by E. Groat
“Forgive me if I’m being forward,” he began. It sounded trite and rehearsed, but he was unsure how to handle this hapless creature. He began again, and then decided he would have that drink. He got up, walked to the bar and got his own drink, then started. “Look, you are a young, very attractive woman.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“First, we are sending you away on a cruise for two to three weeks,” Josh continued. “Then when you come back all rested and relaxed, I think we’re going to have an auction, proceeds to go to Julie Beckman. Aren’t you a bit tired of Old Louie?” he asked, glancing around at all the priceless antiques. “Then, I’m selling the house to you for a dollar. How are you at decorating? I’m doing this on one condition — that when you return and get this museum turned into a home, you are prepared to go to work. Beckman Enterprises recently picked up a small radio station, which desperately needs someone to run it.”
“But, I don’t know anything about anything,” she choked and blurted.
“You’ll learn Julie, you’ll learn. We both will. Now I have to go. You get packed; you have lots to do. Your charges are still open, and you won’t have to worry about paying for them.”
The old slug had left her a monthly allowance barely above poverty level. A small, childlike glimmer of hope danced across her face. It was contained and muted, but it was there. When Josh opened the door to leave, Julie sheepishly reached up and hugged him, tears flowing unashamedly. There was still beauty there. Beckman’s untimely death might allow it to shine again.
Chapter 27
Well, it wasn’t the first body that had ever been dug up in New York, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was a first for Norm. It scared the hell out of him. He’d been digging up, poking around, and tearing down old buildings for the past twenty-five years, and nothing like this had ever happened to him. It unnerved him.
By the time Garth got there, Norm had regained his composure. Darting from the construction trailer, Norm opened the car door before Garth had a chance to open it himself.
“Over here!” Norm motioned in the direction where the old James Buchanan School still partially stood.
Following after Norm at a half trot, Garth stood atop a small hill of dirt. “Christ Almighty,” he said. “What the hell is this?”
He stood there, arms akimbo, staring down and evaluating the situation. A skull lay ghoulishly openmouthed, and a skeletal arm reached skyward. Both were strikingly white against the mounds of brown dirt and brick. Remnants of a red bandana appeared to be looped around the skull through the open mouth, and knotted at the back.
“Have you called the police, Norm?”
“No, Boss. I just called you.”
“Go do it.”
Norm headed back to the construction trailer to phone the cops. While Norm found this occasion unnerving, Garth found it more of a nuisance, one giant pain in the butt. What was this going to cost him in time, money, and aggravation?
While Norm was phoning the police from the trailer, Garth was making his own report with his cellular, only he was calling Josh. When Josh took the call, he heard the same words Garth had heard from Norm only thirty minutes before. Garth did not go into detail, but waited for Josh to get to the site. By that time, the small hillside was roped off with yellow tape, and a dozen police were checking the area. Josh scurried up the hill in time to see Norm questioned by one of New York’s finest, Sgt. Frank DeLuca.
The crew continued using the dozer to gently unearth the remains, while Garth signaled directions to Norm from the front of the bucket. It did not take a forensics expert to see that the skeleton was not that of an adult. The skeletal remains were small, without a trace of clothing save for the red bandana. Unexpected as this find was for Norm, he was about to become an old hand at unearthing graves. For as he gently lifted the remains from the earth, another white fragment of human bone was discovered. Within the course of several hours, the crew had unearthed sixteen more bodies, all skeletal. None had any trace of clothing, except for pieces of what appeared to be red bandanas, another continuity in this ghastly unearthing.
DeLuca brought in teams of specialists throughout the night, and they set up temporary lighting and labs. Another tent was set up as a gathering place for police to converse, drink coffee, and argue. By this time, reporters and onlookers had made their way to the scene, and set up camp and vigils. Norm and Garth were questioned, then dismissed for the work at hand. Norm and the rest of the crew were sent home with instructions from Garth to phone in and see where this mess was at by morning.
By sunset, Zoe had made it to the site. She had spent the day house hunting in Connecticut. The wedding was four months away, and both she and Garth were ready to trade apartment living for suburbia. Between the shopping, planning, and real-estate agents, she had not been as involved with the project as before. Quivering, red rays of the setting sun outlined myriad police cars, step vans, and ambulances parked on the site, while dozens of white-coated, rubber-gloved individuals interacted with each other as Zoe drove slowly through this surreal scene. Regular police issue surrounded the place, keeping onlookers and gawkers at bay.
When she approached Garth and Josh, they were talking to two plainclothes, Lieutenants Grimes and Mulroney. Wide eyed and baffled, she looked to Garth and Josh for explanation. They finished their small talk with the lieutenants, directed their attention to Zoe, and guided her toward the construction trailer. Within minutes, the grisly story was told. Zoe’s reaction, like Garth’s, seemed to focus on what this meant to the project.
“To be honest, I’m not sure.” Josh had told Garth the same thing only moments ago. Josh was a corporate and tax attorney, so this situation was new territory for him.
