by Sam Bourne
‘You realized it was a body?’
‘Only when I was right up close. until then, it just looked like, you know … a shape.’
‘It was dark.’
‘Yeah, pretty dark and pretty late. Anyway, when I was standing over it, I thought. That ain’t a sofa, that ain’t a chair.
That’s a body under that blanket.’
‘Sorry, I’m asking you to go back to what you saw right at the beginning. Before the blanket was laid on the corpse.’
‘That is what I’m describing. What I saw was a dark blanket with the shape of a dead man underneath.’
‘The blanket was already there? So you were not the first to find him.’ Damn.
‘No, I was the first to find him. I was the one who called the police. Nobody else did. It was the first they’d heard of it.’
‘But the body was already covered?’
That’s right.’
‘The police seem to think it was you who laid down the blanket, Rosa.’
‘Well, they’re wrong. Where would I get a blanket from in the middle of the night? Or do you think black folks carry blankets around with them just in case? I know things are pretty bad round here, but they’re not that bad.’ None of this was said with bitterness.
‘Right.’ Will paused, uncertain where to go next. ‘So who did leave that blanket on him?’
‘I’m telling you the same thing I told that police officer.
That’s the way I found him. Nice blanket, too. Kind of soft.
Maybe cashmere. Something classy, anyway.’
‘Sorry to go back to this, but is there any chance at all you were not the first there?’
‘I can’t see how. I’m sure the police told you. When I lifted that blanket, I saw a body that was still warm. Wasn’t even a body at that time. It was still a man. You know what I’m saying? He was still warm. Like it just happened. The blood was still coming out. Kind of burbling, like water leaking from a pipe. Terrible, just terrible. And you know the strangest thing? His eyes were closed, as if someone had shut them.’
‘Don’t tell me that wasn’t you.’
It wasn’t me. Never said it was.’
‘Who do you think did that — closed his eyes, I mean?’
‘You’ll probably think I’m crazy, what with the way they knifed that poor man to death, but it was kinda like … No, you’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Please go on. I don’t think you’re crazy at all. Go on.’
Will was stooping now, an instinctive gesture. Being tall was usually a plus: he could intimidate. But right now he did not want to tower over this woman. He wanted to make her feel comfortable. He bent his shoulders lower, so that he could meet her eyes without forcing her to look up. ‘Go on.’
‘I know that man was murdered in a horrible way. But his body looked as if it had been somehow, you know, laid to rest.’
Will said nothing, just sucked the top of his pen.
‘You see, I told you. You think I’m crazy. Maybe I am!’
Will thanked the woman and carried on through the projects.
He only had to walk a few blocks to get into real sleaze country. The boarded-up tenements he knew served as crack houses; the shifty looks of young men palming off brown parcels to each other while looking the other way. These were the people to ask about Howard Macrae.
Will had ditched his jacket by now — a necessary move on this bright September day — but he was still encountering major resistance. His face was too white, his accent too different. Most assumed he was a plain-clothes cop, drugs squad probably. For those who spotted it, the car following a few blocks behind hardly helped. Most people started walking the moment they saw his notebook.
The first crack in the ice came the way it always does from just one person.
Will found a man who had known Macrae. He seemed vaguely shifty but, above all, bored, with nothing better to do than to while away a few daytime hours talking to a reporter. He rambled on and on, detailing long gone and wholly irrelevant local disputes and controversies as if they would be of burning interest to The New York Times. ‘You want to put that in your paper, my friend!’ he would say over and over, with a bronchial, smoker’s laugh. Heh-heh-heh. Humouring folks like this was, Will concluded, an occupational hazard.
‘So what about this Howard Macrae?’ said Will, when his new acquaintance finally took a breath during an analysis of the flawed stop light system on Fulton Street.
It turned out he did not know Macrae that well, but he knew others who did. He offered to hook Will up with them, introducing the reporter each time with the priceless character reference: ‘He’s OK.’
