Jenny recalled to Sara a bush-party at which a group of them had camped by the river, smoking weed and drinking beer late into the night. Toward dawn, as the gathering became increasingly stoned, Jordy and Missy had wandered away from the group, beyond the glow from the light of a fire. After an hour, they returned, Missy’s dark hair a wild tangle, her tight blouse partially undone. “I’m not saying anything happened,” Jenny had told Sara. “Just telling what I saw.”
It wasn’t unusual or even unnatural, Pridmore acknowledged, for children of a certain age to indulge in games of you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. As a youngster, Sara had herself played doctor with her cousins, mostly on weekends during family sleepovers at the century-old farmhouse of her grandmother.
In those days the game had been called tickle me, not doctor and nurse, consisting of each child having his or her turn to examine the private parts of the opposite sex. She and her cousins ranged in age from nine to eleven. While the experience was stimulating, in hindsight, Sara could hardly describe it as being erotic.
Her curiosity on the fundamentals of anatomy came to an abrupt halt one Saturday evening when a particularly mature twelve year old distant relation had been inadvertently introduced to the proceedings. The sight of his fully erect penis standing stiff between his thighs, anchored by a set of dangling testicles only partially obscured by a dense thicket of dark pubic hair, had traumatized the ten year old Sara, leaving her with horrific images of snakes, reptiles and worms slithering menacingly through the underbrush.
Thereafter, she was unwilling to participate unless the door was locked, and even then only in the presence of female company. At the age of twelve, Sara withdrew altogether from the activity, having experienced her first unexpected and at the time embarrassing and wholly unwelcome orgasm. As to Missy and Jordy Bitson, by their age, Sara believed all such adolescent urges should have long since passed.
Following up on her suspicion of Jordy, that evening Sara waited patiently at the corner of Main Street and Suffolk Avenue, south of the river and kitty-corner from the Big Top Diner. The street was busy. The night was clear, stars plastered across the dark sky like a string of Christmas tree lights. Sara’s outlook, if not her experience, convinced her by tomorrow it would rain or, with the temperature forecast to dip to below freezing, possibly snow.
In a steady though not heavy flow, shoppers entered the discount and convenience stores populating the area, tending to last minute retail purchases (on this side of the bridge consisting mainly of adult videos from the Exxxotica and, from the Quiki-Mart, cigarettes and booze). Afterward, before the restaurant locked its doors for the evening at ten, they would meet for coffee at the Big Top Diner, returning home to watch television, eat junk food, drink beer and before retiring to bed—if the inclination or capacity were there—to have sex.
On this side of the street, the lights from the Exxxotica were visible, a coat of opaque film across the windows obscuring the view to inside. The front door opened and closed with the rhythmic regularity, Sara thought, of two people having intercourse. Wayne Wobbly exited with an unmarked plastic bag beneath his arm, cradling it like a loaf of bread. Sara imagined him, sitting in front of his television screen wanking his weenie to the pornographic images on his set, while in the next room his elderly mother listened to the muffled moans and groans of her overwrought son. She shivered at the thought.
Across the street in the restaurant, Jenny Kubiak and Jordy Bitson occupied a front booth, sitting across from each other, smoking and sipping coffee from white, earthenware mugs. The waitress had returned half a dozen times to refill their order. Even from a distance, Sara recognized the look; impatience over what the waitress knew would be a two-dollar check, and an even more meager tip. After a while, the couple held hands. How quaint, Sara thought.
Along Main, a half dozen newly boarded shop windows faced onto the street, the merchants victimized by two successive evenings of vandalism and destruction. Sara could not help but feel responsible. Preoccupied with the murder investigation, she had allowed her other duties to slide. But she wouldn’t ask for help, not unless Burke did so first. Despite his carousing and with a pregnant wife at home, Burke had earlier in the week managed to submit to Kubiak a completed stack of teacher interviews and reports, single-handedly eliminating three dozen potential suspects, all of whom had, at a Kubiak imposed minimum criteria, a credible alibi for the afternoon Missy Bitson was killed.
“Good work, Christopher,” was all Kubiak said, pushing the reports aside as if the results were expected. Sara suspected Burke of having either fabricated or fudged half the reports, but lacked the confidence to come right out and say.
Meanwhile, she had followed up on Joe Doeung’s suggestion with a request to Verizon for a list of telephone calls either originating at, or being made to Seneca Falls from the Mineola exchange. She’d been promised the results today, which of course hadn’t happened, though increasingly, Sara was skeptical anyway of a link from her murder to the broader investigation by the feds. Her request for a trace on Missy’s cell phone records hadn’t yet been honored, either.
Though the creeping chill had begun to nip at her fingers and her toes, Sara stayed put outside the Big Top. Shortly after eight, Jordy and Jenny emerged and parted company, the boy turning toward the river, the girl toward home. Sara waited patiently, in the shadows and out of sight, while Jenny paused to ignite a cigarette and replace the package to her purse. Sara then moved from the sidewalk to the street, crossing quickly in Jenny’s direction.
“Jen,” she called, “wait up.”
