by Archer Mayor
“Guilty loser feeling sorry for himself?” Danziger asked with no real interest.
“Could be,” Joe replied noncommittally.
Danziger crossed to the dispatcher behind the bulletproof panel and slid the scrap of paper through the slot at its base. “Run this, would you? Amanda Lawlor.”
They didn’t wait long. The dispatcher quickly returned with a printout that she passed through the same slot. Danziger glanced at its contents before giving it to Joe. “Seems like a minor bandit,” he said. “Usual offenses: shoplifting, driving suspended, intoxicated, noise complaints. Nothing major, nothing recent, and mostly teenage crap, from the looks of it. She’s also not coded for associations with known bad guys. I’d say you’re good to go. Knock yourself out.”
The man turned toward the building’s interior, but then looked back to add, “But that’s it, okay? No cowboying. You find her, talk to her, and leave. Or you come back here. I don’t wanna find you facedown in our fair streets. You good with that?”
“Absolutely,” Joe said.
“Have a nice day,” Danziger told him as he continued walking away.
It wasn’t unique in Joe’s experience. The standard holds that detectives should travel in pairs, and a cop from another jurisdiction gets assigned a local babysitter, but variations were common. Danziger was an old-timer, he’d no doubt recognized in Joe someone of his ilk, and he’d gone with his gut to return to a caseload befitting a department with some four thousand calls for service every year.
Joe wasn’t unhappy with the outcome. He’d been prepared for an escort, but was happier to have been cut loose. Willy Kunkle wasn’t the only one to prefer working solo.
As with many towns like Fitchburg, the neighborhoods got tougher toward the city center. Reasonably, the PD was located appropriately nearby. Sadly, so was the address Joe had for Mandy Lawlor.
That was a three-story apartment building with the usual hallmarks of an affordable housing unit—a precisely calculated meeting point between what authorities demanded and investors were willing to pay for, measured in overall hardiness, paint quality, roofing material, and architectural flair. Or the lack of it. Joe left his car and crossed to the building’s lobby, hoping life might reward him with Mandy being at home.
At least the address was correct. LAWLOR appeared under one of the buzzers mounted next to the mailboxes.
But as he’d feared, there was no answer.
A small, stooped, bald man appeared from out of the gloom of the lobby’s interior. “Who’re you looking for?”
Joe resisted saying anything beyond, “Mandy Lawlor.”
It proved to be good enough. The man made an effort to study him a moment before announcing, “She’s at the Wendy’s on John Fitch. Till seven.”
Joe nodded his thanks and left, grateful for the unpredictability of urban social mores—at moments cold and suspicious, at others so much the opposite as to be openly careless.
There was virtually no one in the restaurant lot when Joe arrived ten minutes later. And the place had only two people sitting by a far window. He approached the counter and a heavyset man whose cardboard hat was two sizes too small for his head.
“What’ll you have?”
“I’d actually like to speak with the manager, if he or she’s around,” Joe said politely.
The man’s expression went still. He straightened from propping both hands on the counter. “I’m him. What’s wrong?”
Joe pretended to be tactful, glancing over his shoulder at the uninterested couple. He very quickly flashed the badge attached to his belt, fast enough to let it glimmer only—distinct but unreadable.
“It’s a favor, really. Is Mandy working today?”
The manager scowled. “Yeah.”
Joe lowered his voice so the man had to edge his gut onto the counter to hear him. “You could really help me out. I have some family news I need to give her. It’s a courtesy we like to make whenever we can. Makes things easier.”
The scowl eased a bit. “She’s not in trouble?”
Joe’s face showed astonishment. “Good Lord, no way. Not even maybe. I just want to steal her for a quick conversation—tell her what I got. Would that be okay? You’d be doin’ me and the department a big favor.”
The power of a little cheap and easy flattery. The fat man smiled magnanimously. “You kidding? Look around. Take your time.” He then swiveled on his heel, bellowed, “Mandy. Up front,” and faded back into the kitchen.
A young woman appeared, sporting the official Wendy’s outfit and cap, her kind if wary face suggesting that experience had led—despite reasonable or rational expectations—to hopefulness instead of cynicism. It stood in jarring contrast to her worn, industrialized surroundings and uniform.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Amanda Lawlor?” he replied, immediately taking a liking to her.
She shook hands tentatively. “Yes.”
“My name is Joe Gunther,” he explained. “I’m a police officer from Vermont. May I have a brief conversation with you? Your manager said it would be fine with him.”
Her eyes betrayed what she thought of that permission, but her response was friendly and coconspiratorial. “Well,” she said with a raised eyebrow, “then I guess we’re blessed.”
He chuckled and stood back, indicating the dining area. “We can sit at a table if you’d like, or my car if that’s better.”
She lifted a section of the counter and came out. “A table’s fine.”
He was struck by her lack of apparent concern. She seemed somehow settled internally, at ease with whatever calamity life might have in store. It was not a form of spiritual stillness he was used to.
As they sat far from the other couple, near a window facing the broad commercial boulevard beyond the parking lot, she commented, “My father lives in Vermont. I’m guessing this is about him?”
