Richard’s voice possessed that deadly, practiced calm so characteristic of the medical profession. “Tomorrow we’ll go to UB and we’ll—”
“No, damn it. And stop patronizing me. I don’t need a psychiatrist and I resent the implication. I just need—”
Need what? It sounded crazy even to me.
“Just let me borrow the car.”
“No.”
“Then tell me how to get to Forest Lawn Cemetery from here and I’ll walk.”
Richard sighed. “I told you, I will drive you anywhere you want to go.”
I grabbed him by the arm. “Then let’s go.”
* * *
Sometimes it seems like just about everything in the city of Buffalo is either directly on or just off of Main Street, and Forest Lawn was no exception. We didn’t talk much during the ride. I wasn’t yet adept at judging my brother’s moods. Was he truly angry or just annoyed?
We drove through the cemetery’s back gate, and Richard slowed the car to the posted ten miles per hour down the narrow roadway. The tombstones stood stoically against the brisk March wind.
“Where to?”
I had no idea, hoping the funny feeling inside would guide me. “Take the next left,” I bluffed.
Richard complied, and we meandered down the single lane of asphalt, following the twists and turns through the older, more historical sections and then into the newer parts of the cemetery.
“This is hopeless, Jeff. How’re you ever going to find Sumner’s grave among all the thousands here?”
“Well, for one thing it’s fresh.”
Richard glared at me.
We came to another crossroad and I pointed to the right. Richard slowed the car as a lone woman dressed in dark sweats jogged toward us. Solidly built, with pink cheeks, she looked like she’d been out in the cold for some time. Richard muttered something under his breath, and I kept a sharp lookout, hoping I’d know Sumner’s grave when I saw it. Instead, that weird feeling vibrated through my gut.
“There!”
A mound of freshly-dug earth marred a snowy hillock. The crowds had gone. No headstone marked the grave, just the disturbed ground and several sprays of frozen roses and carnations. Richard stopped the car and I got out. I walked up the slight hill, looked around, saw no one. Good. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, concentrating—waiting for that funny feeling that had been guiding me, for some fragment of intuition to drift into my consciousness.
Nothing.
I frowned. The niggling feeling that had drawn me here was still strong, but whatever compelled me to come had not been the victim.
I heard the hum of a power window. “Well?” Richard yelled.
“I don’t know.”
The window went back up and Richard revved the engine.
I ignored him and walked around the grave. Many sets of footprints marred the light dusting of snow, but only one stood out in the freshly smoothed-over dirt. I stared at the prints. Someone had stood here for several minutes, judging from the depth of the prints. Someone in jogging shoes. I compared the print to my own foot and frowned. About the same size. Lots of people jogged through the cemetery, so who would’ve noticed if one of them stopped at one particular grave for an inordinate period of time on a cold, wintry day? It was probably one of the mourners—maybe even the one I’d tried to follow into the church. Too bad we hadn’t hung around until after the Mass. But then how would I have known what to look for?
I closed my eyes, concentrating again, hoping to suck up some residual . . . feeling, sensation—something.
Nothing.
I looked down at the prints and placed my own feet on either side of them. I closed my eyes, my right hand balling into a fist. Yeah. Now I was getting something. Triumph? Yes, the person who’d stood here felt triumph over the dead man—the same emotion I’d experienced in the dream. Already I trusted these feelings . . . hunches? . . . as real.
And there was more.
Dread.
But dread didn’t adequately describe it. Overwhelming despair made my eyes tear. The quack in New York had said a head injury fucked with your mind, and now I couldn’t tell if the emotions bombarding me were my own or the dead guy’s.
Suddenly something I’d felt so sure about only seconds before seemed insubstantial when I tried to analyze it rationally.
None of this was rational.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. I took a breath and gathered my resolve. Okay, so what was I experiencing? I closed my eyes—thought. Cold, calculating, bean-counter mentality at work.
Thoughts that were not my own crept into my mind, lingering like a fog: Youprickyouprickyouprickyouprickyouprick.
Nothing new in that.
Try again.
Eyes closed, breathing steady, sensations seeped into me. My fists clenched in righteous indignation. That fucking prick had it coming to him.
Images.
Twilight.
Sumner’s eyes bugged in terror.
Heart pounding.
A heavy object—a brick?—slammed into his temple. He went down.
Darkness.
The scene shifted. A baseball bat came at me—split my skull.
I staggered, nearly fell.
“Jeff!” Richard’s voice shattered the spell. “Are you okay?”
My hands shook. I stared at a trampled pink carnation. I’d learn nothing more here.
“Yeah.”
Shoving my right hand in my coat pocket, I started for the car, grateful to get back to its warmth.
Richard studied me, waiting. “Well?”
“Well, what? I don’t know anything I didn’t know before. Being here’s just convinced me that I need to look further.”
“And where’s that, Orchard Park?”
I flexed the fingers on my left hand as far as the cast allowed, desperate to warm them. “I have to start somewhere. Maybe his neighbors can tell me something.”
Richard put the car in gear and headed for the exit. “I should’ve brought a book.”
“You could just loan me the car.”
