Snake Eater

by William G. Tapply

  “Not with Daniel they weren’t,” I said. “Brian Sweeney already checked that out.” I snapped my fingers. “Agent Orange victims, maybe. Like Daniel.”

  “Maybe they were all those things,” said Charlie. “Or some combination. Into something together. There’s gotta be a connection.”

  I stared down at the printout. “Well,” I said, “I don’t see it here.”

  “I can dig a little more.”

  “Yeah?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You want me to buy you lunch or something?”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “I’m as curious as you are. Daniel was my friend, too.”

  “His book,” I said. “Wish I could lay my hands on it. He knew something.”

  “Bet your ass he did.”

  “And he got murdered,” I said. “And so did Al Coleman.”

  “Seems like more than coincidence, doesn’t it?” said Charlie.

  17

  AFTER A MICROWAVED TV dinner that evening—chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and gravy—I unfolded Charlie’s printout onto my dining-room table. I took turns reading the dim dot-matrix printing and staring out the sliding glass doors at the dark harbor six floors below my apartment building.

  There were a few lights blinking down there on the cold black water.

  Not many lights flickered in my cold black brain. At least, none that helped me to see who killed Daniel McCloud.

  I saw some isolated connections on the list. The two guys on index cards, the names without photographs, William Johnson and Carmine Repucci, were the only two who had been murdered. Both had spent time at M.C.I./Billerica in 1981, both were small-time hoodlums, both ended up living in the Springfield area. Most likely they knew each other.

  There was a student and a professor. International relations and comparative government were both specialties in political science.

  There was a computer sales rep and a software engineer. Same industry.

  There was one suicide, but it was possible that Jean Beaulieu, the trucker who drowned, made two.

  Two had disappeared. It was logical to hypothesize that they, like the others on the list, were dead.

  None of the deaths was by natural causes. Not counting the two disappearances, there were one suicide, two murders, and three accidents.

  A clever killer can make his work look like a suicide or an accident. If he succeeds in hiding a dead body, he can make it look like a disappearance.

  All eight could have been murders.

  What had Daniel learned?

  Did his name belong on that list? Number nine? That’s where it belonged chronologically.

  Or make it ten. Al Coleman probably belonged on the list, too.

  Say that. Say ten connected deaths. Say all were murders.

  Say there were ten murders by a single killer.

  Then whoever murdered the eight also murdered Daniel and Al.

  Solve one crime. That solves them all. Including Daniel’s.

  Clouds scudded across the full moon outside my window, momentarily giving me a peek at it before they moved in front of it again. The Beaver Moon, I recalled idly. Where the hell did it get a name like that? I could get out the Old Farmer’s Almanac and look it up.

  If I had Daniel’s book, I believed I could look up the answer to the question I really cared about: Who murdered him?

  Charlie called me the next afternoon. “Something weird’s going on,” he said without preliminary.

  “Tell me.”

  “I was about to.” He hesitated. “I can’t punch up those names on my computer anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shit, Brady, wasn’t I clear? I came in this morning and tried to get back into those files. They’re not there. Ours, FBI, IRS. Gone. They were there a couple days ago. Now they’re not.”

  “So—?”

  “So how the hell do I know? These computers are screwed up half the time. Still, it’s weird.”

  “Charlie…”

  “Look,” he said. “Before, I was just pretty much humoring you, trying to satisfy your curiosity. Because we’re friends and I admire your… whatever, your tenacity, your singleness of purpose, even if your purposes sometimes elude me. And I guess I figured maybe we both owed it to Daniel. Now I’m curious myself. So you don’t even have to tell me. I’m going to see if I can find out what’s going on here. I’ll be in touch.”

  Charlie hung up without saying good-bye.

  I stayed at the office after Julie closed up shop, and I reached the former Mrs. James Whitlaw in Pawtucket around six. She answered with a breathless “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Whitlaw?”

  “Yes. Goodness. I ran for the phone. Who is this?”