Jennifer Kubiak started, turning quickly and stepping back as if under attack. Pridmore slowed, held up her hands and said, “It’s only me Jen, Sara.”
“Oh,” Jenny replied, taking a moment to regain her composure. “You. Again.”
Jenny was taller than Sara by half a foot. She turned quickly to walk away from Pridmore, but not before Sara recognized in her face the signs of tears; dark streaks of mascara soiled her cheeks. Was Jordy Bitson the cause?
“I spoke with your mother today. Luba is getting worse. According to Dr. Bauer, it won’t be long. You should spend more time at home with your own family and less with a shit-head like him,” Sara said, referring to Bitson.
“Give me a break, Sara; they’ve been saying that for years. Just when you think it’s curtains, poof,” Jenny said with a gesture of her hands, “Luba catches her second wind. That kid has more lives than a fucking cat. Given her long-term prospects, seems wasted on her.”
“It beats the alternative.”
“There are worse things.”
Not wanting to argue, Sara said, “You could be right, though off hand, I can’t think of any.”
They walked for a while in silence, taking the first right off Main, through a two-block long district of automobile repair and body shops, then finally into a residential area of tree-lined streets and older, neatly tended brick bungalows.
The Kubiak’s had moved to this neighborhood shortly after Rena and Art were married; the children had never known another home. Though Kubiak’s salary from the County was now sufficient to allow a move across the river to a more prosperous survey, neither he nor Rena were inclined. The house was fully paid, within eight years Kubiak could retire on full pension if he chose, the neighbors were quiet and friendly if not friends, and neither Rena nor he possessed the desire or the enthusiasm for change. “I’ll leave here feet first,” Kubiak said on the subject, during the rare times he and Rena discussed the possibility.
“What have you got against Jordy anyway?” Jennifer asked, breaking the silence. “His color?”
“You know me better than that, Jen.”
“Do I?”
“Black or white, he’s a crummy influence. You said so yourself.”
“I’m sorry I ever opened my big mouth,” Jenny said. “I was jealous, you know, seeing shit that wasn’t really there.”
“Your words or his?”
“What does it matter? It’s true.”
The wind had risen in the trees, whistling through the branches. There was no moon and though the stars were distinct against the black sky, they were no competition to the mercury vapor lamps recently installed on the sidewalk along Kubiak’s block. Sara recalled the fuss over the expenditure, often teasing Kubiak privately, suggesting his neighborhood had benefited more from his position as County Sheriff rather than the absolute needs of the community. Although they were blocks from the river, the insistent din of water over the dam was audible even from here.
Jenny removed a cigarette, ignited and said, “Do you really believe it could be him?”
“It could be anybody, Jen, but yes, I really believe it might be him.”
“Why?”
“It fits. I shouldn’t tell you this, and keep it to yourself, but I’m hoping you’ll see sense. We know Missy was involved sexually, what we don’t know is with who, or if she was promiscuous or abused. From the condition of her body, we know she wasn’t raped, but according to her doctor and the Medical Examiner, she was no virgin. You tell me Jordy was obsessed, possessive of her. Missy spent time with her cousin Kendra, sleepovers, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started at a very early age. You said so yourself, Jen, he had the opportunity to take advantage of her, introduce his little cousin to things he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Yeah, but so did her father, her uncle, her teachers, the mailman, the milkman…”
“Knock it off, Jen; you’re being silly.”
“Am I? Come on, Sara; don’t be naive. Half this town is screwing a blood relative. You don’t know it yet; you haven’t been here long enough. Missy could have been doing it with anybody; probably was.”
“Are you forgetting how I first met you?”
Jennifer bristled. “That was different,” she said. “It was my choice. I could have said no if I’d wanted.”
“You were wasted, Jen. Jordy knew it and took advantage of it by forcing his cock down your throat. That boy has girl issues that makes him dangerous.” (Involuntarily, Sara thought of Chris Burke.) “He doesn’t seem to work. Where does he get his money? I know he’s responsible for what’s been happening in town: the windows, the desecrated gravesites, the fire. I’ll lay odds he’s pushing drugs. I can prove it,” Sara lied. “But I’m not interested in any of that now.”
Sara waited for Jenny to speak, relent perhaps, and admit Jordy to be guilty of something, anything. But she remained silent.
“I admit it may have started innocently and snowballed from there. Missy may have wanted it to stop, but Jordy couldn’t,” said Sara, warming to the theory, pressing the younger woman. “He was addicted, obsessed with her. She wanted it to stop, he couldn’t, they fought, he killed her. It may have been accidental, Jen, but it’s still murder.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Jenny asked. “To protect me, or to enlist me.”
Sara blushed, thankful for the dark. “I’m not asking you to do anything. Just keep your ears open; call if you learn anything that could point me in the right direction. If that direction is away from Jordy and toward someone else, Jen, I’m cool with that. So be it.”
They had approached the short walkway leading to the Kubiak front steps. Jenny glanced across the road to the home of Jordy Bitson, as if hoping to see him there.
