THE LAST BOY

by ROBERT H. LIEBERMAN

  “Sorry,” he apologized hoarsely, when the fit had passed. “Goddamned cigarettes,” he muttered. “Devil's invention.” He coughed and spit a gob of thick phlegm into a handkerchief.“’Scuse me.”

  Tripoli nodded.“Relax. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Where were we?”

  “The boy, Matthew, disappeared. Age five or six.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Holbrow.“The mother, a widow…worked as a waitress…at the diner. Not exactly prosperous. She was frantic. Desperate.”

  “It's her only kid,” said Tripoli, filling in with a guess. He already suspected what was coming next.

  “That's right. She's at her…wit's end. We, our department and the troopers, we’re sure…the boy's gotta be dead. It's going into deep winter, see? You know what it's like. Here?”

  “Fucking cold,” said Tripoli.

  “Yeah! Now here's the…crazy part. We’re all sure…Matthew's dead. Not a chance he's alive. But, come summer, boy waltzes right into his…his Mom's diner!”

  “Where's he been?”

  “No one knows. But there he is. Hell of a nice kid. Like sunshine. Kid’d walk into a room and the place…well, it’d just light up. I didn’t know him before…”

  “But he's changed, right?”‘

  “Can say that again. His mother tells me he doesn’t like noise. Doesn’t want to be cooped up…inside. Regular nature boy. Talking to the chipmunks. And rabbits.”The old sheriff started to laugh, but it turned to a cough.

  “Mother couldn’t…” he started hacking again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Handle him.”

  “Why?”

  “Kept…Can you?” he motioned to a pitcher. Tripoli poured the man a glass of water and watched him as he took deliberate sips. His hands were shaking and Tripoli helped him steady the glass. The old sheriff swallowed.“Hmmm. That's better,” his face creased in a smile showing teeth that were surprisingly even and bright.

  “You were saying the mother couldn’t handle him.”

  “Kept disappearing.”

  “Where?”

  “Just going off.”

  “Seeing somebody?”

  He shrugged.“Who knows? Then he’d come back.”

  “And?”

  “His teacher even had trouble hanging on to him in school.” The old sheriff looked like he was getting exhausted from the exertion. His features were sagging, and his skin had developed a lifeless blue tinge.

  “Take your time,” said Tripoli softly.“I’ve got all day and more if you need it.”

  The sheriff rested. Slowly the color returned to his face.

  “School?” coaxed Tripoli.

  “Yeah. That's where he disappeared from.”

  “And in the end?”

  “Yup. Again.”

  “And?”

  “And that's it. I suppose you can read…all about it…in the papers.”

  “I will,” said Tripoli, getting to his feet.“By the way, did the kid have a nickname? Like, what did the mother call him?”

  “Matty…I mean, Matthew. Before it was Matty. After, he kept insisting that Matthew was his name.”

  “No other name? Maybe the kids in school called him something else?”

  “None that I know of,” he said, looking up at Tripoli with his watery eyes.

  “You’ve been a big help, sir. Believe me.” He took the old man's bony hands in his.

  “So, you finally caught up with Matthew, huh?”

  “Yeah. It looks that way. The prints certainly match.”Tripoli was reluctant to go on.

  “So, he's dead, huh? Well, figured that's why…you’re here. Real shame, huh?”

  “Don’t be so unhappy” said Danny, coming up to her as she sat at her desk staring out the window. He brought his head close, pressed his cheek against hers.

  “It's nothing, Sweetie,” she murmured. “I’m just in one of my moods.”

  Molly had decided that the prudent thing was not to put Larry on the spot. Let it go, she had kept telling herself, trying to focus on her work—though it all now had a bitter taste. In a matter of little more than a day, her perspective had shifted from long term to the immediate, from career advancement to basic survival. When Larry was ready, he would call her in and inform her of the changes he had made. She wondered who else in the office knew. Had everyone but her been told? Why was he holding off?

  “We could grow our own food,” said Danny.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, swiveling in her chair so she could see him.

  “You know, if you lose your job.”

