As Jordy had consumed a significant, though not indictable, quantity of alcohol, Kubiak ordered a tow. Jordy cursed as the taillights of the Tercel first blinked, then faded in the distance. Refusing them a lift, Kubiak forced Jordy to walk, supporting an unsteady and intermittently vomiting Jenny the more than two miles to home. Fat fucking hypocrite, Jordy thought then, having on more than one occasion witnessed the Sheriff stagger drunk to his front door after exiting from his own vehicle.
At the restaurant, they talked about Missy Bitson.
“Who do you think killed her?” Jenny asked.
“Everyone seems to have an idea,” Jordy said.
“What’s yours?”
He watched as she smoked her cigarette and drained her coffee, pointing to the waitress with her finger, demanding with a, “Hey, here”, that she refill her cup. They’d grown up across the street from each other but for years had remained worlds apart. A shared upbringing of ridicule and neglect was the common denominator ultimately drawing them together, encouraging each to cross warily from one side of the road to the other.
Early on, Jordy had mistreated Jenny in ways designed by him to deliberately test the strength of the relationship. At times he ignored her, at times he would feel her up, at times he would unexpectedly stuff a hand up her top and under her bra, mercilessly pinching her nipples; or down her pants, pulling her underwear viciously between the cheeks of her bum. Other times he forced himself upon her in ways, even as he was doing it, he considered detestable. Though at times Jenny equivocated in her commitment, over the years her devotion to Jordy remained firm. After a while, he ceased to abuse her and came to consider her a reliable companion. Recently, he’d been preoccupied with Missy, at the expense he now worried, of Jen.
Jordy shrugged in response to her question. “Who do you think killed her?”
“Asked you first,” she replied.
Through the window Jenny observed the street and the passing pedestrians, hoping to recognize someone she knew. It was early still. Perhaps between the two of them, Jordy and she could muster sufficient recruits to topple a gravestone, break a window or even three; if he was inclined, though since the death of his cousin Jordy hadn’t been, disappointing Jenny and the rest of their crew.
Jordy said, “Doesn’t matter who killed her, Jen. I told you; eventually they’ll get around to blaming me.”
“Why should they?”
“Come on, she was my cousin. Between sleep overs and family get-togethers someone will accuse me of molesting her.”
“Did you?” Jenny looked away, unable to meet his eyes. Earlier in the week, she’d said as much to Sara.
“It’s good to know I have the confidence of my friends,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why not just ask if I killed her? You want to; I know it, so go ahead.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Did you?”
Jordy held her gaze. “No.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t sound so convinced.”
Jenny leaned back from the table. “What do you want from me, Jordy? A sworn statement?” Jenny placed her right hand over heart, raised her left and said, “Here you go; I, Jennifer Kubiak, being of sound mind and blah, blah, blah, hereby declare that I do not believe Jordy Bitson killed his cousin Missy and blah, blah, blah.” At the tables near to them, people stared. “What was it you two had going, Jordy? Don’t say nothing; I won’t believe it.”
“What do you mean?”
Jenny chuckled without mirth. “C’mon; she was fucking everybody. Why not you? If you did kill her, it was because either you were, or she wouldn’t? Right? Fuck you, I mean.”
Jordy did not reply. He sat back slouched in the booth, seeming either to consider her question or his response to it. At the moment, all he could think was: Thank Jesus H Christ I didn’t screw her before she died, leaving a trail of man-juice leading directly to me. Even so, Jordy worried there might be tests the police could do which might somehow implicate him.
Leaning forward across the table, he said quietly, “Come here.” He motioned with a crooked finger for Jen to come near. “So no one will hear.”
Jenny obliged, placing her hands on the Formica tabletop in a simulated gesture of prayer. Jordy reached forward, taking her hands in his own. He squeezed. Jenny flinched. Jordy squeezed harder. Jenny made a face, a half-grimace, half-smile, as if he might be fooling. Increasing the pressure, Jordy twisted the knuckles of Jenny’s fingers, one against the other, dismissing any illusion of bonhomie.
Tears began to cloud Jenny’s eyes, spilling over and tracing a dark line of mascara from her lashes to her cheeks. The color drained from her face, like a receding wave; Jordy’s black skin became gorged with blood. His fingers appeared impossibly dark.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Bad.”
Jordy tightened his grip. The pain spread from Jenny’s hands to her wrists. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, frightened now, rings beginning to split tender flesh and draw blood. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just what people are saying.”
“What people?”
“You know, people.” The pain traveled like an aftershock from Jenny’s wrists to her forearms, making it difficult to breath, lifting her from her seat, bringing her face close to his. “You’re breaking my fingers, Jordy,” she said in a muted squeal. “For fuck sakes please, please, please God, please let me go. I’m sorry. Oh Jesus I’m sorry. So sorry, sorry, sorry but you’re breaking my fucking fingers.” Jenny enunciated each syllable as if it was to be her last.
“I could break you’re fucking neck. And just because I was fucking her, doesn’t mean I killed her.” He said it with conviction, twisting one last time before finally releasing his grip.