Lately, Jordy had been spending more time with Missy, the two separating themselves from Jenny and their other friends for hours at a time, some days not showing up to be with them at all. Jordy was the de facto leader of the group and for Jenny his absence created a void, as if her solar system was suddenly without a sun.
If it was unnatural, it was not unreasonable for him be attracted to Missy. Jenny Kubiak was a cow, an unattractive Sasquatch of a young woman who for years the boys had tormented or ignored. Rejected at an early age by her own father for a sister who was barley living, would soon die and worst of all, seemed to neither notice or to appreciate his attention, Jenny ceased to care, finding it easier to believe she could be wanted if she tried, rather than to try and to understand with certainty that she wasn’t, and never could be. For the affection of Jordy Bitson, Jenny knew she could never compete. With Missy dead, her image was codified, stenciled on Jordy’s brain like a tattoo. It would grow over time until the memory eclipsed the reality. Far from being a solution, Missy’s death seemed now to become an additional challenge in Jenny’s ongoing struggle to gain the attention and affection she deserved.
“What does Art think?” Jenny asked Sara now.
“Your father needs to keep his options open.” Sara hedged. “He can’t think anything until we have something more tangible.”
Jenny crushed her cigarette beneath the heel of her boot. Without another word she turned toward the house. Sara watched as she reached the front door, noting that Kubiak had not yet arrived home.
Before Jenny entered, Sara called out. “Tell your friend to see a doctor, Jen.” In the yellow overhead light, Sara could see Jenny’s confusion. “The girl was infected, Jen; HIV. If Jordy is so innocent, he has nothing to fear. If not, well, I guess the laugh’s on him, eh?”
Confusion gone, Jenny entered her home, an expression of hatred knotting her face. Across the street, the Bitson home was dark. Sara imagined Jordy sitting at the window, observing the conversation, twisting his fists anxiously, wanting but unable to overhear.
…
Inside her home, Jennifer Kubiak telephoned Jordy Bitson: no answer. She left a message on his mobile. Next, she sent a text: no reply. Would Jordy be thankful for her loyalty, grateful and indebted? And if he wasn’t? Well then, Jenny thought viciously, fuck him.
…
Sara turned toward town, subconsciously hoping Kubiak would appear from around the corner, recognize her and stop so they might talk.
Missy had eaten on the day of her murder, Sara thought now, as a couple, Kubiak said, prior to being killed. According to the cash register receipt, the other half of the couple had a healthy appetite. Despite two days during which both Pridmore and Burke had questioned the staff at the fast food outlet, no one recalled having either served or seen Missy Bitson. They had distributed flyers with the victim’s photo, asking anyone who might have seen her that day to please come forward. They had posted photocopies on grocery and convenience store bulletin boards among the items to sell, help wanted, and help for hire notices. They had canvassed and asked questions from one end of town to the other, but on the day she died no one could recall having seen Missy Bitson, let alone having seen her in the company of someone else.
Sara knew from experience (or was it from the movies?) if you aren’t getting the right answer, perhaps you’re asking the wrong question. The evidence showed Missy had eaten the Bacon Double Cheeseburger; from the autopsy, this much was conclusive, but not where she had eaten it. The meal could have been purchased, brought to her, and consumed by Missy elsewhere, off site of the fast food outlet. Missy hadn’t been observed at the McDonalds that afternoon, Sara hypothesized, because maybe Missy had not been there. So far as Sara knew, no one had bothered to ask about Jordy Bitson: certainly not her.
The Big Top Diner was still serving when Sara reached the center of town, the kitchen not yet closed though the restaurant was empty. Sara entered, seating herself alone at one of only a few clean tables. Others were dirty, littered with cups, glasses, and soiled cutlery and dinner plates. Sara recognized the remnants of meatloaf in a pool of congealed brown gravy, a slice of blueberry pie only partially consumed, filthy ashtrays, bread-rolls half-eaten, and pats of butter separating into oil. Nevertheless, the lone waitress sat at a corner table reading a copy of the Sentinel-Tribune, drinking coffee, puffing greedily on a cigarette, allowing her eyes to wander occasionally to the coverage on Fox News.
Resentfully, she made her way toward Sara, menu in one clenched fist, a glass of ice water in the other. Oh boy, thought Sara, is she happy to see me. On the bright side, she would escape with
out having to leave a large tip, if she left one at all.
“Kitchen still open?” Sara asked.
The waitress placed the menu and the ice water on the table in front of Sara. She looked over her shoulder to a glowering dark man wearing a white, soiled apron and standing behind a stainless steel serving rack, above which was suspended a row of heat-lamps.
“Everything but the liver,” he said, his eyes fixed to the television screen. “And any steak, well-done. Don’t do breakfast after dinner, either,” he added petulantly, almost as an afterthought. His accent was heavy, possibly East Indian. Sara was tempted to solicit an opinion on the ongoing hostilities in the Middle East, deciding quickly that whatever his thoughts on geopolitics, his attitude, at this moment, would be influenced more by the nuisance of Sara’s late arrival rather than the prospect of Americans bombing Iraq.
The Body In The Water Page 33
