Death Hampton

by Walter Marks

  “I sleep okay.”

  “Any nightmares of the event?”

  “No.”

  “How about intrusive memories? Flashbacks?”

  “No.”

  “Blackouts?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s like it never happened,” she said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Mr. Jericho, you have a young daughter yourself. It’s hard to believe witnessing a baby girl’s violent death wouldn’t leave you with some symptoms of post traumatic stress.”

  Jericho felt rage churning inside him. He struggled to suppress it.

  “Look,” he said. “I think about that girl’s death a lot. I haven’t gotten over it — not by a long shot. But I’m here because of what happened on the beach last week. I think I’m pretty together about that, and I gather you think so too. This is about whether I can go back on active duty or not, and I don’t think something that went down six years ago should have a bearing on it.”

  “But it does.”

  “Believe me, doctor,” Jericho said, “I’ve come to terms with what happened.”

  “I think we need to go a little further with that.”

  Dr. Patel looked thoughtful for a moment. “How long since you’ve been back to your old precinct?” she asked.

  “A coupla years.”

  “Your partner, what’s his name?”

  “Davis. Mickey Davis.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it would be useful for you to go back there — back to the scene of the tragedy. Visit the building where it happened, try to find the mother. Do you remember her name?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Good. Try to find her, talk to her. Then go meet with your old partner. Get his memories of what happened. Compare them with yours.”

  “Are you saying I have to do this before you give me clearance?”

  “Detective Jericho,” Dr. Patel said calmly, “I have a feeling there’s a lot more going on here.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. Possibly there’s a component of guilt involved. But I don’t want to get into it until you reconnect with these events in your past.”

  Jericho pressed his lips into a tight line of resentment. He said nothing.

  “I think it would be best to get on this right away,” the therapist said.

  “How soon before I can return to active duty?”

  Dr. Patel hesitated before answering. “That depends,” she said. “I know you want to get back, and I have no desire to stand in your way. I just want to make sure you’re not repressing feelings that could cause you to act irresponsibly.”

  Jericho’s anger burst out of him. “God damn it! You have no right to...”

  Dr. Patel interrupted calmly. “I understand your frustration.”

  “Fine. Are we finished now?”

  “Yes. Give me a call after you’ve done what I suggested.”

  Jericho got up to leave.

  “Detective Jericho,” Dr. Patel said, “I don’t mean to sound parental, but this is for your own good.”

  He left, annoyed with himself.

  I screwed up with that shrink. I should’ve played along instead of getting pissed. Thing is, I couldn’t tell her about the blackouts and the flashbacks. If I did — no way she’d release me from desk duty. Best thing now is just to do what she said, and then go back and tell her I followed her instructions, saying how it was upsetting but that I’m glad I did it because now I see things more clearly. I realize I was repressing my memory of the trauma, and now I have some closure, ya-dah, ya-dah, ya-dah.

  When he got to his car, he called Chief Manos on his cell and got permission to take the rest of the day off, go to the city and follow Dr. Patel’s orders.

  As he started the car he grumbled out loud, “Might as well get this shit over with!”

  CHAPTER 47

  At nine in the morning, the AHS technician arrived at Susannah’s house and set up the wireless home security system. It took about three hours. He installed entry sensors which would trigger an alarm if one of the doors or windows were opened. He added motion sensors as a second line of defense, should anyone find a way to bypass these deterrents. Any breach would trigger a loud alarm and activate flashing strobe lights inside and outside the house. It would also signal the AHS office, which would immediately alert East Hampton police. The technician explained that EHTP always had a squad car patrolling the Montauk area, and they’d be within five or ten minutes of Susannah’s house.

  “I’ll still need my house-key to unlock the door, right?”

  “Yes,” the AHS man replied.

  “What if I want to keep a window open?” she asked.

  “Well, first you’d have to disable the alarm, then open the window, then re-set the alarm. Same thing in reverse if you want to close the window. It’s a pain in the butt, but hey, that’s the price of safety. If you mess up, all hell will break loose.”

