by Chris Knopf
Billy wasn’t just dead to us. It was as if he’d never existed.
I don’t remember the last time I saw him, what I said to him or what he said to me. I do remember never seeing him again after that night. His name never again passed my parents’ lips. If I’d been older, I’d have forced the issue, but I was blasted into compliance by the scale of their heartbreak.
It’s hard to gauge the relative effects this kind of thing can have on people, but I believe it was worse for my father. I was a late, probably somewhat unwelcome, arrival, though I knew he loved me, in the way you love an irritating house pet. Billy, on the other hand, he adored. An only child for eleven years, until I came along, Billy was the archetypal golden boy. Handsome, whip-smart, and athletic. Ready to head off that fall to his freshman year at Notre Dame.
It’s not a surprise that my father became so embittered. More the surprise that he lived out the rest of his life as well as he did. His heart in shreds, though his sanity reasonably intact.
The elephant concept explained a lot about why the remainder of my childhood played out as it did. I was lucky to have a smart psychiatrist, who laid it all out in logical terms. But luckier to have a priest named Father Dent who reminded me of why God put such a high premium on forgiveness, once I had something substantial to forgive.
Forgiveness was something I could manage with my parents, though only after they died. But never with Billy. Wherever I went, I took that elephant along with me. We had a deal. I kept him healthy and well-fed and he kept all memory of my brother and what he’d done to our family locked away in the deepest, darkest corner of my heart.
It’s good to have wise, compassionate friends like Randall Dodge standing by at the moment you break into uncontrollable tears. He knew to simply place a broad hand on my shoulder and gently squeeze while patiently waiting out the torrent.
“Bad news?” he asked when I finally got control of myself.
“Old news, but yes, bad.”
“I’ll get something to mop you up.”
While he was gone I brought up my e-mail program and between sobs sent myself a message with all the links to the title records and the press stories attached. For my sake and Randall’s, I thought it was best not to research the thing any further. But I knew I had to do it sometime, so why not be prepared.
“You okay?” Randall asked, handing me a roll of paper towels.
I nodded.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Tell me if I can help.”
“You did already. I’ll never forget it.”
“Same here.”
I got to know Randall when I defended him in a drug case that he’d been innocently swept into because of the foolish behavior of his own sibling, a younger brother who hardly deserved Randall’s gallantry. That I pulled him out of the fire without making things worse for young Alexander had put me on Randall’s eternal gratitude list.
Of course, thinking about that in the context of the moment almost triggered another gusher, but I got past it by thanking him again, insisting he take my car for the evening, and getting the hell out of his shop.
So now what? I thought as I felt myself being drawn to the place a few doors down that had an outdoor bar looking over the big parking lot behind the storefronts.
It was an interesting dilemma. Any number of people could have driven me home, including the Southampton Village Police, but that wasn’t my real problem. I had this thing I never thought about, much less talked about, simmering in my mind. Most people would say this would be a great time for one’s patient and understanding boyfriend to come out and provide comfort. But instead, my keenest desire was to have my irritating, often thoughtless, and usually frustrating male friend handle this particular duty.
First off, Sam Acquillo had a lot more experience with criminal behavior than Harry, who had virtually none. I knew that from the many times I’d defended Sam against criminal charges, the definition of a thankless task. Secondly, his very lack of sentimentality was what I needed right then. And I needed his brain, which was better than any I knew, and I knew some very brainy people.
“I’m busted up, Sam. And sober, but not for long,” I told him when he answered his cell phone.
“Sobriety’s way overrated.”
“You have about ten minutes to get here before things get dangerous.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
I told him the place, one we’d made dangerous on more than one occasion.
“I’m on a job only five minutes away,” he said. “Order me a double.”
Sam had been in R & D and the head of a huge division at an oil and gas company until he ran afoul of some corporate politics. These he tried to handle the way he did opponents as a young professional boxer, with less than stellar results. When I met him, his big-time career, fancy marriage, and glorious prospects had collapsed into a beat-up cottage on the banks of the Little Peconic Bay in Southampton, where his main pursuits were hitting golf balls for his dog and consuming enough Absolut vodka to materially affect the Swedish balance of trade.
That and drawing the attention of criminal justice, which is where I came in.
Somewhat happier times have ensued for Sam, which have done little to moderate his habits. That’s why I knew the offer of a free drink was the proper motivation.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, early for most carpenters to knock off for the day, but Sam had an easy relationship with Frank Entwhistle, the contractor he usually worked for. Sam not only did finish carpentry, but also custom cabinetmaking and architectural detail in a shop in the basement of his cottage. He made every oddball thing Frank asked him to and never missed a deadline. In return, Frank paid him by the week, gave him as much latitude as each project would allow, and ignored his personality.
True to his word, Sam appeared almost immediately, though not soon enough to see me down my first martini. Luckily, the second was on its way.