  “It’s Brady Coyne calling again.”

  “Who?”

  “I called you a while ago. I was looking for your husband.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I’m sorry…”

  “I’m a lawyer. You told me about Mr. Whitlaw’s death.”

  “Oh. Yes, I remember.”

  “Would you mind answering a couple of questions for me?”

  “Look, Mr. Coyne—”

  “It’s very important.”

  “Does this have anything, to do with his… the accident?”

  “In a way, yes, it does.”

  “Because I never believed it, you know.”

  “Believed what?”

  “That he was drunk when he crashed.”

  “No?”

  “No. Oh, James might have a beer now and then. But he was not a drinker. And he was a very careful person. Not wild. Not at all. He was actually… most people thought of him as rather boring. Actually, he was. Boring. But he was steady and he was a good man. He always used his seat belt, and he just wouldn’t get into a car and drive if he’d had more than one beer.”

  “So you think…?”

  She laughed quickly and without humor. “I don’t think anything anymore. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “Maybe it does, Mrs. Whitlaw.” I glanced down at the pad of yellow legal paper where I had scratched some reminders. “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “I don’t see any harm in it, I guess.”

  “Did your husband attend college?”

  “Yes. The University of Connecticut.”

  “What did he major in?”

  “Business administration. He started for his master’s but didn’t finish.”

  “Was he in the service?”

  “Oh, yes. The lottery took him from graduate school.”

  “Was he in Vietnam?”

  “Yes. He was wounded.”

  “Wounded?”

  “A mine. He lost three toes. He walked with a limp. He was quite self-conscious about it.”

  “Did he ever encounter Agent Orange over there?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Was he by chance in the Special Forces?”

  “Huh?”

  “The Green Berets?”

  “Oh. No. He was a marine lieutenant. All that was a long time before I met him, Mr. Coyne. He told me all these things. We were only married for two years when he…”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “He told me all about his life. He had had a hard life. We were very happy, the time we had.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’d like to read some names to you, see if you recognize any of them.”

  “You mentioned other names to me when we talked before, didn’t you?”

  “I guess I did. Can I do it again?”

  “Well, okay. I’m not sure I was really paying attention before.”

  I read the other seven names to her. I added Daniel’s name onto the end.

  “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “Want me to read them again?”

  “Yes.”

  I did.

  “No. Some of the last names. Evans, Johnson. But not with
the same first names.”

  “These might’ve been men your husband knew, names he could’ve mentioned to you.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “People he might’ve known in the war.”

  “He didn’t like to talk about the war.”

  “Sure.” I hesitated. “I have a different question.”

  “All right.”

  “Mrs. Whitlaw, was your husband ever in trouble with the law?”

  She paused. “I don’t see…”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him for very long.” She stopped. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I told you. My name is—”

  “I don’t think I should talk to you anymore.”

  “Mrs. Whitlaw—”

  She hung up on me.

  The other connection I had made was with Robert Wanzer, Bertram’s stepson. Wanzer was the software engineer who had abandoned his wife. She had eventually divorced him in absentia. Young Robert, I recalled, was still angry.

  He answered the phone with a grumbly “H’lo?”

  “Is this Robert Wanzer?” I said.

  “Yuh.”

  “This is Brady Coyne again. I spoke to you last week.”

  “You were looking for my stepfather.”

  “Right. You explained what happened. I wonder if you’d mind answering a couple of questions for me.”

  “I’d mind,” he said. And he hung up.

  I held the dead phone against my ear for a moment, then put it back onto its cradle. I figured I could learn something from the folks who made a living soliciting over the telephone. I was two for two in getting hung up on. Not a winning percentage.

  I gave Robert Wanzer the time it took me to smoke a cigarette, then called again.

  “H’lo?” he said.

  “Your stepfather did not abandon your mother,” I said quietly.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, right. So what are you talking about?”

  “I believe he was murdered.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Mr. Wanzer, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “You better explain yourself.”

