Death Hampton

by Walter Marks

  Karlin pressed on. “I’ll bet you’d inherit a tidy sum if...

  “Officer,” she cut in. “I have nothing further to say.”

  “Ma’m, you’re required to answer my questions.”

  Susannah gave him an obdurate look.

  “Look,” Karlin went on, ”I don’t want to have to take you down the station house.”

  “I won’t go,” she said casually. “Unless you’re arresting me. Are you arresting me?”

  “Mrs. Cascadden,” he said emphatically, using her name as if it were a threat.

  She smiled. “Of course if you do arrest me, you’ll have to Mirandize me. Then I have the right to remain silent, so that won’t work.”

  Officer Karlin looked stunned.

  “Uh, well, thank you for your time,” he mumbled. “I’ll get back to you on this.”

  He turned and walked back toward his squad car. Then he stopped.

  “Mrs. Cascadden,” he said. “You’re not under arrest but you are under suspicion. I’m going to have to ask you not to leave town.”

  Karlin gave her an intimidating look and drove off.

  Susannah felt her throat start to close up. It was as if a noose were tightening around her neck.

  CHAPTER 45

  That afternoon Teddy Karlin came to Jericho’s office. He had a copy of Newsday with him.

  “Jericho. You see this morning’s paper?”

  “Only the sports.”

  “Check this out.”

  In Nicholas Rhinelander’s column was a picture of Susannah, taken through her car window. She was attempting to cover her face with her hand, and her eyes were wide with fright. The caption read: “The elusive Mrs. Cascadden. What does she know about her husband’s disappearance? Is the investigation on the slow track?”

  “In the picture she looks guilty,” Karlin said. “Makes ya think, huh?”

  “This is why I hate journalists,” Jericho grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Karlin agreed, “that Nicky Rhinelander is the worst.”

  Nicky? Jericho thought. Nobody would call Nicholas Rhinelander “Nicky,” except someone who knew him really well. And if Teddy Karlin knows “Nicky” really well, the conclusion is obvious.

  “Teddy,” Jericho said. “The one thing I hate more than journalists is cops who take money from them.”

  “Huh?”

  Teddy’s eyes darted. It was the look of a guilty man.

  “Don’t bother to deny it,” Jericho said. “I know you tipped off your pal Nicky about me shooting Mort on the beach. You’ve been feeding him scoops for years now, for a nice payola, haven’t you?”

  “That’s not true — “

  “Shut up,” Jericho said. “I’m gonna see to it that you pull midnight-to-four shifts for the next twelve months, and that’ll involve night foot patrol at the town dump.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.“

  “It’ll be smelly, cold, lonely, boring work, but you’ll have plenty of time to think — think about never taking another penny from Nicholas Rhinelander. Got me?”

  “C’mon, Jericho,“ Karlin pleaded.

  “Now get the hell out of here, Teddy.”

  After Karlin left, Jericho went to the Chief’s office and explained what Karlin had done. Manos had seen the Newsday photo and was furious at Rhinelander’s implication that the investigation had stalled. He promised to make patrolman Karlin’s life a nightmare.

  “But I’ve got some good news for you,” Manos said. “I just spoke to Harburg. IA’s giving you a clean bill.”

  “Nice of ‘em,” Jericho replied.

  “And the grand jury hearing will just be pro forma. You’ll be back on active duty inside of a week. Contingent on the psychiatric report, of course.”

  “What?”

  “Departmental regulations. You gotta go see a shrink.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “You must’ve had the same deal in the city,” Manos said. “Whenever a police officer kills someone, he has to — ”

  “Sure. But you mean to tell me East Hampton Town Police has a shrink on staff?”

  “Not on staff, but on call. She has a private practice over in Sag Harbor. It’s rare, but we do use her when a cop’s involved with a fatality — a car crash, a death in a house fire, particularly if there’s a kid involved.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “It’s no big deal. I made you an appointment tomorrow morning. You go in, you say you’re real sad about taking the life of another human being, but you’re coping. Y’know, you’re trained for it, it’s part of the job, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Dammit,” Jericho shouted. “I haven’t got time for that shit.”

