Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  Hank turned to Detective Perez. ‘Roger Clayton wound up with a broken wrist and nose. His parents were going to press charges, and for some reason they ended up changing their mind, pulled their kid out of the public-school system and sent him to private. Why did they change their mind, Dennis?’

  Dennis felt the last thirty years of trying to keep his nose clean get stripped away. ‘My dad settled with them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hank said, ‘a nice way of putting it. You got sent to detention for less than a week. Your dad cut them a check, and despite my strong recommendation that they go through with the case the Claytons begged off. Didn’t think it would be in their son’s best interest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid so frightened. His parents told me for a couple months he wouldn’t leave his house. You’d really done a job on him.’

  ‘Why bring this up?’ Dennis asked, trying to get his bearings. Wondering what any of this had to do with Nillewaug or his father.

  Hank’s expression was unreadable. ‘Detective Perez asked if your father had enemies. I suspect he did. You certainly do. Human nature is what it is. Yes, your dad paid off the Claytons, but do you think Roger ever forgot what you did to him?’

  Dennis stared back. ‘You think Roger Clayton had something to do with my father’s murder?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Hank said. ‘He’s a success. He left town and never looked back. But his parents weren’t the only ones to get paid off, were they?’ And he turned to Detective Perez. ‘The funny thing about Dr Trask was his ability to talk parents into dropping charges. But the kids,’ he said, looking back at Dennis. ‘The three of you did some real damage to some of those kids. I’ve always wondered . . .’ The corners of Hank’s mouth turned down and his eyes looked hard. ‘Vicky Binghamton.’

  Dennis felt like he was seventeen again. Knowing he was in deep shit and there was nothing his dad could do about it. Frightened, but exhilarated too.

  ‘Who’s Vicky Binghamton?’ Perez asked.

  ‘Prettiest girl in town at the time. Fifteen years old when Dennis and his two buddies decided to get her drunk and gang rape her.’

  Dennis knew to say nothing, but every detail about that glorious night crisp as a new twenty. It had been a pre-game rally party at Jim Warren’s house. It was Jim who’d invited the blue-eyed blonde-haired sophomore, with her long legs and full young breasts. She’d had a huge crush on quarterback Jim; it might even have been reciprocated the way Jim talked about her – ‘I’ve never met a girl so beautiful.’ She was hot, a ripe peach waiting to be plucked. Sitting there Dennis looked between Hank, Detective Perez, and the young detective. They were staring at him. ‘Charges were never brought.’

  Hank snorted. ‘Of course not. What a shock, and then Vicky and her mother – who was your father’s receptionist – left town. I always wondered what that one cost. Or was it a three-way settlement? I have to say, Dennis, the fact that your father had all that cash on hand . . . bearer bonds, it’s cleared up something I’ve always wondered.’

  Detective Plank looked across at him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Whenever parents wanted to bring charges against Dennis it almost immediately turned into a settlement discussion. But what never made sense were the amounts. The Clayton settlement just covered medical expenses and maybe a year of private school; it didn’t seem enough. I’ll check, but it was maybe fifty grand. It seemed too small, especially where there was an attorney involved. So now I’m thinking the bulk of the settlement happened under the table. Which makes sense, because then not only did Dr Trask get Dennis out of any immediate trouble, he’s now involved the parents in doing something illegal.’

  ‘Because they’re not declaring that money on their taxes,’ Jamie added.

  ‘Yes.’ Hank glared at Dennis. ‘Altogether, Dennis, how many settlements were there?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago; my dad never told me the details.’ And that wasn’t a lie. Although he could guess where cash had exchanged hands, but how much and how often – no clue. ‘You don’t need to know, son,’ his father would say. ‘Just don’t do it again.’

  Dennis’s tears flowed anew as he realized that the only people on this earth who loved him unconditionally, certainly more than his wife and his two greedy sons, were gone. ‘I won’t, Dad. I promise.’ Neither he nor his dad putting any stock in that promise.

