AHMM, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What's going on, Frank?” Her words still rolled in the spice of Texas Spanish, she having come to the Peconic force by a roundabout way.

  "We have a broken neck fatality that was probably an accident."

  "Probably?"

  "There's a whiff of intent in the air, I'm afraid."

  "Smells more like meat and potatoes to me."

  "I guess they'll have leftovers tonight,” said Rick Blair, her partner, a person in even greater need of exercise.

  "Maybe they'll set out a plate when they see how emaciated you are,” Maria said.

  "Control yourselves,” Creegan said and gave them a rundown. “I'll start with the Mallorys while the old folks are eating. Then I'll talk to the lady named Patricia and after her, Mr. Tesler. I want you two to make table talk with the residents. Maybe someone heard what went on out here. See what you can pick up about personalities, relationships, past incidents, et cetera. You know the drill. But try to keep Patricia—that's her right there—out of it; I've already isolated Tesler."

  Creegan took the family one at a time, starting with the daughter. He sat in her mother's place, side lit by the desk lamp, with Jeanine in a visitor's chair, fidgeting in her boyish outfit. She stared at his open notebook.

  "You were still in the parlor when Mr. Strozier fell?"

  "Yeah, I heard the thump and got out there pretty fast. Didn't matter."

  Jeanine was visibly depressed, but stoic. He guessed her to be a year or two older than her brother. There were no rings on the short-nailed fingers, no ornaments at all. Nor did she have any of her mother's buxomness. Her dark hair was short and tightly curled. She was plain, but the sweetness she exhibited was fetching and seemed genuine.

  "Had any similar accidents?"

  "Not that dramatic. The residents know their limitations. The ones that can make it up and down the stairs are proud of it, but they usually take their time. Bernie was always a little rambunctious, though."

  "You mean he went up and down faster than he should have?"

  She thought that over. “No, not really. He was vigorous, that's all. He took walks in the neighborhood, sometimes down to the Lake and back. I don't remember him being clumsy, but, heck, we all trip over our own feet once in a while."

  There was something so charitable and Catholic school in Jeanine that he had to smile.

  "What?"

  "I'm just thinking about what good hands these folks are in."

  "You were here for something else before Bernie fell."

  He could see she was about to launch questions of her own. He said, “How did Leon and Bernard get along?"

  She looked slightly startled and gradually the pink in her cheeks got blotchy. “Oh, no,” she said, an eye brimming.

  "It's a routine question when we have a fatality."

  "No, it's not routine,” she said, a little sullenly, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling fan. She quickly resumed eye contact. Angry?

  "Bernie could get under your skin, but you need a noodge or two to keep the pot going. You know what I mean? But Leon . . . Leon would never hurt anybody. I mean, he isn't afraid to tell somebody off, but it's always for a pretty good reason and he does it in the old-fashioned way—just words, very direct but . . . classy."

  "Has he ever said anything to Bernard?"

  "Oh, once in a while, like If you don't have something positive to say, don't say it,’ or You're not part of this conversation, sir.’ Bernie used to butt in on Leon's stories. Leon's got a lot of tall tales about different parts of his life. Bernie challenged him every chance he could. To embarrass him, I guess."

  "Did they have words about anything recently?"

  The girl folded her arms, obscuring her tiny bust with a billow of shirt.

  "Jeanine?"

  "Well, ever since Patricia got here a couple weeks ago, those two have had more to say to each other. But, like always, they would blurt it out and that would be it."

  "What did Patricia have to do with it?” The question felt surreal. He'd handled homicides that had evolved from love triangles, but not this far along the timeline.

  "Come on, Jeanine."

  "It's . . . usually so cute. Every once in a while a couple kind of clicks. It's like a little romantic routine they go through each day. They sit with each other at meals and in the lounge or parlor. Sometimes they'll even get taken to a restaurant together by the families."

  "How was it this time?"

  When the sought-after words arrived, she covered her face with her hands and spoke from behind the shield. “As soon as he found out her past history, Leon got this notion that he and Patricia knew each other before. A long time ago. The idea wouldn't go away."

