Absolute Certainty

by Rose Connors

  I have a sense of the crowd around me growing louder, but I keep my focus on Woody.

  “And Jake Cahoon was branded with a Roman numeral three. My superiors still say it isn’t so. But I’ve made two mistakes already. I won’t make a third, if I can help it.”

  Woody Timmons nods at me, a grateful look on his face. He is relieved, I know, to have company out on the public limb that he and Harry have occupied alone until now. For the first time, I take my eyes from his face and address the other reporters. I can’t really see them; there are too many bright lights in my eyes, too many flash-bulbs exploding.

  “Someone is murdering young men on the shores of Chatham and numbering their corpses. We will never stop him if we don’t face the fact that he’s out there. Please, call on the District Attorney’s office to treat these cases as serial murders, and to take all available steps to prevent the next one. Don’t wait for number four.”

  I pick up my briefcase and head for the car. I probably just lost my job. But I had to do it. I have to do all that I can do.

  CHAPTER 50

  Wednesday, June 30

  Barnstable County employees get paid on the last business day of every month, always at the end of the day. Sheila O’Brien from the accounting office wheels a metal cart—a smaller version of the ones used in grocery stores—through the complex, delivering one sealed gray envelope to each employee, the employee’s full name showing through the window in front. This monthly task has fallen to Sheila for twenty years, since she arrived on Cape Cod straight from County Cork in Ireland. And she is highly skilled at handling the good-natured abuse that comes her way as a result.

  Every payday the Kydd props the door to our offices open so he can listen to the banter. Since I have nothing better to do on this particular payday—even the regular docket was light this morning—I saunter down the hall to join him. He is already grinning when I get there.

  “Hey, Sheila,” someone hollers from the mail room, “you forgot a zero on this check—and the decimal point is all wrong.”

  “Is that so?” Sheila responds calmly, her normally light brogue growing a bit thick. “Well, then, we’ll have to settle up next month, won’t we? Just think of it as money in the bank. A nest egg of sorts.”

  And it’s not just the mail room staffers who deem themselves underpaid. Even the Chief Civil Clerk feels less than appreciated. “Now, Sheila,” she calls from her office. “Why don’t you keep this check and buy the governor a nice cup of coffee?”

  Sheila doesn’t miss a beat. “I would, dear,” she sings back, “but the governor likes a wee bun with his coffee and that check would never suffice.”

  The Kydd is laughing out loud by the time Sheila wheels her cart into our section. She disappears into Rob’s office first, then Geraldine’s. The Kydd’s office is next in line and, as usual, Sheila delivers a piece of advice along with his paycheck. “Don’t get wild and crazy with all that money, lad. Soon you’ll have a bride to support, you know.”

  Sheila has what seems to be an endless supply of nieces in the Old Country, any one of which, according to Sheila, would make an ideal wife for the Kydd. She’s been trying to marry him off since he got here. One of her favorite candidates, niece Cara, her brother’s eldest, is staying with Sheila for the summer, working two waitress jobs. The Kydd has agreed to take her out this Saturday night. I can’t be certain, but I think he’s dreading it.

  “Okay, Sheila,” he says. “I’m saving. I’m saving.”

  Sheila gives the Kydd a skeptical look, as if they are in-laws already, and drops his paycheck on the blotter in front of him. When she hands me mine, she tosses her black curls back toward Geraldine’s office. “Where’s the Queen Bee?”

  Sheila calls Geraldine the Queen Bee only when Geraldine can’t hear her. I raise my finger to my lips to silence her and lower my voice to a whisper. “She’s in her office, isn’t she?”

  “Do you think I’ve lost my marbles, Marty? Of course she’s not in her office. Her briefcase is gone. The light’s out.”

  The Kydd nods to confirm Sheila’s account. “She’s gone for the day, Marty. Left about an hour ago.”

  It’s odd for Geraldine to leave the office early. She arrives late sometimes, but she almost never leaves early. I raise my eyebrows at the Kydd, but he shrugs. “Don’t look at me,” he says. “I’m just a drone. The queen doesn’t tell me what’s going on.”

