by Mark Zubro
Scott said, “We’re sorry to rake up old family wounds.”
“It was long before I was born.”
“How did he die?”
“I’m not supposed to tell the story. See, no one knows exactly how he died. He was found floating in the Mississippi River south of here.”
Scott said, “The simplest explanation would be that he drowned.”
“Yeah, but, see,” he leaned forward in his chair. “I did some digging a couple years ago.”
“Where?”
“Here. In old family papers. My great grandma kept everything. They did an autopsy.”
“There are no public records of it.”
“There wouldn’t be. My family can cover up about anything. Like I said, they’ve got boatloads of cash. I think my great grandma has the only records. He had head wounds. He’d been beaten up.”
Fulham said he’d hit him once.
“Did you ask your great grandmother about it?”
He turned red. “She caught me looking at the papers. She didn’t get mad. Not really. She just got kind of sad, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”
I asked, “Is she alive?”
“Yeah. She’s old but okay. For her age, they say.”
“May we speak with her?”
He looked a little surprised. “I guess we could find out.”
I asked, “Where do we have to go?”
“She lives in the old carriage house.”
He led us out a back door across a formal garden that stretched for half an acre of square-edged hedges clipped within an inch of their lives, not a leaf out of place. The sun shone brightly, and the clawing humidity that St. Louis was so notorious for in the summer was in abeyance on this June day.
On the outside the carriage house looked like a largish thatched Tudor cottage in the Cotswolds. We entered a living room with Kroehler furniture that looked as if it had been preserved from the l950s. Blond wood furniture, a couch flanked by two chairs, the couch in darkish beige and the chairs in dull pink with little gold flecks throughout the fabric. A rosewood sideboard graced one of the walls. The windows had gauze curtains. I couldn’t hear a sound.
Kemmler said, “Excuse me. I’ll see if she’s up to having visitors.”
He returned ten minutes later. An aged woman clutched his arm. He led her to one of the chairs and helped her sit. She wore a housecoat that flowed and billowed about her thin frame. A string of pearls encircled her throat. Gold framed glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
She glanced from one to the other of us. She spoke in a reedy voice. “Please be seated.”
Scott and I sat next to each other on the couch. She looked up at Kemmler. “Harold, would you step back to the main house and bring us some refreshments, a full tray, please?”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
He left.
She turned to us.
“Harold mentioned you’d come from Peter.”
“We’re trying to help him.”
“I knew this day would come.”
Scott said, “How so?”
“Ah, it was a long, long time ago. I am not a good person, but Peter Fulham was an evil son of a bitch.” She pointed to the sideboard. “If you would please, open the right side panel and bring me what’s inside.”
Scott rose and came back a moment later with three identical brown-covered photo albums. She took the top one in her frail hands. Scott held the other two albums and sat on the floor about six inches in front of her. I moved as close to the end of the couch as I could to be close to her chair.
She caressed the cover, touched the edges. I saw motes of dust rise as her fingers moved.
She fixed her glasses on her nose and looked at me. “I was a desperate young woman back then. Now I’m old and desperate.” She sounded like Peter Fulham.
She opened the photo album on her lap. She turned to the third page and moved the album so I could see. Scott joined me on the couch. It was a picture of a rundown baseball stadium with palm trees in the background so I assumed it was some spring training venue. In the foreground was Peter Fulham and his belt buckle, another young man, and a young woman.
She said, “That’s Huey, Peter, and me.” Both men were in baseball uniforms. She wore a patterned summer dress with a tight waist and fabric that flared out to below the knee.
I began, “Desperate…”
But she held up a hand. “Please wait. I’m going to tell the story. I was in love with Huey Kemmler. We lived next door to them. He never seemed interested in me as we grew up, but then we got older, and one night our parents were gone to some gala out in Ladue.” She sighed. As she spoke, her fingers roved over her chin every few seconds. She wore no makeup. I think, looking at her, I felt mostly sad.
“And later I found out I was pregnant. I told him about my condition, but he went to that stupid spring training anyway. I went to meet him. He was travelling north with the team. I hunted for him and found them down in Ste. Anne de Isle on the river front. I saw him in that alley. I heard them. They were screaming and yelling about being in love and breaking up. Huey loved that awful man. They talked about me. I’d met Peter Fulham the spring before when that picture was taken. He was always touching Huey, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t have a name for what they might be, but unconsciously, I knew something was not right.”
She touched her pearls. “Huey kept trying to be in baseball. He was good, but I guess not good enough. I think he went so he could be away from home and to be with men. That night I saw Peter Fulham hit him and run away. I ran up to Huey. I helped him to his feet. We walked down along the river. He told me he wouldn’t marry me. He said he couldn’t. He knew he liked men, and it wouldn’t be fair to me. I said it was all Peter Fulham’s fault. He said no, he’d broken up with Peter, but that he was going away. I was furious and alone and desperate. He was still drunk, staggering from that and the wound, I guess, and holding his head. I picked something up, I think a loose cobblestone from along the old pavement. I hit him when his back was turned. He fell to his knees, and I hit him again. He went down. I pushed him into the river.”
