Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “To hear what you found. I want ironclad proof.”

  “Not sure you’re getting that.”

  “We’ve dealt with shaky photographic evidence before. How much is the word of a pissed-off ex-wife worth? That is, if we even believe her?”

  “I believe her.”

  “She’s in the wind now. Besides, you spend too much time with the crazies online.”

  “Life is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”

  “Okay, Oliver. Don’t forget to strap on your tinfoil hat when you get home.”

  “Har har. There was a reason you were meant to find that death certificate.”

  “Or, y’know, it was a discarded scrap of paper in an old winter coat someone donated.”

  “It’s your dime, Porter. Till next time.” Fisher stood at his open car door, gazing up at the peril of Lamentation Mountain. “I mean it, check in on Charlie.”

  I promised I would.

  After loading up the U-Haul, which had taken all day, sweating balls in the subzero, I’d locked up and was sitting in my truck. Inside a brief pocket of reception, I pulled my cell and started to call Alison. But I stopped, and dialed my ex-wife instead. Jenny didn’t pick up. I left a message to have Aiden call me later, and to tell him I loved him, and that I was looking forward to seeing him soon.

  I’d just exited the parking lot, trailer burdened with a final, heavy load, when I saw the lights flashing and Turley waving behind the wheel. I glided to the shoulder of the long country road. Miles of nothing, in the middle of nowhere, with a long race still to run.

  Through my side-view, I watched Turley stride up, hoisting britches around his big belly.

  I left the engine idling and hopped out to meet him. Sooner we were done here, faster I got back on the road.

  “What’s up, Turley?” I gestured into the encroaching dusk. “Sort of in a hurry.”

  “Talked to Stuberville police. Had quite a night, eh?”

  “Yeah. A fucking blast.”

  “I know you’re interested in the boy. Thought you might like an update.” He started back to his squad car, rolling his head for me to follow. It was freezing on the side of that road, gusts gathering down the range, a straight shot blowing through town.

  “Got back ballistics,” Turley said after we’d slipped into the front seat of his toasty sheriff’s car. “Try and match the bullet to the gun that killed Mortenson.”

  “I was there when Richard Rodgers shot him.”

  “Wasn’t Rodgers’ gun.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Besides the markings not matching his gun? Entry wound came from the back.”

  “But I saw Richard Rodgers. He had the hunting rifle in his hands. I heard the blast.”

  “Wasn’t even loaded.”

  The news both relieved and depressed the shit out of me. Alison wouldn’t hate me, which was cool. But now Richard wouldn’t be shipped to jail and they’d stay married. Christ, I really was an asshole.

  “Who fired the shot?”

  “Good question. Park ranger found a body this afternoon. Bottom of a ravine. About half a mile from the Carlson place— you know the preserve over the hill? Some unforgiving geography up there. No gun. No face either. Dropped from on high. Skull caved in. Fingerprints revealed his identity though. Salvadore Bosco. Name ring any bells?”

  I shook my head. “I’m guessing he wasn’t some hiker who slipped and fell?”

  “Salvadore Bosco was an Italian ex-military sharpshooter. And I don’t think too many hikers are scaling rockwall in a Dormeuil Vanquish suit.”

  My mind went beyond bullet holes, to warnings about trespassers thrown off cliffs, a bedtime headcount a couple members short.

  “Didn’t see the body myself,” Turley said, “but the physical description—stocky, bald as a cue, the nice threads—certainly sounds like our boy Biscoglio.”

  How protective were those graduates of their sacred ground? Or had they merely been following orders?

  “Phillip back with Ethan?”

  Turley nodded.

  I made for the handle but stopped. “You did the autopsy on Joanne Crowder?”

  “Not me personally.”

  “I mean, can Ashton PD access the report?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Teeth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I WAS SURPRISED you agreed to meet me.”

  “I’ll admit my first instinct was to say no. Considering what you were asking for.” Alison glanced around the upscale dining room. Justine’s Supper Club was the nicest restaurant I knew. I’d only been there once before, with Jenny. No entree less than thirty bucks on the menu. Crackling fireplace and soft lighting, the kind of place where waiters in black vests come by every six minutes to scrape away breadcrumbs from stiff, bleached tablecloths. Was a drive, too, all the way to Piedmont, but some things are worth the effort.