  ‘Now,’ Hank said, fixing Dennis with a cold stare. ‘Why don’t you tell us about your relationship with Delia Preston?’

  SEVENTEEN

  Lil’s cheeks burned and her inner adolescent screamed as she listened to Edward Fleming’s critique of her article over the phone. ‘Not rigorous, Lil. Not by a long shot. I had to go with it, though, but there are too many holes. You just don’t have the experience. I’ve put Daryl Bent on the story. I’m sorry. I told him to call you for some background material.’

  She stared at the monitor on her desk, as the late edition of The Brattlebury Register appeared. She fought back her first and second impulses – yell at Fleming and beg him to reconsider – and went with her third option. ‘Mr Fleming, I’m the first to admit I’m new at this. Can you tell me what’s missing?’

  ‘You asked more questions than you answered, Lil. People need to go away understanding the story; it’s basic reporting. And where there are holes, you have to fill them with something, and not speculation. When you read it, you’ll see I edited out most of your “unable to say” and “authorities won’t comment”; that stuff has to be done with a light hand. Don’t get me wrong, you had some good stuff, and the pictures of Wally Doyle were tremendous, but after reading your two features, the reader doesn’t know what happened at Nillewaug. Instead, they’ve got this rambling conspiracy, with no motive, and not enough facts. The stuff about Medicaid fraud was tremendous, but where’s the proof? How much money? For how long? How did it work? I mean this is Journalism 101. And with the exception of the woman who got pushed out the window we don’t really know if the other four dead were murdered or was it just a freaky coincidence. You have the local Fire Marshall and the one from the state hedging on their reports and nothing in final form. You told us in the first story there was accelerant, but we still don’t know if that was incidental or deliberate. Was the fire set or not? And how the hell did you miss the piece about the alarms not working or being shut off? I don’t want to read about something as significant as that in my competition.’

  The only consolation in this miserable call was that Lil didn’t have to be there in person, feeling on the verge of tears. Struggling to keep her voice neutral, she had to say something. ‘All of what’s in there is true. The confusion and ambiguity is part of what’s going on. There are three layers of law enforcement, whose efforts from what I can see are not coordinated. And as I mentioned in the story –’ feeling battered and defensive – ‘the first federal agents on the scene of Doyle’s suicide were investigating fraud allegations, and did little more than secure the scene while waiting for an FBI homicide team. On top of that you have the investigation of the fire – both local and state – and a swarm of insurance adjusters all with their own agendas.’

  Fleming interrupted, his tone impatient. ‘Lil, just stop. Step back from the story and you’ve got the biggest assisted-care facility in this part of the state, largely uninhabitable with six hundred residents homeless. Not to mention a major employer, with hundreds of employees. This is what should have been in your story; the crisp reporting of facts. You were OK in the first piece, but this second one . . . The story is too big, you’re too green and you don’t know how to focus. I’m sorry. A seasoned reporter would run the story that’s complete, or nearly complete. You’re attempting the whole thing, and it’s too much.’

  ‘Eyes too big for my stomach,’ she offered, trying to understand his critique.

  ‘Yes. It doesn’t mean that speculation isn’t important. Of course it is, it’s just not the story; it’s the reporter’s work.’

  Sensing he wan
ted to end the call, she made a plea. ‘Could you give me another shot? I’ve got the connections, I know this town.’

  There was silence. ‘I can’t, you had your shot and you blew it with that last piece. I won’t be put in that position again. I need to know that my lead story – this story – will be set for the morning edition. I know Daryl will do that, and I want you to pay attention to how he does it . . . Tell you what, take one of the side stories, one that you think is important and work it through. If it’s good and it adds something, I’ll run it. If not, I won’t.’ And he abruptly said goodbye and hung up.

  She wanted to argue, but instead listened to the dial tone, and stared at the monitor. Preoccupied with his words – I won’t be put in that position again – she didn’t hear Ada in the hall.

  ‘You OK?’ Ada asked, coming up behind her.

  ‘My story sucks,’ Lil said, feeling like she’d been punched in the gut.

