Excerpted from the June 25 press statement issued to all media by the Baltimore City Police Department:
At approximately 9:25 a.m. on Monday, June 23, state and local authorities arrested Doctor Francis Einstein at his home in the 1400 block of Federal Hill and charged him with numerous offenses, including trespassing, theft, and graverobbing.
Evidence seized at the scene indicates that Dr. Einstein, 35, is responsible for the three “body snatchings” that have taken place in city and county cemeteries over the past three weeks. In each incident, cemetery personnel reported that they were surprised by a white male and knocked unconscious with what was thought to be a rag soaked in ether. Each time, when the employee regained consciousness, the casket lay open and the body was missing.
Additional evidence found in the residence indicates that Dr. Einstein is also responsible for several robberies at the University of Maryland’s School of Medicine, including the theft of a human brain from a Neurology research lab.
As you will all soon see (the residence is still an active crime scene and will not be released to the media until 9 a.m. tomorrow), the basement of Dr. Einstein’s home has been constructed into a makeshift laboratory facility, with twin stainless steel operating tables, a functioning life-support system, and various other unidentified medical equipment. Dr. Einstein was found hiding in the basement and placed in custody, and all three bodies were discovered on the property.
After extensive questioning, police psychiatrist Donald Gaines reports that Dr. Einstein’s only official comment is: “I did it all for love. I did it for my Marilyn.”
Gaines explains: “The woman he is referring to is Marilyn Caroline Einstein, his deceased mother. For reasons unknown, she took her own life six months ago (gunshot wound to the head), and according to his former partners at his medical practice, Einstein never recovered from his loss. He was still on emergency medical leave at the time of his arrest. Neighbors and friends report that Einstein was extremely close to his mother (his father died when he was seven years of age) and had never left the home he grew up in, even after he earned a national reputation as a surgeon.
“I’ll try to have more details for you all on this later, but the initial story at least is that Dr. Einstein claims he saw a vision and heard a voice inside his head some time ago that told him he could bring Marilyn back if he found the right body and a functioning brain…that he could somehow reanimate her. Apparently, he believed the voice to be that of his mother because, he claims, it told him things no one else could know about himself. The voice also told him that she was as sad and as lonely as he was and that she was sorry she had committed suicide and that she longed to return to life again. When Einstein’s initial reaction was one of doubt, the voice became angry, told him that it was his destiny and that it was for this reason that his mother originally named him Francis. The voice told him that his given name was Doctor Francis Einstein…then repeated over and over and over again that his common name was FrankEinstein…FrankEinstein…FrankEinstein.
“After a short time, Dr. Einstein became convinced that he was indeed the Frankenstein of myth and legend, and he set out to recapture his mother’s love.”
Dr. Einstein is currently under police guard at City Hospital’s Psychiatric Department, where he is awaiting further testing.
Page one headline of June 26 evening edition of the Baltimore Sun:
FRANKENSTEIN LIVES!
THE SEASON OF GIVING
I was still thinking about the deuce of hearts when the little girl with the face of an angel yanked on my coat sleeve.
It was the first weekend of December, six inches of new snow blanketed the city, and we were already pulling double shifts at Parker’s Department Store. Management had settled on the usual preholiday security setup—four guards spread out over each of the three floors; one man per floor in a regulation United Security uniform, the other three working plainclothes.
Only one of us had to wear the suit.
Earlier, as per our new daily routine, we’d cut a deck of cards in the guard lounge. I’d felt pretty confident when Eddie Schwartz, who had worn the suit three days running, pulled the black three. And I’d gone on feeling pretty confident until I turned up the stinkin’ deuce of hearts.
Eddie ho-ho-hoed like Santa when he saw it—something he hadn’t done once during his tenure in the suit. The others had a good time with it, too. Cracking wise, speculating about my relationship with the reindeer as they watched me dress. Giving me a standing ovation as I left the lounge, my middle finger extended as stiff and proud as the candy-striped pole in front of Santa’s workshop way up north.