Soon Will was forming a picture. Macrae was a certifiable, card-carrying low-life. No doubt about it. He ran a brothel; had done for years. The sleaze community seemed to have a high regard for him: apparently he was good at being a pimp.
He ran a functioning whorehouse, kept it looking all right even took the girls’ clothes to the Laundromat. Will got inside, to see the rooms for himself. The best he could say for it was that it was not nearly as disgusting as he had imagined. It looked a bit like a clinic in a poor neighbourhood. There were no needles on the floor. He even noticed a water-cooler.
The whores told him the same story. ‘Sir, I can’t tell you anymo’ than what the lady already told you: he sold ass.
Tha’s what he did. He collected the money, gave some to us, and kept the rest for hisself.’
Howard seemed to have been a contented sort of pimp.
The brothel was his domain and he was obviously a genial host. At night, Will discovered, he would put on loud music and dance.
It was late in the evening before Will found what he had been looking for all day: someone genuinely mourning the death of Howard Macrae. Will had contacted the undertakers, who were waiting for the body to be transferred to them from the police morgue. He got the cab to drive over to the funeral home, a rundown place that was depressing even by the standards of the rest of the neighbourhood. Will wondered how many of these ‘garden-variety gangland killings’ they had to clear up.
Only the receptionist seemed to be around, a young black woman with the longest, most outlandishly decorated nails Will had ever seen. They were the only spot of brightness in the entire place.
He asked if anyone had been in touch to organize a funeral for Howard Macrae. Any relatives? No, none. The girl on the desk had the impression Macrae had no family. Will tutted: he needed more personal detail, more colour, if this piece was to work out.
Will pushed harder. Had no one been in touch about Mr Macrae, no one at all? ‘Oh, now that you mention it,’ said Nail Girl. At last, thought Will. ‘There was one woman, called in around lunchtime. Asked when we were going to have the funeral. Wanted to pay her respects.’
She found a Post-it with the woman’s details. Will dialled the number there and then. When a woman answered, he said he was calling from the funeral home: he wanted to talk about Howard Macrae. ‘Come right over,’ she said.
In the cab, Will instantly reached for his BlackBerry, tapping out a quick email to Beth. There was a rhythm to all this electronic communication: BlackBerry by day, when he knew his wife was near a computer terminal, text message by night when she was not.
Quick psychology lesson needed. Need to get interview with woman who knew the victim. Have led her to believe I work for funeral company. Will now have to reveal truth: how do I do that without getting her so angry she throws me out of her house? Need yr considered opinion asap, am just few mins away.
xx W
He waited; but there was no reply.
It was twilight when Will tapped on the screen door. A woman poked her head out of the upstairs window. Early forties, Will guessed; black, attractive. Her hair was straightened, with an auburn hue. ‘Coming right down.’
She introduced herself as Letitia. She did not want to give her last name.
‘Look, my name is Will Monroe and I apologize.’ He began babb
ling that this was his first big story, that he had only lied because he was desperate not to let his bosses down, when he noticed that she was neither doing nor saying anything.
She was not throwing him out, just listening to him with a faintly puzzled expression. His voice petering out now, he gave her a pre-cooked line: ‘Look, Letitia. This may be the only way the truth about Howard Macrae will ever come out.’ But he could see it was not needed. On the contrary, Letitia seemed rather glad to have the chance to talk.
She gestured him away from the front door towards a living room cluttered with children’s toys.
‘Were you related to Howard?’ he began.
‘No,’ Letitia smiled. ‘No, I only met that man once.’ That man. Here we go, thought Will. Now we’re going to get the real dirt on this Macrae. ‘But once was enough.’
Will felt a surge of excitement. Maybe Letitia knows a secret about Macrae dark enough to explain his murder. I’m ahead of the police.
‘When was this?’
‘Nearly ten years ago. My husband — he’ll be back soon was in jail.’ She saw Will’s face. ‘No! He hadn’t done anything.
