Dabbing at her cheek with the back of her hand, Missy said, “I’ll tell my parents, and I’ll tell the other girls. How many do you think will stay?”
“You won’t; with your reputation? Who do you think would listen?”
“Art Kubiak would listen. He knows your father is a degenerate.”
“Do you want to see him in jail?”
“If only. It would keep him away from me, from us. Doesn’t it make you want to just puke? Your old man makes my skin crawl; just being in the same room with him makes me want to vomit. I don’t know how you can stand to live in the same house with him.”
Marie seethed. “Stay away from him, Missy. I won’t tell you again. Stay away from my father.”
For only a very brief and fleeting moment that day did Marie consider confessing any of this to the police.
At the rear of the studio, Jeremy Radigan now watched the class in progress, his attention wandering alternately from the children to his daughter. The studio was his idea and his creation, built as an addition to their home after a second decisive and final rejection of Marie for admittance to Julliard.
“Of course,” she said to her father of his idea for her to offer formal instruction, “Those who can’t do, teach.” Marie had just turned seventeen.
A telephone rang; Jeremy’s cellular bleating the mechanical ring-tone of, “As Time Goes By”. He answered and within moments terminated the connection, looking agitated. Brightening then, he smiled at Marie, waved a “toodle-oo” wave with his nicotine-stained fingers and departed through a separate side exit.
Marie smoothed her hair, of which none were out of place, cradled her shoulders as if she were cold and returned her attention to the class, ambivalent, though no longer self-conscious about the prospect of being considered an afterthought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“IT’S GOING TO BE a hot summer,” Christopher Burke said.
He reclined in his chair, powerful legs outstretched, well muscled arms draped across the back of the vacant seat beside him. “A long…hot…summer,” he mused as if he didn’t mind. His eyes drifted to a pair of teenage girls who had stripped down to halters and hip hugger jeans in seeming celebration of the warm spell.
Sara said, “So long as it draws the tourists.”
Sara was aware of, but trying to ignore the girls who had perched themselves on a low, stone wall that separated the river from the street. One of the girls sat facing them, her unfettered breasts struggling to remain restrained by the thin fabric of her top. (Or, depending on your viewpoint, to escape the thin fabric of her top.) The other had turned toward the river, dangling her feet recklessly in the air twenty feet above the water, tapping away frantically on her mobile.
They sat—Kubiak, Pridmore and Burke—apart from the other diners, the remaining few who had chosen to return late to work from a long lunch. The sun had passed beyond its zenith and with the day still clear and warm, Kubiak had requested a table for three outside, in an isolated corner of the patio where it overlooked the river as it passed through the center of town. Here, their conversation would not be over heard.
The Oasis was a former gristmill, a village landmark with seating for two hundred inside, an additional fifty out. On Friday and Saturday evening it featured live country and western music. On more than one occasion, Kubiak’s department had been summoned by the owner to control the rambunctious crowds that on summer weekends spilled from the doorway and into the street. The food was acceptable, the wait staff accommodating, the view unequaled and the beer served in chilled mugs. The beer was always ice cold, which for Art Kubiak was the main thing.
Ordering his second beer before finishing his first, Kubiak was in the process of washing down the last of a grilled Vienna sausage wrapped in a crusty bun when the waitress returned with his order. He ignored an accusatory glance from Pridmore, accustomed as he was by now to the disapproval with which such looks were usually accompanied. Pridmore sipped unsweetened iced tea from a straw, Burke Diet Pepsi straight from the can; Sara had lunched on cob salad, Christopher a Philly Steak sandwich with cheese, extra onion and fries. As distinct in temperament as in appetite, Kubiak thought. Recalling Maggie Bitson’s characterization of her daughter Mandy, Kubiak thought about Burke: if Christopher isn’t careful, he’ll turn out like me.
“I should see to that,” said Burke.
Knowing better but compelled nevertheless to ask, Sara ventured, “See to what, Chris?”
“That,” he said, referring to the girls by the river. “They may fall, require mouth-to-mouth, you know, or cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”
“Anything to cop a feel eh, Chris? You’re a pig. Despite your apparent worship of the female gender, privately, I think you despise us all,” Sara said, satisfied for him to have proved his predictability, if only to her.
Burke shrugged, smiled knowingly. “I agree, Sara; I’m behaving badly. But my wife is pregnant.”
“They’re kids, Chris. You’ll have a daughter of your own soon. Would you want men drooling over your girl that way? Men twice her age?”
“I’d cut the nuts off any man who looked at a daughter of mine that way.” Burke was serious now. Reluctantly, though not self-consciously, he diverted his attention from the girls.
To Sara, men like Chris Burke represented the worst of the species, compelled to lead with either their fists or their prick. He wore reflective sunglasses, no doubt to intentionally conceal the movement of his eyes, Pridmore thought. With the shit-kicker boots and faded denim jeans pulled too tight across the crotch, Burke looked more like a miscreant than a cop, she decided; sexy in rugged kind of way if you went for that sort of thing, which in Seneca Falls, Sara knew many pathetic women of a certain type did, and had done.