  He installed a digital control panel inside the house, next to the door, which could be activated or deactivated by a remote on a special keychain, or manually by using the alpha-numeric keyboard. Susannah chose her mother’s name: E-T-H-E-L as a code. Also, the system could be enabled/disabled from outside by typing the code on her cell phone keypad while pointing the phone at the doorway. Inside there was an indicator light — green for system on, red for system off.

  In addition, there were AHS decals placed on all windows and doors, and a large DayGlo sign at the front entrance, which read: PROPERTY PROTECTED BY AMERICAN HOME SECURITY WIRELESS SYSTEMS. “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.”

  As the AHS man left, Susannah thanked him, then said, “I feel like a prisoner in my own home.”

  “Yeah,” the installer retorted, “but nobody ever breaks into a prison.”

  Susannah had been unable to do her Martha Graham stretching routine since Jessie attacked her. After the security man left, she was determined to give it a try. She put on the music, lay down on the mat, and began. But immediately, the memories of that awful episode flooded back into her mind — Jessie’s sweaty body pressing against her, his hands, his foul breath, his wet, sloppy mouth...

  She sat up and turned off the music.

  She took a deep breath and went inside to gather her things for her upcoming dance class.

  The traffic was moving well on the LIE as Jericho drove into the city.

  As he passed a Queens shopping center, a large billboard caught his eye. It showed a little girl grinning happily at a large pepperoni pizza. The lettering said: “It’s Not Delivery — It’s DiGiorno”.

  He remembered what his daughter had said to him the night before. Katie was at Jericho’s house for dinner and they were polishing off a frozen pizza, when she suddenly brought up the move to Tacoma.

  “I’m gonna miss you, Daddy.”

  “Me, too. When did Mommy tell you?”

  “Yesterday.” Katie said, “She and Irwin sat me down and told me they had good news. Well, they tried to make it sound like good news, like I was gonna make new friends and go to a great school, but it was lousy news and they knew it.”

  “Well, I’ll come to see you often. But it’s far away.”

  “I know. Mommy told me you’d get a red eye from doing it, but you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ll come whenever I can.”

  “And she said you could have me for the summer. Maybe even the whole summer.”

  “Well, I’ll try,” Jericho said. “But I don’t get vacation time in the summer. That’s when it’s real busy out here.”

  “You could see me at night. And get somebody to watch me in the day. Our neighbor, Mrs. Blinken, she’s crazy about me. She could mind me.”

  “Not every day.”

  “Well, some days I have dance class. And my dance teacher Susannah, she likes me. I bet she wouldn’t mind taking care of me. Wait a minute, you know her. Remember, Daddy, we all had breakfast
at the ‘Gansett Market?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I think she likes you,” Katie said knowingly. “Maybe you could ask her.”

  Jericho hugged his daughter and gave her the parent’s classic noncommittal response: “We’ll see.”

  A half hour later Jericho was crossing the Triboro Bridge into Manhattan. It was bittersweet, seeing the rust-red buildings of the Roosevelt Housing Project along the Harlem River, the decaying piers jutting out into the water, the steeple of the Iglesia Pentacostal de la Virgen rising above the slums on the ironically named Pleasant Avenue.

  This used to be my turf, he thought.

  He’d called Detective Mickey “Mouse” Davis and told him he was coming in. He hadn’t seen Mouse since leaving the NYPD but they talked occasionally on the phone.

  Jericho didn’t feel like making a return visit to the squad room, seeing his old pals and doing the usual hey-buddy-how’re-they-hangin’? bullshit. Mouse understood. They agreed to meet at the Nuevo Korean Kitchin (sic), their old hangout.

  Jericho drove down Second Avenue, past the familiar bodegas, cantinas, storefront churches, tattoo and hair-braiding parlors. It was a warm afternoon and East Harlem’s main drag was crowded with Latinos, Blacks, Caucasians, Arabs, Asians, and various combinations thereof. Jericho was reminded of a Langston Hughes poem in a book Mouse had given him: “Black and white / Gold and brown / Chocolate custard pie of a town.”