He was innocent. But we couldn’t pay the bail to get him out. He was in that prison cell night after night. I couldn’t bear it. I grew desperate.’ She looked up at Will, her eyes hoping that he understood the rest. That she would not have to spell it out.
‘Everyone knows there’s only two ways to make quick money round here. You sell drugs or …’
Now Will got it. ‘Or you sell … or you go see Howard.’
‘Right. I hated myself for even thinking about it. I grew up singing choir in the AME church, Mr Monroe.’
‘Will. I understand.’
‘I was raised right. But I had to get my husband out of that jail. So I went to … Howard’s place.’
Without looking down, Will scribbled in his notebook. Eyes glittering.
‘I was going to sell the one thing I owned.’ Now she was tearing up. ‘I couldn’t even go in, I was sort of hiding in the shadows, hesitating. Howard Macrae spotted me there. I think he had a broom in his hand, sweeping. He asked me what I wanted. Kind of, “Can I help you?” I told him what I wanted.
I told him why I needed the money. I didn’t want him to think, you know. And then this man, who I never met before, did the oddest thing.’
Will leaned forward.
‘Right there and then, he marched off to what I guessed was his own room in that … place. He unlocked it and, straight away, he starts stripping the bed.’
‘Stripping the bed?’
‘Uh-huh. I was scared at first, I didn’t know what he was about to do to me. He put these blankets in a pile, and then he gets to work on his bedside table. Starts packing it up.
Starts unplugging his CD player, takes off his watch. It all goes in this big pile. And then he begins moving all this stuff, shooing me out of the way. Now this bed is one of those really good ones, big with a deep, strong mattress, like a topof-the-range bed. So it’s heavy but he’s dragging it and lugging it, till it’s outside. And then he opens up his truck, a real beat-up old thing, and he loads up the bed — pillows and all — into the back. Then all the rest of it. I swear, I had no idea what in God’s name the man was doing. Then he winds down the window and tells me to meet him just around the block, on the corner of Fulton Street. ‘See you there in five,’ he says.
‘Well, now I’m mystified. So I walk round the block, just like the man said. And I see his truck, parked outside a pawn shop. And there’s Howard Macrae pointing at all the stuff, and men are coming out the shop and unloading it, and the boss is handing Macrae cash. And next thing I know, Macrae is giving the money to me.’
‘To you?’
‘Uh-huh. You got it. To me. It was the strangest thing. I wondered why he didn’t just give me some cash, if that’s what he wanted to do, but no, he insists on making this big sacrifice, like he’s selling all his worldly goods or something.
And I’ll never forgot what he said to me as he did it. “Here’s some money. Now go bail your husband — and don’t become a whore.” And I listened to what the man said. I bailed my husband and I never did sell my body, not ever. Thanks to that man.’
There was a sound at the front door. Will looked around.
He could hear several voices drifting through: three or four young children and a man.
‘Hiya honey.’
‘Will, this is my husband, Martin. And these are my girls, Davinia and Brandi and this is my boy — Howard.’ Letitia gave Will a firm stare, silencing him. ‘Martin, this man is from the newspaper. I’m just seeing him out.’
As they reached the front door, Will whispered. ‘Your husband doesn’t know?’
‘No, and I don’t plan on telling him now. No man should know such a thing about his wife.’
Will was about to say he believed the opposite, that most men would be honoured to know their wives were prepared to make such an extreme sacrifice, but he thought better of it.
‘And yet his son is called Howard.’
‘I told him it was because I always liked the name. But / know the real reason, and that’s good enough. Howard is a name my boy can wear with pride. I’m telling you Mr Monroe: the man they killed last night may have sinned every day of his God-given life — but he was the most righteous man I have ever known.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday, 9.50pm, Brooklyn
That night in the kitchen where they did all their talking, Will followed traditional custom. Beth was cooking pasta, he was tagging along behind her, washing each pan and spoon as she finished with them. This was smart strategy, he reckoned: forward planning, prevent the washing-up mountain after dinner. Will was talking Beth through his day.
