by Rose Connors
Her male counterpart is not nearly so gracious. He admonishes me from the other side of the room, tells me I should not be in the autopsy suite in street clothes. I should change into a sterile scrub suit at once, he says. I ignore him.
I put the stepladder next to the gurney, at Jake Junior’s right side. I stand on its first rung and take two deep breaths to brace myself. I bend down and—quickly, so I can’t change my mind—I remove the drape.
I am nauseated and unsteady as I step up to the second rung of the ladder, only vaguely aware that both technicians are gaping at me, motionless. I look through the camera’s viewfinder and click once. I move the ladder to Jake Junior’s feet and do it again. I repeat the process by his left side, and again by his head. Four shots in all, and the film automatically rewinds.
I am out the door. The young male technician is scolding me again when it closes. Something about the rules regarding appropriate garb in sterile areas. They exist for a reason, I think he said.
Harry’s office is just another five-minute drive. He leads me to a small conference room and locks the door. The room is dimly lit. The shades are down, and the air is mercifully cool. Harry offers coffee, but I shake my head. “I can’t. My stomach.”
He pours a glass of water for me, sits in the chair next to mine, and takes my hands in his. “Marty, I’m so sorry.”
Part of me wants to fall into his arms and stay there. But I can’t. Instead I shake my head, take my hands back, retrieve the small cartridge of used film from my jacket pocket, and put it on the conference room table. I have to get through this quickly; I am going to be sick.
“Harry, do you have a film guy? Someone with a darkroom?”
“Yeah. A guy by the name of Kendall. I’ve used him for years.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yeah, I do, Marty. Why?”
“Have Mr. Kendall develop that. Please.”
“Okay, that’s easy. I’ll take it to him today.”
I am shaking. And I am losing the battle for my composure. Harry takes my hands back in his and sits quietly while I force some deep breaths. He doesn’t ask until I look up at him.
“What’s on it, Marty?”
“Twenty wildlife shots. Deer. Coyote. That sort of thing. Luke took them.”
Harry nods patiently.
“And four shots that I took. Just now. In the morgue.”
Harry leans close to me and brushes the damp hair from my forehead. “Photos of Jake Junior,” he says, trying to spare me as many words as he can.
“That’s right. Jake Junior. With a Roman numeral three on his chest.”
CHAPTER 36
Tuesday, June 15
Charlie Cahoon is dry-eyed today. He has no tears left. By the time I left him at midnight last night, he had cried an ocean. Dr. Paul O’Coyne, Charlie’s physician and lifelong friend, brought medication to the house to help him sleep. Charlie wouldn’t take it.
Before I left last night, I told Charlie that I would spend the day with him today. We will make the arrangements for Jake Junior together, I told him. We will schedule the visitation, the funeral, and the burial. We will call the out-of-town relatives and break the news. We’ll let them know when the visitation and burial will be held. Charlie looked at me as if I were speaking in tongues.
I dropped Luke off at Chatham High School at the regular time this morning. There are no classes today, but a team of grief counselors will address the entire student body in the gymnasium. Afterward, the counselors will meet one-on-one with any student who so chooses.
I encouraged Luke to meet with one of the counselors, to try to talk about the dear friend he has lost. He said he would try. Never before have I seen such pain in his eyes. He is much older today than he was yesterday.
At eight, I called the office to say I wouldn’t be coming in. I was surprised when Geraldine answered; she’s not usually in the office that early. She sounded relieved when she heard what I had to say. I should take all the time I need, she told me, for my own sake as well as Charlie’s. She and the Kydd are happy to cover for me.
Then I came here, to Charlie’s house.
Charlie is wearing the same clothes he had on last night. And he is seated at the kitchen table, right where he was when I left. One look at him tells me he hasn’t slept at all. I wonder if he has moved from that spot.
