EQMM, July 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Hey, J.J. Did you see something happen over there?"

  Creegan pointed with a grand gesture at the woods. J.J. leaned right and a little in front of his questioner, as if he were trying to see around a corner and farther along the trail.

  "Did you see someone go in there, J.J.?"

  J.J. straightened and the fingertips of the T. rex hands began rubbing together.

  "J.J., did you?"

  "Yeah. Two guys."

  "When was that? Tonight when you found Turgot?"

  "Who's Turgot?” J.J. asked, and his helmet slipped down a little on his furrowed brow.

  "The man inside. The one who was shot."

  "His name is Tony. He said to call him Tony."

  "Did you see the two men go into the woods just before you found Tony?"

  "Yeah. They was runnin'."

  Creegan looked at Monafferi. Together they assessed the lighting in the lot, the full moon riding clear of the scattered clouds behind them.

  "Did they go in through that trail, J.J.?"

  "Yeah. They ran in there. Can't ride through there anymore. Too many sticks and bushes."

  Even as they spoke, a middle-aged couple wielding a flashlight strolled out of the overgrown trail and teetered on the cement curbing, watching the show.

  "There're houses back there with a dirt road access off of Twenty-nine,” Creegan said aloud, remembering.

  "Yeah,” J.J. said. “Little houses but no sidewalks and no streets."

  Monafferi whistled at a tech, and then headed for the clueless couple.

  "Did you get a good look at the two guys, J.J.? Were they coming out of the office when you rode in?"

  The fingers stopped rubbing and curled in toward J.J.'s palms as he scanned his memory.

  "No. Just two guys runnin’ into the woods. I didn't see them in the office. No.” His index fingers unfurled. “No."

  "Did you see their faces? No? Did they have masks or hats on?"

  "One guy had a baseball hat on backwards. The other guy had his hood up."

  "Like a sweatshirt hood? Yeah? Dark shirts, light? What kind of pants?"

  Nondescript clothing, maybe jeans, grayish tops.

  "What color was their skin?"

  J.J.'s shoulders started to rise like they were being reeled up into the sky; his eyes squinted almost shut. “White,” he said. “They ran white."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They ran white, not black."

  "Okay, J.J. Can you stay with us for a while? I want you to talk to Detective Coleman about what you saw. We'll give you a ride home in one of the police cars if you can stay.” Frank signaled Ivey.

  J.J. nodded, but had a second thought. “What about my tire? Tony can't set up the hose ‘cause he's dead."

  "We'll see. Let me get the detective over here."

  They stood waiting for Ivey, oddly matched, the damp chill working into fingers and feet.

  Walt Overholser, the M.E., appeared and did a strange duck walk under the yellow tape, heading for the office with big, outturned feet slapping the pavement. Frank looked at the high-shouldered, aging figure. What a target that man must have made as a corpsman on Guadalcanal.

  "That's the Scarecrow,” J.J. said. He looked radiant, like a celebrity hound who's just spotted an idol.

  But Creegan did not share his joy. Overholser had had his usual morbid effect upon him, breathing upon his worry for his son Michael, ashore in Lebanon with the Fleet Marines. Frank had his own surreal, quarter-century-old memories of hitting the beach in Beirut under the watchful eyes of women in bikinis and men astride horses and dusky kids dancing excitedly on the sand as he and his fellow Marines rode by in their amphibians on the way to the airport. Every generation seemed to have its Barbary shore, didn't it?

  Acting out of this sudden melancholy, he put an arm around J.J.'s shoulders. But the body inside the baggy clothing tensed with a strength beyond muscularity. Creegan dropped his arm. “Detective Coleman's coming now,” he said. “I want you to tell him about everything you did and saw from the time you biked in—especially about the two men who went into the woods. Okay? Then we'll get you home."

  "I don't live at home."

  "Back to the place you're staying, then."

  A couple was conferring across the tape with the female officer: the Hodges, both short, slender, faces looking like they'd been slapped repeatedly. They were dressed for a formal affair that must have seemed very frivolous now. The officer turned. He nodded and she lifted the tape for them.