They continued to watch the scene unfold from the trailer window, while the crowd grew outside. By this time, more press was on the scene, accompanied by all its trappings. Random, man-on-the-street interviews were conducted with members of the continually growing crowd. Police continued their vigil and peacekeeping, refusing to give interviews.
Garth, Zoe, and Josh ordered pizza from Tiny’s across the street, which was getting a ton of unexpected business. The place was overflowing into the street. Tiny himself delivered the pizza and cold beer. He sat down with the three for a moment to take a breather, but refused a beer. Then he trotted back to the circus that used to be his restaurant.
They kept vigil well into the night, chatting, eating, and drinking. About ten, Garth received a call from Riza, who always seemed to know when an ill wind blew in his direction. Happy to hear from him, Garth relayed the story to Riza. He added he was not sure what this meant as far as work in progress, and that he would know more when the police were finished.
“Keep heart my friend!” Riza cooed into the phone. “This too shall pass.”
Garth giggled, thanks to a slight buzz the Budweiser provided. “I know, I know, Allah’s gonna take care of this too.”
“Oh ye of little faith, my friend,” Riza chastised, tongue in cheek. “We shall see.”
Riza hung up, and made one more brief call before retiring.
* * *
It was midnight when Mayor Harris was awakened, by what he did not know. His wife slept soundly beside him, as an unseen hand seemed to prompt him to the living room downstairs.
On the table, under a light he had not left on when he went to bed, there was a familiar, heavy, gray paper with bold script. He had received a paper like this only once before, when his wife had gone to her mother’s unexpectedly. This one simply said, “Do not stop the progress of Garth Avery’s project.” Beside the note was a grey-suede jewelry box. When he opened it, Mayor Harris’s complexion went white, a considerable feat given his skin color.
The box contained a dead scorpion.
Chapter 28
Josh could not get the grim discovery of that afternoon out of his mind. It meant nothing to him, other than a setback for Garth and Zoe. Still, something kept gnawing at him,
trying to crawl out of the recesses of his mind. He lay awake, unable to coerce peace or sleep since he left Garth and Zoe at the construction site.
He thought of how many times he met Beckman there at ungodly hours of the night — the cloak and dagger, the routine secrecy, the need to meet under cover of darkness. It all seemed so foolish to him. The one sure finding the police came up with was that the remains of all the bodies — all seventeen of them — were male adolescents. This struck a chord in Josh’s psyche that somehow he could not ignore, considering what he now knew about Beckman, the twins he now had in his mother’s protective custody, and the school where Beckman always chose to meet him.
James Buchanan had been abandoned for approximately fifteen years; about the time Josh took over his father’s practice. It seemed that, for all his money-making real-estate deals, Beckman had an affinity for that school. He was always interested in what was happening to the downtown area, particularly where the school was located. Only when Warren Erskine began earnestly with his downtown plans did Beckman seem consumed by the need to have this property at all cost. There was a thread there. Josh didn’t know exactly what, but he damn sure was going to try and find out.
* * *
“Police have estimated the oldest remains date to about thirty years ago...” he began.
“Damnit, Josh,” Harry replied groggily through the receiver. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Can’t,” Josh retorted. “I need your expert help.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, I’m too tired for apple-polishing. What is it?”
“I need you to do some research on an archeological dig.”
“Oh Jesus!” came the moan from the other end.
It was almost five in the morning by the time Josh had explained to Harry everything he wanted done. He wanted him to check all police records, starting thirty years back, concerning all disappearances of children and adolescents. He wanted records for cases solved and unsolved, and also any news items pertaining to the career of Nelson R. Beckman. The hour gave Josh just enough time to drive to Suffolk County for another of his mother’s hearty breakfasts and a walk in the garden.
Josh always thought better in the comfort of his home in the country. He hadn’t seen the boys or talked to his mother in almost a week. He had been too wrapped up in the dispersal of Beckman’s estate, and the unexpected pleasure of full control of the Beckman fortune. As he drove with the radio tuned to the classical station, he wondered how long Beckman had been at this depraved behavior. Perhaps, just perhaps, his younger years had been even more violent, more sickening, and hideous than even anyone watching that video could imagine.
There it was again. The connection, that spider web feeling that those long-buried bones and Beckman’s fascination with the school were somehow intertwined. For Zoe and Garth, the bones were a roadblock, a nuisance in the path of progress. For Josh, they were a mystery. The night before, there was a moment of remorse among the threesome when they momentarily contemplated the demise of these remains. The police found several parts — skulls and limbs — separated from the rest of the bodies. Zoe shuddered, thinking briefly of the gruesome end these children must have met, but she and Garth saw the remains as faceless and nameless, without a human connection. To Josh, they had names. Nicky, Peter, and Lech — it could have been them. Was he so off base thinking along those lines? He hoped Harry could come up with some answers.
Entering through the back door with a hearty smile, he demanded eggs and bacon from Rachel. The children were already seated around the big island in the kitchen. Both Nicky and Peter let out squeals when they saw him, greeting him with hugs and milk-mustached kisses. Lech just beamed and embraced him warmly. Rachel did nothing of the kind; she was used to his unannounced visits over the years. She grinned lovingly at her son, and demanded he sit down as she poured him a cup of his favorite Amazon blend.