  With that, Sheila resumes her rounds, heading toward the probation officers, by far her toughest customers, she says. I walk slowly back to my office, my sealed gray envelope in hand, wondering what I will do with myself when I get there.

  When I reach my desk, I open the envelope and tuck the check into my jacket pocket. I am about to toss the envelope into the trash can when I realize it’s not empty. It holds another sheet of paper, the same size as the check. It’s pink.

  I know at once that I am holding the reason for Geraldine’s early departure. She is, I realize for the first time, a coward. She didn’t want to be here—didn’t want to face me—when I received this:

  Notice of Change of Status

  Employee: Martha Nickerson

  Former status: Active

  Present Status: Administrative Leave—Paid

  Instructions: Remove all personal items from office by close of business today. Do not return to premises unless so directed in writing.

  It’s the last line—the signature line—that hurts. The form is signed by Rob Mendell.

  CHAPTER 51

  Thursday, July 1

  The Kydd is not the least bit surprised. I expect him to be shocked— horrified, even—when I tell him about the cameras and microphones hidden in the evidence room and the holding cells. Instead, he nods calmly, looking from Harry to me, silently absorbing the information we’re giving him, the unbelievable request we’re making of him. For a long time, he says nothing.

  I am racked with guilt. Three times in the past hour, I have told the Kydd what he already knows. If he helps us, he almost certainly forfeits his future with the District Attorney’s office. If he doesn’t help us, another young man in Chatham will probably die.

  We are seated at my kitchen table. The Kydd came here straight from work, just as I asked. Harry has been here all afternoon, agonizing over this decision with me. But in fact, we both knew all along that we had no alternative. When the time comes, when the cops bag some punk for Jake Junior’s murder, someone has to monitor the sur veillance equipment in my office. And, on weekdays at least, I no longer have access to it.

  The Kydd shakes his head up and down and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

  I reach into my pocket for the key to my wooden file cabinet, but Harry gives me a look that stops me. He leans across the table toward the Kydd. “Make sure,” he says. “Don’t say yes unless you’re sure.”

  The Kydd looks back at Harry without blinking. “I don’t know you too well, Mr. Madigan. But I think I’ve gotten to know Marty pretty well during the past year. If she says those three corpses were numbered, then I believe they were. And that means I really don’t have a choice.”

  The Kydd looks from Harry to me. “I’m sure,” he says. “I’m with you.”

  I take the key from my pocket and drop it into his outstretched hand. He stares at it for a moment, and gives me a small grin. “Top drawer, right?”

  I am stunned. “How did you know?”

  His grin expands. “Your files,” he says. “They appeared in my file cabinet last Monday.”

  The files. I completely forgot. I moved them the day Bobo installed the equipment, but never said a word to the Kydd about them.

  The Kydd is grinning broadly now. “The cases are Adams to Bergman,” he says. “That’s the top drawer.”

  Harry finds this hilarious. “You’re good, Kydd,” he says through his laughter. “I have to hand it to you. You’re good. What else have you noticed that you haven’t mentioned?”

  I don’t think
Harry expects an answer to his question, but the Kydd appears to have one. Harry stops laughing as soon as he realizes.

  “Well, actually,” the Kydd says, “there is something.”

  Harry leans farther across the table, all traces of laughter gone.

  “What is it, Kydd? Tell us.”

  The Kydd is hesitant. He gives us both a nervous grin. “It’s just a thought,” he says. “It’s just a thought about the dates.”

  Harry nods at him.

  “I think the dates might matter, all three of them,” the Kydd says. He swallows hard before he elaborates. “If you look into the origin of Memorial Day, you’ll find that General John Alexander Logan ordered that the graves of all military men killed during the American Civil War be decorated on May thirtieth, 1868. That was the first Memorial Day.”

  Harry and I are silent. The Kydd continues, self-consciously. “Only they didn’t call it that.”

  The Kydd looks at me, inviting the question.

  “What did they call it, Kydd?”