  A waiter came by for our drinks. I bypassed beer for some fancy six-dollar Italian soda. Alison said she was fine with water.

  “How’s Richard?”

  “In treatment, getting the help he needs.”

  “Inpatient?”

  “If he was home, do you think I’d be here?” She attempted a smile. “Before I agree to do this, I need to know I’m helping create a solution and not causing more problems.”

  “We’re on the same side here.”

  “Are we?” Alison plucked a warm roll from the breadbasket lined with linen. “How did you convince the cops to even look into this without comparable DNA?”

  “Besides the letter? Dental records.”

  “If the girl grew up as poor as you say, shantytown in a foreign country, no one’s keeping reliable dental records.”

  “She had gold crowns.”

  “People that poor don’t get gold crowns.”

  “I know.” I sipped my sparkling grapefruit soda. “Forensics found traces of mercury and chromium-cobalt beneath the expensive upgrades.”

  Alison started to come around. “And with all that money, the Crowders aren’t skimping on dentistry.”

  “Each part of the globe carries unique markers. See it all the time in estate clearing. Different alloys, sheen, chemical compounds.”

  Alison smiled. “Very smart, Jay.”

  Another well-groomed waiter took our dinner order. Alison got the Chilean sea bass. I wanted to tell her that there’s no such thing, that when you order Chilean sea bass you are actually getting Patagonian toothfish; it’s a marketing scam, like baby carrots or organic produce, but I was riding high and didn’t want to risk sounding like a know-it-all. I got the rib eye, cooked extra bloody.

  “I told you Joanne stashed Phillip to keep him safe.”

  “In so many words.”

  “What happens now?”

  “The letter and teeth were enough to bend Turley’s ear. But without Phillip’s DNA, this theory is DOA. Ethan isn’t signing off on a sample, and if he catches wind, he’s gone. Probably to a country without extradition. You provide the cops with the blood work, they match it against the autopsy results—”

  “I mean what happens to Phillip?”

  “He’ll be eighteen in a few months. If I’m right about this, either Dad goes away for murder and the money’s all Phillip’s, or he has enough evidence for a civil suit, or—”

  “Is this really about Phillip?”

  “It’s about a man who almost got away with murder. Twice. Lied to his own son. Terrorized his family.” I paused. “It’s about justice.”

  “Ethan Crowder is also a very rich man.”

  “And?”

  “And don’t you think I researched you, too? I read about the Lombardis and Judge Roberts. You seem to have a grudge against people with money.”

  “That’s not true.” What was it with the fucking Internet? Was nothing sacred? “I don’t like people thinking their bankroll can buy their way out of tr
ouble. You pull this shit when you’re broke, you’re in prison. For life. You’re rich like Ethan Crowder—”

  “Or the Lombardis.”

  “Wrong is wrong.”

  “Can I give you some advice, Jay?”

  “What am I supposed to say? No?”

  “Life isn’t fair. You live life on life’s terms.”

  “Isn’t that a bumper sticker?”

  “One of many. But things become clichés because they are true. I think it’s honorable you say you want to do the right thing. I’m glad you still have passion stirring inside you to get outraged. But what you are chasing, this sense of vengeance, retribution, payback for perceived slights? It will run you down, destroy you, leave you heartbroken and alone.”

  “You wanted to help Phillip, right? This helps Phillip.”

  “This might help Phillip. But I’d also like to help you.”

  “Good. I can use that blood work.”

  “I don’t mean sending along a sample nurses took when Phillip was admitted, which, against my better judgment, I’ve already done.” She looked me in the eye, rapt. “You ever hear the saying, ‘When you point a finger at someone else, you have four more pointing back at you’?”

  “Yeah. And I’ve always hated it. I had a chance a few years ago to put away a very bad man. I didn’t pursue the pedophile charges against Gerry Lombardi. Thought the evidence was too weak. Or maybe the mountain was too steep to climb. He walked. And it’s eaten away at me since.”