Wiping a dollop of stray mustard from his lip, Kubiak erased the last remnant of his meal. He had removed his jacket and sat hunched over the table, perspiring heavily, beer mug clasped between his meaty palms as if to protect it should someone attempt to take it away before he could finish. Cleanly shaven, Kubiak’s jaw and cheeks tingled. His eyes strayed to the river, but he was not looking at the girls.
A blue heron had appeared over the horizon, spreading its wings to a span of six feet in preparation to land. The birds had returned to the river five years before, after a more than twenty-year hiatus, testament to the successful efforts of area conservationists to clean up the waterway. Not coincidently, those same efforts had been the catalyst prompting the development of a nascent yet unexploited tourist industry in the small town. As a dumping ground, the river had no appeal. As a place where people could safely bring their children to picnic and to swim, walk their dogs, drop a pole or even water ski where the depth allowed, the river was a centerpiece around which commerce blossomed; craft shops, antique shops, artists galleries featuring stained and blown glass, watercolors and even the more substantial and progressive medium, like bronze and wrought iron sculpture. A regional summer theater had been established with the aid of contributions from local poobahs and was set to commence its fifth season. The streets were quiet now, but Kubiak shared Pridmore’s sentiment; for area merchants, it had been a long and difficult winter.
“Christopher, I would gladly repay you tomorrow for a cigarette today,” Kubiak said, eyeing Burke’s package of Marlboros across the table. He had finished his own package an hour before.
“Christ, Art.” Burke pushed his cigarettes to Kubiak. “You started a fresh pack this morning. Are you inhaling them?”
Pridmore looked at Burke, rolling her eyes as if to mock the absurdity of his observation.
Kubiak said, “It’s my final kick at the can. I plan to quit.” He ignited the cigarette while running a meaty palm over his cheeks and across his chin.
Christopher Burke eyed Kubiak skeptically. “Sure, Art,” he said, as if he knew better than to believe it.
He turned to conduct a final inspection of the girls, watching as they stepped down from the wall, his eyes following as th
ey walked along Main Street to the center of town. High school kids, he grunted to himself, more disappointed than ashamed.
Pridmore and Kubiak had returned from interviewing the Bitsons and back to the office shortly before noon. The State Troopers designated by Jimmy Cromwell to assist in the investigation had completed their canvass of the crime scene and were busy transposing hand written scrawl from personal note pad to the official forms that Mrs. O’Rielly had supplied to them for the purpose.
“Have you people not heard of computers?” the younger of the troopers complained.
“It gets the job done,” was all Kubiak said in response.
The reports were brief, possibly too brief? The eldest of the two explained: “You know without us having to tell you; the area is heavily commercial, such as it is. Run down. The few tenants there are were either sleeping or too drunk to notice a killing was taking place in their neighborhood.” He paused to reconsider. “Matter of fact, sir, if you don’t mind my saying, given the character of the residents, I’m not so sure they would come forward even if they had seen something. Neither Ron,” here he indicated his partner, “or I want to unnecessarily elaborate, but it seems to me you may have an immigration challenge up here.”
There was no witness to the passing of Missy Bitson. It was raining; people remained indoors, picture windows shuttered to the gloom. Kubiak thanked the officers for their effort and assured them he would inform Cromwell of their diligence. At half past noon, Kubiak skipped to the restroom to shave while Pridmore left a message on Burke’s mobile instructing him to meet at the Oasis for a late lunch, sometime between one-thirty and two.
Kubiak used the hour remaining on the telephone, first to call home. Luba was sleeping comfortably, his wife informed him. The doctor had been and with nothing to report by way of progress, he didn’t. Luba was still dying, her condition would not improve and the best they should hope for was a rapid expiration before it became progressively worse.
“Henry said that?” Kubiak asked, stunned. “In those words?”
Not exactly, Rena explained. But he was thinking it. Kubiak asked after his eldest daughter. Having arrived home late and slept in, Jenny missed her morning classes but pulled herself from bed an hour ago to attend school this afternoon.
Rena said, “She won’t graduate. Not at the rate she’s skipping classes. Talk with her, Art. She doesn’t listen to me.”
Kubiak lied to his wife, agreeing that he would.
Rena asked after Missy’s family. It will be difficult for them, Kubiak said. The death of a child always is, but the circumstances make this especially hard. He told his wife not to wait up; he would be late. With nothing more to say, he hung up.
Kubiak placed his next call to the victim’s school. Missy attended River Heights Grade School, from where, had she lived, she would have graduated this year. Kubiak spoke to Dyna Owens, the principal, and confirmed with her that a student had been murdered. Owens admitted she had learned earlier from the other children.
“News travels fast,” Kubiak said.
“Bad news faster,” she replied.
“Anyone talking about possibilities?”
“No, not yet, though I expect the rumor mill to heat up. If it does, you’ll be the first to know.”
Either way, it would be necessary for local authorities to interview those teachers that had daily, infrequent, or even casual contact with the victim.