  They were nice people, in their early forties, and had owned this place fifteen years without mishap, other than a larcenous night-manager. Al Hodge started talking from a dozen paces. “My God, Frank, your guy said Turgot was shot dead. They wouldn't say that unless they knew for sure, right? It's not someone else in there, is it?"

  "I'm afraid it is him, Al."

  Annie Hodge leaned into her husband with a contorted face that was painful to watch. She struggled to open her throat.

  "He ... we were robbed?” she asked. “Did he get shot ... because he wouldn't give up ... the stupid money?"

  Creegan shrugged sadly. “Folks, did he have any enemies that you're aware of?"

  "Turgot?” they said together.

  "How about family disputes? Money problems? Expensive habits?"

  "The only thing he ever got for himself was that white Chevy there, which he considered an investment. Right, Annie?"

  "No run-ins with customers?"

  "He was my meeter and greeter, for God's sake. You always got the treatment, didn't you? And he never forgot a face."

  "Just asking; there's always crazies. But no one who might have had a problem with his being a foreigner, say?"

  "He never said anything about that. And I've never had a crank call or letter about it, either."

  "Okay, but let me know if anything pops out of the memory bank. We'll need a list of your other employees, too."

  "He got along fine with the mechanics and his relief."

  "Yes. But maybe they saw him having problems with someone that you didn't hear about. Let's find out about today's customers—the past week's. Maybe further back. Where'd he live?"

  "He has people over in Drowned Meadow Depot. He had a room as small as a kid's there. God, those folks are gonna wail when they hear this. Talk about a bunch that pulls together."

  "Can I have the address?"

  He took it and put the Hodges with Satcher to work up lists of staff and customers and to sort out receipts.

  Fresh tape now reached into the gaping darkness of the woods. Beams of light touched here and there under limbs and behind underbrush. A tech was breaking out the big lights, although only daylight would allow a proper ground search.

  Monafferi came up. “A car was parked in a turnaround off that lane running from 29A to the bungalows. The couple that tromped in noticed it earlier. Beat-up old compact. Gray or light blue. No plate info. Didn't see anybody parking it or leaving in it. There's four families back in there; the ones that were at home didn't see anything. One guy thought he heard some firecrackers go off at about the right time."

  The wind rushed through the pine tops with a highway sound. “Keep at it, Sarge,” Creegan said and headed back to the office. He could see Vecchio pointing out something to a tech. Frank considered the detective's knitted brow and his narrowed eyes. The eyes lifted up from Turgot and rested on Frank without relaxing at all.

  * * * *

  Frank's rear bedroom had a picture window. He looked out with post-shower lassitude at the long, narrow yard. The grass was still green, but shot with silver, and had begun humping and clumping for the winter. A great oak towered over the thinned woods at the far end of the property. His gaze rose up the dark, rough bark, but he could not see the crown from this angle.

  He had a troublesome pride in the ancient tree; he had never seen a larger one on the Island. It had withstood many hurricanes over the decades, although Agnes had snapped off a huge limb
that had once pointed to the horizon like the arm of an archangel.

  He and Mike had borrowed a monster extension ladder, some heavy ropes, and long saws so that they could separate the splintered bough from the upright trunk. The sawn lengths still stretched out in the shade at the back of the lot, moldering but substantial, like fallen columns. Mike had been very aware of being a real help to him, clearly doing a man's work. The proud young face still shone out from a timeless grotto in Frank's memory. He had seen the same expression on his son's face when they had gone down to Parris Island to see him graduate from boot camp.

  Elsewhere in the house was the murmuring chorus of his wife and daughter and younger son. Laundry was thrashing; female lines from The Merchant of Venice were being rehearsed. Curtis would be readying his arm. Frank thought about a quick nap before driving out to see the boy pitch in the fall-ball championship.

  The phone rang. It was Vecchio. As Frank listened, he imagined his kid on the mound, looking toward an empty seat in the bleachers.