  Chief Manos could see that Jericho was upset. “Jericho,” he said with concern, “have you — did you ever kill somebody before, in the line of duty?”

  “...No.”

  “Well, look, maybe the shrink’ll do you some good. Anyway you gotta go. And when you gotta go — ”

  “I know,” Jericho said resignedly. “What time?”

  “Ten-forty-five, tomorrow morning. Her name is Dr. Patel. Wait a minute, I wrote it down for you.” He started searching in his pockets.

  “Do you know her?” Jericho asked.

  “Yeah. On 9/11, me and Trev Montrose volunteered to go down to Ground Zero and help with the digging. I got pretty shook up. I went to Dr. Patel for a couple months after that. She helped me put things in perspective.”

  He found the notepaper. “Here it is — Dr. Chandrakala Patel.”

  “Chandrakala?” Jericho said.

  “She’s Indian. Not American Indian. Indian Indian.”

  Jericho nodded.

  “Well,” Manos said, handing Jericho the name and address, “enjoy, enjoy.”

  “Fuck you, fuck you.”

  Susannah had taken $7,000 from the envelope in Burt’s desk and left the rest in the back of the drawer.

  She went to the Montauk Post Office and asked for a $7,000 money order but $1,000 was the limit. The postal worker said she could bypass the rule by sending additional $1,000 money orders from the post offices in Amagansett, East Hampton, Sagaponack, Bridgehampton, Water Mill, and Southampton. It was Seinfeld-ian.

  So she spent the next few hours visiting six East End post offices. She felt like a drug dealer laundering money.

  That night Susannah made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and went to bed. Since the home alarm system was not yet in place, she left her nightstand drawer open, with the pistol within easy reach.

  Under the sea, the current swirls, flowing around the bones of a man. Susannah sees the bones, resting on the sludgy bottom, undulating gently in the dark water. They begin to coalesce into a skeletal figure.

  The bone man stands up.

  He glides along the murky sea floor, stirring up muddy particles that rise and cling to him, taking on the shape of legs, arms, torso, head — a grotesque corporeal entity.

  The figure pushes off the bottom, arms caressing the water with a sensual breaststroke. The legs kick frog-like, propelling him upward to the ocean surface. His head splashes up out of the water, ghostly in the pale moonlight. Tendrils of slimy brown seaweed hang down over his face, hiding all his features, except the glowing green eyes.

  The creature snorts and rolls over onto his back, floating on the waves as they carry him to the shore. Covered in seaweed, he rides the surface like a bed of kelp, each breaker tossing him on its whitecaps as it surges toward landfall.

  When the water is knee deep, the creature turns over, stands up, and wades to shore. The moonlight illuminates his flesh — inky and mottled, the color of the muddy bottom. Sea vegetation dangles from his shoulders and arms. As he emerges from the surf he shakes droplets of water off the flaccid, hose-like protuberance at his groin —— the pride of Burton Lloyd Cascadden.

  The dream scene changes. Susannah is in her bed, staring up at the large, menacing figure of her husband. Burt’s voice is harsh, guttural. �
��Sweetie. Sweetie.” His head is ghastly, his features shapeless, as if decayed. The eyes glow with green hatred. “How lovely you look,” he says ominously. “Like a shining angel — no, like the Good Fairy. But your beauty deceives. Your sweet appearance conceals your murderous heart. You must pay — pay for the evil within you.”

  Burt reaches down and pinches her nostrils tight shut...

  Susannah woke up, gasping ragged breaths through her mouth. The bedroom was dark.

  “Who’s there? Is anybody there?”

  Silence.

  Trembling, she reached for her bedside lamp. Click. The bright light assaulted her eyes. She squinted in the harsh glare, trying to focus.

  The room was empty. Susannah grabbed the pistol from the nightstand drawer.