  He swallows again. “They called it Decoration Day.”

  A chill runs down my spine. Harry leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle.

  “But Jake Junior,” I say to the Kydd. “He wasn’t killed on Memorial Day. What about him?”

  “Jake Junior was murdered on June fourteenth,” he begins.

  “Another Monday,” I say.

  The Kydd shakes his head. “Not just another Monday,” he says.

  “Flag Day.”

  Harry jumps out of his chair. I am glued to mine. “Flag Day,” I repeat. “Why does that matter?”

  The Kydd looks across the table at Harry, and I can see that they are on the same page. Harry takes over. “Our killer just happens to be operating in Chatham, Marty. But he’s mad as hell at the whole god-damned country. On two consecutive Decoration Days, he decorated a corpse. After the second one, he couldn’t wait that long to do it again. So he decorated the third corpse on Flag Day.”

  Harry sits down again, runs both hands through his tangled hair, and takes a deep breath. “He’s not going to be able to wait very long this time either. He’ll need to decorate a fourth corpse sometime soon.”

  Harry nods at the Kydd, then looks me straight in the eyes. “And we’re just hours away from the Fourth of July, Marty. America’s Birthday.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Saturday, July 3

  Being at Rob’s house is awkward, to say the least. The trust between us is gone. But Luke and Justin have celebrated their birthdays together for years, and Rob and I agreed that “our situation”—as he calls it—shouldn’t ruin the boys’ plans. Even so, I do my best to avoid conversation with him. When Jeff wanders in from next door, he gives me a comforting hug. The word has gotten around. I leave him and Rob in the kitchen—molding hamburger patties—and head out to Rob’s oceanside deck.

  I fire up the charcoal grill and appoint myself head chef. Jeff brings me a glass of white wine along with two trays of raw hamburgers and hot dogs from the kitchen. He sips his own glass of wine on the deck while I flip burgers and dogs on the grill and the party guests play volleyball on the beach. As they rotate in and out of the game, small groups of Luke’s friends follow their noses to the grill for dinner. The girls are content after one round of sandwiches, but the boys, it seems, will never stop eating.

  Luke didn’t want to come here tonight. Not so much because of the awkwardness with Rob—I haven’t given Luke the ugly details— but because of what happened to Jake Junior. It doesn’t seem right, Luke said, to have a party so soon. If Jake Junior were here, I asked him, what would he want you to do?

  Luke didn’t answer, but he’s here. And for the first time since Jake Junior died, Luke is wearing the army tee shirt Jake Junior gave to him and the rest of the team. It’s Luke’s small way, I think, of inviting Jake Junior’s spirit to the party. Do all that you can do. Be all that you can be.

  And I am glad that Luke is here. These thirty-eight kids have gone through eleven years of school and life together. They are a tight-knit group. They share a bond that only a small-town childhood can create. And every one of them has been touched in some way by the two most recent murders. It’s good for them to be together, to celebrate, to try to forget.

  It’s especially good for Luke and Justin. They are the best of friends, and they lean on each other through all of life’s peaks and valleys. They have confided in each other completely since Jake Junior’s death, spending hours walking the beaches of the Monomoy Wildlife Refuge and talking. Luke will spend the night here tonight, in Justin’s top bunk, as he does every year.

  I was reluctant to let Luke spend the night at Justin’s this year. No Chatham beach feels safe anymore. My instinct is to keep Luke close, but I can’t let fear take over his life—or mine. Fear destroys.

  Luke, of course, laughed at my concern. “We live on the beach too,” he said.

  “True,” I admitted.

  “And Rob Mendell’s security system is state of the art.”

  “Also true.”

  He laughed. “Ours is Danny Boy.”

  “Good point. Go pack.”

  When they wake up tomorrow, Luke and Justin will both be seventeen, headed into their senior year at Chatham High School. It’s hard for me to believe. Just yesterday, it seems, they were nervous first-graders.