  He stopped at a light at East 119th Street. Salsa music was blaring out of the corner record store. Hip-hop resounded from the fifteen-inch subwoofers of a double-parked Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows. An ice cream truck pulled up, its tinkly bells playing the theme from The Flintstones. The sweet cacophony of the ghetto.

  Damn. I’ve missed this.

  CHAPTER 48

  Before his meeting with Mouse, Jericho revisited what Dr. Patel had called “the scene of the tragedy.” The house was on 118th between First and Pleasant Avenues. Jericho saw a parking space when he turned left off Second, so he pulled his car in and began walking east.

  His nostalgia was replaced by anxiety. After crossing First Avenue he heard a woman yelling, “Por favor, por favor ... ” Was it real or was it memory? He got dizzy and had to grab onto a lamppost for support.

  Jericho pushed forward along the shady street, fixing his eyes on the house numbers — 378, 380, 382. He’d never forgotten the address — 390 East 118th.

  Abruptly his eyes were jolted by bright sunlight. He was standing in front of a chain link fence. The building was gone. In its place was a community garden, lush with shade trees, pine bushes, petunias, marigolds, and sunflowers.

  On the fence hung a sign: Jardín Conmemorativo de Rosario — Rosario’s Memorial Garden.

  Jericho figured the city had condemned the dilapidated crack house and torn it down. Many such gardens had sprung up on weedy, garbage-littered vacant lots, the result of a civic project called Green Thumb.

  Then he saw it — on the sidewalk. The wreckers had left standing a section of the building’s wrought iron fencing, with five sharp-pointed spears thrusting skyward. One had a reddish stain on its point — it was rust, but it looked like blood. Jericho had to turn away.

  “Intrusive memories? flashbacks?”

  “No.”

  Yes — the little girl’s pale white body writhing as the limbs flail about, hands clawing the air. The diapered triangle at the junction of her legs. Above it, where the naval should be, a spike protrudes.

  “Detective Jericho, is that you?”

  One step too many ...

  Jericho saw a thirtyish woman wearing gardening gloves coming toward him. He pulled himself together.

  “Hey, Paloma,” Jericho said.

  “Long time don’t see.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I’d shake hands,” she said, “but mine are sweaty as you-know-what from these gloves.”

  She gave him a warm smile. Paloma, who was born in Peru, had a classic Inca face. As a teenager, Jericho recalled, she’d had a certain elegance. He noticed she was wearing a wedding ring.

  “Nice garden,” Jericho said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s a shame it has to honor Rosario. Pobrecita, but hey.” She shrugged.

  Jericho nodded.

  “Heard you was working out in Hamptons,” the woman said. “What’s a matter, you too good for El Barrio now?”

  “Barrio’s too good for me.”

  She smiled.

  “You know where Mrs. Colón is?” Jericho asked.

  “Rosario’s mama? Ay.” She shook her head. “She never get over it. She went, how you say? Catatónico. Never talk again. They put her in the Bellevue. Finally her grandma come and take her back to Santurce.”

  Paloma’s eyes got weepy. Jericho took the woman in his arms and held her. She’d once been a prostitute, and Jericho had been with her a couple of times. That was years ago. He wondered if she even remembered. In those days she was strung out on crack most of the time. He’d helped her get straight.

  “Yeah,” she said, stroking the back of his neck, “long time don’t see.”

  She remembered.

  CHAPTER 49

  After teaching her class, Susannah went to Gretchen’s office to pick up her paycheck.

  Gretchen smiled from her desk as her friend entered. “Hi, Hon.”

  “Hey, Gretch.”

  “I’ve got your check right here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you thought any more about staying with us for a while?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “Listen, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? We can have drinks out on our deck. Oh, you haven’t seen our new deck, have you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s cantilevered over the cliffs. The view is spectacular!”