  “It’s too complicated to explain,” I said. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “What’ve you got to lose?”

  “Hm,” he said. “Right. Good point. What do you want to know?”

  “I have some questions about Bertram Wanzer.”

  “You don’t think he ran off?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’ll answer my questions, maybe I’ll be able to answer yours better. Okay?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I asked him the same questions I had asked Mrs. Whitlaw. I learned that Bertram Wanzer had earned a bachelor’s and master’s at MIT in math. He had never been in the service. He had been arrested several times in the sixties and early seventies for demonstrating against the war and in favor of civil rights. He settled down, got a job, married. Then, without warning, he disappeared.

  “This is what he told us,” said Robert. “This all happened before my mom met him. I was a kid when he came along. He adopted me. He was like a father. I called him Dad. They were good years. The best of my life. My mom’s, too. Then…”

  “Mr. Wanzer,” I said, “I’d like to read some names to you, see if they ring any bells with you.”

  “What kind of bells?”

  “People your stepfather might’ve been associated with. Friends of his. Business acquaintances. Just names he might’ve mentioned.”

  “I was only seventeen when…”

  “Let’s try.”

  “Okay.”

  I read the seven other names plus Daniel’s.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure I don’t remember any of them. He might’ve mentioned them or something, but I don’t remember it.”

  “Would you mind copying them down and running them past your mother?”

  “I guess that’d be okay.”

  I read them to him, spelling them. Then I gave him my phone numbers, office and home.

  “Let me know,” I said. “Anytime.”

  “Sure.”

  “Even if she comes up blank.”

  “I’ll call you,” he said. “Can I tell her that my stepfather was murdered?”

  “I’m not positive he was,” I said. “But I think so. If you think it’ll make her feel better…”

  “It will,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

  18

  I TRIED TO CALL Charlie the next morning, but Shirley told me that he was out of the office. I asked her to have him call me.

  I tried Horowitz. He was out, too. So I spent the morning practicing law. Julie told me that I needed the practice.

  Charlie called around noon. “Let’s have lunch,” he said.

  “Good. I got some thoughts.”

  “Me, too. Meet you at Marie’s in an hour.”

  He was at our usual corner table when I got there. I took the chair across from him and said, “What’re you drinking?”

  “Tap water.”

  “Looks good.”

  Our waitress, a BU undergraduate named Rita, came over and said, “Hi, Mr. Coyne. Want a drink?”

  “I’ll have the same as my uncle.”

  “It’s one of our specialties,” she said.

  When she left, I said, “Listen, I got some hypotheses. Want to hear them?”

  Charlie nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I talked to the widow Whitlaw and Bertram Wanzer’s son last night. Looking for commonalities. Wanzer got arrested a few times for civil rights and antiwar stuff, and when I asked Mrs. Whitlaw if old James had ever had a problem with the law she hung up on me, which answered that question. Then there was that DiSimione in Providence, who was a candidate for the Witness Protection Program. A big-time hood, obviously. Add to that the two small-timers who got murdered in Springfield, Johnson and Repucci, and we’ve got all five in trouble with legal problems of one sort or another. That’s five for five that we know of. We also know Daniel got arrested on that marijuana thing, so if the other three on the list…”

  I let my voice trail off. Charlie was rotating his water glass between the palms of his hands, staring down into it as if he’d noticed bugs swimming there.

  “Hey, Charlie?”

  He looked up. “I’ve been listening, Brady.”

  “What d’you think?”

  He shrugged. “Anything else?”

  I flapped my hands. “Shit. I thought that was interesting enough. Okay. The other thing is a possible connection to Vietnam. We know about Daniel. This Whitlaw—he was a marine, not SF, but he got some toes blown off over there. Wanzer evidently stayed home. But he was an active protester. Check this thought: Daniel was bitter about his getting Oranged, Whitlaw, maybe, was equally pissed at losing some digits, and Wanzer opposed the war anyway. If the others—Charlie, what the hell is the matter today?”

