back door from which the woman had just gotten out, presumably on her way into court.

  The woman wore jeans and boots and a baggy sweatshirt. Her face had been cut out of the clipping, leaving a small, round hole. I looked at the cop’s uniform. Reached for the desk and took a magnifying glass from the drawer. The cop had a name tag but I couldn’t make it out. The cruiser looked brown but the picture was black and white. The door was open and the insignia wasn’t in view.

  “Damn,” I said.

  I turned it over. It was going to be partly cloudy and 60-65 degrees.

  The Patriot-Ledger Weather, Tuesday, August 12, 1999.

  More sheets came down the stairs. I reached for the phone. Got directory assistance and got the number for the newsroom. I called. A young guy answered, said, “Newsroom.”

  “Photo desk,” I said.

  He transferred the call. The phone rang. A woman answered, a smoker’s rasp. “Photo.”

  I told her my name.

  “Yup,” she said.

  I said I was working on a story for the New York Times.

  That got her attention.

  “There’s a picture on a clip,” I said. “Looks like it’s page one. Cop leading a suspect into court. A woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just need to know who the woman is. It’s cut off on the clip I have.”

  “Our archives are online,” she said. “You can—”

  “I don’t have a name to search for. All I have is the date.”

  “Well, listen, I’m kinda busy right now.”

  “It’s August 12, 1999. You must have a photo log.”

  A long pause. A sigh. “Gimme your number,” she said. “I’ll see if I can find somebody to look it up. It’ll be a while. What I’m saying is, don’t sit by the phone.”

  I gave her my number, then said, “One more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The weather in your paper. What page is that on?”

  “The weather? You mean, like the forecast, with the graphics?”

  “Right.”

  “Back page, A-section,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “But are you talking about now or back then?”

  “Back then. The same paper, ’99,” I said.

  “Used to be on page two, top left. They just changed it, along with everything else.”

  “Then the photo I have, it ran page one. This women was big news.”

  “She was that day,” she said. “It’s all relative, as you know.”

  I did know it, and I thanked her and hung up as Roxanne came into the study, a new swish in her step. She came over and kissed my forehead, and smiled for the first time in days.

  “We’re going to celebrate when they lock him up,” she said.

  “Right,” I said, mustering a smile back.

  “Drinks and dinner, and maybe Mary and Clair will keep Sophie for a couple of hours after we get home.”

  Roxanne leaned down and kissed me again. Saw the papers on the desk, the bin on the floor.

  “What’s that stuff?” she said.

  “You know that question you had? It’s part of the answer.”

  Chapter 38

  Roxanne peered at the faceless photo. “It could be her, but she would have been a kid. Fourteen or fifteen.”

  “Built like her,” I said.

  “Could be her mother,” Roxanne said. “Maybe her mother had her young. This person could be thirty, a little older. Slim.”

  “Maybe her mother killed her father. Doing twenty-five to life. Leaves Mandi with nobody. That would explain why she’s so closed about everything.”

  “So she drifts. Gets into a bad crowd. Ends up doing what she does.”

  “Gets used to being alone,” I said.

  “But what about the rest of it?” Roxanne said.

  “Room could be in rehab or something.”

  “No letters from her mother.”

  I looked at the papers. “No. But Mom kills Dad? Maybe you don’t have much of a relationship after that. Maybe it was Dad she was close to. Now that would be a good story. When one parent kills the other, what happens to the children?”

  We both looked at the papers. “You think it’s strange that I have this? I mean, she is sort o
f our friend.”

  “Your friend,” Roxanne said, playful no more. She put the clip down. “I think you need to put this stuff away. We need to get back.”

  I wrote the number in a reporter’s notebook, stuck it in my back pocket. We locked up, took the path through the field, not wanting to be predictable. I carried the rifle and Roxanne carried a knapsack with a change of clothes for Sophie and a few books, enough for the afternoon—and her briefcase. We walked single file, Roxanne hurrying in front of me.

  “She’s fine,” I said. “Clair’s there. Nobody could even get close.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Roxanne said, and picked up the pace.