  Fred Stout stood in the dark hall outside the interrogation room drinking boiled coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He was a blocky, large-pored man, with a brain that had as low a center of gravity as his body. He graced Frank with a direct look as he took another sip of sludge.

  "Frank. Wonder Boy told the shrimp we had a synagogue break-in and that we think some old friends of his are involved. We got him a couple years back for helping two kids mess up Brith Sholom cemetery. The others were juveniles, but he was eighteen and took the heat. He's bitter about that, so now that he thinks he can pay them back, he's not being shy. I guess you got some bad news for him, right?"

  Stout got a silent profile rather than an answer as Frank set up by the two-way glass. “Come on, Frank, before I can shake somebody loose, you'll have this cleared."

  "Lieutenant Creegan?"

  They both turned toward Ivey, coming up with his notebook fanned open. “Satch caught up with the victim's family. The brother-in-law says he brought dinner over for the victim last night about six-thirty, about an hour and a half before the shooting, and he was as cheerful as always. No one else was there and he didn't talk about any hassles.

  "Oh, and I know you were real curious about those pencils, right? Well, the brother-in-law works for the county crew upgrading the golf course where the pencils came from. He says it was him that brought them. He handed over that box to the victim at dinnertime last night. The box was still taped shut when he gave it to him."

  Creegan thanked him. They continued watching the Q and A, and Frank put his hand up when it seemed Stout was going to make another overture. He wanted to read the suspect and observe Vecchio's technique without any distractions before going in.

  Dwight Apgard was almost without shape inside his baggy clothes. His hooded sweatshirt was a dingy gray devoid of logo or script. Under the table, the legs of his bleach-streaked jeans looked like they were draped over sticks. The dots and smudges of his pinched little features barely disturbed the roundness of a small, close-cropped skull. He looked as if he would crack like an egg.

  Vecchio was listening intently while Dwight rewrote history, explaining how not he but someone else had masterminded the vandalism he'd been busted for. Evidently Apgard Senior had had to remortgage to make good on the property restoration, a consequence that had clearly taken Dwight's life to a deeper circle of hell.

  "You think he's the twerpetrator?” Stout asked.

  "No. He's a passenger, I believe. We use him to get to the real guy. Here we go."

  Vecchio greeted Frank politely, feigning a trace of surprise at his appearance. Apgard tore his eyes away from his attentive listener, wondering perhaps if the wind had just veered.

  "Dwight, this is Lieutenant Creegan. He's working the case, too. He might have some news for us."

  Creegan sat down diagonally across from Dwight.

  "You look like a priest with those glasses on and that turtleneck,” Dwight said.

  Frank gave him a sad, crinkling look and then said, “Dwight, forget about this vandalism stuff. There was a shooting last night, and I know you were there when it happened."

  Vecchio widened his eyes and looked from one to the other. Dwight's face began to mottle.

  Vecchio said, “No way! Is that true, Dwight? Damn, I guess I have to read you your rights.” He did so with a hurt smile.

  Stunned, but still clinging to their barely vacated rapport, Dwight waived his rights to an attorney.

  "I don't know nothin’ about a shooting,” he said after the formalities. “Where did it happen?” He sat back with folded arms, mimicking Vecchio's widened eyes.

  Frank turned to his left and said, “Detective, his print turned up at the gas station where that attendant was killed last night."

  "Really.” Vecchio looked even less cordially at Dwight.

  "Oh,” the young man said. “You're talkin’ about the Usoco deal. I heard about that on the news. Hey, I been in there a few times to buy gas. Maybe that's why you found my prints. But I haven't been in there for a while."

  Frank was shaking his head. “That pencil you used to leave your mark. That's what the fingerprint was on. The box of pencils it came from got dropped off last night, just before the man was shot, so I know you were there. We also have a witness who saw two people leaving the scene. I guess it's just a matter of letting him get a look at you in a lineup. But, here's the thing. I think your pal did the shooting, not you. Who were you with, Dwight? That's who we really want."

