The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

  The sheriff whisked Bobby out of the courtroom.

  This time, Bobby didn’t even bother to look at Nadia.

  CHAPTER 4

  NADIA BOUGHT THE Wednesday papers on the way home from the arraignment to her apartment on East 82nd Street. She feared the murder might be the cover story on either the Post or Daily News. But a prostitution ring catering to wealthy financiers and politicos had been busted in Manhattan. Speculation about the names in the madam’s black book dominated the press. Also, New York City still averaged more than five hundred homicides a year. Not every one could make the cover of the papers. And the victim wasn’t anyone particularly important or sympathetic. He was a random young businessman.

  The murder was reported on the Post’s and Daily News’s seventh and eleventh pages respectively. Johnny had warned Nadia that sometimes reporters paid cops for a copy of a mug shot. Nadia held her breath while she turned the pages but neither paper featured one. Instead, they showed two different action shots of Bobby during a hockey game. Nadia recognized them from the Fordham Prep website. Both columns reported that Bobby had been charged with the murder and mentioned his epic race against New York Ranger star Márian Gáborik in Lasker Park during Hockey Night in Harlem last year.

  The victim’s name was Jonathan Phillip Valentine. He was a thirty-two-year-old associate at a real estate development firm in Manhattan, originally from England. According to his employer’s website, he’d earned his MBA from Columbia and his undergraduate degree from the University of Nottingham. The articles referred to sources close to the investigation. They said Bobby allegedly stabbed Valentine with a screwdriver near his home in the Meatpacking District under mysterious circumstances.

  Nadia wanted to discuss the entire event with Bobby in person immediately but that wasn’t possible. After his arraignment, he was taken to Rikers Island. Prisoners whose last name began with letters A-L were permitted visitors on Thursday and Sunday. Nadia would have to wait another day before she could see him.

  Johnny called late Wednesday afternoon.

  “The assistant district attorney called me back,” Johnny said. “Our preliminary hearing is in three weeks. If the judge thinks there’s enough evidence for the prosecution to proceed—and he will—then a grand jury will be convened. Grand juries meet only with the prosecution. They almost always indict and put the burden of proof on the defense. If they indict—and they probably will—a trial date will be set.”

  “When do we get to see their evidence?”

  “I filed a motion for discovery this morning. But the way this generally works, we won’t see jack until after the trial date is set. We may get dribs and drabs, but the prosecution will do everything possible to protect their witness, and give us as little chance as possible to prepare.”

  “So we need to find out what happened on our own.”

  “Basically.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. When you saw him at Rikers yesterday, after he was processed, he wouldn’t talk about that night at all? Not a word?”

  “Nope. Not a single word. I told him about the process, like we discussed. He listened. I told him you were putting money into his Department of Correction account so he can buy food and other stuff, and that you’d be by after work tomorrow.”

  “And he said…”

  “He said to tell you to forget about him. That you weren’t his guardian anymore. And that you were not to try to visit him under any circumstances.”

  “I don’t know what he hoped to achieve by telling you that, when he knows me well enough to know nothing is going to stop me.”

  “Maybe that’s his way of making sure you do visit him.”

  “That may be the first thing I’ve heard in two days that actually makes sense.”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow,” Johnny said. “How’s your business doing?”

  “It’s doing okay.” After a steady stream of work since she’d opened her shop as a forensic security analyst last June, she hadn’t landed a client in three months. But she was too proud to admit it to Johnny or anyone else. “Why?”

  “If I found something and the judge changed his mind and granted bail…”

  “How much collateral do I have?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not much,” Nadia said. “All my income goes toward expenses. With the apartment and Bobby’s tuition, I’ve used up most of my savings. But I would come up with it somehow.”

  “Let’s worry about getting him out first. A couple of things I found out from the ADA.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The screwdriver that was used as the murder weapon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a cheap-looking thing. He said the handle’s a see-through yellow.”

  “Bobby made it himself in shop class in his prior life. That’s not the kind of news that’s going to get him bail.”

  “And they found a black penlight in his pocket.”

  “Like the screwdriver, it never left his possession.”

  “But no shoe.”

  “No shoe.”

  “The question is why he kept those things on him at all times.”

  “No, that’s not the question, Johnny.” Nadia shivered. “The question is how he made it through a night in prison without them.”

  CHAPTER 5

  LAUREN GLANCED OUT the window. From the air, the storage and processing plants of the Red Dog Mine resembled the American flag. Long red buildings stretched horizontally, while a cluster of smaller blue ones filled a corner. The mine itself was an open pit. It looked like an amphitheater being carved out of the ground. A dedicated fifty-five mile asphalt road connected the mine to port and barge operations on the Chukchi Sea.

  The prop plane lurched and dropped among the mountains. Lauren was glad she’d skipped lunch. When it landed at the airstrip beside the mine, she darted ahead of the twelve workers commuting from Kotzebue to be the first off the company plane. Outside, the manager of public relations introduced himself as Prince Hall and escorted her to a plain office.