‘The guy’s a scumbag pimp, but when he sees this woman in distress, he sells his most personal possessions to help her.
A woman he doesn’t even know. Isn’t that incredible?’
Beth was stirring, saying nothing.
‘I’m not sure what Glenn will make of it, but this woman, Letitia, felt Macrae had saved her life. That he had saved her. That’s something isn’t it? I mean, that will make a piece.’
Beth seemed faraway. Will took that as a sign of success, as if his point had struck home, stunning his wife into contemplative silence.
‘Anyway, enough about that. How was your day?’
Beth looked up, her stirring hand stilled. She held him in a long, cold gaze.
‘Oh Christ, I just realized—’ Beth’s note from this morning. Big day today. He had read it and forgotten it. Instantly.
Beth said nothing, just waited for him to explain himself. I went straight to work and then I got stuck into this story.
I must have had my phone on silent while I was interviewing that woman. Did you call?’
‘“I just realized.” How can you say that? You can’t “just realize” this, Will. That’s not how it works. Not this.’
She was speaking with that voice of iron calm which almost scared Will. It was reserved for when Beth was truly furious.
He imagined she had acquired this kind of steel as part of her psychological training: never lose your cool. He admired it in the abstract, but could not bear to be on the receiving end.
‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else for weeks and you “just realized”. You completely forgot!’ Now the volume was rising. ‘You had all day—’
‘I was working—’
‘You’re always working or thinking about work. You don’t even remember what should be the most important thing in our lives, and I can’t eat or sleep or shower or do anything without thinking about it.’ Her eyes were reddening.
‘Tell me what they said.’
‘You don’t get off that easy, Will. If you wanted to know what they said, you should have come to the hospital with me. You should have been there with me.’
Each of those last four words were heavy as anchors. Of course he should. How could he have f
orgotten? It was true what she said: he had thought about nothing but this story from the moment he woke up.
He knew he needed to break out of this procedural stage of the conversation — why had he missed the appointment? — and move fast onto the substance: what had the doctors said? But how to make the shift? There was only one person he knew who would instantly understand how to pull off such a conversational manoeuvre, what psychological trick to play. That person was Beth.
‘Babe, I am completely in the wrong. I can’t believe I missed that appointment. And I don’t deserve to know what happened. But I really want to. We will talk about this whole other thing — me obsessing about work I promise. But, right now, I think you should just tell me what happened.’
She was sitting now, still holding the wooden spoon. In a barely-audible whisper, as if the air had been sucked out of her, she finally spoke. ‘They didn’t examine me; it was just a “chat”. And they said we should keep trying for another three months before they’ll consider treatment.’ She sniffed deeply, reaching for a tissue. ‘They said we are both perfectly healthy, we should give it more time before “taking the next step”.’
‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’ said Will, half-aware that this was a tactical error — the premature move into cheer-up mode before the silent, listening phase was complete. Rationally, he knew that what Beth needed most was to talk, to get it all out. Not to have to argue, explain or defend anything. He knew that in his head, but his mouth had had different ideas, instantly wanting to make things better.
‘No, as it happens, I don’t think it is good news, Will. I don’t think it’s good news at all. It just makes it more fucking mysterious. If my eggs are so perfect and your sperm is so fucking tip-top, why the hell CAN’T WE HAVE A BABY?’
She threw the wooden spoon at the wall, where it splattered tomato sauce into a Jackson Pollock pattern, turned and fled for the bedroom. Will chased her, but she slammed the door. He could hear her crying.
How could he have screwed up so badly? He had promised they would go to the clinic together, that he would take an hour or two out during the afternoon. Instead he had gone to work and clean forgot about everything else for the rest of the day. He had even sent a BlackBerry message about work — to Beth at the time of the appointment. He knew what his psychologist wife thought. That he was throwing himself into his career to avoid dealing with the real issue: four years of marriage, two years of unprotected sex and one year of serious ‘trying’ — and still Beth was not pregnant. Will knew it looked like that, but she was wrong.