“What’s with the red face?” he asked as he sat next to me at the bar and gathered up his drink in one of his gnarled, chewed-up hands. “Fall asleep in the sun?”
“So I cried a little. I’m a woman. Get used to it.”
“That bad?”
“That complicated. You ever have something happen in your life so terrible that you just pretend it never did?” I asked him.
“Denial? Is that what you’re talking about? It’s my specialty. Almost as good as repression, about on par with avoidance.”
“Where does drunkenness fit in?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s drink these and find out.”
“You only drink. You never get drunk.”
“What’s life without a goal?”
“I do get drunk,” I said, “so let me get this out while my tongue can still form words.”
So I did, haltingly at first, then gaining momentum as the narrative unfolded, telling the story like it had happened to someone else. I started with the horse pasture and went all the way to the police interview with Ed Conklin, and on to the trip through the photo archives and what the subsequent research had revealed. Sam listened without comment or change in expression, two gifts I’d devoutly hoped for and he blessedly delivered.
“Is Billy dead or alive?” he asked me when I stopped to take a breath.
“I don’t know.”
“What happened to him after he went to jail?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Nothing. That’s the point. I know absolutely nothing.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I would have said nothing two days ago. Now it’s not so easy,” I said.
“Why do you think Eugenie had a picture of Delbert’s, which Billy knocked off back when it was the Peconic Pantry?”
I hoped the look I gave him adequately conveyed the words, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Didn’t I just say I don’t know anything?” I asked.
“That would include why Eugenie had a picture of the store Billy knocked off on that memory card.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“What I always do. Run down leads until they send me into a brick wall or over a cliff.”
“Maybe this time you could do that without pissing off the entire legal establishment.”
“Nice lecture coming from you,” I said.
He liked that.
“I’m with you, Jackie. I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he said.
This is what I wanted to hear, what I expected to hear, but it still made me start to tear up, a response I jumped on like a cat on a mouse, so nobody, not even Sam, saw it happen.
“I hate all this emotional shit flying around. It makes me feel vulnerable. I can’t afford that right now. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”
Sam didn’t react to that. He just stared into his drink as if there was an insult written on the bottom of the glass.
“You know, a second ago there was vodka in this thing. Where does it go?”
I waved the bartender over.
“So I need a plan,” I said, after ordering another round.
“No you don’t. You need to decide what to do next. That’ll tell you what to do after that. And so on.”
“Like you never plan,” I said.
“Not if I can help it.”
“So what do I do next?”
“Drink some more. It’ll come to you.”
“Fabulous help you’ve been here.”
He set down his drink and used both hands to rub his curly-haired head.
“Come on, Jackie. You know what you need to do. What’s with all this validation shit women always want? How many times have I put my life in your hands? You think I’d do that if I didn’t trust you? You’ve got a fucking head on your shoulders. Use it.”
Ah, that finely tuned sensitivity you can always count on with Sam.
“It’s the brother thing. It’s thrown me,” I said.
“That’s where you need to go. Or else drop the whole thing and go back to handling zoning variances for Muffy and Biff.”
“Don’t drag the Biffster into this. He’s stupid, but cute.”
By this time I was thoroughly and happily buzzed, meaning I was anesthetized against further blows to the heart. Which had been my plan from the start. There are times that call for prompt remedial action, and this was one of them.
A few martinis, a brutally honest pep talk, a little easing up on the psychic pressure valve, a ride home in Sam’s ridiculous old car, and in the end, the thing he said he didn’t want to give me, but invariably did.
Validation shit.
After Sam dropped me off, I thought it was a really good idea to pour a glass of wine, light a joint, strip down to a floppy tank top and gym shorts, and go sit on the mildewed outdoor furniture on the patio.
The sky was moonless and brilliant with stars. The woods rustled, buzzed, and faintly crackled around me as it always did when the warm seasons returned. The winds were from the south, so the ocean breeze had stripped the land of annoying bugs. It was cool, the air not entirely dry, but tolerably gentle to the touch.
After a few hours of brooding and more than my share of Chardonnay, I passed out on the picnic table, bolstered and resolute.
7
It’s not easy to pick out the perfect outfit for a visit to the police. Not for lawyers, anyway. I don’t know what the issues are for suspects or bail bondsmen.
You want to be professional and serious, but not completely unapproachable. Since you’re entering a seriously male environment, you have to be modest, but a little bit of girl goes a long way. Though not so much that you attract the ire of lady cops and administrative workers, who can ruin your prospects of a successful relationship with the squad room.
All women fret over decisions like this, but for me it’s agony on a Wagnerian scale.
I blame it all on my mother, who had only one look. Dowdy. I know this isn’t fair, since there are plenty of women whose mothers had similar failings who still look like they just stepped off a runway.
I chose a light wool suit and silk blouse with a strategically placed top button and a pair of sensible flats. I knew I was on safe ground, since this was the only outfit that ever drew a compliment from Edith Madison, the Suffolk County district attorney. This was no mean trick, which you’d know if you ever saw Edith Madison.