  “This is all spur of the moment, isn’t it?” Hall said. “The home office called this morning to tell me you were coming. They said you’re doing a piece for the Sports Network. I didn’t quite get the context.”

  “We’ve been covering the Iditarod for years,” Lauren said. “But now we’re thinking about adding the Kobuk 440, too.”

  “Why, that’s fantastic.”

  “Since the race starts in Kotzebue, I’m working on a background piece about the local area. The Inupiaq, their culture, their lifestyle. Given you’re one of the biggest private employers in the region—what are we, a hundred miles away?”

  “Less. Only eighty.”

  “Only eighty. You’re even closer than I thought. You’re vital to the local economy. Your track record for environmental responsibility seems beyond reproach. At least from what I’ve read.”

  “And everything you’ve read is true. The Arctic is a national treasure. We’re the world’s largest zinc mine. We hold ourselves to the highest standards where emissions and waste management are concerned. I would love to give you a tour of our facilities and tell you all about it.”

  “That would be great. And perhaps I could meet an employee or two.”

  Lauren suffered through a tour of the mine, zinc processing plant, residences, and even the cafeteria. She pretended to care about the difference between drill and blast mining, and grinding and sulphide flotation methods. She even studied an ISO 14001 environmental certification report. It was torture.

  “You mentioned meeting an employee or two,” Hall said, when he was done with his dog and pony show. “I thought you might enjoy meeting one of our plant managers. She’s a woman, like yourself.”

  “That sounds interesting, but I had someone else in mind. You have a musher on staff who placed
third in the Kobuk 440 five years ago.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. I was rotated in from Anchorage eighteen months ago. What’s his name?”

  “Dave Ambrose. He writes a blog on dog sled and snowmobile racing. He’s good. I’d like to get his perspective on a few things. And see if he’s interested in doing some writing online for us. Nothing that would interfere with his career here, of course. Just a hobby.”

  “Let’s see if he’s working today. Workers in the mine work four days on, three days off. On account of the exposure to lead. If he’s in, I’ll ask the supervisor.”

  The laws of probability prevailed. Twenty minutes later, Ambrose walked into a conference room with a gray respirator hanging below his chin, and matching pads strapped to his knees. He appeared to be in his late twenties. Lauren repeated what she told Hall when she met him.

  Ambrose’s eyes lit up. “You’re going to cover the 440?”

  “We’re considering it.”

  He thrust his fists over his head. “Awesome. That would be so awesome.” He dropped his hands and slumped. “But I’m not going to be of any use to you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You want to follow a team up close and personal, right? My racing days are over. The mine’s tough on the knees. Tendonitis. It never goes away. I know some of the other fellows, though. I know Jimmy Hines. He placed third in the Iditarod last year. I can introduce you.”

  “Dave, I didn’t ask to speak with you because I want you to race. I asked to speak with you because I read your blog last night.”

  “You read my blog?”

  “You’re a good writer. You know the sport and you have a good sense of humor. What’s your blog called? Plains, Strains, and Snow Machines?”

  He nodded.

  “I wanted to see if you’re interested in working with me on this.”

  Ambrose blinked a few times. “Work with you?”

  “Yeah. With the Sports Network. Be a local resource. Provide us with introductions to the people you know. And most importantly, be our reporter online. On the Network’s website.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “Are you kidding me? That would be—That would be unbelievable. But the job. I couldn’t give up my job.”

  “I would never ask you to. This would be more of a hobby. An extra gig that supplements your income. I’m sure you could arrange your schedule to take some vacation time around the actual race. Couldn’t you?”

  “I do it every year.”

  “So there’s no problem. Apart from the race, you can write wherever, whenever you want and post your articles online anytime.”

  “Oh my God. I won’t let you down, I promise. I have all sorts of ideas already. I could start with the origins of the Iditarod. It commemorates the 1925 serum run from Nenana to Nome. An outbreak of diphtheria threatened Nome. A hundred dogs ran relays for 674 miles to deliver the serum. The lead dog’s name was Balto. He ran ninety-one miles in a blizzard. Complete whiteout conditions. There’s a statue of him in Central Park. In New York City. You’re from New York, right? Have you seen it? Have you seen it?”

  “I’ve probably walked by it a hundred times but never paid attention to it. Before you get too excited, Dave, I need you to help me with something else first.”

  “Okay. Name it.”

  “I’m working on another story. It’s about a boy from Kotzebue. His name is Bobby Kungenook. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “He’s seventeen years old and he lives in New York, too.”

  “And he’s from Kotzebue?” Ambrose laughed. “Get out of town.”

  The phrase caught Lauren off guard, even though it was just an expression. She remembered the rifle pressed to the back of her head. She really did need to get out of town.

  “I can’t seem to find out much about him,” she said. “You know how people guard each other’s secrets in a small town.”

  “In a small town, sometimes secrets are all you have. Why are you interested in this kid?”

  “He’s a hockey player at a prep school. He’s good. A can’t miss prospect. You guys follow hockey up here?”