  We crossed the field, sparrows flushing from the grass, and Clair stepped out from behind the barn behind us, shotgun draped across his chest.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “Come to spell them?”

  “From what?” I said.

  “When I came out, she’d won fourteen straight games. They got playing for crackers and she’s got a pile in front of her.”

  “We got some news,” Roxanne said.

  We showed Clair the letter, the envelope.

  “So maybe he’s gone,” Roxanne said.

  “Maybe,” Clair said.

  “Traveling alone,” I said. “In New York City yesterday. Why would he leave just to come all the way back?”

  “Good question,” Clair said.

  Roxanne said, “I’m going in,” and headed for the house. Clair waited until she was out of earshot, then said, “Could be because the voices tell him to.”

  “Seems unlikely,” I said.

  “Don’t see much likely about this fella. An eccentric turned into a nutjob turned into a psychopath.”

  “What’s next?”

  “That,” Clair said, “is the question.”

  Roxanne was in the door. Clair started to turn back toward the barn.

  “Another question,” I said, and I told him about what I’d found in the bin, the photo with no face.

  “Will be interesting,” he said.

  “People make mistakes.”

  “Some mistakes you can’t undo,” Clair said. “If they’re big enough, they define you.”

  I looked toward the house, where Sophie was with Mandi.

  “When are they going to call?” Clair said.

  “Didn’t say. It’s a newsroom. May not be a priority.”

  “Call them back. Make it one.”

  “That her mother went to jail?”

  “Or something,” Clair said, and he looked at the house, too, then turned, scanned the woods once, and started back to the barn.

  I left the rifle outside the door on the porch and stepped in quietly. They were at the table in the kitchen, Chutes and Ladders underway. It was Mandi’s turn and she rolled the dice.

  “Five,” Sophie said, and she clapped her hands.

  Mandi counted out the five spaces and her face fell into an exaggerated frown.

  “Rats,” she said.

  “Oh-oh,” Sophie said, grinning. “You go back all the way.”

  Mary picked up the dice.

  “You want me to roll for you, Mary?” Sophie said. “I’m good at rolling.”

  She did, and Mary zipped ahead.

  “You are a good roller,” she said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said, and Sophie turned to me and said, “You want to play?”

  “In a minute,” I said. “I need to talk to Mom.”

  Mary pointed to the dining room. I walked in, found Roxanne seated at the table, her briefcase open, DHHS papers spread out.

  “Trying to figure out my life,” she said.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  There was a burst of laughter from the players and Roxanne looked up, not smiling. “I wonder when they’ll call,” she said.

  “I’ll give them an hour and call back,” I said.

  Roxanne turned away.

  I moved to the back porch, sat in the chair by the back window, scanned the woods. Every few minutes I moved to the front window and looked out at the road. A log truck passed. A red Chevy pickup, the retired guy from the house by the corner, on the way to the dump.

  I turned on the radio: opera from the Met. “Don Giovanni.” I didn’t know what they were saying, but it was inscrutably beautiful. The time passed. The hour was up.

  Mary opened the door, said she’d made lunch. I came in and Sophie was at the table, Chutes and Ladders back in the box. Mandi and Sophie were at the table. Sophie was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and there was a pile of Goldfish crackers next to her plate.

  “Daddy, I won a lot of crackers,” she said.

  “Good for you, honey,” I said. “Are you going to eat them all?”

  “No, I’m going to show them to Twinnie when she gets back. When is Twinnie coming home?”

  “Soon.”

  “Are we sleeping at our house tonight?”

  “Yes, Soph. It’s time to get back in your own bed.”

  “I liked sleeping with Mommy in the big bed at the hotel,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  Mandi smiled at her.

  “When you were little did you sleep in a big bed with your mommy?” Sophie said.

  “I don’t think we ever stayed in big-bed hotels,” Mandi said.

  “Where did you stay?” Sophie said.

  “When I was your age? An apartment.”

  “You didn’t have a house?”

  “No. We lived in a city, honey.”

  “Where?”

  Mary came with tuna sandwiches, laid the plate on the table. She handed small plates to me and Mandi. Mandi took half a sandwich and put it on her plate, poured a glass of ice water.