“No, next time I’ll bring a book.”
* * *
The temperature had dropped ten degrees and dusk had fallen by the time I finished canvassing Sumner’s upper middle-class neighborhood on Forest Drive, right in the Village of Orchard Park. No one answered my knock at quite a few of the houses. I didn’t bother with Sumner’s own house, which looked forlorn, although there were lights on inside the gray clapboard colonial.
Flashing my old ID had done the trick. None of the neighbors questioned my being there, but I learned virtually nothing. Sumner may have been gregarious in his public life, but the family didn’t mix with the neighbors. They’d lived in the house for six years and kept to themselves. Sumner’s children were grown, and no one paid much attention to the middle-aged couple’s comings and goings. And besides, I was informed on more than one occasion, my potential witnesses had already spoken with the police and had told them everything they did—or didn’t—know.
Though I’d given my card—with Richard’s phone number scribbled on the back—to a few of the neighbors, I didn’t expect to get any calls.
I opened the car door, climbed in, fumbled with the seat belt.
Richard squinted at me. “Any luck?”
“Looks like I froze my balls off for nothing.” I glanced at the fuel gauge. “And you wasted a tank of gas.”
Richard stared at me. “You look like shit. How do you feel?”
“Like shit.”
Richard shook his head and put the car in gear as I sank back into the leather seat. The pounding in my head left me feeling vaguely nauseated.
“When did you start swearing? I don’t remember you swearing so much,” I said.
“You drove me to it. Now what?”
“I’ll have to rethink my approach.” Sumner was a businessman . . . a banker. “I’ll have to talk to the people he worked with. But I can’t use my insu
rance ID there, in case someone decides to check up on me.” I glanced at my brother. “Where do you bank?”
He turned the corner. “All over. Grandmother didn’t believe in keeping all her money in one bank—in case it failed. She got burned during the Depression. I never bothered to consolidate her holdings.”
“Then you must have accounts at Bison Bank, right?”
“Yes,” he answered warily, giving me a sidelong glance.
“How much—if you don’t mind my asking.”
Richard shrugged, his eyes on the road. “A couple million.”
“Million? You inherited millions?”
Richard nodded, his eyes still intent on the road. “Of course.”
I should’ve remembered that little fact. That I didn’t was another example of my faulty memory. “How many?”
“Last year I paid taxes on the income from fifty-five million.” He tore his gaze from the road. “Anything else you want to know?”
“If you’ve got that kind of money, what the hell are you doing living in Buffalo?”
“Because L.A. wasn’t working out any more.”
I sank back into the leather seat, ignoring the edge that had crept into his voice. “I guess someone with a few million on deposit wouldn’t have any trouble getting me inside the bank. I mean behind the scenes, where Sumner worked. Right?”
“I can try,” he said, resigned. He glanced at the dashboard clock. “I’ll make some calls in the morning.”
“Thanks. Could we hit the Amherst library on the way home? I kind of reserved some books in your name. Which reminds me, I need to go to the DMV and get an official ID. Then maybe the library will let me take out my own books.”
He sighed. “No problem.”
Meanwhile, dollar signs danced through my mind. I considered the hospital bill, the plane fare, the movers. Richard could well afford to help me. So far there’d been no strings attached to the money he’d spent bailing me out, but how the hell would I ever repay him?
* * *
After dinner, I escaped to my room for a little research. Despite the lingering headache, I forced myself to study the library books, and it wasn’t long before I knew more than I cared to about bow hunting and field dressing game. From the description in the newspaper, that’s exactly what had happened to Matthew J. Sumner.
The body had been shot through the back with an arrow. I didn’t have to imagine the consequences of such an injury. My scrambled brains served me a graphic display of frothy blood spraying across stark, white snow. And the photos of gutted deer helped harden me to the vision of Sumner swinging from the rafter, his body looking more like a slab of meat than a human being.
While the newspapers hadn’t mentioned mutilation—the severed and missing genitalia—it would be consistent with what I’d read about butchering Bambi. A bullet in the back of the skull would’ve been a quicker, neater death.
Settling back on the mattress, I did a little educated guesswork. Sumner was probably shot with a three-blade razor-sharp broadhead, carbon-shaft arrow from a compound bow. At least that’s what the book’s author recommended for greatest efficiency, speed, and accuracy.
I could get a look at the autopsy report at the medical examiner’s office. In the case of violent deaths, such records are usually made public. The death certificate was also public record, but I didn’t need to see that either.
I spread the clippings across the floor and bed and read and reread them all. The newspaper’s speculation that the killer was some kind of crazed woodsman seriously differed from my own impression.
Most of the articles had been written by a Samuel Nielsen. Was he the familiar-looking guy at the church? I’d known a Sam Nielsen in high school. Could he be the same person? If so, it might be worth making his acquaintance again.
I picked up all the clippings and put them back in the envelope, then attacked the stack of parapsychology books. They weren’t enlightening. Most of the information seemed anecdotal, rather than scientific. No wonder Richard remained skeptical. Besides, nothing seemed to apply to me.