Scott and I glanced at each other for a second then looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on the middle distance as so many characters do in 19th century British novels. A lone tear escaped down her cheek.
“I ran. I caught the interurban back to St. Louis. I got here. Huey had told his parents I was pregnant. They had been insisting he marry me. They would not have a bastard child running around St. Louis, but then he was found dead floating in the river. Huey’s dad pulled strings, and everything was hushed up. They never knew I’d gone down there that night. I’ve never told.”
She gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. “They say confession is good for the soul.” Her voice trailed off. “My soul has been lost for a very long time.” She straightened her back. “His parents were saints. They took me in. They produced a marriage certificate and told everyone we’d been married. I agreed to keep my mouth shut. I had nowhere to go. My parents were very strict and had thrown me out. They blamed Huey.”
Harold finally returned bearing a pitcher of lemonade, coffee, tea, and a mound of sandwiches. She gulped and pulled in a deep breath and sat back in the chair. Kemmler’s hands were full with the tray with pitcher and glasses and didn’t notice his great grandmother’s upset. When he finally settled the refreshments, he came and sat down. She said, “I’ve been showing them old pictures. I’m sure they’re very bored.”
The butler entered and said, “The master, Mr. Steven Kemmler, wishes to see Mr. Mason and Mr. Carpenter.” He looked down his nose and glared at the four of us.
Harold looked confused. His great grandmother made no protest.
Kemmler, Scott, and I followed the butler back through the garden. As we walked, I caught a brief glimpse of our car in the driveway. Behind it was a white car with security stenciled in beige on the side.
The butler left us at the door
to the living room. Within, a short, stout man in his mid-to-early seventies frowned at us. As soon as we entered the room, he pointed at Harold and said, “I’ll deal with you later. Get out.” He glared until Harold left the room. He turned on us. “I have no idea what stories my mother was telling you. She is old and frail. Why you barged in to trouble her, I have no idea. For now, don’t come back to this house, don’t repeat whatever she may have told you. Now get out.” He pointed toward the front door.
Scott said, “You must be very frightened of something. Perhaps we can help.”
He made no response but continued pointing. The butler appeared at the door with two men in beige security guard outfits with brown lettering on the sleeves and brown piping on the pants. The butler made a sweeping gesture toward the door with his right hand. Butler and guards in tow, we marched out. The butler remained standing in the front archway as the security guards escorted us to our car. Both were husky guys in their fifties. As I opened the driver’s side door, the blond one said, “Don’t let us see you in this neighborhood again.”
I was not about to make smart remarks to the guys wearing guns and badges. I’m not sure what authority they did have or they thought they had, but no doubt they could make trouble for us.
I backed out onto Lindell Boulevard and headed east. Scott said, “That was strange.”
“Master Steven was not happy about us in a very big way. He must know the family secrets or be aware that there are some family secrets that the old lady knows.”
Scott said, “In that kind of family, you get the impression there are secrets upon secrets.”
“I don’t know about that, but the shit we did hear was startling enough.”
“Fulham didn’t kill Huey Kemmler.”
“Her story sounds a little fantastic.”
“About as fantastic as his, but it also kind of matched his.”
“And is her memory okay?”
At Lindell and DeBaliviere we turned into Forest Park and drove past the Jefferson Memorial. I headed to the St. Louis Art Museum, the only building in town still left from the 1904 World’s Fair. We parked at the edge of the parking lot in the shade of an old oak. The lawns of the park stretched in a vast sweep in front and below us.
Scott said, “Each item we find is a horror.”
“She kills the man she loves. Fulham thought he killed the man he loved. Seventy maybe seventy-five years ago. Everybody lives with guilt. Some earned, some not.”
“They all kind of earned it.”
“That’s true, I guess, but I wonder, did we get the whole story?”
“Does either one even remember the whole story?”
Another one or the same white car with security stenciled on the side pulled up behind our car. I hadn’t noticed anyone following us. The same two guys from earlier emerged. Now they wore mirrored sunglasses. Private security for the rich extended to the park? That seemed off.
I hit the lock for the cars doors and started the engine. Their car blocked our way to back out. They pulled their guns.
I drove forward down the hill. The grass may have looked smooth and even, but our rent-a-car was not happy with the ruts and dips.
We made it to the bottom of the hill. I didn’t hear or see any shots fired. Were they afraid that it was too public a place?
I raced through the curving lanes of the park, hoping to see lights of a police cruiser in the rear view mirror. No such luck. I didn’t see a white car with beige lettering either.
After I shot through an orange light onto West Pine, a block south of Lindell and drove east, I said, “What the hell was that all about? The security guys being extra conscientious? Or ordered by the elder Kemmler to do what? With drawn guns? What the fuck? If they were that concerned, why didn’t they call the St. Louis police?”
Scott whispered. “I don’t know.”
I glanced over at him. He was very white.
Scott shook his head. “We need to report all of this to the police.”