  ‘Says who?’ Ada pulled up the wooden rocker and sat next to her.

  Lil told her about Fleming’s comments and of being pulled off the story. ‘I feel like a kid who’s just gotten an “F”.’ Her eyes shifting from Ada back to the screen and her story that had just been posted. ‘Crap,’ she added, reading the headline and the lead:

  Nillewaug Village Chief Financial Officer Dead from Suspected Suicide

  – Lil Campbell, correspondent

  A single gunshot rang out in the exclusive cul-de-sac community of Eagle’s Cairn just after noon today. Wallace Doyle, financial adviser and Chief Financial Officer (CFO) for the Nillewaug Village assisted-care community was dead from a catastrophic, and apparently self-inflicted, head injury. Discovered in the pool house behind his stately home by this reporter and two federal agents just moments after the gunshot was heard, he was found holding a handgun . . .’

  Lil shook her head. ‘He’s right. This is garbage.’

  Ada read over her shoulder. ‘They picked the picture I thought they would,’ she commented. It was an image of Wally Doyle, his head tilted back, and the framed photo of the three Ravens with blood splatter behind him. The angle obscured most of the gore from his mangled jaw; it told the story without being gross.

  Lil felt numb. ‘He said the pictures were good.’ She forced herself to read on, noting how many times she used words like apparent, possible, speculation, hypothesis, unknown, uncertain. Her prose was little more than a magician waving his hands; Fleming’s words ate like a cancer. What do you think you’re doing, Lil? You’re no reporter.

  ‘It’s good, Lil. I don’t know what he was talking about,’ Ada said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lil replied, turning to look at her, knowing she was trying to be supportive. But Fleming was the authority and he essentially said it sucked. ‘So how are you holding up?’ Lil asked, realizing that she’d been so self-absorbed since getting out of bed this morning, she’d had little time to check in on Ada and her various charges.

  ‘Tired,’ she admitted. ‘I think my mom has more energy than I do. She and Alice are like a pair of wind-up toys that just keep going. They’re taking a walk around the lake.’

  ‘Is Aaron with them?’

  She laughed. ‘No, he said he needed to take a nap before dinner.’

  Lil pushed back from the computer and looked out the single window in her office at the woods behind their condos. A buzzing caught her attention. ‘There’s a fly in here,’ she said. The buzz stopped, and then started again.

  ‘In the window,’ Ada said.

  Lil got up and pulled back the curtain edge. Her pulse quickened; it wasn’t a fly but a large black and orange wasp, maybe a yellow jacket.

  ‘Keep it away from me.’ Ada headed toward the door, wary due to her dangerous allergy to any kind of bee bite, for which she had to keep an epinephrine injection near her at all times.

  Lil grabbed a wad of tissues from the box beside the computer and, keeping her eyes on the buzzing insect, went for the kill. She crushed and felt its body crunch between her fingers. ‘Weird,’ she said, opening the tissue to look at the gooey corpse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Hornets were the team The Ravens played in their second state finals. I guess what’s weird is how the fire and Wally Doyle’s suicide bring such a tragic ending to an otherwise positive bit of town history. Poor bug.’

  ‘Poor my ass,’ Ada said. ‘That thing could kill me. And you keep coming back to these Ravens.’ She pointed at the computer screen and the picture of Wally Doyle.

  ‘So?’ she asked, still badly demoralized by Fleming’s comments.

  ‘Lil, snap out of this.’ Ada stroked her cheek. ‘You just had two feature stories back to back, and finished your column. Give yourself a break.’

  ‘I hate it that he’s right. And I don’t want to give up on this story.’