  Dinner is over. The sky is turning brilliant shades of pink and purple, and the sun is dropping, inch by inch, into Nantucket Sound. The kids have already built the traditional bonfire—a pile of driftwood taller than they are. The sun’s descent is their cue to light it. Jeff hangs around just long enough to see the pyre ignite, then waves good night to Rob and me and heads back to the serenity next door.

  Justin and Rob run back and forth to the kitchen and, like the loaves and fishes, an endless supply of graham crackers, Hershey bars, and marshmallows miraculously appears. The kids settle into small groups around the fire, talking, laughing, and roasting s’mores. Luke seems happy.

  I help Rob with cleanup and bid him good night. He is relieved to see me go, I know. He is more uncomfortable about “our situation” than I am. Too bad, I think, that Geraldine has such complete control over the office.

  It’s almost midnight when I pull up to the cottage, and I hear the telephone ringing from the driveway. I hurry through the back door and trip over Danny Boy; he doesn’t move very quickly anymore. I tell him I’m sorry, flip on the kitchen light, and grab the cordless from the counter.

  It’s Harry. “Marty,” he says, “turn on the news.”

  The news is normally over by eleven-thirty, but I don’t argue. I carry the phone with me into the living room and turn on the television. A banner at the top of the screen tells me I am watching live footage of breaking news. Regularly scheduled programming, it says, will resume when coverage is complete.

  The live image of the television news anchor gives way to previously recorded footage of a leather-clad male, his black coat covering his face, being corralled through the side door of the District Courthouse by a dozen Barnstable police officers, all with weapons drawn. Everyone on the screen is soaking wet, even the guy in leather.

  Harry identifies the soggy male under the leather coat before the anchor does. “It’s Angel,” he says.

  Angelo Santini is known as “Angel” on the streets, a misnomer of the highest order. Angel is anything but. He makes Manuel Rodriguez look like an altar boy. According to the television anchorman, who is now a talking head in the corner of the screen, Angel was arrested in Hyannis approximately two hours ago and charged with a dozen offenses, at least half of them felonies.

  Angel had been in custody for about an hour, the talking head says, when he was moved from the police station to the holding cells at the Barnstable District Courthouse. Shortly after that, the charges against him were amended. Just moments ago, First Assistant District Attorney Geraldine Schilling confirmed by telephone that Angelo Santini is now charged with the firs
t-degree murder of Jacob Cahoon, Jr.

  The phone is plastered to the side of my head. “Saturday night,” I hear myself saying into the receiver. “He won’t be arraigned until Tuesday; Monday’s a holiday.”

  “Between now and then,” Harry says, “our guy will gin up some evidence. And if he’s planning to commemorate the Fourth of July, he’s going to have a busy weekend.”

  “I still have my keys to the courthouse, Harry. I’m on my way.”

  I keep the radio news on during the drive to Barnstable, but the reports don’t add any new information about Angel. There is, though, late breaking news on the West Coast. The Dr. Wu jury, having begun deliberations on Tuesday morning, came back with its verdict just moments ago. After four full days of deliberating, the panel rejected the insanity defense completely. On five independent counts of first-degree murder, the jury found Willie Chung guilty as charged.

  I’m glad Ralph is in Cincinnati.

  It’s one o’clock when I park behind the courthouse, at the far end of a half-dozen Barnstable County vans. It’s better, I think, to park away from my regular spot and the parking lot lights.

  Harry is already here, waiting in the darkness by the side door.

  CHAPTER 53

  Sunday, July 4

  My key doesn’t work. I should have known. Geraldine undoubtedly realized I didn’t turn it in. She had the lock changed.

  Harry uses his cell phone to call the Kydd, but he gets the answering machine. Three times he urges the Kydd to pick up, to no avail, then leaves his number and snaps the phone shut. “Where the hell is he?”

  Harry doesn’t expect me to know the answer to that question, but I do. “He’s out with Cara O’Brien.”

  “With who?”

  “Cara O’Brien, Sheila O’Brien’s niece. She’s visiting for the summer from Ireland. Sheila’s been pestering the Kydd since Cara got here. He finally agreed to take her out—and tonight’s the night.”