  “Who said anything about—”

  “I heard what Ben said. About the new people. I’m sorry.”There were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “Oh my darling,” she said with tears in her own eyes. She took him into her arms and held him against her breast. “It's not your fault, Angel. Don’t even think that. It's this lousy business world. That's what it is.”

  Tripoli spent the remainder of the afternoon at the Watertown Daily Times, sifting through their archives.

  The first mention of Matthew Roland was on a microfilmed edition of the Times dated November 3, 1938.

  “Five-Year-Old Missing”—the headlines read. There was a large picture of the boy on the front page: an attractive kid with dark hair slicked down and combed in a sharp part, a big smile on his round face. He was wearing a white shirt and an oversized bow tie. The photo looked like a Christmas picture taken the previous year when the boy would have been four. The resemblance to Daniel was striking: Matthew was Daniel cast in dark details. He had the same large almond eyes and high cheeks, so close that Tripoli couldn’t help but wonder if his mind were playing tricks on him. Maybe there was just a common denominator to five-year-olds.

  He read on. The boy had disappeared from the downtown elementary school that cold November morning. His kindergarten teacher, Lydia Munson, was baffled. One minute he was there, she claimed, the next he was gone. She couldn’t recall Matthew leaving the room at any time, nor did the children as a group leave the classroom. Matthew had simply vanished without explanation or trace.

  Through successive editions, Tripoli could follow the progression of the investigation. Matthew's classmates had been questioned, but to no avail. Search parties had been organized, dogs employed, rivers and lakes dragged. The FBI had been called in, and Matthew's name had been entered into their national registry of missing persons.

  Much like the hunt for Danny, Tripoli could follow the same trajectory of public concern: first the intense search, then the interest falling off as the days progressed into weeks of fruitless efforts. As the search dwindled, the articles shifted their focus to the poor widow and the toll that her son's loss was exacting. Neighbors were quoted as saying what a nice boy Matthew had been, how friendly and smart, how promising. The quotations all had an eulogistic ring to them, as if everyone was now certain that Matthew was dead.

  Tripoli traced the story, moving in chronological order through the papers. Now and then there appeared a brief mention of Matthew or his mother. Mary, Matthew's mother, was repeatedly quoted as saying she remained unwavering in her conviction that her child was still alive. In February, there was mention of a bake sale to raise funds for the mother, who had been briefly hospitalized with a “nervous condition.”Then there was nothing in the papers. Not a single mention of Matthew, or his mother, or the case. Tripoli raced through the spools of microfilm.

  Then, suddenly, on June 17, 1939, a huge and jubilant banner headline:

  “Missing Boy Returns!”

  This time the paper had a photo of a somewhat older, longhaired Matthew, the beaming boy clutched in his mother's arms, the pair surrounded by a crowd of cops and city officials.

  “Presumed dead by police after his disappearance seven months earlier, Matthew Roland, aged six, walked into his mother's diner…”Tripoli raced through the article. The boy, still wearing the clothes he had disapp
eared in, was apparently in perfect health. But there was still no explanation of where he had been.

  Tripoli jumped to the next day's edition. The police questioning Matthew seemed to have elicited no solid information. “Matthew provided no explanation other than to say that he had been living in the woods.”

  “The Mystery Widens”—the next issue of the paper announced. The article was full of wild speculation about where the child had been. People were suggesting everything from his having been abducted by Gypsies seen traveling in the Watertown area to his being nursed through the winter by wild animals. Aside from the slightly dated language, the article might easily have described the events surrounding Daniel's return.

  Tripoli kept winding through the film, his pulse racing as he hit upon article after article. Interest in Matthew was obviously growing. According to his mother, Matthew had undergone a drastic transformation. “He can read just about anything,” marveled Mrs. Mary Roland. “He can even understand books meant for grownups.” But that was only part of it. He seemed exquisitely tuned in to his surroundings, to people, to animals. But with all that, his mother explained, clearly troubled, he had also become intolerant of any modern contrivances. He couldn’t stand the glare of electric lights. He had pulled out the plug of her new refrigerator because the sound of its motor disturbed him, causing all their food to spoil. He refused to ride in an automobile, eat meat, or drink milk that was in any way processed. Nor would he talk on the phone or permit a radio to play in his presence.