I wasn’t laughing, though. I’d avoided wearing the suit since the season started, and after hearing the complaints from my co-workers—“God, that thing’s hot. It smells like my old closet. Christ, it’s embarrassing.”—I’d been hoping my luck would hold.
Well, I’d never had much luck. But now, a few hours into my shift, I could almost see that the whole thing was pretty funny. Almost. Me, of all people, dressed up as Santa Claus. Me, a bearer of gifts, when my usual commodity was misery. Mr. Sunshine in a bright red suit and cap. Shiny black boots. Pillow stuffing for a belly. Fluffy white beard. Everything but the red nose, which I’d lost for good when I stopped drinking.
On top of all that, the guys were right. The suit did smell like an old closet, and it was hot and heavy as hell. But it also had its advantages. Working the front of the store was a relatively easy job. Not much to do, actually. Stand behind an old Red Cross kettle, smack dab in the middle of the mall’s main intersection, just south of a North Pole display featuring jungle gyms disguised as Victorian houses, slides, and plenty of not-so-inconspicuous toy advertisements. Ring a rusty old cowbell every few minutes; but mainly keep an eye out for trouble on the North Pole, because Parker’s didn’t want to handle any personal injury suits involving kids at Christmas. Still, compared to chasing shoplifters and pickpockets up and down the clothes aisles and arguing with irate holiday shoppers, the Santa gig was a cakewalk.
Anyway, that was the setup. Back to the little girl.
I’d noticed her as soon as I returned from my break. A little angel moving slowly through the crowd, head down, getting bumped and nudged with every step. She looked about seven or eight, a tiny thing wearing a faded winter jacket at least two sizes too big for her. The frayed collar was flipped up, and you could just see the top half of her pale face as she bobbed and weaved, eyes telling anyone who bothered to look that she was on her own.
The crowd swept her along like a strong wind pushing a tiny leaf, and I feared that she might be trampled. Instead, as if sensing my concern, she looked in my direction and our eyes locked momentarily.
Thinking for an instant that I was wearing my security uniform instead of the Santa suit, I mistook the look of glee in her eyes for desperate relief. I could play the rest of the scene out in my head. She was going to tell me that she was lost: could I please help her find her parents or her brother or sister?
That happened all the time, but sometimes the scene took a scarier turn. Plenty of parents these days used the mall as a free baby-sitter—dropping off their underage kids for a few hours while they ran errands. In these tough times, too many people thought it was cheaper and easier to give a kid a five-spot for pizza and video games than to spring for a sitter. They were the kind of parents who thought everything would always be okay. With them, with their kids, with their spouses.
I used to think that way, but now I know better. We all do a hundred little things every day, without even thinking about them. But one thing I’ve learned—little things have a way of becoming big things before you even have a chance to notice.
As the girl approached me, I decided she was a definite candidate for a drop-off. Reason number one: her eyes told me that she was alone. Reason number two: she looked scared. Reason number three: her appearance—clothes that were hand-me-downs or garage sale bargains; the pale, unhealthy c
ast of her otherwise beautiful face—spoke of a family that couldn’t afford a baby-sitter, let alone three squares a day.
The girl stopped in front of me, her eyes lonely but somehow still as blue and bright as a summer sky. She smiled suddenly, and my own mouth twitched into a grin.
I was unused to that particular expression.
“You have to sit down,” she said, very seriously.
“Huh?”
“You have to sit down so I can sit on your lap.”
The Santa suit. Of course. I crouched down to her level. “Sorry, sweetie,” I said. “You’re looking for the real Santa. He’s over on the second floor, sitting next to the carousel.”
“I know you’re not the real Santa.” She rolled those lonely eyes, branding me a first-class dope. “And neither is the other one. But you work for Santa, right?”
The only thing I could do was nod.
“Then you can tell Santa what my wish is.”
