The Body In The Water

by Fitzpatrick, Morgan

  “Did Lee pay for his meal that afternoon, Art, or did someone pay for him?”

  “Not sure. Is it important?”

  “It may be,” Womack acknowledged.

  Kubiak furrowed his brow, as if thinking. “Nah, he was broke. Shelly may have paid for him, though.”

  Womack retrieved a second “Baby Ruth”, removed the wrapper and attacked this bar more slowly than he had the first, taking his time to savor the chocolate, the nougat, the nuts and the distinct flavor created by the combination of all three. Still facing the window, he placed his boots on the sill and tried to settle his bulk comfortably in the unforgiving wood chair. The cicadas had gone silent. In the courtyard, the shadows were long, stretched out over the grass by the shifting aspect of a setting sun. Soon they would disappear altogether. A slight breeze kicked up, made its way through his open window and agitated the papers on his desk. Womack placed his palm flat down on the Hayden file.

  “Be still, Shelly Hayden,” he said, “be still.”

  Since its founding in eighteen thirty-three there had never been a homicide in Seneca Falls. The town was an insignificant stop on the road between Albany and Lake George, without even its own highway interchange. With a population of only four thousand, half of who are children themselves, Sidney thought before leaving for the day, how many child killers can there possibly be?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOMETIMES, JENNY KUBIAK spoke aloud as if she was speaking to a therapist. This wasn’t so unusual except for the fact that recently Jenny had begun to answer herself back, dispensing precious nuggets of advice as if she was a qualified Ph.D.

  On the Monday morning after the murder of Missy Bitson, the conversation went like this.

  Jenny the Therapist: “How does that make you feel?”

  Jenny the Patient: “How do you think it makes me feel?”

  Jenny the Therapist, smiling knowingly: “Like shit.”

  Jenny the Patient: “You really do understand.”

  Therapist: “When it comes to our parents, we all share the same burden, Jen; it’s the job of parents, to make their children feel like shit. After all, children are never what we expect, are they? Bound to disappoint in one way or another. Not as if they don’t have adequate opportunity, is it? From toilet training to raising children of their own, parents give their spawn plenty of opportunity to fuck-up. You shouldn’t take it so personally.”

  Patient, feeling inadequate: “But I feel sooo guilty.”

  Therapist, with an audible harrumph: “Don’t be naive, Jen, you’re sister is dying, you’re not. That’s why you feel guilty.”

  Patient: “So, I should feel guilty?”

  Therapist: “Guilt is pretty harsh, but you should feel awful. Do you, Jenny? Feel awful for the fact your sister is dying, and you’re not dying?”

  Patient: “Well…when you put it that way…”

  Therapist: “If you could, would you change places with Luba? Trade your life for hers?”

  Patient: “Well...I…I…”

  Therapist: “Quickly, quickly, it’s not that difficult a question.”

  Patient, becoming upset: “Well…I…I…”

  Therapist, in no mood to beat around the bush or to mince words: “Breeep; wrong answer. No wonder Art is so disappointed. You’re selfish, Jen.”

  Patient: “I am?”

  Therapist, emphatically: “It’s no wonder you feel guilty. It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

  Patient: “I don’t know… I mean, I don’t think so.”

  Therapist: “Problem with you, Jen?”

  Patient, unsure if Therapist is expecting her to complete the sentence, which in any case requires from Patient a degree of self-awareness she does not possess.

  Therapist: “Look at yourself, Jen.”

  Patient, reluctantly, observes self in mirror: dark eye make-up haphazardly applied, hair greasy and poorly cut, nose-ring, tongue-ring, eyebrow-ring and multiple piercing of both ears.

  Therapist: “Only selfish people draw attention to themselves this way. So, again; problem with you?”

  Patient, understanding: “I’m selfish.”

  Therapist: “Breeep; wrong answer. You can’t be selfish with something you don’t possess. What don’t you possess, Jen?”

  Patient: “Well…I…I…”

  Therapist: “C’mon girl, this isn’t rocket science.”

  Patient, continuing to observe self in mirror: “Looks?”

  Therapist: “That’s good, that’s a start, but I would have said beauty, like your friend Missy Bitson.”

  Patient, unnerved, continues: “Friends?”

  Therapist: “Atta’ girl, you’re on a roll.”

  Patient, with more conviction: “Affection?”

  Therapist, à la Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady: “By George, I think she’s got it.”

  Patient: “Love.”

  Therapist: “I think our time here is up. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your father.”

  …

  Dressed in sweat pants and a tattered long-sleeved tee shirt—what for her passed as pajamas—Jenny lay on her unmade bed. Pulling herself from the mattress, she walked to the window and opened it wide. She ignited a cigarette from a package on her bedside table. Sitting on the sill, she smoked. She emptied her lungs into the chill morning air, savoring the burn, luxuriating in the slight lightheadedness she received from her first cigarette of the day. If Rena found her smoking upstairs, she’d have a shit.