  “I’ve got a gun,” she shouted, flipping off the safety. Then louder, “If you don’t get the hell outta here you’re dead.”

  Nothing.

  I must have been dreaming, she thought. Or was I? Is someone still in the house? If so, who could it be? I couldn’t see his face.

  Gripping the gun, she went to check her bathroom.

  Nobody.

  Her heart was still racing. Cautiously she descended the stairs. At the bottom was a light switch.

  Click.

  All the lamps in the living room went on.

  Nothing.

  The front door was locked. So were the living room windows and the glass door to the deck.

  She checked the guest bathroom. Empty. Window locked.

  The kitchen and pantry were clear as well. Burt’s bedroom and bath, and his office, were deserted.

  Oh, my God, the closets.

  She tightened her grip on the gun. Pulse pounding, she swung Burt’s closet door open. Nothing. She went to her bedroom, opened the closet door, and slapped at the clothes on their hangers. Nobody.

  She checked every other closet. Finally she was sure there was no one in the house.

  It was all a dream. A scary dream.

  She hoped.

  CHAPTER 46

  Jericho parked on Main Street in front of the Sag Harbor movie theatre, with its streamlined thirties styling and Art Deco neon signage.

  Two years before, when he was looking for a place to live, Jericho had answered an ad for a cottage rental in Sag Harbor — on Gull Rock Road. He took an immediate liking to the old whaling village, built on steep hills leading down to the bay. Unlike East Hampton, with its chic boutiques and trendy art galleries, Sag Harbor had a family-owned food market, a variety store called Schmidt’s 5&10, a barbershop with a barber pole, and a park with a dusty softball field. Jericho understood why its funky, unpretentious quality appealed to artists and writers, who refer to it as the Un-Hampton.

  Later, Trevor Montrose told him Sag Harbor also has a beachfront community of African-Americans, who like to call it the Lionel Hampton.

  Jericho had chosen to live in Montauk because it was closer to Katie, but he always enjoyed driving over to Sag when he got the chance.

  Except this morning.

  He walked down Main Street and turned right at the Bay Street Playhouse. Dr. Patel’s office was on Bay Street in a gray-shingled salt box facing the marina.

  A high wind was blowing off the water, causing the masts of the docked sailboats to sway back and forth. Jericho was irritated by the incessant hollow clanking of the sailboat lines, slapping against their masts.

  Outside Dr. Patel’s office were two wooden shingles hanging from a post. One read: Dr. Chandrakala Patel, PHD, MSW. Below it a smaller sign: Eastern Suffolk County Rape Crisis Center.

  Jericho rang the doorbell and Dr. Patel answered. She was a short, fiftyish woman and her plump body was encased in a mauve polyester pantsuit. Jericho was immediately transfixed by her dark almond-shaped eyes. She had smooth brown skin, a full mouth, and coal black hair drawn up in a knot.

  She ushered Jericho into her small office, which was dominated by a tapestry depicting a fat man holding a bowl, sitting in a spread-kneed yoga position. Jericho noticed that Dr. Patel was wearing one piece of Indian jewelry — an ornately detailed silver Om pendant. Buddhist, he thought, not Hindu.

  The room smelled faintly of old house, and sandalwood incense.

  “You can take that rocker-recliner over there,” Dr. Patel said. “Some people like to sit up straight or rock, others prefer to be laid back, so to speak. Your call.”

  “Sitting’ll be fine,” Jericho said in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat.

  The therapist eased herself down into an Eames chair about six feet across from him.

  Jericho felt disoriented and dizzy.

  “You okay, Mr. Jericho?”

  Jericho squirmed awkwardly. He felt like a schoolboy summoned to the principal’s office.

  “I’m good.”

  “There’s a bottle of Evian on the end table next to you. Help yourself.”

  Jericho unscrewed the plastic bottle and took a swig.