  "Is it true?"

  She dropped her hands into her lap.

  "I don't know. Leon's convinced, and Patricia doesn't contradict."

  "And was Bernard interested in her too?"

  "He made like he was. Watched his language around her and always asked her how she was doing, but..."

  "But what?"

  Chuck stuck his head in. He had just admitted Joe Vecchio, who was in the hall shedding his expensive topcoat. The two homicide detectives exchanged nods.

  "Jeanine, you okay?” Chuck said. As straight a kid as he probably was, he seemed very capable of stepping in protectively.

  She turned her tired-looking face to him and nodded without speaking.

  "She's fine,” Creegan said. “We're almost finished, and then I'll need to talk to you."

  Chuck disappeared with Vecchio's coat. The latter came in, took the seat beside Jeanine, and nodded to her politely.

  "Detective Vecchio, this is Jeanine Mallory, one of the family that operates this home."

  Like many young women seeing John for the first time, Jeanine seemed expectant, as if she were waiting for his attractiveness to dissolve into something less elegant. But it never did.

  "That's two of you I wouldn't take for police,” she said, tucking her fingers between her slacks and the seat.

  "Jeanine, finish what you were going to say."

  She refocused on Creegan, refreshed by Vecchio's insertion from the cold outdoors. “It wasn't so much Bernie was interested in her as in spoiling things for Leon. I was tempted to say something to him."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "They are grownups after all. And Bernie was never interested in my opinion.” She looked at Vecchio again, maybe hoping he would have a question.

  "Okay, Jeanine, that's it for now. Give me two minutes with the detective here and then ask Chuck to come in."

  She stood up, hesitated. Her eyelids were purplish with fatigue. “You probably could care less about what I think, but whatever happened on the stairs . . . it was not intentional."

  "I do respect your opinion,” Creegan said. “Believe me. We don't try to create evil that isn't there, but we have to make an effort to reconstruct the facts. We owe it to the dead person and his family, and, in the end, it's to protect others. You understand?"

  After she'd gone, Vecchio listened to Creegan's encapsulation.

  "This is not going to be one for our scrapbooks, is it?” he said glumly.

  * * * *

  Chuck's impressions were similar to Jeanine's, though more detached. Vecchio asked him finally if he had ever had to intervene in any physicality at Goldhaven.

  "Sure, once in a while. Nowadays, my biggest heavy is Cordelia in the wheelchair. She'll take a poke at anyone, and she doesn't worry about low blows. Bernie was a trash talker but that was it, and Leon I just can't see dealing rough stuff."

  "He told me he was in the infantry. Do you know if that's true, or another one of his stories?"

  "He's got some ribbons and medals he showed me once. They're really tarnished."

  "Okay, Chuck.” Both siblings were convinced Leon was harmless, but Creegan knew how the threshold of violence could close up forever behind someone once they had passed through.

  Mrs. Mallory stopped in the doorway when
she saw Creegan in her chair. He gestured toward the seat her offspring had occupied, but she folded her arms and leaned into the doorframe. Her face wasn't exactly hostile, but he was certainly no longer welcome.

  "Can I add anything to what my children have told you?"

  "Do you agree that Strozier and Tesler had had differences, lately centering on Patricia—what's her last name, by the way?"

  "Amparo, Mrs. Amparo. Okay, but minor differences. Leon would not shove anyone down the stairs."

  "No dementia there, right? He seemed to have all his faculties when I spoke with him."

  "If it weren't for his sight loss and not having family in the area, he could still be out on his own. He's very healthy for a man in his mid eighties."

  "How old was Mr. Strozier?"

  "A little younger."

  "And the lady in question?"

  "Patricia turned seventy-seven yesterday. The birthday girl."

  "How clear is Mrs. Amparo's mind? She seems to be the only possible witness to what happened. Those specs of hers looked a bit thick too."

