‘My son Bradley killed a man during a robbery at a gas station three years ago,’ she began.
Palmer paused in writing and looked up. ‘Your son killed a man?’
‘Yes sir. The murder was so brutal and unnecessary he was sentenced to life in prison. His victim was a father of three young girls and had suffered an injury in his life that made his right hand nearly worthless, so he was no threat to my son or anyone for that matter. I think my heart shrunk inside my chest when I sat in that courtroom and heard all the grisly details. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many good days I’ve had since.’
‘I see. I’m sorry,’ Palmer said. ‘But …’
‘Another inmate killed him in prison six months ago,’ she said sharply. ‘I arranged for the funeral and buried him. My heart was broken, of course, but I also thought it might be God’s justice so I swallowed back my tears and went through the motions, doing what was necessary and praying for his redemption.’
‘I see. So you’re here because he was murdered in prison. But, that’s not a crime going to happen,’ Palmer said, really talking more to himself. ‘And it’s not in our jurisdiction anyway. I’m afraid I don’t …’
‘I mean I thought I buried him,’ she continued. ‘I saw his body in the funeral parlor briefly. I couldn’t look at him long. The coffin was closed during the service because of the gruesome injury to his head and to his face.’
‘Yes, and …’
‘And I just saw him.’
Palmer smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, ma’am. You just saw who? I mean, whom?’
‘My son.’
‘Who died and whom you buried?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Palmer looked toward the chief’s office. Tucker, get your ass back here, he thought.
‘Only, he was older than I am,’ she added.
‘Who was older?’
‘My son.’
‘Your son who died and whom you buried is older than you are,’ he repeated as if that was the only way he could hear the words.
‘And he’s going to die very soon. Maybe he’s dead already. That’s why I’m here.’
‘But you said he was already dead.’
‘I said I thought he was.’
Forcing patience down his own throat, Palmer smiled. ‘OK, Mrs Morris, then if he wasn’t dead and you didn’t bury him, who was buried?’
‘I don’t know who I eventually buried.’ She leaned toward him to whisper. ‘I suspect when it came time to lower the coffin in the ground, there was no one in it, no body in the box or, if there was a body, it wasn’t my son’s.’ She nodded for emphasis. ‘That’s what I think.’
Palmer stared at her. She looks normal, he thought. How amazing madness is. Crazy people ought to develop hives on their faces or at least a big lump on their forehead where the madness raged and was stored. Even for him, a trained detective, with good instincts, it was often impossible to determine who was a paranoid schizophrenic or a multiple personality. The madness didn’t always take a physical toll on their bodies. In fact, some of the lunatics seemed to grow stronger and look healthier than the so-called sane.
‘I’m afraid you’re not making much sense, Mrs Morris. Your son can’t be older than you are, now can he?’ he asked in a soft, calm, but condescending tone.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no,’ she admitted. ‘Not until today.’
‘I see.’
He took solace in the realization that he would have a fun time describing this one to Tracy at dinner later. He didn’t often talk about his job. Most of the cases were too gruesome and didn’t make for dinner conversation. It was also classical advice to leave the job behind. Those who didn’t keep it locked away back at work suffered burnout much earlier in their careers.
‘And what,’ he asked, pretending to take notes now, ‘happened today especially that has changed your mind about all of this?’
‘He came to see me.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Not more than an hour or so ago.’
‘Your dead son, who’s now older than you, came to see you about an hour or so ago?’
In his way of thinking, if he forced the nutcases to repeat their insane babble, they would realize the craziness and stop themselves.
Mrs Morris just nodded, her expression unchanging, her confidence unflinching. ‘Yes, about an hour ago. I first saw him watching me when I was having a latte at Starbucks. I treat myself to one every Wednesday after work, but only on Wednesdays. They’re so expensive. He was standing outside looking into the place like one of those homeless people. There are so many and they are so sad. I didn’t realize it was him, nor did I think anything of it until I discovered he had followed me.’
‘Um,’ he said. ‘Do you live alone, Mrs Morris?’
‘Yes, my husband died a little more than ten years ago and I never remarried. I work at Folio’s Department Store,’ she added before he could ask. ‘Sales.’
‘OK. What department?’ Now he did write some notes wondering how she could hold down a regular job and be this off-the-wall.
‘Lady’s lingerie, third floor.’
‘I see. Fine. Do you have any immediate family here or close by?’
‘I have only an older sister. She’s married and lives in Duluth. None of my uncles or aunts are alive and I have not kept in touch with any cousins. I don’t know if they’re living or dead and they don’t know if I am.’
‘What is your sister’s name?’
‘Edith Zucker. Her husband owns automobile franchises – Zucker Auto Park. He’s very well known there.’
‘And Bradley was your only child?’
‘Yes. Sometimes I regret that we had only one child and sometimes I feel blessed I didn’t have another. Maybe another would have turned out the same. Actually, we were unable to have another child. We never bothered to find out if it was because of him or me.’
He ignored that. ‘Was your sister, other members of your family at your son’s funeral?’ he asked.