  Dr. Patel smiled. “Everyone feels uncomfortable when they come here for the first time,” she said. “Actually, I’m uncomfortable myself, I’m just more experienced at hiding it.”

  Jericho smiled back.

  “As you know,” she said, “I’ve been asked to evaluate you, find out what effect your recent actions have had on your ability to resume active duty. So I’m going to ask you some questions. Try to remember two things. One — there is no right or wrong answer. Two — being truthful is the only way to go. In other words, don’t bullshit me.”

  Jericho nodded.

  Dr. Patel took out a notebook. She began by asking him for some background. Jericho told her how long he’d been in the EHTPD, about his previous service with NYPD, his divorce. He admitted to a drinking problem that had adversely affected his marriage, but said he hadn’t had a drink since he left New York. (He figured the one gulp of wine he had after his encounter with Sarah didn’t count.) Then he talked about his relationship with Katie.

  “Sounds like you’re very attached to your daughter,” the therapist said.

  “Yes, I am. She — unfortunately my wife and her second husband are moving to Washington state in a few months. I’m really having a tough time with that.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I’m handling it, though.”

  Dr. Patel scribbled in her notebook. She looked up.

  “How are you handling the fact that you killed that hitman?”

  Jericho gathered himself before answering.

  “It’s not an easy thing, taking a human life,” he said carefully. “We’re trained for it, though. On the first day at the academy they tell you it’s something you may have to do, that it comes with the territory. Basically I feel good about it. After all, I killed a professional killer, a man with no conscience, who took who knows how many human lives simply for profit.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Patel said. “And you also saved a woman’s life. You should feel proud.”

  “I was doing what I was trained to do,” Jericho said simply.

  “Have you ever had to kill someone before this?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “How do your feelings now compare with what you went through in East Harlem?”

  “East Harlem?”

  “I understand you were on the scene at the death of an infant girl there.”

  Jericho was stunned. “How do you know about that?” he said angrily. “My NYPD records are confidential. You can’t get access without a court order — ”

  “Mr. Jericho,” Dr. Patel said. “I haven’t seen your file. I looked you up online. Just doing my homework. The Daily News archives have a number of articles about the incident.”

  Jericho took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “It was a terrible thing. The guy who held her hostage killed her. It was a tragic accident.”

  “Yes. I read about it,” she said. ”Did you see a police psychologist afterwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Fine.
”

  “How often did you see him?”

  “Once.”

  “Only once?”

  “He said there was no need for extended therapy.”

  Dr. Patel looked at him long and hard.

  “Y’know,Detective Jericho,” she said, “one of my specialties is dealing with posttraumatic stress. I do a lot of work with victims of sexual assault, mostly women but some men too. After going through deeply shocking and disturbing experiences, victims react by trying to reprogram their brains, reinterpret the event, block out the memory of it. That’s a natural response, a normal reaction to an abnormal situation. But those coping mechanisms can generate a host of emotional problems.”

  Dr. Patel leaned forward in her chair.

  “Mr. Jericho,” she said. “As a police officer, you’re often exposed to stressful incidents. In fact, you probably thrive on the kind of stress most folks would avoid at all costs. And it’s lucky for society there are people like you.”

  “But you pay a price,” she went on. “No matter how tough you are, these incidents affect you deeply. You’re trained to set aside your feelings, deal with the incident and move one. Your job, maybe even your survival, depends on it. And there’s that macho cop thing — don’t talk about it, don’t show your emotions. Fahgeddaboudit. Trouble is, Mr. Jericho, these memories have been imprinted on your brain. A memory like killing another human being, or witnessing the death of a child, can be devastating. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m satisfied that you’re not bothered by shooting that hitman. But this business with the little girl in New York, that’s much more troubling. According to the newspaper, a drug dealer had taken a child hostage, and you and your partner had drawn your guns on him.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the drug dealer fell out a window with the baby girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Witnessing that had to be shattering,” she said. “Do you think your drinking problem was related to it?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Have you had any subsequent sleep disturbances?”