  “Where?” Sophie said.

  “Massachusetts,” Mandi said.

  “Is that near Portland? We went to Portland. They had drinks in your bedroom.”

  “Isn’t that nice,” Mary said, putting down a bowl of fruit salad.

  “Did you grow up right in Boston?” I said.

  Mandi looked at me, seemed surprised. But she seemed to catch something in my tone, my expression. She blushed and smiled, seemed resigned to something. “Near Boston,” she said. “Not right in the city.”

  “But you said it was a city,” Sophie said. “If it wasn’t in the city, how could it be—”

  “Enough questions, young lady,” Mary said. “You know, my grandchildren, they ask questions like you. After a while, they tire me out.”

  Sophie took a bite of sandwich, a sip of milk. “I’m not tired,” she said.

  “Well, I am,” Mandi said. “I couldn’t get to sleep. I think I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Grown-ups don’t take naps,” Sophie said. “Naps are for kids.”

  Roxanne came into the kitchen and said, “Sure, grown-ups take naps, you silly. Grown-ups get tired, too.”

  “Not you and Daddy.”

  “Well, maybe we should start,” Roxanne said.

  Mandi had gotten to her feet, pulling herself up with her good hand.

  “Excuse me, Roxanne,” she said, eased by, and started for the den. Roxanne sat and we ate, the four of us. I told Sophie she couldn’t eat all the grapes in the salad but Mary said it was okay, that there were more. I finished my sandwich, got up, and caught Roxanne’s eye. I went outside and stood in the driveway. Clouds were moving in from the southeast and the air was heavier, that stillness that comes before a heavy rain.

  I put in the number. Waited.

  It rang and the newspaper’s receptionist answered. I asked for the photo desk again, and the phone clicked and connected. It rang five times, six and seven. In the old days, the photographers would be in the darkroom, but now—

  “Yeah.” My raspy-voiced friend.

  “Hi,” I said. “Me again.”

  “New York Times. I left you a message.”

  “I’m out. You must have left it at the house.”

  “You want me to give it to you again, I
suppose,” she said.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “And what if I do? Just kidding. Things were a little hectic down here. You must know the feeling.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Worked in a newsroom for years.”

  “Well, it’s okay now. So the picture—I should have known when you told me what it looked like. I think I’m losing it, thirty-two years in this business. I mean, I really should have known just by the date. I guess I wasn’t really listening.”

  “August 12, 1999?”

  “I shot it. She was going to court for her arraignment. Just a kid, really. That’s what I remember. This girl, I mean. What was she, fourteen?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, my stomach tightening. “You tell me.”

  “It was really sad. I mean, this was a kid never caught a break.”

  “What was her name?” I said, but she was still talking.

  “Luck of the draw, you know? Some kids get born into good families, loving home, go to school, college, the whole nine yards. Others just have shit for luck right outta the chute.”

  “Is that right?” I mustered.

  “Listen, you really should talk to a reporter, except the guy who covered it, he left the paper to write a book or something. I have no idea where he is.”

  “Then tell me what you remember.”

  “Hard to forget. I mean, some are, some aren’t. This one, this kid Louise, I remember thinking she really got the short straw. Mother was a drunk, pretty woman but hardcore alcoholic. Father was a junkie. You sure you don’t know this story?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “One of these kids, one foster home after another, kicked around their whole lives, nobody wants ’em. I’ve seen it so many times. See it in their faces, you do crime stuff.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know the look.”

  “Long story short—you can Google it, Globe came in, did a big story of their own—nobody really knows what happened. She says she doesn’t even remember. Of course, the poor foster mom, nice lady by all accounts, she wasn’t going to shed any light on it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? ’Cause she was dead, that’s why not. Louise took a hammer to her. Good-sized girl for her age. You know how some girls grow early. Well, she wasn’t small.”

  “Louise killed this person?” I said, my voice small and low.

  “Killed? You look it up. Medical examiner said this woman was hit so many times with this big framing hammer—husband was a contractor—that she was flat. Every single bone in her body broken. M.E. said he hadn’t seen those kinds of injuries except when somebody got hit by a truck, then run over, too.”