The boys finished their French toast and melon, and delighted in the arrival of Josh. The change in them over the past six weeks had been nothing less than miraculous. They were children again—warm, curious, and full of laughter. But most of all, they had found solace, security, and trust. Gretchen had arranged for a tutor, and the boys were all coming along quite nicely with their English. The fear and hunger had left their eyes. They communicated openly now, able to speak of the past slowly and deliberately.
Lech acted as spokesman for the little ones, telling of how his family had sent them with men who guaranteed a safe haven for the twins and himself. All were unable to know what lay ahead in the murderous regime of Ceausescu’s Romania. The boys tearfully spoke of their mother and father, a shopkeeper and pharmacist serving the town of Ploesti, a mining and oil-drilling community at the foot of the gloomy Carpathian Mountains. Lech spoke of the harassment of their parents by the political police, and how the central committee labeled them subversives. Their parents sent them away when the visits from the establishment became all too frequent, with the promise they would join the children as soon as possible. Lech was given money for the journey—money that was taken from him as soon as they kissed their parents goodbye. They were treated like animals. Shoved on trains and boats, all to unknown destinations, until they ended up in New York.
Josh listened to all this in disbelief. His mother did not; she knew the story all too well. It was a story she lived fifty years ago. Different place, different time. Nazism was still alive. Perhaps labeled differently, but still alive, still breathing, unable to die because of the nature of man.
The twins had put on weight, and the gray hollowness of their eyes had disappeared. The two little ones were more resilient than Lech. The love and caring Rachel showered on the children worked its magic on herself, Peter, and Nicky. She was always a woman young at heart, but now she positively beamed. Though a woman in her seventies, she took on the appearance and demeanor of a much younger person. Josh welcomed this change, this particular spark he had not seen in his mother since the death of his father. He was thrilled to have her whole again.
Rachel looked to Lech for guidance and advice for the boys’ new life. Lech accommodated her, but was slow in coming around. At night, she sometimes heard muffled cries coming from his room. She felt it best not to intrude until one night, after checking on the twins, she heard a high-pitched moan that was far too loud to ignore, coming from Lech’s room. She threw open the door and found the young man wide eyed and clutching the bedpost. All pretense and attempts at bravado were gone; he reached out to her and hugged her tightly. Rachel hugged back, and assured him he was not to come to any harm.
That was the beginning of many evenings, when sleep would not come for Lech and he found himself awake late at night. He and Rachel would sit at the big island in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate or raiding the refrigerator, which was always filled now that the children were there.
On one of those nights, Lech had revealed Beckman’s terrible secret to Rachel. Even with his broken and halting English, she understood his confession to the murder and his description of the treatment he and his two brothers suffered. She knew this nightmare would be over for him in time, buried if not forgotten. Lech would get through this. Of course, she informed Josh about all of this. In his own way, Josh had become close to the boy, but not to the extent of his mother.
Josh knew Lech would be exonerated. This confession only solidified what Josh already knew. The grand jury would not even bring it to trial, and District Attorney Sullivan would agree once he became aware of the videos. He would lose, and he would know it. Sullivan was an honest and open prosecutor, so his career and political ambitions would have to be advanced some other way. Luckily, the public and press attention had cooled. There were too many other big-time celebs involved in murder and mayhem. Josh had overestimated the notoriety of Nelson R. Beckman. Football legends and murderous moms seemed to share the spotlight when it came to the public’s love of the macabre. Murder was becoming as common as Monday Night Football.
When Josh cleaned
his plate and motioned for one more cup of coffee, his mother obliged. As she was pouring, she shooed the children away, explaining that their tutor would be there shortly. They all scrambled upstairs, leaving Josh and his mother in a cloud of giggles.
“Now,” Rachel asked, “what is it that’s on your mind? You’re not up here just for my hash browns.”
“Caught every time.”
“You bet,” she quipped. “Want to take a walk with me to settle this breakfast?”
“Sure.”
They quickly cleared the dishes and walked out the back door toward the rock garden just as Ms. Holmes, the children’s tutor, drove up. Rachel waved and motioned her inside, indicating the children would be down in a minute.
As they strolled through the rock garden and down toward the small pond, crossing the expansive field in the back, Josh asked his mother about Beckman. Puzzled, she quickly answered, “I thought we went through this.”
“No, Mother, not that part of his life. Later, in the States.”
“Well, you know he was a despicable man, a liar and cheat.”
“I know all that, but I was only closely associated with him after Dad died. What was he like before?”
“You realize that I only know from what your father told me. There were times he would come home furious over Beckman’s double-dealings, sleazy liaisons, shady partners, payoffs, and downright blackmail. Anything for the deal. I’m sure you realize all that by now. He loved beautiful things, museum-quality pieces. He was a great patron of the arts, gave lavishly to schools, museums, and homeless shelters in those days...”
Josh picked up on the word “schools.”