She bit down on her lower lip and looked like she was going to burst into tears now. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The fact is, I didn’t tell them what had happened to Bradley until after he was buried, or supposedly buried,’ she quickly corrected. ‘I’ve … I’ve been ashamed of it all. My sister never asked about him. Most people … most people don’t even know I had a child.’
‘I see.’
The possibility that she had imagined the death and funeral suddenly occurred to him. He also thought it was possible she imagined having a child in the first place. People like her twirled his imagination as if it were a top.
‘Where is this overage son now?’
‘I left him back at my apartment. He collapsed before he could tell me much, but he told me enough to make me want to come here right away. Babbled and mumbled, I should say, convincing me he was already in death’s grip. If you saw him, you wouldn’t think any emergency medical treatment would make any difference at this point anyway.’
‘So … you didn’t call 911 or call for an ambulance or call anyone else, a neighbor, anyone?’
‘No, sir. I came here as quickly as I could. Something terrible has happened.’
‘People probably do age faster in prison,’ he offered.
‘Oh, I imagine they do, but don’t forget I was told he was dead. I saw his body and I arranged his funeral,’ she reminded him and nodded to make sure he understood.
‘Yes, you did say all that.’ He was hoping she would recant that part of her story. ‘OK,’ he said, taking a deep breath like someone who had to go through the pain, ‘what’s his full name?’
‘Bradley Preston Morris. Preston was my husband’s name. As I said, he was my only child. He got in with a bad crowd when he was in high school and never seemed to be able to pull himself out of it. It was like stepping into quicksand. Preston gave up on him long before I did, but I’m afraid I failed as well. No matter what your children do or what the circumstances surroundi
ng it are, Detective Dorian, you can’t stop blaming yourself. You give birth to him; you raise him; he lives in your home. I don’t hold with those people who blame society or others. It was our failure as parents,’ she continued. ‘We should have done more. Maybe even moved away. That’s why I said I’m not unhappy that I had no more children.’
Palmer couldn’t help but admire her for her willingness to assume responsibility. It’s all driven her nuts, he thought, but he was moved enough to pretend to believe her and at least look like he cared. And he held with her theory about it. He wished more parents would assume responsibility for the acts of their children.
‘OK, you say you left your son back in your apartment where he collapsed?’
‘Passed out just as he had begun to tell me how he was in some hospital.’
‘Hospital.’ He leaped on her words. ‘So he was ill. Maybe then he just looked a lot older.’
‘Oh, he looks a lot older, Detective Dorian. When you see him, I will understand why you won’t believe he’s my son. But you keep forgetting that I told you he was dead. He was buried. I arranged the funeral.’
‘Yes, I keep forgetting,’ he muttered.
Tucker was starting back from the chief’s office. Palmer smiled to himself thinking about his reaction when this report was summed up for him.
‘For now, so that we can deal with this the way we deal with reports, let’s just call this man a stranger who came to your apartment. Did he threaten you in any way?’
‘Oh no. He was pathetic, very sad.’
‘Was there any sign of trauma, violence done to him?’
‘No, sir. He looked like anyone’s grandfather, great-grandfather, actually. His face was covered with gray stubble, deeply cut wrinkles, his hair thin, his body very fragile, a croak in his voice when he spoke. He looked like he was a hundred years old!’ she emphasized just as Tucker stepped up.
‘Well now,’ Tucker said. ‘What do we have here, Detective Dorian?’
Palmer scooped up his notepad and stood. ‘Why don’t we talk about it on the way over to Mrs Morris’ apartment, Detective? This is Detective Browning, ma’am. He forgot to introduce himself before.’
Ceil nodded and stood up. ‘Someone’s done a terrible, terrible thing,’ she told Tucker.
‘Well, that’s what we’re here to prove most of the time, ma’am. This is the place people come to when terrible things have been done.’
‘That’s exactly why I came,’ she replied, without missing a beat.
Palmer smiled at Tucker, who quickly and reluctantly lost his wise ass smirk. He started to raise his arms in protest.
‘It looks like she’s reporting an unattended death,’ Palmer told him before he could question the move. ‘Ma’am, please follow us to our automobile,’ he added and gestured for Ceil to start down the corridor.
‘I thought what she was reporting was an impending murder. Unattended death? What the hell is this?’ Tucker whispered.
‘That’s what we’re off to find out, Detective First Class Browning,’ Palmer said. ‘I’ll see to it that she relates her details as we go. I think you’ll find it all quite a lot more interesting than this recent easy case.’
‘Spare me. I’d rather have easy than interesting.’
‘Maybe this is both,’ Palmer told him, although his intuition was telling him otherwise in broad, strangely alarming strokes.
It would be interesting but not easy.
Nevertheless, he checked his watch and thought if he could get this over with within two hours, he wouldn’t have any problem getting ready for dinner with Tracy.
That, more than anything, drove him to move it along.