Charlie has an old-fashioned percolator on top of his gas stove. I fill its interior metal basket with coffee and put it on to perk. I wipe down the counters and wash the few dishes sitting in the sink—a ceramic cereal bowl, a spoon, and a Mason jar with a few drops of orange juice in it. Jake Junior had breakfast before he went bass fishing yesterday.
Once the coffee has perked, I pour a mug for each of us and join Charlie at the table. We sit in silence, Charlie staring into his mug as if he’s never seen coffee before. A window by the table is open, and the birds singing outside seem out of place. Everything about the beautiful late spring day seems wrong.
Charlie is a member of Saint Christopher’s Episcopal Church, a congregation that worships at a picturesque, white-steepled chapel on Main Street in Chatham. The priest, the Reverend Wallace Burrows, came by yesterday as soon as he heard what had happened to Jake Junior. But Charlie was unable to discuss arrangements; he was unable to speak at all.
“We should call Father Burrows first,” I tell Charlie. “We should schedule the funeral, and the timing of the other arrangements will fall into place.”
He just nods.
Charlie’s telephone—one of the last rotary phones on earth, I’m sure—sits on a small pine desk in the corner of the kitchen. When I dial the office number for Saint Christopher’s, Father Burrows answers the phone himself. He suggests Friday at ten for the funeral. I pass his suggestion along to Charlie, who agrees with a silent nod.
There is only one funeral parlor in Chatham and I dial that number next. Doane’s Funeral Home, on Crowell Road, is available on Thursday night for the visitation. We should come by this afternoon to make the arrangements. The director will call the Medical Examiner’s office and make sure the body can be released for burial.
Charlie has some family in the western part of Massachusetts, a couple of cousins and his wife’s nephew. I ask where I might find their telephone numbers, and he points to the bottom drawer of the desk. As I flip through his small address book, it occurs to me that I may have done all of this too quickly for Charlie. He hasn’t said a word all morning.
I turn back to the table and wait until he looks up at me. “Charlie, are these arrangements all right with you? Do you want to do anything differently?”
He looks into his coffee mug, as if the answer to my question might be floating in there. He clears his throat, but his voice is still gravelly from lack of use. “The arrangements are fine, Miss Marty. I appreciate all that you’re doing. I’ve just been thinking—wondering—about what Harry Madigan said the day the judge threw him in jail—what he said about the numbers.”
My eyes sting as the image of Jake Junior’s mutilated torso appears—uninvited—before me. I turn away from Charlie abruptly and dial a cousin’s number. I can’t tell him. Not yet.
CHAPTER 37
Wednesday, June 16
Harry is sitting on the curb in front of my parking spot again. His tie is pulled down to the center of his shirt. His jacket is on the grass beside him, smashed underneath his briefcase. A plain manila envelope is on top of the closed briefcase. I know before I get out of the car that it holds the photographs of Jake Junior.
I lean against the hood and Harry hands me the envelope. The wildlife photos are bound together with a rubber band, a large coyote on top. The four photos of Jake Junior are loose. The first shot I took, from Jake Junior’s right side, is out of focus. It’s useless.
But the other three shots are clear. Each one shows a clean incision running from shoulder to shoulder and another from hip to hip. Three vertical incisions, uniform in depth, connect those two.
“Now we both know for sure,” he says to the Thunderbird’s front fender. “You and I both know that somebody is out there murdering young men and numbering them. We also know that somebody is tampering with evidence.”
He turns to me and holds my eyes with his. “And whoever is doing the killing is also doing the tampering, Marty. Nothing else makes sense. Whoever this killer is, he or she has access to the Commonwealth’s evidence.”
My mind won’t accept Harry’s conclusion, but I have nothing to offer in rebuttal. Harry doesn’t wait for an answer. “I have a guy— the same guy who developed your film, Kendall—he can set up some equipment for us. In the Commonwealth’s evidence room; in the holding cells. A small camera and microphone in each.”