I had to laugh then, and the thick elastic band on the fake beard knifed into my cheeks. It didn’t matter though. I didn’t care. I mean, it wasn’t a raucous ho-ho-ho worthy of good old Eddie Schwartz, but it came from a part of me I thought I’d forgotten about. There was something special about that, just as there was something special about this serious, sad-eyed little girl.
Change rattled into the kettle, and I waved my thanks to a shopper, but the little girl didn’t have patience for my manners. “Well?” she asked. “Are you going to sit down, or what?”
“Here’s the deal.” My voice was low, conspiratorial. “You’re right about me being on Santa’s payroll. But I still think you’d better talk to the other Santa.” I crossed my white-gloved fingers. “He and the big guy are just like this.”
I expected a smile out of her, but what I got was a frown. Her blue eyes puddled up, and the brightness leeched from them. “You don’t understand. I can’t wait. The line for the other Santa is way too long.” She pointed over her shoulder, and her tiny finger was actually shaking. “M-my mom will be done shopping any second. And then we gotta go home.”
Okay, I thought, now we’re getting somewhere. “Your mother is in this store? Does she know where you are?”
“Yes…well, kinda. I told her I was going to the bathroom and that I’d meet her by the North Pole.” She pointed over to the playground where other kids were sliding and charging around and having a good time.
“Sure about that, sweetheart? You know, it isn’t nice to fib to one of Santa’s stand-ins.”
She nodded furiously. “Can’t I please tell you now? Can’t I, please?” Her eyes were beyond desperate. “Pleeaazzze…”
God, she was a cutie. Fragile as the expensive dolls in Parker’s toy department, and with the same porcelain complexion. I watched her tiny lips move as she talked. Noticed the patch of freckles on her nose, the perfect shape of her ears, the way her hair was tied back with a long red ribbon.
Realized with a sudden jolt why the girl had captivated me so.
Realized exactly who she reminded me of.
I hadn’t seen my daughter in almost seven years. Not since she was eight years old. Not since that rainy December morning Sheila had chosen to make their break for freedom. Talk about your basic holiday hell. Divorce papers had followed a week later. Merry Christmas. Not that I noticed at the time.
It was an easy decision for the judge. I was a drunk then, didn’t care that I had a wife who needed me, a daughter who needed me even more. Didn’t care that the alcohol was killing my spirit and turning me into a man my family genuinely hated. And then when I finally did realize what I had lost, and what I had become, it was much too late.
I spent a full year in a stupor, trying to forget the look on my daughter’s face when she summed the whole thing up so beautifully: “You’re not my daddy anymore,” she said the last time I saw her, “because you’re a bad man.”
I emptied hundreds of bottles in her memory after she spoke those words, savoring the simple truth of that baldly elegant statement. And when I finally got tired of emptying bottles, I broke one and carved up my wrists with a sliver of glass. Pathetic, if you want to sum it up bald and elegant.
The little girl tugged my sleeve again, and I jerked away, imagining her fingers brushing across the scar tissue on my wrists, imagining that the red material of the Santa suit was stained with my blood.
“Please let me tell you my wish.”
“Okay.” I pushed away my memories, feeling a strange combination of sorrow and glee. “But you have to tell me something first. Have you been a good girl this year?”
Her forehead wrinkled in deep thought—and my heart melted a little more because I’d forgotten all the perfectly genuine expressions that kids have—and then she gave me a very serious nod. “I think so. Mommy says that I’m a good girl all the time.”
“I’m sure your mom wouldn’t lie,” I said. “Now, you give me the word, and I’ll give it to the big guy at the North Pole.”
She moved closer, and her voice became a whisper. “I don’t want any toys.” She paused and looked around, as if someone might be listening to her little secret, as if an eavesdropper could render the wish null and void in Santa’s eyes. “I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And I want him to make my real daddy go away.”
My heart skittered, then started beating faster. I looked at the little girl and suddenly saw my daughter, and a hot sheen of sweat dampened my face.
You’re not my daddy.