  Tripoli sped on through the papers, the print streaking past as he flew forward in time—Matthew still there on the first pages. Word of the boy was spreading. People were claiming that he had supernatural powers. That he could read minds. Foretell the future. Predict the weather. That he could heal with the simple touch of his small hands.

  In one account, Dr. Oskar Friedmann, an expert in child psychiatry who had worked with the famous Sigmund Freud in his native Vienna, traveled all the way from New York City to Watertown. Following two days of extensive examinations, Dr. Friedmann announced that the boy had undergone a severe trauma initiating a marked transformation of personality. The article was couched in a lot of psycho babble, but its net result, from what Tripoli could fathom, was that this episode had propelled Matthew into a heightened state of nervous receptivity.“It is like the volume control on your radio set,” explained the psychiatrist.“Imagine turning it all the way up so you could hear absolutely everything. And I mean every little sound, every station. It would make you crazy, wouldn’t it?”

  Then, as quickly as the news had ballooned, it tailed off again. By the end of August, two months after Matthew miraculously walked into his mother's diner, there was nothing. Public interest had moved on to more pressing matters: the proposal for a new municipal water system, the County Board working on its new budget, the movement of German troops in Eastern Europe.

  Tripoli vainly searched through the days of September. Then, October 7, 1939:“Matthew Roland Missing Again!”

  “So when was all this decided?” Molly asked when she was finally alone with Larry in the early evening. Everyone but she and Danny had finally left the office, and Molly simply couldn’t take the waiting any longer.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy I didn’t have a chance to talk to you.”

  “But you did have time to talk to Ben.”

  He got up from his chair.“Molly dear,” he intoned, approaching with outstretched hands.

  “Molly, nothing.” She jumped back, refusing to be placated.“Just level with me. Please.”

  “The business is growing,” he explained. “We need to expand the staff. You know that as well as anybody.”

  “And you’ve got the money?”

  “Well…” he paused, “I think I’m getting additional financing. We’ve got some V. C.s who are interested. And revenues are moving up nicely.” He was talking fast and Molly knew that usually meant a smoke screen.“And I’m going to need you to train the new people.”

  “Larry,” she finally confronted him straight out,“are you thinking of firing me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  The question hung in the air.

  He turned away from her, pretended to busy himself examining some papers, but Molly kept her eyes fixed on him.

  Finally he turned back. “Let's face it,” he said. “No one is indispensable.”

  “Well, that's pretty clear.”

  He went to shut the door, then hesitated.

  Molly stuck her head out in the corridor. Danny was waiting in the hallway, ready to go. “One minute, Honey, and we’ll take off,” she said. “Okay, Sweetie?” He nodded and she gently nudged the door closed.

  “I’m willing to work with you on this,” said Larry in a lowered voice. Now he was close, looking her right in the eye, and she could feel the edge to her anger blunting. She tried to calculate how long her savings might last if she was out of work. Her mind flooded with memories of being poor and needing food stamps, her furniture out on the street in the pouring rain, going to that lawyer, Mr. Greenhut, for help. Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together.

  “I’ll give you another couple of weeks until Danny starts school,” said Larry.“But then this nonsense has got to cease.”

  The word “nonsense” stung. Molly bit her lip to keep her eyes from tearing up.“I’ve worked my ass off for you,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Maybe, but these days little is getting done. Molly,” he tried to put his hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away.“You think I don’t know what's up when you streak out of this office because Danny has bolted again? Or those endless lunches? Or the kid nagging at you all afternoon to take him out? People coming and going like Grand Central Station. Molly, Molly, you used to be a real power-house. You did the work of ten.”

  “No, two.”

  “Please,” he pleaded,“You’ve got to understand. This magazine,” he said and she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, “this is my baby. I’ve got my whole life wrapped up in it. All my chips are on the table. If I lost it…well, I’d be almost as devastated as you were when Danny disappeared. Can you understand that?”