“You can’t think it’s a teacher,” she said, as if the possibility were unthinkable.
Kubiak replied blandly, “I won’t rule it out.”
As they spoke, Kubiak took notes. Recently, he’d been troubled by sporadic bouts of memory loss. He thought of it as mental brown-out, the neurons processing his near term recollections seeming temporarily to shut down, as if to conserve energy. He found himself unable to recall simple things; where he’d placed a necktie or a pair of shoes, or the morning after a night of drinking, where he’d parked his vehicle the evening before. In his lighter moments, Kubiak thought of his mind as the State of California.
In what he considered a stroke of neurological irony though, the big things he recalled. The subtle but insidious estrangement from his eldest daughter and his wife; Henry Bauer’s best estimate on when his youngest child might finally die; his own inadequacy in dealing with both; and a past which he felt himself now to be only remotely connected.
Kubiak had an appointment with the doctor this month, had forgotten, and reluctantly acknowledged to himself the need to re-schedule.
“It’s been a tough year, Art,” Owens said, drawing Kubiak back from his own thoughts. “As you know, we have a drug problem.” (A hint of accusation in her tone, as if perhaps the Sheriff wasn’t doing his job?) “Still only marijuana, but it has the potential to escalate, doesn’t it? As a part-time job, the high-school kids see it as a step up from either McDonald’s or the Winn Dixie, pushing pot to the grade-schoolers. And sex? Two girls quit this semester after becoming pregnant: two. One fourteen, one fifteen years old.” She paused for effect. “And the school nurse tells me we may have a case or two of STD.”
“Estee what?” Kubiak asked, causing him to think of either motor oil, or perfume.
“Sexually Transmitted Disease, Art. Apparently, some of the boys are suffering from what the school nurse describes to me as a leaky valve. We won’t know for certain until they see their own doctor, but to me, these boys are way too young for it. I mean, how early can we begin teaching them about safe sex? Before they reach puberty?”
Kubiak asked specifically about Missy Bitson.
“Missy was okay. Art. Not a great student, but not a nuisance either. Around here, she kept mainly to herself, but outside of school, she was hanging around with much older boys, mostly former students, mostly trouble makers and shit-disturbers. Her cousin Jordy was the worst of the bunch, and—no offense, Art—your daughter, too.”
Kubiak made a list and replaced the receiver.
In the office, Dorothy O’Rielly had lived up to her reputation for efficiency. A temporary assistant was answering calls, most from curious villagers seeking to confirm the death of the Bitson child, but with little if any useful information to contribute. Still, Trinity Van Duesen answered each call patiently, with a degree of sympathy she felt entitled to by anyone living in a small community that had just experienced the loss of one of its own, especially a child. Once or twice she had been forced to press down the receiver on an obscene caller asking for or volunteering intimate details of the victim’s behavior. However distressing it might be to her, Kubiak insisted that Van Duesen accept the calls and record the information carefully.
While at the office, Kubiak received one incoming telephone call from someone insisting he speak with the Sheriff directly. Kubiak listened for only one minute before dismissing the call: a boy playing at being a man? Was the voice, to Kubiak, vaguely familiar?
A message from Paul Kruter advised Kubiak the autopsy photos would arrive to the office by five o’clock that afternoon. Kubiak returned the call, suggesting they meet over beer. A second call from the Medical Examiner’s office advised the preliminary findings from the post-mortem were on their way, via email. Two minutes after the report arrived it was printed and Kubiak and Pridmore departed the station to meet with Burke.
“Bacon double cheeseburger with fries. They can know that?” Burke asked Kubiak of the autopsy results describing the victim’s final meal.
“Apparently,” Kubiak acknowledged. “The contents were relatively intact; the stomach juices hadn’t yet begun to digest, and, according to the M.E., she was not good about chewing her food. Our luck, I suppose.” Kubiak’s gaze focused in the distance where the Golden Arches of Seneca Falls’s most popular fast-food outlet interrupted the horizon in a hump-backed yellow “M”. “So, we know where she ate. The challenge is finding out with whom, and at what time.”
As if disappointed, Sara said, “She’d had sex before she died.”
“She’s
not alone, Sara. Apparently, it’s spreading like an epidemic.” Kubiak related his conversation with the school principal.
“What is it with kids?” Sara asked. “You’d think AIDS alone would be enough to scare them celibate.”
“It says a lot about the victim,” said Kubiak.
Burke said, “Or the power of raging hormones.”
Sara sipped from her ice tea. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. She wasn’t raped, but it doesn’t mean the sex was consensual. It doesn’t have to have been.” Then, “Besides, she’s thirteen; it’s rape either way. Am I the only one who sees it this way?”
Burke agreed. “You have a point, Sara. She could have been forced into the relationship by anyone in a position of authority. Hell, she could have been forced into it by fear, by threats from someone twice her size. Her father looks like a freakin’ gorilla; the man could scare me onto all fours.”
Kubiak said, “It wasn’t her first time. According to the Medical Examiner, she’d been sexually active, likely from an early age.”
The Body In The Water Page 18