  Mrs. Mallory shrugged into the molding. “She can see fine with the glasses. She's a smidgen muddled, though, so I wouldn't say she's wholly reliable. But who is, for that matter? Jeanine's trying to get her to eat but she's too upset right now."

  "I take it you had a little party for her yesterday."

  "Of course, that's customary. Cake and soda and she gets her picture taken in a party hat blowing out the numbered candles."

  "She didn't mind everyone seeing how old she was?"

  "She's a youngster around here. Besides, every birthday for a resident is like an accomplishment."

  "How did the two gentlemen behave?"

  Her eyes went out of focus as she went after data.

  "Patricia's family had left a couple of small presents to open. Leon sat next to her, helping dispose of the wrapping paper, asking her what each thing was."

  "And Mr. Strozier?"

  "He was across from them, listening to everything. Leon told one and all again how he and Patricia had gone together for a while after he got out of the service."

  "And how did Mrs. Amparo handle his attention?"

  "Like she was biting her tongue, but then the other residents distracted her."

  "All right, would you please ask Jeanine to bring Missus in?"

  "You have to speak to her now?"

  "Yes, I'd like to get her away from the other folks while events are still fresh. She's not eating anyway, you say."

  "Okay, but be gentle, or she'll get weepy.” She waited for his nod before pushing off the woodwork and disappearing.

  "Yeah, you look like a real thug, Lieutenant Creegan,” Vecchio said.

  "Well, I didn't bring in the best of luck with me tonight."

  Creegan took off his glasses and polished them with his tie.

  "Those lenses will look like old soda bottle glass if you keep doing that."

  The room was a nearsighted blur as Creegan rubbed away, and he tried to imagine having to permanently grope his way through life somewhere down the road. Of course, his mother could spot a pin on the floor but could no longer tell you what day or year it was with any consistency. So many ways to begin leaving this world before breathing one's last, which made you wonder at what point the mind and the soul officially parted ways.

  Jeanine came in arm in arm with Patricia. The older woman had a faded, rose-colored sweater on. “I didn't want her to catch the draught in here,” Jeanine said, lingering.

  "You can stay, Jeanine."

  Vecchio gave up his seat for her. The girl sat down where he'd been, shifting ever so slightly upon the residual warmth, and then reached over and took Patricia's hand in hers.

  "Hello, Mrs. Amparo. I am Lieutenant Creegan from the county police. How are you feeling?"

  She was looking at him slightly askance. Her head moved with a small but constant tremor.

  "Who is that?” she asked, pointing at Vecchio over by the door. “Is that your son?"

  Creegan, taken aback, ignored the pang the words caused him. “No, ma'am. That is Detective Vecchio."

  "He's a hunk, Jeanine,” she whispered loudly into the girl's ear.

  Creegan deliberately clinked a letter opener against a glass paperweight.

  "Missus, you were in the hall when we came out to help Mr. Strozier."

  He searched her nodding face for aversion and pushed on gently. “Did you see what caused him to fall?"

  Her eyes widened and words tumbled out breathlessly. “No, but Leon tried to stop him from falling. He put his arm across, but Bernard couldn't stop. I had to look away and then he came down so fast I thought I would faint, but I don't know what made him fall. There were no toys on the stairs."

  "Toys?” There hadn't even been a tiny bunch in the rug.

  "Patricia has seven grandchildren,” Jeanine said.

  "Wow, seven. Were the two men talking when this happened, Mrs. Amparo?"

  "I was going to the parlor. I wanted to read Redbook," she said. “Bernard said he was telling and then boom!” Her trembling became more agitated.

  "Did Leon say anything back?"

  For a moment, he couldn't tell whether she was shaking her head deliberately. “No, but maybe they were talking in the hall up there before I came to the bottom of the stairs. I'm not sure. The TV was loud."

  She turned to Jeanine and said, “They are both so stupid!"

  "Who, sweetie?"

  Creegan briefly thought the remark was directed at Vecchio and him.

  "Leon the lover and Bernard the bug. My daughter says if I don't tell them I'm tired of their shenanigans, she will!” At that, she began to cry. Creegan wanted to press the issue, but the tears were coming up from a well of anguish that Jeanine's ministrations could not staunch.