I am having trouble following this. “Harry, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we should set up surveillance, Marty. And we should do it right now. When the cops bag somebody for Jake Junior’s murder, we need to see who doctors the evidence to guarantee a conviction. Too many people have access to the Commonwealth’s evidence. You know that. Cops, lawyers, lab people, probably the janitor, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to nail this bastard.”
Harry talks to the Thunderbird’s fender again. “Kendall has the equipment. He’ll install it. But you’ve got the keys. You’ve got to get us into the evidence room and the holding cells.”
My head is splitting. “Harry, I can’t do that. I can’t plant surveillance equipment in my own office. Let me talk to Rob. I never got a chance to talk to him on Monday. I wanted to tell him”
“For Christ’s sake, Marty, we can’t trust even them. Rob doesn’t pour a cup of coffee without consulting Geraldine. And, even assuming the best, Geraldine won’t face up to any fact that might damage her goddamned campaign. You think she’ll acknowledge the possibility of a serial killer at this point? She’d have to admit that the Rodriguez conviction is bogus, and that the evidence being offered against Eddie Malone was manufactured by somebody—and not just anybody: an insider. She won’t do that, Marty. You know that as well as I do.”
Harry stands, so I do too. He grabs me by the shoulders and plants his face close to mine. “Marty, we don’t have time to waste. If the cops bag somebody tonight, the evidence that will convict him will be in place by tomorrow morning. And do you know what that means, Marty? Do you?”
I know what that means, but I can’t say it. Harry says it for me. “Number four.”
CHAPTER 38
Thursday, June 17
From the custodians to the judges, those who staff the Barnstable County Complex turn out to mourn Jake Junior. Most of the year-round population of Chatham is here as well. Doane’s Funeral Parlor is filled to capacity, and the line stretches out the door and halfway down Crowell Road. Charlie is overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support.
Visiting hours are scheduled from seven to nine this evening, but it will take much longer than that to accommodate this number of mourners. By eight o’clock, Charlie is visibly exhausted, and the line is still out the door. At my request, the director sets up a half dozen folding chairs at one end of the room, not far from Jake Junior’s plain white coffin. Charlie and I sit in two of the chairs and the visitors sit with us in small groups to convey their sympathies to Charlie. I hold his hand and keep his water glass filled.
Rob, Justin, and Jeff arrive together, but their visit with Charlie is short. Justin’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot. When he hugs Charlie, they both break down completely. Afterward, Rob and Jeff try to steer Justin away from Jake Junior’s coffin, but he won’t let them.
Justin falls to his knees in front of the white box, lays his wet cheek against the smooth wood, and throws both arms across the coffin’s closed lid. Luke crosses the room, kneels next to him, and puts his own long arms around Justin’s shoulders. Rob and Jeff step back from them, looking helpless.
Luke and Justin have always leaned on each other through life’s difficulties. They have never faced one of this magnitude before, but they will get through it together, the only way they know.
After Rob, Justin, and Jeff leave the funeral parlor, the line moves more quickly. Each group visits with Charlie just briefly, then moves to the coffin, where most of them make the sign of the cross and drop to the velvet-covered kneeler to pray for Jake Junior.
The coffin is closed, of course, because of the damage to Jake Junior’s skull and the slit in his throat. But next to the closed white box is a wooden easel, with an enlarged color photograph of Jake Junior and Charlie. Luke put it there.
Luke took the photo after this season’s final basketball game. Chatham won the game, and Jake Junior is beaming. He is a foot taller than his grandfather, and his smile shows the familiar little gap between his two front teeth. He has the basketball tucked under his left arm, and his right arm encircles his grandfather’s shoulders. Charlie is beaming too.
Luke is standing behind the easel, bidding good night to the mourners as they leave. All on his own, he has assumed the role of a host here, thanking those who have turned out to honor the memory of his fallen friend.
It’s almost midnight when the funeral director escorts us all to the front door. Luke climbs into the backseat of the Thunderbird, leaving the front passenger door open for Charlie. Charlie, still virtually sleepless since the murder, offered no protest when I suggested that I do the driving tonight for both of us.