  “Sure. Scotty Gomez is from Anchorage. He played for the Devils when they won the Cup.”

  “I’m doing a background piece on him. That’s all. Seems he was born in Kotzebue but disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  Lauren shrugged. “Supposedly he was home schooled around here but I can’t seem to find any trace of him. Maybe you can do better.”

  Ambrose considered her question. “And that’s all this is? A routine background piece?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Okay. I can do that. I can make some calls for you.”

  It was a lie, of course. Lauren’s assistant had stayed up half the night trolling the Internet on her behalf, reading the online archives of the Arctic Sounder and checking local links looking for an angle that Lauren could leverage. Then she found Ambrose’s blog and read his bio. Ambrose was from Kotzebue. If he didn’t know the Kungenooks, he knew someone who did. And his passion for dog sled racing and writing could be leverage. It was Lauren’s best chance to cajole a local into revealing a secret.

  The only place in Kotzebue with Internet access was the Arctic Blues Espresso coffee shop. Lauren had been there at 7:30 a.m. when it opened. After studying Ambrose herself, she’d called the folks at Red Dog and told them she was working on a story that might cast the company in a favorable light. She’d emphasized that the Sports Network was considering covering the Kobuk 440, but didn’t promise it would happen.

  When they were finished touring, Hall accompanied Lauren to the cafeteria for coffee at 3:00 p.m. Afterward, Ambrose was waiting for her in the conference room.

  “Here’s the bad news,” Ambrose said. “No one’s going to talk about a boy who went missing at age two. Not going to happen. But here’s the good news. My cousin works at OTZ. She said you should be asking questions about the boy who appeared, not the boy who disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should ask her that. You flying back to Kotzebue today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. She’ll meet you.”

  “Where?”

  “At OTZ.”

  “What’s OTZ?”

  “Kotzebue Airport. It’s one of the biggest employers in town.”

  Ambrose was a good man doing his best in a harsh place. He didn’t deserve to be used, lied to, or given false hope. But that’s exactly what had happened.

  Too bad, Lauren thought. Life was a race. She wasn’t delivering a serum or saving humanity and there would never be a statue of her in Central Park, but she had to be first with this story. She had to be first with every story.

  Still, when she said good-bye to Ambrose, Lauren saw the spark in his eyes and the bounce in his step, and for that fleeting moment, all the joy seeped out of her.

  CHAPTER 6

  ON THURSDAY, NADIA packed two shopping bags with clothes and books. She took the Q101 bus to Rikers Island. It was located on the East River between Queens and the Bronx near LaGuardia Airport. Visiting hours ran from 1:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., but people started lining up earlier. Nadia arrived at 12:05 p.m. She was twenty-seventh in line but some of the visitors in front of her were children accompanying a parent. By 12:45 p.m., the line stretched farther than she could see.

  A huge young man with a shaved head cut to the front of the line. Two women stuck their fingers in his face and screamed at him in Spanish. The young man shouted back. Their threats grew louder until four security guards emerged from the jail. The guards tackled, cuffed, and dragged him inside, all without saying a word. The crowd cheered. Word spread that he was a recently released felon who’d returned for his personal possessions. Nadia wa
s reminded that she was not in Manhattan anymore, and neither was Bobby.

  At 1:35 p.m., Nadia entered the visitor’s center. An efficient guard checked her driver’s license and took down her information.

  “You got to be announced,” the guard said.

  “Excuse me?” Nadia said.

  “The prisoner has got to want to see you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Prisoners only get one set of visitors per day. If someone they don’t want to see comes in, then they can’t see their families later, is why. Sometimes reporters try to get in. Sometimes enemies. You see it all here. You the boy’s mother?”

  “Legal guardian. Can you tell him if he sees me then a young woman by the name of Aline Kabaeva will visit him Sunday?”

  The guard frowned. “Who?”

  Nadia wrote the name on a piece of paper and gave it to the guard. Aline Kabaeva was a former Olympic gymnastics champion, current lawmaker, and rumored paramour of Vladimir Putin. Nadia had duped a cop into believing she was a reporter interviewing the Russian sex symbol during her escape from Russia on a train with Bobby. She’d been so convincing Bobby had believed her, too, until she admitted she’d made up the story. Nadia hoped Bobby would get a laugh out of the message, and that the memory would remind him of the bond they’d formed to survive that trip.

  The guard left and returned five minutes later. “He’s in the infirmary.”

  “What happened?” Nadia said.

  “I don’t know. You got to go to the hospital at the North Infirmary Command. They’ll tell you.”

  “Will I get to speak with him?”

  “Depends on if he wants to see you and if he can speak.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. He’s in the infirmary for a reason.”

  Nadia got directions and hurried to an adjacent building. She had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes in line. She spent most of that time fighting images of Bobby being beaten to a pulp. Once inside, she stored her cell phone in a coin locker per regulations. She identified herself to another guard and repeated her request regarding Aline Kabaeva.