“It is,” Joe said. “You’re right.” He suddenly looked around. “I’m sorry, would you like something to eat or drink? I forgot to ask, probably because of the setting. Threw me off my manners.”
She held up a hand. “No. I’ll pass, thank you. You probably shouldn’t make that kind of offer to any fast-food employee, regardless of the brand. We’re a little overexposed to what passes for nutrition. What’s happened to my dad?”
“For starters, he’s okay,” Joe began. “I mean, he’s not hurt. He is in trouble, though. In jail. He confessed to killing someone—a young woman.”
Her hands rested in her lap as she shifted her gaze to the silently passing traffic. The air appeared to leave her body. “Oh.”
Joe let a moment go by before asking, “Were the two of you in touch at all?”
“We weren’t close,” she answered indirectly.
“I thought that might be so,” he said softly. “Going through his things, I didn’t see much from you.”
“No,” she agreed. “You wouldn’t have.” She then looked at him directly and asked, “Did he do it?”
This wasn’t the sort of question a cop normally addresses head-on. Natural instinct and normal procedure dictate evasiveness. But Joe was outside his comfort zone with this case, and needed help.
“He’s saying he did. I can’t take his word alone on it.”
“I hope not,” she said.
“Describe him to me,” Joe requested. “I get that your life together wasn’t the easiest road traveled, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it.”
She nodded, her eyes now on the tabletop between them. When she spoke, it was quietly, without bitterness—a voice recounting the plot of a documentary.
“My parents were probably like I was as a teenager,” she began. “Pretty dumb and clueless. Happy to party and drink and fool around. I don’t guess the apple ever falls far from the tree that way. You do what you see being done around you. Isn’t that what they say?”
He knew better than to respond except to show that he was listening carefully.
&nbs
p; “So my mom got pregnant with me soon enough,” she continued. “That made her dad throw her out of the house. My own dad had no idea what to do. He was already getting into trouble with the law. I think they tried living together, mostly because they knew that’s what was expected. But all they knew how to do was what they were already doing.”
She smiled suddenly, glancing up at him. “I should probably count myself lucky I wasn’t born with disabilities. I know my mom was drinking and smoking like a chimney when I was inside her. And probably a lot worse, besides. She was a serious doper. That’s what finally did her in.”
“She’s dead?” Joe asked.
“Yeah. Years ago. An overdose.”
“I’m guessing their living together didn’t last long,” Joe suggested.
“No,” she said sadly. “I don’t remember any of it, so I was a baby when they gave up—maybe even before I was born. I only know what I could piece together. My earliest memories were of living with my mom and seeing Mick every once in a while. He stood out ’cause he was the only man who came around who wasn’t there for my mother.”
She shifted slightly in her chair, easing into her narrative, which had maintained its even, sympathetic tone. “I’m not saying they never got it on when he came by. They still knew how to have fun. But he would pay attention to me. Bring me things. It wasn’t a big deal. He had a short attention span, if you know what I mean. But he’d try. He was nice. He just wasn’t there much.”
Her voice abruptly grew an edge, as if she’d picked up a shield. “Then she died. Just like that. And everything changed.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen. Great age. Hormones going crazy, stretching my wings, like they say, only my wings had feathers like razor blades. Of course, the state came into it right off, trying to figure out what to do with me. They probably got hold of my dad, to find out how suitable he was as a parent. That was a no-go. For all I know, he was in jail at the time. Pretty likely. Anyhow, I wasn’t gonna be given to him, even if he had wanted me. My mom’s dad was still alive, but his own past killed that option right out of the box. He was still the waste of time he always was.”
She sighed before resuming, “So. It was off to a home for me. Foster care was the goal, I guess. That’s what they tell you. And it was tried on me. A couple of times. But the people were in it for the money. Well, one couple was; the other were Bible-thumpers, and we just didn’t get along. Anyhow, I washed out, and finally, I aged out.”
She surprised him then by smiling broadly. “And that’s when I had Julia, the love of my life.”
“Oh,” he said. “Congratulations. I had no idea.”
She laughed. “Like mother, like daughter, right? That’s what I thought at first. I was going to repeat all the same self-destructive shit my mom did. But I haven’t so far.” She waved her hand around. “I got this job and I’m taking classes at the college, and I make sure Julia knows who loves her and that I’ve got her back, no matter what. I’m not the great American success story, but I haven’t become my parents, either.”
“Nicely done, Mandy,” Joe said. “I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. It was hard at first. I was doing everything wrong. Getting pregnant is supposed to be the end of your life, if you’re a person like me. But I guess that’s what finally made me mad. I was going to show my daughter that she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Joe admired the determination in her voice, and now understood the demeanor he’d noticed upon their meeting. She’d clearly appraised her situation, taken action as a result, and was making life happen, instead of being pushed around by circumstance.
“Did Mick know about Julia?” he asked, steering her back to why he was here. She’d deflected his inquiry about father and daughter keeping in touch. She’d said they weren’t close, which wasn’t the same thing.