  Across the way, though the curtain was drawn, Jenny could see that the light in Jordy Bitson’s street-facing second floor bedroom was on, had been since she arrived home shortly after three this morning. As she’d done earlier, Jenny willed Jordy to come to the window. What are you up to, you little shit? Jenny wondered.

  She’d been texting him all morning without a reply. Jenny was not pleased with Jordy, how he’d terminated their conversation last evening without even a fuck u gbye.

  She flicked her butt onto the front lawn. A generous pile of butts littered the snow-flattened grass, exposed now by the recent and, hopefully, final thaw of the season. Inwardly, Jenny smiled, thinking of Art with his rake, diligently trying to clean up her mess.

  On the other side of the bedroom was a chest of drawers, a heavy oak bureau with mirror that once had belonged to Jenny’s grandmother, Magda. The nursing home to which she’d been committed hadn’t allowed her to keep it, preferring items of a personal nature to remain with the family lest they invest the elderly residents with too great a sense of independence. The piece had passed to Jenny, who hated it and preferred to stow her own clothing and personal belongings in her closet or beneath her bed: most of her personal belongings, though not all.

  The ugly thing exerted on her a powerful yet inexplicable draw, pulling at her as if it were a high-power magnet tugging at steel. Try as she might, Jenny was unable to resist, compelled to cross the floor from the window to the chest, where she opened the top drawer. Jenny extracted a six-inch by six-inch zippered vinyl carrying case. Returning to her bed, she opened the case, ritualistically sorting its contents in a row atop her bed-sheet: a pair of needle-nose manicure scissors, a stainless steel emery board—wickedly sharp and hooked at one end—a three-inch kitchen paring knife, cotton batting and swabs, small squeeze-bottle of liquid antiseptic (whatever she was, Jenny was not totally crazy) and Band-Aids, in case she inadvertently cut too deep.

  Jenny removed her tee shirt and sweats, stripping to her knickers and bra, struggling as she did to overhear the meat of a muffled conversation between her parents filtering from the kitchen below.

  Taking the paring knife in her right hand, she inhaled deeply. “Okay babe,” Jenny said to herself, “let’s get creative.”

  …

  By six thirty the morning after the murder, Kubiak was ready to go. He shaved—for the sake of time observing only an abbreviated ritual—showered, had cigarettes for breakfast and kissed his disabled daughter goodbye prior to leaving the house f
or the second time that day. He didn’t kiss Jenny; he assumed she was asleep, exhausted, no doubt, from the late evening before.

  When told by her husband of the murder, Rena Kubiak shivered. “It wasn’t an accident?”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Kubiak confirmed.

  “Was she…was she… violated in any way?”

  His voice flat, Kubiak replied, “She was murdered, Rena.”

  “I’ll send flowers.” Neither the Bitson nor Kubiak families were close, though from indifference rather than animosity. Kubiak didn’t approve but couldn’t prevent Jenny from associating with the murder victim’s cousin, Jordy, and while during high school Kubiak had known the dead girl’s uncle, Drew, they had not been friends.

  Outside the kitchen window the sky turned purple, a brief outburst of personality in its inexorable transition from black to blue. The first lick of a crisp North East breeze rattled the windowpane, promising the possibility, if not the absolute certainty, of a brighter day. Smoke from Kubiak’s third cigarette of the morning polluted the air in the small room, creating an almost invisible barrier across the breakfast table between husband and wife.

  Rena had long ago abandoned any hope of keeping Art from smoking indoors, knowing that if he hadn’t done so to accommodate Luba’s illness, he would not do so for her.

  Yesterday, the Sunday afternoon on the day of the murder, Rena had complained about Art to her friend and next-door neighbor, Kate Bouey. They sat in the kitchen sipping coffee, out of earshot from Kubiak, who sat in the front room drinking and smoking and whom Rena imagined was disinclined, anyway, to eavesdrop on the conversation. Except for a trip to the Quickie-Mart for beer, Rena hadn’t seen her husband move all day.

  “He’s killing himself,” Rena said to Kate. “Slowly but surely. It’s painful to watch, you know. What’s worse is, he’s taking me down with him. It’s hard I have to take care of Luba; if he gets sick,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder toward the front room, “God knows what I’ll do. I don’t feel that strong an obligation to him anymore.”

  “He is sick, Rena; with grief.”

  “Grief? For who, Kate: Luba or himself? Ask me, he’s sick with self-pity.”

  “Do you talk to him? About his drinking?” Rena regarded Kate as if this were no longer an option. “I could,” Kate offered. “I’ve done couples counseling in the past. It might help.”

  “He ignores his own doctor, Kate; you’re only a nurse. Why should he listen to you?” It was said with neither malice nor judgment, but laid out between them as a simple declaration of fact.

  “No reason, really. If you don’t think it’s such a good idea…” Kate left the thought unfinished.

  Rena Kubiak did not encourage her. Moments later, Kate said goodbye: to Rena, Luba, who was asleep, and to Kubiak, who sat in his reclining chair, slumped to one side. Jenny was not at home.