Two
Simon Oakland stood looking out of the ten-story high window of his office which overlooked the small pond and a few acres of what were now richly green oak, hemlock and birch trees co-habiting in that part of the New York Catskill mountain forest that had been spared. On the other side and to the north and south of it were two similar tract housing developments. From this height, because of their dull silvery tiled roofs, they looked like gray mold spreading a disease over the landscape. People from New York City looking for second-bedroom homes bought most of the houses. The mass-produced structures were inexpensive enough to enable truly middle class income people to afford them and get the sense that they were entering territory inhabited only by the very wealthy: a multi-home portfolio.
Simon was sure that when they talked about their country homes, they left out the fact that the homes were tract houses in a development. This was far from the romantic image of ‘my home in the country’. These houses were built with synthetic materials, standardized appliances and fixtures, and set on the minimum permitted lot sizes with uniform landscaping, driveways and sidewalks. The only thing individual about each of the homes was the number on the front to indicate the address. Come home drunk one night and you could enter the wrong life, he thought and laughed to himself imagining it.
But these people were happy in these houses. Ours is an economy with a foundation consisting of illusions, he thought, and yet how could he fault them for wanting the illusion? They had theirs and he had his.
He clutched his hands behind his back and rocked gently on his small feet. At five feet three, he barely broke out of children’s sizes, whether it was his shoes, just a six, or his pants and shirts. To avoid the embarrassment, he had almost everything he wore custom made and only occasionally picked up a coat or a pair of shoes at a store. He wasn’t much of a shopper anyway. The fact was he hated mingling with the masses, as he called it. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he had been to a shopping mall. He never went to a movie or to the theater anymore, and his maid and cook, Mrs Goodman, bought all of his groceries and house needs. The house had been bought for him and she had been hired for him by Mr Dover’s corporation, which provided for his medical and dental needs as well.
Simon never saw a tax form, a bill or any sort of business correspondence whatsoever now. Over the past four years, he had only his work with which to concern himself. He merely had to mention a worry or a concern and it was immediately addressed. He was sure kings never lived better or had more attention. He had his own chauffeur and the use of Mr Dover’s private jet whenever he was required to travel or wanted to, not that he had wanted to very much these last four years. He was a workaholic who rarely left the compound.
What motivated him and kept him centered and satisfied with his solitary life was his belief that what he was doing would have as much influence on human history as the discovery of electricity or maybe even the wheel. Some day, not now of course, but some day, his name would be in textbooks alongside the Edisons and the Einsteins. There was even the chance that before he died, he would be awarded the Nobel prize or something equivalent. Leaders of all sorts of governments would heap medals and awards on him. He would be an international celebrity. He even harbored the hope that his work and his creations would be baptized the Oakland Method, or some such title. Why not? The British named all vacuum cleaners Hoovers, and what he was doing was not ten times more important; it was closer to a million times more important.
He rocked on his feet again and squeezed his hands, a nervous action that he recognized as such but nevertheless performed. Normally, he was about as calm and contented a man as could ever be, but when he was told to be in his office for a phone call from Mr Dover, he felt his quickened heartbeat, a surge of blood to his face and an electric chill in his spine. It was like getting a phone call from God, a communication not only over long distances, but over time itself.
He knew what it was about, knew that Mr Dover had been told what had occurred on the Final Stage floor and probably told before he had been told. Those employees were more loyal to him. It was Dover’s MO to staff the program with people dependant more on him than on Simon. He was keenly aware that there were spies everywhere. He wouldn’t even trust Mrs Goodman. Perhaps she was the least trustworthy of all in fac
t because she was directly involved in his personal life.
But, this was all worth the price. Look at what he had, what he could do. It was only Mr Dover who commanded this much fear and respect from him anyway. Because of his knowledge, skill and creativity, he lorded over most other men much taller and bigger than he was, and even wealthier and more politically powerful and connected. None of them wanted to be on his wrong side or in any way even annoy him. They practically bowed when they left him and kept their eyes down as if to look directly at him was an affront and punishable by death.
And he did have his own spies and loyal associates. His hand-picked assistant, Larry Hoffman, had called to warn him that the nurses on the Final Stage floor had informed Mr Dover about Bradley Morris’ escape, just minutes after they had informed him of Sutter’s death.
He heard the phone ring and turned, first just looking at it as if he really had a choice about answering it. What was it Sartre had written about the power of Existentialism? A man caught in an overpowering current and carried downstream could still hold on to his essence, his self-meaning by deciding to swim faster than the current. He still invoked choice and to exist was to choose.
Simon pondered lifting the receiver slowly or quickly, pausing deliberately and then saying hello or lunging for the receiver and answering quickly, even before the ear piece reached his ear. He opted for the first choice and casually lifted the receiver and didn’t speak until he was seated behind his oversize dark-cherry desk. His chair elevated him, but to anyone else the desk looked like it enveloped him and he was sinking in the wood. He didn’t care. Everything that touched him and he touched grew larger, longer, wider because of him.
‘Simon Oakland,’ he said even though he knew exactly who was calling.
‘This is a very, very serious glitch, Simon,’ Mr Dover said without any introduction or small talk.
‘Glitch?’ What kind of a word was glitch?
‘You know what I mean. How could Bradley Morris have the strength and mind to escape your clinic? I thought he was another one in his final days, another overly ripe tomato, as you put it to me once.’
Life Sentence Page 3
