Beneath the Weight of Sadness

by Gerald L. Dodge

  “I wanted to come over and see how you were doing, Ethan. How is Amy doing?”

  “She’s surviving,” I said.

  I guess that was partially true. Despite the fact that she was drinking all the time and we didn’t talk—or very seldom—she was alive and capable of making food for herself, and sometimes for the both of us.

  “Jennifer wanted me to be sure and ask about Amy.” He turned back toward me and looked at me and then at the wheelbarrow beside me.

  For a moment I wondered how that conversation went. Be sure when you go over there, Frank, you ask about Amy, otherwise it will seem rude.

  “Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to work.” He looked at his wrist as if there were a watch there, but there wasn’t. “My own yard needs looking after.”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is a time when things need to be picked up.”

  “Well, Ethan, without pressing too much, I hope you call Carly and ask her to come and visit you and Amy.” I could hear panic or some other tone in his voice I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Of course I will. I don’t know if she’d want to come to a dead house, though.” I don’t know why I termed it as such, but as soon as the words came out of my mouth I realized that’s what I was living in, a dead house.

  His face changed.

  “Yes, she would. I’m sure. I know she misses the both of you despite the fact that things were slightly different the last few years. I mean with her and Truman.”

  “I’d love to see her, Frank. I miss her and I’m sure Amy does. Amy has always adored Carly. We both have.”

  His expression changed to one of relief. “If you could think to call her.”

  “I will,” I said.

  And then he did a curious thing. He took the two steps toward me and put his arms around me. He squeezed hard and then he let me go.

  “I’m so sorry, Ethan. I won’t say I know what you’re going through, but I will say I am so sorry you must bear this pain.”

  More curious was that then he turned and walked away without another word. I watched him walk across my lawn to the corner of my property leading to the road and then he disappeared around my ilex hedges. I stood there for a long time and I thought about what had just been said. The one thing that kept returning to me while the wheelbarrow waited for me to move it or pile more branches into it was the thought of our house being dead. That’s exactly what it was. A dead house.

  Detective Parachuk

  Ten days after Truman’s death

  I didn’t work at the case any differently than I had before the FBI was called in. Actually it was only two agents, but they had resources I didn’t have. The only problem was, resources or not, there wasn’t anything but the dead body, and, because of the rain, even that was compromised to some degree. The area where the Engroff kid was found had been pounded with over two inches of rain in less than five hours. Any traces of blood or anything else from the perp or perps was lost to the literal stream that washed around and under the body.

  The state police had come in to take all the samples of blood that were still on the body and clothes, and all of it matched the victim. The skull had been caved in and the state investigators and I were confident it’d been done by a baseball bat or some other wooden object that did not splinter. There were no signs of it being metal or aluminum. Beyond that, we’d canvassed nearly the entire town to see if anyone had heard anything or seen anything between midnight and two a.m., but we’d learned nothing. As far as we could find out, the Engroff boy had last been seen by some friends in Manhattan—including Logan Marsh—who were having a small party.

  I interviewed Marsh at his home on a Saturday morning ten days after the homicide took place. I learned during the interview that Marsh was the last person to have seen Truman alive. Afterward Marsh’s story was corroborated by the agents assigned to the case, who interviewed all the people present—from Columbia—at the party, on campus and off.

  The last train to leave Grand Central on Saturday evening was at 11:13. It was an express, and it stopped at the Persia train station at exactly twelve a.m. No one saw him leave the station, and the conductor who was on duty that evening couldn’t think of anyone else who got off the train. He’d remembered seeing the Engroff kid get on the 5:38 train earlier that evening. Again, no one else got on the train from that station. The agents were told that this was not unusual. All of this information compiled by the FBI agents was generated from my interview with Logan Marsh.

  The interview took place at the Marsh house on an unusually mild day in April on a terrace at the back of their house. A woman who was not introduced—and who I had to assume was a maid—brought two coffees on a tray with cream and sugar in silver containers. Logan smiled at her and, as she placed the tray down, he put his hand on hers. She smiled back and I watched her walk away.

  Unlike Steve Brown, during his interview, Logan Marsh was relaxed and friendly, and there was a certain politeness about him I could only attribute to being brought up in a privilege he was comfortable with. He had on a polo shirt and a pair of jeans and flip-flops. His face, arms and feet were tanned. I imagined he’d been to some sunny location recently and I wondered if it had been before or after Truman Engroff’s death. The trees were still bare, but the buds were swollen and only days from beginning to open. There was a slight breeze, cool and damp from the previous night.

  “I didn’t mind you coming into the city last week,” he said smiling. “But I knew it’d be easier if I came out here. I was coming this weekend anyway. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow.”

  I poured cream and a teaspoon of sugar into my coffee and stirred. I took a sip. It was very rich. Logan watched my movements as I imagine anthropologists watch cultures they’re studying. Their place was a mile outside of town, and from the looks of the white fences encircling the estate there was at least one hundred acres of land. Blanketed horses dotted the green fields flanking the driveway. The house was huge. The estate had once been owned by a man rumored to have been connected to a fortune made from gypsum. I’d been greeted at the front door by the woman who later brought us coffee.