On the street, Jordy unfastened his cellular from his belt, pressed Speed Dial 13, and within moments was speaking with Seamus Mcteer.
“Change of plans,” Jordy said, articulating his sentiment.
“How so?” replied Seamus, slurring the last word so it came out like thoo. He was breathing heavily, sounding disoriented, as if he had been sleeping. Drunk, Jordy decided, drunk as the fucking skunk he was. When asked once by Jordy if it wasn’t too early in the morning for him to be taking a drink, Seamus had replied: “I’m awake, aren’t I?” Jordy had to admit that Mcteer’s addiction never seemed to interfere with his work: quality or volume.
“I need money now, Seamus. I can’t wait till the end of the week.”
“Why the rush, boy?”
Jordy bristled, not at his use of the word but on his emphasis. “Trust me; I need to get away from here.”
“This was not part of our deal, Jo-dee,” Seamus slurred. “Roots will not be pleased.”
Jordy swallowed hard; Jeremy Radigan frightened him in a way neither Seamus Mcteer—nor the cops—could. Struggling to hold his tone steady, hoping to keep fear or desperation from contaminating his words and obscuring his intended meaning, he said, “Mcteer, I’m in a shit-load of trouble. If I’m in a shit-load of trouble, you’re in a shit-load of trouble. The stuff runs downhill you know. I’m desperate. I need the cash and I need to disappear.”
“Are you talking to the law?” Seamus was alert now, sensitive to Jordy’s inference and implication.
Okay, Jordy thought; he’s listening. He understands. “I’m not talking to anyone, I swear to God I’m not, but Kubiak is asking questions, talking to my family, talking to my friends. That dyke-bitch lezbo cunt has it in for me. She doesn’t need an excuse. They’ll want to talk to me. Soon. She was my cousin man; we were close. You know that, better than anyone you know just how close. If it comes out...” Jordy left the thought unfinished, permitting Mcteer’s understanding to keep pace with his words. “They’ll know; they’ll find out. They already suspect. People are talking.” Jordy’s voice became strained, dancing on the edge of reason. “I’ll roll over, Mcteer. I swear to fucking God I will.
I’ll sing like Tupac fucking Shakur. I go down, you and Radigan go down with me.”
“You little shit, who do you think you’re talking to? If your brain was half the size of that dick of yours, you wouldn’t be talking to me like this.”
Fat bastard, Jordy thought; fat Scottish bastard, like The Fat Bastard of Austin Powers repute. “If my brain was half the size of my dick, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Seamus relented. “I understand. But I need to speak with Radigan; he’s the one calls the shots.”
“When?”
“Tonight. I’ll try him tonight. He won’t be happy, not at all. Don’t know if we have that kind of cash on hand.”
“Not my problem. And Mcteer, you don’t call him, I will.”
“Alright, Jordana. Don’t be such a fucking bitch.”
“I need to go. I got to make another call. Call me at this number, Seamus.” Jordy recited his cell. “Tonight; call me at this number. Don’t forget. I’ll be waiting.”
Jordy disconnected, returned his cellular to his belt buckle and ignited a cigarette. Shit, fuck, shit he said to himself now. Fuck, shit, fuck. Dressed only in a thin wool jersey emblazoned with the masthead of the Syracuse Orangemen, Jordy shivered as the nighttime temperature declined. Tomorrow, the Orangemen were scheduled to play Kansas for the NCAA basketball championship. It was their third visit to the Big Show, though they’d never won.
Early on, Drew Bitson had hooked three-year-old Jordy on basketball by installing a hoop in the front drive. As his own father had done with him, Drew had set the net only six feet from the ground to start, raising it six inches each year on Jordy’s birthday. By the time Jordy was ten, the net was suspended at regulation height.
But at about the time the net reached its maximum altitude, so too did Jordy reach his own limited capacity for growth. At five-foot-seven, the growth of his sprouting frame stalled.
Never admitting his true disappointment, the six foot six former NBA guard enrolled his only son in activities more suited to his diminutive size. One afternoon, at the local aquatic center, an affable instructor noted that the eleven-year-old Jordy displayed a fish-like affinity for the water and an aptitude to overcome even the most problematic strokes: butterfly, back and breast.
Though they could ill afford the expense and over the sometimes profane and often vocal objection of Jordy’s mom, a decision was made by his father to enroll Jordy into a semi-private class. “Four on one,” the instructor advised. “He’ll get the best instruction and my personal attention.”
If by this time Jordy failed to exhibit the qualities needed to compete successfully in the NBA, in other ways he more than compensated. In swim class, undressing in the presence of his mates, Jordy recognized early the difference between himself and the other boys. Unabashed at first, Jordy soon became painfully self-conscious at what he came to regard as a deformity. Swim class became an ordeal. Tormented by cat-calls of elephant-balls, donkey-dick, King-Dong, and other less colorful if no less hurtful sobriquets, Jordy eventually refused to change in the presence of the other boys, undressing before they arrived, stripping only after they departed. In the pool, Jordy struggled—sometimes unsuccessfully—to contain himself within his trunks.