  When they were alone, Vecchio said, “Where are we going to do this?"

  "Here. I could be wrong, and taking him in might be too much of a jolt in this weather. Go get your tape recorder."

  Vecchio went out coatless.

  Creegan sat back in Mrs. Mallory's leather chair and watched the silent whirl of red and blue light from the patrol cars splashing against the opposite frontage.

  The M.E. stuck his equine face into the office and said, “Well, Frank, I'm going to let my boys haul off the goods. I'll wager a clean internal decapitation on this one. I did not see any overt signs of his being helped down the stairs, but I'll be taking a closer look in the morgue. A technician discovered some fabric attached to a broken fingernail."

  He waited to see if Creegan was in the mood for a chat and then withdrew.

  Maria rapped a knuckle on the doorframe. “No witnesses except your gal. Lot of gossip, but nothing hardcore. You heard there might be some physical evidence."

  "Think you can get Leon to shuck his clothes?"

  "Want to time me?” she said.

  Vecchio came back in. Maria looked up at him as he squeezed by and said, “Hey, hombre.” She watched him with such obvious pleasure as he set up the recording equipment that Creegan felt a semblance of jealousy. He widened his eyes at her, and she went away to secure Leon's shirt and pants.

  When Chuck brought Leon back, the old man was wearing darker slacks and a different flannel shirt that shifted more toward the blue. He sat and put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, like a man praying before a barrage. He turned at the click of Vecchio's recorder switch and sat up.

  Creegan went over Leon's earlier statement, and the man agreed that it was accurate.

  "The problem is we have some contradictions."

  Leon's face got stony, as if he resented being doubted, or maybe felt his worst expectations were bearing fruit.

  "You probably couldn't see Mrs. Amparo at the foot of the stairs. Firstly, she says that Mr. Strozier spoke to you just before he fell, and that you two may have been conversing beforehand. When I got out there, you behaved as if you didn't have any idea who had fallen. Later you told me that
he never said a word to you. How do we explain that?"

  Leon pondered a moment and said, “If Patricia says that he spoke, it has to be true. Maybe he did mutter something that I took for a grunt."

  "She heard distinct words, and I know your hearing is pretty good. You must have recognized his voice. I also believe you see well enough to know who's right on top of you. What was it he was going to tell her?” The last was a shot in the dark.

  Leon gave the room a little headshake and a tiny, mirthless laugh.

  "Mr. Strozier had no trouble seeing Mrs. Amparo. I'll bet that's what prompted him to say that he was going to tell her something that you didn't want her to hear."

  Leon clammed up.

  "And that pose I found you in. That's what it was—a pose. You said you moved aside for whoever was coming, but Missus saw you put out an arm. You were trying to block him, weren't you?"

  Leon did not offer the excuse that he was trying to break Strozier's fall, as Mrs. Amparo had assumed. He acted as if he were a third-party listening in.

  "We all still have that kid stuff at our fingertips and in our heads. No one ever fully grows up, Leon. My kids can get a rise out of me just like I was a ten-year-old. And you're an old soldier, from the days of bayonets and butt strokes, right? The army taught you how to get physical. So you put out your arm to slow him down, not realizing Mrs. Amparo was watching. I'll bet Mr. Strozier got more interested in fighting past you than having his say because all he really had to do was raise his voice and say what he wanted to say."

  Silence.

  "Leon, do you believe that there's a day of reckoning for everybody?"

  After a moment, Leon said almost resentfully, “Yes, in the hereafter. You don't find much justice in this life, if you want to know the real story."

  "Maybe not, but it's important to own up to things while we still can. You know that some of the folks here don't know right from wrong anymore. It can happen to any of us, sooner or later. So what happens if we don't face up to our acts while we can? Suppose someone shows up for that reckoning without having admitted to or atoned for his actions down here? Isn't it a little late at that point? Don't we have to square things away in this life while we still know good from evil?"