  I smiled at Logan after I replaced my cup on its saucer. He returned my smile. He seemed in no particular hurry for me to respond. I looked out at the grounds again and then back at him.

  “I have to wonder why you went to the local high school in Persia. I know that may seem like an odd way to begin an interview about a dead boy, your friend, but it’s the best I can do, actually.”

  His smile beamed. “It was my choice. My mother and father wanted me to go to a private school in New Hampshire.”

  “Phillips Exeter Academy,” I said.

  He cocked his head at me in surprise. “Yes, actually. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I was a history major at Penn State. The Bush family went there, along with a number of other prominent citizens.” I looked around the grounds once again. I smiled at him. “I made a wild guess.”

  Logan Marsh laughed out loud. He had a pleasant laugh. It was hard to believe he was only a freshman in college. He had a poise that suggested otherwise.

  “My mother was more for me going. But I wanted to stay with my friends and my father agreed. We’re close and I think he didn’t want me so far away. Not that my mother wanted to get rid of me. She saw it as an advantage. I didn’t give a shit and in the end I guess my dad didn’t either.”

  “That makes sense,” I said, remembering my own high school years. “Friends are important at your age. Like a second family.”

  He sipped from his coffee.

  “Exactly. I couldn’t see leaving all that behind for…what? A name on a college application?”

  I nodded. His candor was refreshing, along with his lack of concern about status. Then again, it’s easy to be unconcerned with status when you’re born into it.

  “Was Truman part of that decision?” I asked. “Were the two of you close?”

  He took another gulp of hi
s coffee and thought.

  “We were…I guess close. As close as anyone could be with Truman. There was a distance to him.”

  Everyone I’d talked to said the same thing about the Engroff boy.

  “When’s the last time you saw Truman?”

  No one had been able to trace Truman’s whereabouts from the time he’d left his parent’s house until he’d been beaten to death in the square. I didn’t expect Logan to know, either.

  “The night he was killed.” He looked at me with steady eyes. I leaned forward.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean to tell me you saw Truman Engroff the night he was killed and you didn’t come forward with that information?”

  He leaned forward also and took a sip of his coffee. He shook his head as he leaned back, his hands forming a roof. I waited for him to say something and it took at least a minute before he came out with, “I didn’t think it was important to the case. I didn’t want his parents to think there’d been something tawdry going on in the city.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “From about six until about 10:40, I worked out in my mind a few days ago. He came in to see me and we went to a party on campus.”

  I felt like leaning over and hitting him with my fist. I couldn’t believe I was just now learning this. I had to stop and think to organize my questions. He didn’t speak and, because of that, I had a sense he hadn’t had any participation in Truman Engroff’s death. He wasn’t trying to fill in the silence with words, something people who are guilty about something often do. But it could be that someone else at this party was not so white.

  “Do you know it’s a crime to withhold information in a murder investigation?” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  “I thought of that. I wasn’t actually withholding evidence, though. Truman came in to see me. We were at my room on campus where there were three other friends. Then we went to an apartment off campus, where we normally go when we want to get ripped. The boy’s name is Marshall Simpson. The one who has the apartment. We snorted coke. Truman didn’t. He got bored, as he often does, and after a few hours and after drinking some whiskey, he said he was heading back here. To Persia. My friends and I, except for one, Roger Claus, my roommate, stayed in the room until early the next morning.”

  “Why didn’t Roger Claus stay?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I think he was tired.”

  I had to keep in mind I was speaking to a nineteen-year-old kid.

  “Do you know where he went when he left the party?”

  “I imagine he went back to our dorm. He was there sleeping when I returned the next day.”

  “What time was that, Logan?”

  “I guess it was around noon, maybe a little later.”

  “When you got there did you see any marks on Roger? Did he behave oddly?”

  Logan looked at me and then began to shake his head. “Wait a minute, sir. If you think Roger had anything to do with this, you’re wrong. Roger wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not Truman.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that he may have been followed by someone on that train coming back here, and been murdered by someone who could have been identified more easily three weeks ago?”

  “I didn’t, but it seems unlikely. Truman can…could take care of himself. First, he would’ve never spoken to anyone who was a stranger, and second, even if he did, he would’ve known if the person was dangerous. Truman didn’t particularly like people. But I can say without equivocation that Roger did not hurt Truman. I just can’t believe that could be the case. Roger loved Truman, I think.”

  “I want a list of people in the room and how I can contact them.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But I can tell you they were with me the whole night, except for Roger. We were all up until well after four a.m. It was just four guys and me and Truman. No one left the room, I’m sure of that.”

  “Who else did Truman know at Columbia? People he may have met at another time.”

  “He only just started coming occasionally late last fall. He really only came to see me. This place is a horror show for him—except for Carly Rodenbaugh. And they weren’t really close the past two years or so.”

  “Because of Tommy Beck?”

  He nodded his head and took another sip of his coffee. He held the cup in his hand and looked at me. “And that, Mr. Parachuk, is the guy you should be investigating.”

  “Why? What do you know about him?”