I called ahead to make sure Joe Sullivan was in the office.
“Were there any photos in that camera?” I asked as soon as he got on the phone.
“Why?” he asked, all suspicious right off the bat.
“Just tell me.”
“No. It’s digital. No memory card in the camera or in the case.”
“I have something for you,” I said.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“The memory card. I found it in my pants pocket. Balled up in a piece of paper I must have snatched off the ground.”
I was never very good at long silences. Especially over the phone.
“Still there, Joe?” I asked.
“Bring it in now,” he said, and hung up the phone.
“Excellent,” I said into the dead line.
My Volvo was waiting for me in the driveway with the keys under the floor mat. It didn’t surprise me that Randall had managed the trick without me knowing it. I’d later have to hear him extol the Native craft of moving about the earth unnoticed by humans, wildlife, or police officers, like the ones I was headed out to see.
Southampton Town Police headquarters is in a white, single-story building surrounded by scrub pine and pin oaks in the north end of Hampton Bays. The front desk was run by a short-haired Tasmanian devil named Janet Orlovsky, who was nicer to me than she was to most people, though not what you’d actually call nice.
“You have an appointment?” she asked when I told her I was there to see Joe Sullivan.
“Yes. He told me he wanted to see me immediately.”
“He didn’t tell me,” she said.
I just smiled at her sympathetically, refusing to let her draw me into a contest. I looked at her phone through the slab of bulletproof glass she sat behind. She frowned and dialed Joe’s number. A few moments later the door to the reception area opened, but it wasn’t Sullivan. It was his boss, Ross Semple, the chief of police.
“Hello, Ms. Swaitkowski,” he said, offering his hand with the sort of antique flourish you see in corny old movies. “Terribly glad to see you.”
I took his hand, but kept a safe distance. Not that Ross was lecherous in any way, but his movements were so impetuous and awkward, I was afraid he’d smack me by mistake.
“Nice to see you, too. I have a meeting with Joe Sullivan.”
“You do? Isn’t that capital.”
Ross was in his mid-fifties, with a minimum of his iron gray hair intact, which he flaunted by keeping it long and disarrayed. He had a square jaw and high cheekbones, which sounds attractive, but somehow wasn’t on Ross’s face. Which might have been the fault of his glasses, which were thick as bottle bottoms and set in heavy black frames.
He’d spent the first half of his career in homicide, first in Manhattan, then in the South Bronx. He’d seen more dead bodies and tracked down more killers than Southampton had seen in three centuries. Born and raised here, he’d applied for a detective’s job when he started having kids. No one who ever worked with Ross thought he was running from the carnage. And if they did, they’d likely wait until Ross was dead and buried before giving voice to that opinion.
“You knew I was coming in, didn’t you, Ross.”
“Of course I did, Jackie. I’m omniscient. It’s why they made me chief of police.” He gave another dopey flourish, bowed, and held the door to the squad room open for me. “If you’ll do me the greatest of privileges and accompany me to my office, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Orlovsky looked my way with more than a little satisfaction. Sadist.
>
None of the cops or administrative people made eye contact as I walked through the squad room to Ross’s office in the back. Except for Joe Sullivan, who gave me a look that was impossible to misinterpret.
“Listen, Ross,” I said as I took one of the chairs in front of his desk, “it can happen that people find evidence after the fact.”
“Absolutely they can. I have myself.”
I took the memory card out of the inside pocket of my suit jacket and tossed it on his desk.
“What’s on it?” he asked without looking down.
“If I knew that, it would mean I’d taken the trouble to download the pictures before I brought it to you.”
He dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the top drawer of his desk and lit one. He threw me the pack, which I caught with one hand. Then a little beanbag ashtray and a Bic lighter, which I almost fumbled. Years before, the Town of Southampton had instituted fines for smoking in municipal buildings, but so far no one had volunteered to serve one on the chief.
“Do you have them with you? The printouts?” he asked.
I took the duplicate copies out of the other inside pocket and threw them on his desk next to the memory card. I felt like we were playing a weird form of tennis.
“How many photos and what are they of?” he asked, his head enshrouded in cigarette smoke. I told him as I lit one of my own. “What do they mean?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said, which was mostly true.
He leaned back in his wreck of an office chair and put his feet up on the desk, right on top of a stack of papers. His office was a mess, which should have made me comfortable, but I’m too much of a hypocrite. I really don’t like other people’s messes. It’s too easy to hide dangerous things. I like a nice clear space with everything in view.
“We’ve been down this road before, haven’t we, Jackie.”
“Which road?”
“The one where you involve yourself in matters that lie outside your professional responsibilities.”
“That’s a matter of interpretation, Ross. And even if there were an occasion or two when I might have accidently strayed into ambiguous territory, that isn’t the case here, since I’m acting to uphold my professional responsibilities.”