  Susannah pictured the jagged, sandstone cliffs that abutted the beach at Ditch Plains.

  “Those cliffs are maybe a hundred feet high”, she said. “Isn’t it scary?”

  “No. It feels like you’re flying.”

  “Well, if you say so.”

  “See you at around seven, okay?”

  “Sounds good”, Susannah replied.

  “Listen, before you go...” Gretchen said. She pulled a document out of her desk drawer. “Arnold finished this last night and asked me to give it to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some kind of authorization — so he can go to court for you if it’s necessary, and, y’know, get a ruling on Burt’s death. He wants you to sign it.”

  “I thought he was going to fax it to me.”

  “Yes. But he knew I’d see you today, and he says an original is always preferable to a copy.”

  Susannah picked up the letter. It read:

  Dear Susannah Cascadden:

  You have asked me to represent you in connection with all matters regarding the disappearance/death of your husband, Burton L. Cascadden. You authorize me to contact state and town authorities, if required, for the purpose of obtaining insurance policies, and/or a death certificate and letters of administration for your husband’s estate.

  I am enclosing a form of Power of Attorney designating me as your legally authorized representative...

  “Doesn’t it have to be notarized?” Susannah asked.

  “Yes,” Gretchen said. “I can do it. You know I help out in Arnold’s office when things get busy, so I became a notary public to expedite the paper work. Let me just get my stamp. Meanwhile you can sign.”

  Susannah signed the power of attorney.

  Gretchen went to her purse, brought out the stamp and notarized the document. “Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot. I have pictures for you.”

  She brought out a yellow shopping bag with Art Deco lettering: East Hampton Camera Shop. Susannah had a flash of memory – she’d seen a similar bag in Jessie’s dark room.

  “These are the shots of the kids I took in class the other day,” Gretchen said.
>
  “Thanks. I’ll look at them when I get home. I’ve got a bunch of errands to do now.”

  “Okay. See you tonight.”

  Susannah got in her car. Setting the East Hampton Camera Shop bag next to her, she felt a frisson of fear.

  Does Gretchen have some connection with that camera shop? she asked herself. Could the shop have another set of prints of me killing Burt?

  That’s ridiculous. Jessie did his own developing and printing.

  Jesus, I’m really getting paranoid. But what if Gretchen and Arnold do have incriminating pictures and they’re in cahoots with Healey to split Burt’s estate? — there’s this house, the cars, and probably Healey knows how to access Burt’s off-shore funds.

  That’s motive enough for all three of them to want me dead.

  That power of attorney I signed, I didn’t read it too carefully. That could’ve been a huge mistake.

  She visualized those high Ditch Plains sandstone cliffs, and suddenly remembered that Burt’s first wife had been pushed off those very cliffs. She visualized herself being shoved off the cantilevered deck by Gretchen and her husband. Falling... falling...

  Is this my imagination running wild? Or maybe it’s my instinct for self-preservation. But it’s my gut feeling and I’d be a fool to ignore it. I can’t go over there for dinner. I just can’t!

  CHAPTER 50

  The Nuevo Korean Kitchin, on First Avenue and 117th, was essentially a coffee shop. Jericho slid into a booth and called Mouse on his cell. The station house was just up the block, and his former partner said he’d be there in a few minutes.

  The place looked pretty much the same. Shiny turquoise walls, a big chalkboard menu featuring a weird assortment of dishes: Espaguetti con Pollo, Hamburg/Chessburg, Bistec Kang Suh, Toast’d English.

  The only difference was that now the cashier and the waitress were Pakistanis. Jericho had seen it often — when Korean delis and grocery stores became successful, they immediately hired Pakistani help. Interesting pecking order.

  Detective Mickey Davis walked in the door. He was a tall black man with white hair frizzing up over his high-domed forehead. He’d gotten much thinner in the past two years. And his hair was whiter. He wore rimless glasses, through which peered his startling gray-green eyes. “Musta been a honky in the woodpile,” he used to say.