For the first time, the girl’s features became creased by emotion. She swallowed hard and stared back out at the traffic a moment, composing herself. Eventually, she reached for a napkin and dabbed at her eyes.
“Sorry,” she barely whispered.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, struck by the sudden change. “I’m sorry to be stirring all this up.”
That helped her recover as she shook her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s probably good. I worry about holding too much in sometimes. Yes. I told him about her—just recently—but I wouldn’t let them meet. You have to understand: I didn’t hate my parents, and I don’t feel sorry about how I grew up. I don’t blame anybody for any of it. I know who’s an asshole and who’s not. ‘Shit Happens’ is just half of what should be that expression. It ought to be: ‘You Make Shit Happen.’ When my dad asked if he could see Julia, I said no. Enough was enough.”
“How did he take it?”
She pondered that for a moment before replying, “That’s what hit me just then. He totally got it. He said I was right, and that he loved us both and always would, even if we never saw each other ever again.”
She shook her head. “That was the crazy part. When he said that, it almost changed my mind. I think he knew it, too, ’cause in a later call he stressed that he’d stay away, that I should stick to my guns, and then he hung up, like to shut me up. That was a hard night—the last time we ever spoke—maybe a couple of months ago. I still feel bad about it, for his sake. His being sensitive like that makes me wonder what I missed by cutting him out. It sounds cruel now, what I did, especially after what’s happened to him.”
“Don’t do that,” Joe counseled. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You were right, and he agreed with you. He gave you that, even if he gave you nothing else.”
She was crying again, quietly, as was her style. “I know, I know. But his being arrested for what you told me—a murder. That’s not the only bad thing that’s happened. He’s sick, too.”
Joe studied her as she wiped her eyes again and blew her nose. “How do you mean? How often were these conversations?”
“Oh, just two or three this last year. Before then, virtually never. And it was the way he was talking that tipped me off. Not so much what he said. I got the feeling he was putting things in order. That’s why his last call was hard. When you walked up and asked to talk, I was sure it was to tell me he’d died.”
“Did he talk about what was going on in his life at that point?” Joe asked. “Who he was seeing, where he was working, anything like that?”
“No, and I wasn’t very good about asking. The other times we talked, the questions were all from him. He was interested in Julia and me—I think that was real—but I got the sense that he didn’t want to talk about himself, like he was embarrassed. So I never asked, and he never told.”
“He never mentioned the name Teri Parker?”
“Was that the person he killed?”
“If he did,” Joe said truthfully.
She shook her head. “No. Like I said.”
“And you’re pretty sure about his being sick?”
“He sounded really tired and old,” she said. “But it was more than that—the things he said, the kinds of questions he asked. I thought about it afterwards, you know how you do? And I came up with ‘resigned.’ He’d been everything else in the earlier conversations—fake upbeat or apologetic or guilty. But this last time, it was like he’d run out of gas and wanted to make sure he said what needed to be said.”
“Which was what?” Joe asked, adding, “In addition to your sticking to your guns about Julia.”
“That he loved me, was proud of me. That Julia and I were the only things he’d ever done right in his life, which was a little weird. But I got what he was trying to say. That’s what I mean. Normally, I might’ve given him a little pushback for saying something like that. But this was like a last will and testament.”
“He did write a will,” Joe told her. “There won’t be much in it, but he was thinking of you.”
“I know,” she said mournfully.
Joe removed his
notepad and slid it across the table with a pen. “You mentioned your grandfather—your mom’s dad. Could you write down his name and contact information? He’s married, I’m guessing?”
She spoke as she wrote. “If that’s what you’d call it. I’m adding my grandma’s name, but she won’t tell you anything. Dumb as a rock. Only way any woman would stay with that man.”
“Did you ever know your dad’s parents?” Joe asked.
“No. They were never in the picture and he never talked about them. I always thought my dad came from somewhere else, like the Midwest or something, and that his folks were dead anyhow. But I don’t know for sure.”
“Any aunts, uncles?” Joe asked leadingly. “On either side?”
She shook her head. “My dad, I just said. My mom was an only child.”
“How ’bout friends?” he persisted. “My mom has bosom buddies that’re probably better than siblings. Did Mick have anyone close you know about?”
But she was already repeating her earlier gesture. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t think of anybody.”
She looked more disappointed than he at the results on the pad before her. Which may have led to her looking up to ask sadly, “What does he look like?”
Joe hesitated, thinking the most honest answer was that Mick Durocher looked like death warmed over, which—with Mandy’s revelations in mind—suggested a whole new line of thought.
Instead, however, Joe settled for, “Pretty much how he sounded on the phone.”
He took a business card from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table. “Mandy, I am sorry to have brought so much of this back up. I know it’s been tough. Do me a favor, though, would you? Let me know if you hear anything more from your dad?”
She touched the card without picking it up. “That’s not too likely.”
Joe hoped she was wrong.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Willy resisted opening his eyes. The pain was still there, pounding away, a nonstop tinnitus delivered by a live electrical cord plugged directly into his head. But it had lost some of its edge, something he feared the mere lifting of his eyelids might reverse.