The only traffic light on Main Street is at the intersection of Crowell Road. It’s red when we get there. I stop and look over at Charlie, who hasn’t said a word since bidding farewell to the last mourner. There are tears in his eyes.
Charlie looks back at me and shakes his head. “They loved him,” he says, his voice weak and wavering. “All those people. In all my days, I’ve never seen anything like it. They really loved Jake Junior.”
I reach over and put my hand on his. “They still do,” I tell him. “And they love you, too.”
Charlie’s tears flow freely as I turn left on Main Street. He doesn’t say anything else until I stop in front of his white clapboard house on Bridge Street. He pauses before getting out of the car, and turns toward me with a troubled look on his face.
“Miss Marty, you’ve been so good to me. I hate to ask you for anything else. I hate to do it. But I don’t know who else to ask.”
I hold up my hand to stop his apology. “Name it, Charlie. You know that. Just name it.”
“Well, tomorrow, at the service”
“What, Charlie?”
“Well, usually, someone gets up and says something about the person. You know, about his life.”
“You mean the eulogy?”
“That’s it, the eulogy. Well, I don’t know who to ask, Miss Marty. It’s been just Jake Junior and me for so long. And the good Lord knows I can’t speak in public. I wouldn’t remember my own name if I stood up to speak. It wouldn’t be right for Jake Junior.”
I’m about to tell Charlie to stop worrying, that I will be happy to say a few words about Jake Junior. But Luke speaks up first, leaning forward in the back seat.
“Mr. Cahoon, if it would be all right with you… well, I’d be honored to give the eulogy for Jake Junior.”
Charlie turns and faces him. Tears stream down Charlie’s face, but he actually smiles. “Oh, Luke,” he says, “I would be so grateful.”
CHAPTER 39
Friday, June 18
Main Street is closed to general traffic from Veterans’ Circle eastward. Only those cars and trucks headed to Jake Junior’s funeral are permitted through. Troopers posted at the rotary divert all other traffic north on Old Harbor Road, or south toward the Oyster Pond. Even so, Main Street is choked with cars and pedestrians.
The interior of Saint Christopher’s chapel is rustic, almost Spartan. There is a plain wooden altar at the front of the room, and a simple pulpit to the left of it. The woo
den pews are honey-colored; their kneelers are not padded. Prayer books and hymnals rest in matching wooden racks on the back of each pew.
The easel bearing the photograph of Charlie and Jake Junior stands next to the pulpit. Luke and I picked it up from the funeral parlor early this morning, when we drove Charlie there for his last few moments alone with Jake Junior’s remains. The photo provides the only splash of color in the church.
Charlie’s final moments with Jake Junior’s body siphoned the last of his reserves. When Luke and I pulled up to his house on Bridge Street, he emerged with a brown shopping bag, and he clutched it on his lap during the short ride to the funeral home. He carried it inside and set it down carefully on the kneeler next to Jake Junior’s coffin. When the director lifted the coffin’s white lid, Charlie fell to his knees beside the bag and sobbed. Luke and I stood behind him, helpless.
We couldn’t stand for long, though. The morticians had done all they could with Jake Junior’s corpse. They placed his head on the small satin pillow at an angle that minimized our view of his skull damage. They buttoned his shirt to the top and pulled it upward on his neck, covering most of the narrow slit in his throat. Still, the sight of Jake Junior, lifeless, brought Luke and me to our knees.
We sank to the carpeted floor, behind Charlie and his paper bag, until Charlie grew silent. The funeral director handed him one end of a soft white sheet, then, offering him the opportunity to cover his grandson for the last time, before the coffin’s lid would close for good. Charlie stood and accepted the sheet, but he didn’t cover Jake Junior, not then, anyway. Instead, he stroked Jake Junior’s forehead, and ran his hand down the front of Jake Junior’s suit jacket. When he reached inside the coffin, toward Jake Junior’s rigid right hand, I panicked.