My mouth was running before I knew what to say. “Now, sweetie, I’m not so sure that Santa Claus can bring you that type of present. Wouldn’t you rather have a pretty new dress?” Or a coat that fits? I thought, looking again at the tattered thing she was wearing.
She didn’t say anything, but that didn’t keep me from hearing the other voice in my head. You’re not my daddy, because you’re a bad man.
And then I was apologizing, alibiing for a man I didn’t even know. “Look,” I continued. “I’ll bet your dad will get you something nice. I’ll bet he already has a great big present for you right under the tree. I’ll bet—”
“No!” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before anyone else could see it. “I don’t like my daddy’s presents. I want a new daddy, someone to make me and mommy happy. I just have to get one. You gotta help me.”
Suddenly the Santa costume felt as heavy as a suit of armor, all the weight centered on my chest and stomach. And for the first time since going straight three years before, I thought of just how lucky my little girl was to have a real father now, someone to watch over her and protect her and love her. Someone who wasn’t a bad man…even if he was a damn chiropractor.
My eyes misted over and I closed them. I didn’t know what to say. I sent my own wish to Santa, FedEx. All I wanted for Christmas was the right answer for this little girl.
“Julie, what in the world have you done to Santa?”
I opened my eyes. The girl’s mother was younger than I would have guessed, late-twenties probably. A mirror image of her daughter, another waif in faded jeans and a worn jacket, carrying a single Parker’s shopping bag.
I grinned. This time it was a reflex. I really didn’t know what to do.
“I sure hope Julie hasn’t been bothering you,” the woman said. “I got held up in line and—”
The woman smiled and tousled Julie’s hair. She was every bit as beautiful as her daughter, and every bit as tragic. Her eyes held the same sadness, but they never flashed bright the way her child’s sometimes did. They were the eyes of a woman who had faced too much pain in her time and had given up the fight. Someone who was merely existing, not living.
Someone just like me.
“Well, I’ll apologize anyway,” the woman said. “Julie’s a good girl”—Julie nudged my leg, as if to say I told you so—“but she can be a bit headstrong.” The woman made a polite show of checking her watch. “Julie, honey, we really have to get going. We’re already an h
our late. You know how your father gets when his dinner isn’t waiting for him.”
“Okay. In a minute, Mom.”
I smiled at the friendly mother-daughter battle waging before me, recalling the occasions when my wife and daughter had done the same.
But those days were gone.
You’re not my daddy…
“Well, thanks again for being so nice to Julie,” the woman said. “And have a Merry Christmas.” She took Julie’s hand. “Let’s go, honey.”
They were swallowed by the crowd and, just like that, the incident was over. Or so I thought.
A few seconds later, the little angel reappeared. “I almost forgot,” she said, panting. “Please tell Santa this is where I live.”
She handed me a piece of paper. The lined kind you tear from a small tablet. Three short sentences in careful block print. A street address that wasn’t far from the mall.
Her hand drifted away slowly. Brushed my big black belt. Brushed the front of my red pants.
Her fingers lingered for just a second against my crotch.
She looked at me with those lonely eyes. “I’ll do anything,” she said. “Tell Santa I’ll do anything if he gives me what I want.”
Then her hand was gone, and she was gone, and everything was very clear.
I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And then I want him to make my real daddy go away…
You know how your father gets when his dinner isn’t waiting for him…
I don’t like my daddy’s presents…
I’ll do anything…tell Santa I’ll do anything if he gives me what I want…
I stared at the slip of paper with Julie’s address on it, thinking about the fierce determination on the little angel’s face and the sad quiet beauty of her mother, knowing with complete clarity how life had molded them.
Understanding, for the first time, how life had molded me.
I called in sick more than I should have, made use of my days off, didn’t sleep much. You can always find time to do things if you really want to, and I found that I wanted to do something for the first time in years. Besides, it wasn’t like I had a ton of unfinished Christmas shopping or invitations demanding my presence at holiday parties hither and yon. No airplane ride to visit the relatives out west. No drive in the country to visit friends. No Christmas in Connecticut for me.
A Long December Page 30