  He wasn’t looking at me. It was hard to tell if he had even been listening. He slouched across from me playing with his glass and staring down at the table.

  His head came up. “Brady, I gotta tell you something.”

  I shrugged. “Go for it.”

  At that moment Rita delivered my glass of water. “Ready to order?” she said.

  “I’ll try the cannelloni,” I said.

  “Just a bowl of minestrone,” said Charlie.

  “Wine?”

  “No,” said Charlie. “Thank you.”

  Rita smiled and left. Charlie gazed off in the direction she had taken. I sensed that he wasn’t really focusing on how gracefully Rita’s slim hips rolled in her tight jeans.

  He turned to face me. “Neighbor of mine, guy named Lewis, Jimmy Lewis, he’s got this beagle. It’s just a pet, his kids’ dog
, really. They call him Snoopy. Anyways, my neighbors on the other side are this middle-aged couple named Tomchik. Quiet folks. No kids. But they’ve got a pet rabbit called Daisy, one of those expensive breeds with long fur and big floppy ears. Daisy is like their kid, okay? You know how childless couples can be with their pets. I mean, they keep this bunny in a cage out back, but they like to bring her into the house, feed her table scraps, take her for a ride in the car, even. Okay, the other evening Jimmy Lewis comes over. He’s looking kinda upset. I give him a drink, ask him what’s up. He says he wants to talk to me. I say sure, go ahead. Seems that the other day Snoopy the beagle comes marching into the house and he’s got Daisy the rabbit in his mouth. Old Daisy’s stone-dead, all covered with dirt and dog drool and whatnot. Jimmy’s visibly upset, telling me this. He says, ‘So what would you have done, huh?’ I shrug. I figure he’s about to tell me what he did and he just wants me to tell him he did the right thing.”

  Charlie paused to sip his water. I took that opportunity to say, “Um, Charlie? Is there a point to this? Because we’ve got some important things to discuss here.”

  He waved his hand. “Bear with me. Jimmy says he knelt down and told Snoopy ‘good dog’ and patted his head and took Daisy’s corpse from his mouth. He says to me, ‘Shit, Charlie. The Tomchiks loved that stupid bunny. How in hell am I gonna tell ’em that my dog killed Daisy, huh? They’ll hate me forever.’ So Jimmy takes Daisy to the kitchen sink and washes all the mud and shit off her, then brushes her and fluffs her with a hair drier.”

  “A hare drier?” I said.

  Charlie shrugged. “Sure. Pun optional. Anyway, after it gets dark he sneaks into the Tomchiks’ backyard with Daisy under his arm. He sticks her into her cage, latches it, and skulks back home. He’s telling me this, and he says, ‘See, Charlie, I figure they’ll assume old Daisy had a stroke or something, died peacefully, looking all clean and pretty the way they keep her. No harm done, right?’ And I nod to him. Sounds good to me.”

  “You going somewhere with this?” I said.

  “Almost there,” said Charlie. “Jimmy says a couple days later he runs into Mrs. Tomchik at the market. They exchange greetings, the way neighbors do, how’ve you been, your yard’s looking nice, stuff like that, and Mrs. Tomchik gives Jimmy this mournful look and says to him, ‘I guess you didn’t hear.’ And Jimmy says innocently, ‘Hear what?’ And she says, ‘We had a death in the family.’ And Jimmy’s saying, ‘Oh, shit,’ to himself, because he knows how much those people loved that dumb rabbit. And she says, ‘Yes. Poor Daisy has passed on.’ And Jimmy says, ‘My sincere condolences. I hope it was painless.’ And she says, ‘Yes. We think Daisy must’ve had a heart attack. But the strangest thing happened.’ ‘What’s that?’ says Jimmy. ‘Well,’ says the woman, ‘we buried her, of course. And then somebody dug her up and cleaned her off and put her back into her cage.’”