“That we got thrown out of a private residence? That a feeble old lady told us a fantastic story about a crime that happened seventy-five years ago? That security guards were doing security out of their jurisdiction? How does calling the police help? Why would the police believe us and not them?”
“I don’t know. We committed no crime. Somebody’s got to be willing to help.”
“I would hope so, but I don’t know so.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t see any official cars behind us. I shook my head, “What the fuck was that all about? Who told who? The security guards are in it with whom? And how? Who doesn’t want us where? They can’t be following us, me from Chicago to Nebraska back to Chicago then us to St. Louis, can they? If they were trying to kill you or me or both, why don’t they stick to Chicago? It’d be easier.”
I obeyed the speed limit as Scott called our attorney. He put the call on speaker phone. Scott explained. Todd said that he’d call people he knew in St. Louis. Then he said, “Run! Get out of town. Get back to Chicago.”
“Why?” I asked. “So they can kill us there instead of here? What’s the point?”
That stopped him.
Todd broke the silence after a moment and said, “Get out. Get home. That’s not a lawyer’s advice, that’s a friend talking.” He said he had calls to make for us and hung up.
Neither Scott nor I had any answers. I moved over to Lindell Boulevard at Vandeventer and then took Grand out to I70 and then out to the airport.
Once we were settled in our seats and airborne, Scott said, “This all seems so, so sad. So many secrets. For what? I pity them all.”
I asked, “Why are they all confiding in us?”
Scott gazed out the plane window for a moment then looked at me, “My best guess, it’s been so painful and so hurtful for so long, and yet none of the things they did can now, at this point in their lives, redound on them. I mean even Zalachis. He blabbed away as if his homophobia would have no consequences.”
“I agree. Such sadness for so long.”
“And anger. Look at that Steven guy.”
“All to protect his family. I can kind of understand it.”
We leaned back in our seats. Since we were the only passengers, we had no fear of cramping the legs of those behind us.
I asked, “Is this all connected with Fulham and what happened in Nebraska or St. Louis or the Hall Fame or the gallery massacre?”
“How?”
Neither of us knew.
I asked, “Who knew I was going to Nebraska, and that we were going to St. Louis?”
“When I was visiting in the hospital, I know I talked with a few people. I know I didn’t discuss your itinerary in detail with anyone.” He shrugged. “It may have come up about going different places. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. Did you mention it to Fulham?”
“He was mostly asleep when I was there. I think I told Darryl.”
So people might have known. But none of those involved struck me as the kind who would have access to minions who could strike at will at enemies in different cities. Then again, we’d been in a spectacular attack in our own city, so I wasn’t ready to rule anything out for the moment.
We flew north through gathering clouds. Rain wasn’t expected until after sunset. I dictated notes about our visit then checked the Internet for the latest news on the massacre.
I looked up and said to Scott, “There’s a big article about Fulham that’s just been posted on line. It’s going to be in tomorrow’s newspapers.”
Besides the Chicago papers, I called up the gay news sites and the ‘gay voices’ section of the Huffington Post. All had banner headlines with links to the article about the accusations Fulham was making about the massacre being about him, and about him not getting into the Hall of Fame because of a homophobic conspiracy nearly fifty years ago.
The news we had that he hadn’t delivered Kemmler’s final fatal blow didn’t make me feel much better about him. That he was a
n attention-hungry shit was hardly a surprise. I didn’t like him much.
“Do we still go on with this?” I asked.
Scott said, “I’m not sure why we’re going on with anything.” I’d never heard him sound so depressed in all the years we’d been together. He continued, “I know we’ve seen a lot of awful things and dealt with rotten people, but this shooting is just too big and too awful.”
“We’re both scared. I know I am.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe it will make us less scared to follow this to the end. The old guy deserves to know the truth, but I’m not sure how much more he deserves after that.”
Scott said, “He’s not a very nice person.”
I passed the time on the rest of the flight checking on the Internet for news about the massacre. Two all-news stations had Albert Colly on spouting his inanities. He said, “The government has been planning these events to build up a case for taking away our guns.” Not one reporter asked him for proof of his crazy theories. Three had Judd Haverel, the owner of building across the street. He claimed that he was as much of a victim as those who’d been in the gallery.
The reporter asked, “Were you actually in the gallery?”
“No. You know I wasn’t, but I’m a victim here as well. These gay people have a mafia, and they’re making me out as a villain for not maintaining the water tower on that building. As if I knew it would be used by crazy people.”
The reporter did not say anything like, “You sound like one of the crazy people.” He did then ask, “Many people react to slurs against different communities and pressure is brought to bear on them to change their behavior. Those communities aren’t accused of having a mafia. They’re shown to have friends who will defend them. How can you blame a gay mafia which in fact no one has proved exists?”
“We all have to dance to their agenda.”
Scott reached across my lap and placed his finger on the key that would close the Internet. “If it’s okay, I’m going to turn this off. It just makes you angry.”
He was right. When I listened to these people, it only made me furious. I said, “It doesn’t make you mad?”