  Dwight's arms tightened into a self-hug; he twisted sideways. “I wasn't there last night."

  Vecchio took the folder Creegan had brought in and looked inside. “Huh! Sorry, Dwight, there's no doubt about the match. You were in there after those pencils were dropped off."

  Creegan took in the torqued posture, the scrawny arms wrapping the ribcage. “Dwight, if you're the only one we can place at the murder, you're going to take all the blame. Again. Just like with the Jewish cemetery. That ain't fair, is it?"

  Suddenly, the kid sat up, dropping his arms, piling up his spine like a soldier. “All right, I was there. I did it."

  "Did what?” Vecchio asked.

  "I shot him. I shot the Israeli guy."

  Creegan studied the new pose, the hands flexed like they were reaching for a different purchase, the challenging tone that had been pulled out of storage someplace.

  "Dwight, that man you say you shot was not an Israeli."

  "His name was Sol and he had an accent. What else could he be?"

  "Are you talking about the name he had stitched on his clothes? That was S-A-L, not S-O-L. And they were handed down from a guy that worked there before; they weren't his. His name was Turgot. Turgot Suleymanoglu. That's Turkish."

  Dwight squinted, as if he was mentally reshuffling a swollen, sticky deck of cards.

  "What was he?"

  "A Turk."

  "Like a towel-head, right? What have they done for us except sneak in and steal jobs?"

  "He was here legally. Did you want the job he had? I didn't think so. And I fought alongside the Turks in Korea. They were tough, brave. Good soldiers."

  "Well, that was in the old days. This guy was a migrant taking some American's job."

  "Is that why he was killed?” Vecchio asked quietly. “This wasn't just a robbery that went bad?"

  Dwight gave a quick head shake. “Nah. He was my target of the week."

  Creegan didn't like that answer. If the eradication program was for real, having Apgard in custody might not stop it.

  "Where's the weapon now, Dwight?” Creegan asked. “And where'd it come from?"

  Dwight moved his tale into focus and said, “I chucked it in the harbor."

  "Where in the harbor?"

  "I don't remember. I was standing on one of the marina docks. By the gas pumps, maybe."

  "The lieutenant also asked where you got the gun,” Vecchio prompted.

  Another hesitation. “I bought it off some guy in the ci
ty."

  "And how did you get on to him?"

  "I don't know. It was a long time ago."

  "How long?"

  Dwight shrugged.

  "Why'd you chuck it? How were you going to hit your next target if your gun was in the harbor?"

  "I can always get a gun."

  His story didn't have much depth to it, but that didn't seem to bother him. The main thing was that he had laid claim to the killing.

  It was Creegan's turn to prevaricate. Investigating crime was about the only situation in which he let truth take a backseat, matching lie for lie in line with some police wisdom his father had passed along to him: “To do a great right, do a little wrong."

  "Dwight, try to remember how long it's been since you got the gun,” Creegan said earnestly.

  "Why?"

  "Because it was used in another bad crime. How long's it been?"

  "What crime?"

  "How long? Think back and try to place it in time. What was going on in the world when you went into the Big Apple?"

  "I don't know. It was late summer."

  "Like August?"

  "Yeah. Before the kids went back to school."

  "You're real sure about that? Real sure."

  "Positive. It was hot as hell."

  "Ah, that's bad. What if I told you that that gun was used to kill a pregnant woman in Belmont? And not a Jewish or a foreign woman. She was a blond, all-American deli clerk. Why did she get shot?"

  "I didn't shoot no pregnant woman."

  "Yeah, but Dwight, it happened three weeks ago, early October. You had the gun then. So why a young, pregnant woman all the way in to Belmont? You want to see the pictures to refresh your memory?"

  He rotated the file and opened it so that Dwight could see the Polaroids of the woman on the floor, the damaged face, the gravid stomach, the cross at her blood-stained throat. Carrie Hedrickson, killed in Belmont on the far edge of Peconic County five years ago by person(s) unknown. Even if her case had gone cold, it served a purpose in the here and now.