  “I know he’s a dangerous kid. He has a hatred for anything that doesn’t fit into his idea of the world.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean like Truman. That’s what I mean. Carly and Truman were best friends and I know that kid couldn’t stand that fact. I know he saw Carly as someone like him. Yeah, he was popular, but only with certain people and with girls. He was always one of those kids who could easily put on a pout and, because he’s cute, girls would come running. And somehow Carly was pulled into that whole thing. I think Truman was hurt by that. Badly.”

  “Are you saying he wasn’t gay?”

  Logan laughed. “No, Truman was gay, but he was different than any other gay I ever knew.”

  “How different?”

  “Well, for one he wasn’t flamboyant in the least. I mean, if you saw Truman on the street, you wouldn’t say, ‘Now there’s a gay guy.’ But it’s more than that.”

  He looked at me with steel blue eyes, and I had to wonder if he was gay, as Carly had suggested. I didn’t know if he’d been more than friends with Truman, or why everyone at the party had been male. I weighed in my mind if I should ask him that second question.

  “He and Carly were always so close,” he continued. “I mean, there wasn’t anyone who knew the two who wouldn’t have thought they were meant for each other, including Carly herself, and Tommy Beck.”

  “How did you feel about Truman? What was your relationship with him?”

  He smiled at me and took another sip of his coffee. He placed the cup down slowly.

  “He’s the smartest person I’ve ever known. You could bring up any subject and he knew something—or a lot—about it, and it wasn’t just bullshit. It wasn’t just uninformed opinion or to hear himself talk or something. I liked him as much as I’ve ever liked anyone.” He leaned over the table slightly. “And yes, I am gay, and no, he was not my lover. Anyway, Truman was in love with Roger Claus.”

  He stood suddenly and put his hand out. “I’ll be right back. Please excuse me.”

  He turned and walked toward the same French doors the woman who’d served the coffee had come from. This was another revelation. Truman was in love with Roger Claus. I was seriously considering hauling this kid down to the station. I looked out toward the grounds. Even though it was only early April, already the lawns had taken on some green, no doubt encouraged by close care from paid help. I had so often wished I could afford someone to keep up my own lawn. My lawn has always been a distant priority. I was thinking of the things I needed to do before the real growth began when Logan Marsh returned with a piece of paper in his hand. He sat down and handed the paper across the table to me.

  “This is a list of the people who were in the room that night. They will corroborate that they were all there until the wee hours of the morning—long after Truman left, except for Roger, as I already said.” He looked out at the grounds and then back at me. “I’m really sorry I didn’t say something to you about his being in town earlier. I guess it was partly fear of getting involved, but more it was just I didn’t think it was important. Now that you’ve pointed out that someone could’ve been on that train back here, I realize I was being a jackass.”

  “The FBI has gotten involved in this investigation. Apparently Ethan Engroff is friends with Senator Collier and he wants more people on the case. I’m going to have to tell them you had that information and didn’t turn it over. Also, I need to know where I can reach Roger Claus today.”

  “I’m afraid t
hat will be difficult to do. Roger is out of the country.”

  “Where?” I said.

  “His father has an oil operation in Saudi Arabia. Roger went to visit him there.”

  “Is he from there? Does he live there?”

  “No, he lives in Connecticut. Norwich.”

  I took down my pad and wrote down his name and the town. I put the pad back into my coat pocket.

  “When did Truman and Roger become lovers, if they did?”

  He looked up in the air as if calculating.

  “I guess last summer. Roger was here for a while and that’s when Truman and Roger met.”

  “Did they get along well?”

  “They had their moments, but mostly they did well together.”

  “What kind of ‘moments?’”

  He smiled. “The usual between lovers, I suppose. Disagreements, I guess.”

  “Did they argue the night Truman was killed?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “No, not at all.”

  He didn’t look particularly worried by what he’d just told me. He’d probably spoken with his father about it and was confident there couldn’t be any legal recourse for his inaction. I doubted there was, too.

  “I don’t think there will be much they can do about you withholding this information, but these agents are used to things going their way. They may want to interview you again.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I was certain it would have been common knowledge Truman and Roger were together.”

  I stood. I put out my hand and he took it in his. He had a firm handshake.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened here before,” I said. “The town and I are taking baby steps on this one. Fortunately the press has found other things to do with their time and I hope it stays that way.”

  He took his hand away and smiled. “I know after what you’ve learned here today this may sound spurious, but if there is anything I can do to help, anything about Truman you need to know, please just call me.”

  I thanked him and then walked toward the patrol car. It was a Saturday, but I’d thought I could justify using the squad car rather than my own. It was official business, after all, and I was getting used to the idea of “official business.” The agents who had suddenly invaded this small town made everything official. Partially I was impressed with their efficiency, but I was also annoyed at how I’d been considered ineffective in my investigation. Considering that I hadn’t interviewed Logan Marsh earlier, maybe they had justification. They’d been in Persia for nearly a week, and they hadn’t gotten any closer to who’d done it than I had. But now there was Roger Claus. Out of the country soon after Truman was killed. Maybe I finally had the lead I needed. Maybe.