All this investigating exhausted me. Would Richard be secretly pleased if I pushed myself beyond my physical limits and ended up back in the hospital?
To forestall that, I hit the sack early, but even after I’d turned out the light my mind continued working. I kept thinking about the weapon. I could call or visit all the archery supply stores and ranges listed in the phone book, but who said the killer had to buy locally?
I fell asleep to images of gutted deer and men, their dead, glassy stares focused on nothing.
CHAPTER 7
The DMV was crowded when we arrived the next morning. Richard handed over the California title to register his car in New York State, and got his picture taken for a driver’s license. After we filled out our respective paperwork, Richard flashed his identification and the poor patient—me—was given preferential treatment and escorted directly to the cashier. Did the good doctor get the same treatment in five-star restaurants?
They promised the licenses would arrive in about a month. Good old New York State bureaucracy. In the meantime, we were both given temporary paper licenses; mine looked lonely in my empty new wallet. According to the law I could drive again. Now if only I had a car.
Next step, the bank.
Being a large depositor had its benefits. Once inside Bison Bank, we sailed past security and headed for the executive offices. We stepped off the elevator on the tenth floor and Richard led the way to the reception desk. I followed, soaking up the layout as I went. Richard was learning. He’d made the appointment for lunchtime so I could snoop.
We paused in front of the receptionist, a skinny young woman with brassy blonde hair and a winning smile.
“Good morning. I’m Richard Alpert. I have a twelve-thirty appointment with Ron Myers.”
The receptionist rose from her desk. “Right this way.”
“Is there a drinking fountain around here?” I asked.
“Just down the hall, to the left.”
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you, Rich.” She nodded at me and led Richard away; I headed in the opposite direction.
Being lunchtime, the place was relatively empty. It didn’t take long to find Sumner’s old office. I could see by the frosted glass flanking the door that the light was on inside. I tested the handle. Unlocked. A quick glance around proved no one was in sight. I stepped inside.
The blinds were raised, giving a panoramic view of the city—not that Buffalo in March is all that attractive. Craning my neck, I could see the ice on Lake Erie shining in the distance. The peons in the tellers’ cubes on the main floor would covet such an office. Cherry hardwood furniture buffed to perfection. Someone had already started packing Sumner’s personal items into a sturdy cardboard carton.
I sat in the plush swivel chair, settling my good arm along the armrest, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply. I’d hoped to glean some insight into the man, but instead a memory from long ago surfaced, and I suddenly realized where I’d met Matthew John Sumner.
It was my mother’s birthday, and the blue pressed-glass bud vase was the most beautiful thing my ten-year-old eyes had ever seen. I must’ve stood in Woolworth’s gift section, staring at it, for more than five minutes, my attention completely focused on the $3.95 price tag. I had precisely $1.14 in my jeans pocket. I looked around. No one nearby. Slipping the vase under my jacket, I headed for the exit.
“I saw what you did.”
My heart froze as I looked up into the stern face of the tall, hefty man above me. I’d never stolen anything in my life and now, on my first foray into crime, I’d been caught.
The man crouched down to my level, holding out his hand. Without a word, I handed over the vase.
“Why would a boy like you want something like this?”
I couldn’t look him in the eye. “It’s . . . it’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow. I don’t have enough money.”
“I see.” He straightened.
“Wait for me outside.”
Being a frightened child, I did just what the adult told me to do. Minutes later, he came out of the store.
“Young man, you know it’s wrong to steal.”
Hot tears of shame stung my eyes as I nodded solemnly.
He handed me a paper sack. “Here. You give this to your mother on her birthday. But you have to promise me you’ll never steal again.”
Gaze focused on my feet, I nodded. He patted my shoulder. Without a word, I turned and ran all the back to our apartment.
I never stole again.
My mother had cherished that cheap piece of glass, but I couldn’t look at it without feeling shame over how I’d obtained it.
Sitting in Sumner’s chair, I pondered my debt to him. Our fleeting encounter some twenty-six years before had made one hell of an impression on my psyche. What else could explain the visions of his murder?
I left the whys for another time and forced my thoughts back to the present, studying Sumner’s desk.
His Rolodex was fat and well-worn. Taking out my little spiral notebook, I jotted down any phone number that looked promising, including those of his children. The desk itself was already pretty much cleared, and the computer was switched off. Aside from the fact it was illegal, it was also unlikely I could tap into the bank’s databases to check Sumner’s files. I thumbed through a diskette box next to the terminal. Nothing looked to be personal.
Several photos decorated the walls behind the couch: Sumner’s wife, children, him receiving an award.
I sat back in the comfortable chair, grasping the arms, waiting for that funny feeling to come over me.
Nothing.
The file cabinets were locked, but the desk drawers weren’t. I sifted through them and found the requisite pens, pencils, and other office supplies, along with a battery-operated razor, a toothbrush, and a tube of minty-fresh toothpaste.
The credenza’s cabinets housed an assortment of trophies, paperweights, and award placards. Buried in back was a framed drawing of rainbows and colored balloons, crudely done in marking pens, like something a child might do.
Murder On The Mind Page 5