Sensing his discomfort, the instructor suggested to his parents that Jordy enroll in private lessons, though without revealing to them the true reason why. The boy is progressing well, he told them instead, placing a hand to Jordy’s shoulder. When Mrs. Bitson balked at the potential additional expense, the instructor relented, offering to provide half the lessons at no charge. When Mrs. Bitson argued neither her family nor her son were a case for the charity of a white man’s cause, the instructor acknowledged his motive to be purely selfish.
“Never had a State Cham-peen before. Your boy has potential,” he said, allowing his hand to fall casually to the small of Jordy’s back.
“In that case,” his mother said, “I’ll be happy to have him out of the house.”
At thirteen, after being introduced by the swim instructor to Seamus Mcteer, Jordy was made to realize the possibility for putting a price on what others had heretofore taken for free. From then on it was five bucks for a look, ten for a photograph and twenty to cop a quick feel. Anything beyond that was negotiable. Once in New York, his rates would skyrocket, reminding Jordy of the need to make his second call.
But first he needed to pee. Bad. His bladder strained against the fabric of his tight jeans. Coffee, he lamented. While talking with Mcteer, Jordy had walked along Main Street, two blocks toward the river. He turned into a darkened doorway, released himself from his denims and relieved himself against the plate-glass window. The flow began slowly, his bladder overfull. When it came, his urine steamed in the cold air, a steady arc splashing to the ground and threatening to wet his shoes. Jordy stepped back. “Ahhhh…” he uttered aloud. He finished, tucked himself into his under-shorts and resumed his walk home.
Retrieving his cellular from his belt, Jordy prepared to initiate his second call, a follow up to his initial I know who you are and I saw what you did conversation early in the week with the old man.
McMaster had hung up on him the first time. Taken aback, Jordy had been reluctant to phone back. But as Jordy was now desperate and McMaster was by far the wealthiest of his potential prospects, he dialed the number for McMaster Chev-Olds, even this late hoping to get through to the old man. No answer at Leland’s extension.
Next, he tried Leland’s home; again, no answer. Jordy was reluctant to leave a message with his name, but did: no time to be shy. Jordy wouldn’t telephone Joel Pataki; what was the use? He’d been sufficiently terrorized during their last meeting for Jordy to believe if the man had it to give, he would have broken his piggy bank, probably mortgaged his home to cut him a check right then and there. He was that terrified over the photos of him and Jordy together, becoming public.
One final telephone call, Jordy decided, the riskiest but most necessary, then he would wait for Mcteer, or McMaster, to get back to him. From the opposite direction a vehicle pulled quickly from the curb, cutting diagonally across the street toward him. “What the fuck…” Jordy said, reflexively stepping back from the street.
A moment later, holding his cell phone high for verification, he said nervously, “Hey man, I was just about to give you a call.” Jordy moved to the driver side window. “Something’s come up. Change of plans,” he said to the driver before entering the vehicle through the passenger side door.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
LIKE HIS COUSIN Sidney Womack had done more than thirty years before him, Art Kubiak closed the file, opened it then closed it again, as if by doing so he might alter its contents.
Despite questioning Missy’s relatives and friends, and a canvass by officers from the State Police, Kubiak was unable to show conclusively her exact whereabouts or with whom Missy had spent the afternoon on which she disappeared. Time of death had been definitively established by the Medical Examiner at between two o’clock and six that same afternoon. The victim had last been seen alive at three o’clock, leaving the home of her cousin Kendra. So, three hours for Missy to have met a person or persons unknown, make her way to the local McDonalds, consume (hurriedly, according to the autopsy report) a meal of Bacon Double Cheeseburger with fries and have sex with her companion.
A busy three hours in which she had also managed to have her neck snapped and to find her way into the trash bin behind her father’s store. The time-line, Kubiak decided, must account for all the possibilities. Perhaps Sara’s renewed line of questioning—had anyone witnessed Jordy that afternoon at the McDs?—might uncover something useful.
Neither Drew Bitson nor his wife would—or could—confirm if Jordy Bitson had been present in the house during the victim’s visit with his sister. It was plausible he was. Based on testimony Kubiak had gathered from Kendra (Missy had not come to see her, Kendra, but Jordy) and from Jenny in her interview with Sara (a suspi
cion that Missy enjoyed a special relationship with her cousin), Kubiak assumed the boy had been. Admittedly, not an eyewitness account, but weighed against Jordy’s character, sufficiently circumstantial.
Forensics revealed that stains discovered on the brick wall within the alley were indeed human blood, but did not belong to the victim. The blood had been sent to Albany for DNA testing, to be compared to the semen found inside the girl. Could they test them against the DNA of Jordy Bitson? Sara was agitating to bring the young man in for questioning.
“Okay, Sara,” Kubiak agreed finally. “It’s early, but if it’s what you want.”
“Not what I want, Art; what in my professional opinion I think is necessary.”
The Body In The Water Page 35