  ‘Then don’t, you’re in the middle of something and you’ve got to figure it out. My money’s on all the connections to the football team. It’s too much to be coincidence. There’s something there, and you’re the one who’s going to find it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lil said, letting Ada’s words sink in. ‘For years I was Bradley’s wife, his helpmate, office manager, pseudo-nurse, mother, chauffeur for Tina and Barbara. All of that was great . . . or at least OK. But it’s like a part of me was put away. I remember reading The Feminine Mystique when I was in my twenties, and thinking how so much of it was true, but didn’t apply to me. I wasn’t unhappy or unfulfilled. Being part of Bradley’s medical practice was meaningful. He used to say how lucky he felt being able to make a living at helping people. And I loved that about him and about the practice. I guess I never realized how much, and when he sold the practice and we moved here . . .’ She struggled to find the words. ‘I remember packing up the house and thinking, OK, now we’re going to a retirement community. Is this it? Like my life is winding down and I’ve missed something important.’

  ‘Of course I get it,’ Ada said. ‘For me it was being the power behind the throne. The woman behind the man. Harry was a showman, and Strauss’s would never have been the success it was without him. But he had no head for figures, and he trusted people he shouldn’t have. All of which fell to me. And I loved it! When we sold out, I brokered the deal.’ She shook her head. ‘There was lots of writing on the wall, we were getting edged out by the big chains, didn’t have nearly the bargaining power we needed and I knew that his health was slipping. He didn’t want to sell. I wore him down. I had to.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Lil asked.

  ‘I don’t. I loved it at the time, building a business and watching it grow and knowing that it was our doing. But it was time, we made out great and it’s not something I’d do again. I like my life here . . . my life with you. But it’s your turn now. You have a passion for writing, you need to do this.’

  Her words were like a balm. ‘Fleming told me to take one of the side stories.’

  ‘Then do. But go with your strengths. This is your town and you know everyone involved in this story. And screw the bastard, don’t let him get into your head. If you get the better story, he’ll have to use it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ There was a banging at the front door, and then the bell rang. ‘Coming,’ Lil said, spotting Rose and Alice through the window, still in their mismatched borrowed sweats and new walking shoes. ‘What’s up?’ she asked, opening the door.

  ‘Is my daughter here?’ Rose sounded winded.

  Ada followed behind. ‘Mom?’

  ‘I’ve made a decision,’ Rose stated, a glow in her cheeks from her walk by the lake. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t think of this before. But I like it here. This is so much nicer than that death trap you dumped me in. Don’t you agree, Alice?’

  The demented redhead turned at the sound of her name. ‘Yes, it’s pretty.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather live here?’ Rose asked Alice. ‘All these walking paths, and we met such lovely people at the lake.’ She turned to Ada. ‘Why didn’t you tell me there
was so much to do here? Did you know they have bus trips to the city twice a week, and it’s only forty dollars including lunch and a show? And the grounds; it’s like living in a park . . . you must pay a fortune in common fees. How many gardeners do they have?’

  Alice smiled. ‘I like the ducks.’

  ‘It feels like home,’ Rose continued. ‘This woman we met by the lake, Candace . . . do you know her?’

  ‘No,’ Ada said, her expression wary.

  ‘Nice lady. Used to be a travel agent. She was saying they offer water aerobics. My orthopedist was saying that would be the best thing for my arthritis. Remember how much I used to love going to the Y? Candace said you have two Olympic-size pools, and that the health club is free to residents. Is that true?’

  ‘It is,’ Ada said. ‘Do you want to buy a condo here?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Rose smiled at her daughter. ‘You’re obviously not living in yours. I can see that. It’s just Aaron. Why couldn’t Alice and I move in? There’s three bedrooms. It’s ridiculous having them empty like that. We’d each take one and Aaron has his.’

  ‘Which one’s the boy?’ Alice asked, looking at Lil and then at Ada.

  ‘They have a point,’ Lil said, trying to ignore Alice. ‘At least for the short run.’

  Ada stared at her mother. ‘Of course you can stay as long as you need to, Mom. There’s no question about that. But Alice’s family might have other plans . . .’

  ‘Please,’ Rose said, ‘it’s just her grandson, Kyle, and his sister in Manhattan. And you saw that poor boy; he’s got enough on his plate without having to worry about his grandmother. And he said his sister is a big-shot realtor in the city.’ Rose’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘No way in hell she’s going to take care of Alice.’