  “Bad luck, Art,” Rena said to Kubiak now, her dark eyes heavy with concern. “Bad luck has plagued Maggie Bitson since she was a child. If something like this had to happen, I’m not surprised it happened to her.”

  Fatigue making him abrupt, Kubiak snapped, “It has nothing to do with luck, Rena, bad or otherwise.”

  “Oh,” she replied, refusing to meet his gaze. “I know your philosophy, Art. But I don’t accept it. We may not be entirely blameless for our misfortune, but there don’t always have to be consequences.”

  “Consequences are what distinguish good behavior from bad.”

  “I don’t know about that, Art.” Rena moved to the countertop, retrieved the coffee pot, refilled Kubiak’s cup and her own. She sat. She sipped her coffee slowly, steam rising from the hot liquid. “I prefer to believe, sometimes, bad things do happen to decent people.”

  “It’s how we atone, then,” said Kubiak.

  “Atone for what, Art? Our sins: mine, yours? Hell, you don’t even attend church. As far as God is concerned, you’re not even on the radar. Besides, following your twisted logic, how do you account for our children?”

  “Luba’s done nothing to disappoint us,” Kubiak replied, on the cusp of becoming defensive.

  “Christ, Art, she’s dying. To a parent, what could be more disappointing?”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Do I? Do I ever?”

  Kubiak stared quietly into the black pool of his coffee mug, reluctant to be drawn into a bout of self-recrimination. As Luba’s condition deteriorated and Jenny’s behavior turning further beyond their ability to control, episodes such as this had become more frequent and rancorous.

  After a moment, Rena said, “Have you any idea who might be responsible?” With one look, Kubiak conveyed to Rena all she needed to know. “You should speak to Angelique.”

  “A soothsayer?”

  “Psychic, Art, she refers to herself as a psychic.”

  “Psychic, mystic, fortune-teller; I don’t see the difference, Rena, even if you do. Are you still seeing that witch?”

  “You know I am, and before you dismiss her completely, remember, she helped to discover the bodies of those girls who went missing last summer, the one in Saratoga, and before that, the girl in Hudson Falls.”

  “It wasn’t a miracle, Rena, only a lucky guess. One girl loved horses, had been hanging around the paddocks: probably got herself into trouble with a stable boy. Even the newspapers had drawn conclusions of their own. The other was a runaway who was badly decomposed. They suspect a hit and run. Being so close to the roadway, her body was going to be discovered eventually, anyway. Besides, if she’s such a genius, why can’t she say who killed the girls? Bodies are the easy part; who, how and why are more challenging.”

  “Look, Art, if it’s your pride, I can speak with her on my own. You don’t have to talk with her yourself.”

  “I’ll do this my way, Rena, without interference, in my own time.”

  “Will your time be time enough?”

  Changing the subject, Kubiak said, “I’ll see my mother today.”

  “Today? You saw her yesterday; have you forgotten? She isn’t getting better, you know.”

  Upon learning of Luba’s illness, Art and Rena had confined Magda Kubiak to the care of a local nursing home. Kubiak hadn’t put up much fuss at Rena’s suggestion to move his mother from their home and the second floor bedroom she’d occupied for years. With the necessary gadgetry needed to sustain life—wires, oxygen tanks and tubes—it was no longer practical for Luba to continue to share a room with Rena and Art. Magda herself hadn’t complained, prepared as always to accept the sacrifice of what she considered her inevitable fate.

  “She likes it when I visit.”

  “Sure, Art, like she knows it when you visit.”

  “Okay; I like it when I visit,” he replied.

  Of course, Rena thought but didn’t say, it satisfies your sense of obligation. Instead, she asked, “Shall I make you a lunch?”

  “No, I’ll eat out. And don’t bother with supper either. I won’t be home.”

  “Suit yourself.” Studying her husband’s expression, Rena sighed, stood, and said, “Shave any closer, Art, you’ll strike bone.”

  …

  With this thought percolating in his mind, Kubiak left home, pulling from his driveway and directing his late model Crown Victoria along the River Road toward the center of town.

  As expected, the sky had begun to clear, the sun becoming a crescent over the tree line, lacking in warmth but emitting enough light at this hour for Kubiak to successfully negotiate the strip of asphalt that last evening had caused him such grief.

  To his right, the river was flat, a sheet of plate glass with a fine film of mist rising from its surface like Spanish moss. The Hudson was at its widest and deepest at this point, three miles below Seneca Falls Bluffs, the steep precipice from which the village had taken its name. The dam had been constructed in the forties, in an effort to control the flow of water as it passed through the village. Prior to that, residents and farmers living withi
n the flood plain had been plagued by frequent overflows, the problem often extending into the village where the channel narrowed and the river became a tumultuous sluice. With the building of the dam, property damage had been greatly curtailed, even if the death toll from recreational activities surrounding the waterway each summer continued steadily to rise.

  The police building was a two-level field stone structure located on the south side of the river. Constructed in eighteen sixty-two by Dutch immigrants to the region, it was jointly occupied by Kubiak’s small force and a chapter of the town’s volunteer fire department.