  Molly tried. “Well, I suppose so,” she said hoarsely and had to keep clearing her throat.

  “And I want to keep you. I really and truly do.”

  “What about the new people?”

  “I need you to train them.”

  Train my replacements? she thought.

  “You’ll have a new slot,” he said, anticipating her thoughts. “You’ll be in a supervisory position. Next quarter we’ll do a salary review. But you’ve got to get your life straightened out, get Danny into school and resume a normal existence. Everyone has a breaking point. Including me.”

  The evening in Watertown was sticky, and Tripoli, with a bit of time on his hands, ambled aimlessly through the quiet streets, peering in store windows and thinking…pondering the history of Matthew Roland…the circumstances surrounding the boy's vanishing the second time. By the time he decided to check in with Sisler at headquarters, Sisler had already signed out for the day. Tripoli tried him at home, and Sisler's wife, Tracy, picked up the phone.

  “Oh, hi Trip,” she said, recognizing his voice.

  “Is Jerry around?

  “No. Did you try at the station?”

  “Yeah. But he just left.”

  “Can I have him call you when he gets in? I know he really wanted to talk to you.”

  “He might not be able to reach me. I’ll have to try him later.”

  “Sure. By the way, have you found out anything about that old man?

  “Naw,” he answered vaguely.“Nothing very much yet.”

  “I mean it's none of my business, but everybody in town's been talking about Danny and that—Whoops, hang on, there's a car coming up the drive. That could be Jerry.”

  There was a pause and Tripoli could hear Tracy in th
e background, calling out to her husband. A door slamming. Footsteps.

  “Hey, Trip,” said Sisler, coming on an instant later and sounding a little winded.“Glad you called.”

  “What's cooking?”

  “There was a nurse. Wait…” Sisler took a moment to catch his breath.

  “What nurse?”

  “There was a nurse who went into the morgue that morning of the day the body disappeared. Around five. She had a key.”

  “And? What was she doing in there?”

  “Some old lady on the medical ward croaked and they took her down to put her in a locker.”

  Tripoli waited.

  “Now the interesting thing is that this nurse claims there was no officer on duty. She was sure of it. And she's sure of the time, too. There's a death certificate. I took a look at her patients’ charts and the entries are bracketed in time—before and after she went down to the morgue.”

  “Five? That was before Pellegrino took over. Paolangeli's shift, right?”

  “Yeah. And I talked to him. He insists that he never left his post.”

  Tripoli didn’t say anything. He was thinking.

  “Now somebody's not telling the truth. Trip?”

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “They both can’t be right. I hate to say this, but I think I believe the nurse. I mean, why should she distort anything? I think he went to take a dump or smoke or whatever, and now he doesn’t want to own up to it. The nurse is pretty sure she locked the door, but who knows? It starts to explain everything—well, almost everything.”

  There was a prolonged silence, and it was Tripoli who finally broke it.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said.

  “Huh? What do you mean? It's perfectly clear. Paolangeli takes a hike. The door is open, the place unguarded. Someone slips in— or maybe they got a key, I don’t know—they grab the old man's body. And bingo, that's it, he's gone. Right?”

  “Well, that's certainly one explanation,” said Tripoli.

  “One? Okay, how many others do you have?”

  Tripoli had checked into a motel on the outskirts of Watertown and he found a diner nearby. That its parking lot was jammed with tractor trailers, Tripoli took as a propitious sign. Once seated in the corner booth, he couldn’t decide between the meat loaf and the spinach lasagna; finally he went for the lasagna special. Even though it was meatless it was surprisingly tasty, and for $6.95 it came with everything from salad to dessert, coffee included. There was a bunch of truckers sitting in a nearby booth and Tripoli eavesdropped on their conversation. They were griping about their loss of haulage. Something about milk production being sharply down. New environmental regulations that were costing them a fortune. They were being so squeezed they could hardly make a living anymore. After dinner, he had a couple of beers in a dark corner of a nearby tavern. Finally, he went to the pay phone and called Molly. It was well after eleven.