  “Ethan Crowder is not Gerry Lombardi.”

  “I know that. But I’m still me. I want to do better. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” she said, “it does.”

  “Now can I ask you something?”

  “Are you asking . . . if you can ask a question?” She grinned at the exact line I’d used on her the other day. She had a beautiful smile, lit up her whole face.

  “What do you think would’ve happened? With us?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “I mean, if things were different?”

  “It’s a pointless question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if things were different, everything would be different. You. Me. We wouldn’t be sitting here, about to eat a nice dinner. That’s sort of the point.”

  “Life on life’s terms.”

  Alison winked.

  Our food came, and we ate like regular grown-ups, talking in between bites about shit that neither cared about, or at least that I didn’t care about, the harsh onset of winter, the new Coos County Treatment Center. It was a nice meal. I insisted on picking up the tab, even though it seriously tapped into my reserves.

  Afterwards, I walked with her through the lightly falling snow, waiting while the valet fetched her car. I’d given up on the idea that there could be anything more between us. When her Lexus LC arrived and I went in for a goodnight hug, Alison kissed me on the cheek. I felt like the kiss lingered a little longer, was a bit closer to the lips than normal. But that might’ve been wishful thinking.

  Alison got in her car and drove away. I watched the taillights disappear, until every trace of her was gone.

  For the next week, I worked twelve-hour days. I had my son this weekend, and wanted to make the most of our time together. I was glad to stay busy. When I was out in the fields, I was in my element. No time to worry or think too much.

  I wasn’t surprised when Turley called with the test results. In fact, I would’ve been shocked by any other outcome.

  That was how my two crazy weeks ended. With vindication. The blood sample Alison supplied and the dental work of “Joanne” Crowder left Ethan with a lot of explaining to do. On my lunch break, I bundled the lab results and everything Isabelle had mailed me, letter, pictures, the death certificate, and shipped it off to Boston. I’d done my part. It was somebody else’s problem now. Tomorrow, Saturday, I’d drive over to Burlington to get my son. No more Ethan Crowder or Maria Morales or even Alison Rodgers. This weekend I’d just be a dad. I’d take Aiden wherever he wanted to go, do whatever he wanted to do. Chuck E. Cheese. Bowling. Snowball fights. Donuts. His choice. If there’s one perk of being a part-time dad, it’s that in my limited time I could spoil the shit out of my son. And I planned to do just that.

  But I still had Friday night to kill. Plus, I hadn’t seen Charlie since he got out of the hospital. I knew I’d have to endure the AA Kool-Aid—that Higher Power shit irritated me. But, fuck it, if it was keeping him sober, God bless. Driving out to his house in the flats, I was looking forward to having a conversation sober. I tried to recall the last time we’d spoken without a bottle between us. Been a while, that’s for sure.

  I got to Charlie’s house around dusk, pink clouds parting to reveal a beautiful setting sun.

  The light was on in his living room, and I could see the soft glow of his television through the front window, so I knew he was home, even if I didn’t see the bicycle.

  The front door was unlocked, Charlie vegging out in front of his TV.

  I stomped the snow from my boots and shut the door.

  “Dude, you will never believe what happened.” I went to the fridge for a beer without even thinking. Of course there was no beer. Wasn’t much food either. “Man, you have to go to the grocery store.” Who was I to criticize? Without Jenny to do the shopping and cooking, I ate a lot of take-out. Remembering he didn’t have wheels anymore, I added, “I have Aiden this weekend, but maybe Monday we can make a run before I start work?” Even as I said it, I knew hitting the Price Chopper that early was impossible. I filled a glass of tap, peering up at the mountain. A bright white moon rose, perfectly balanced between peaks.

  Charlie didn’t answer. I curled around the doorframe to see what movie had my best friend so enthralled. The original Rocky. Nice. It was early in the film, the part where Mickey has come to Rocky’s shithole apartment and offers to train him for his improbable title shot, and Rocky, still pissed Mickey gave away his locker, hides in the can till he leaves. Always cracked me up when Rocky pops his head out, sees Mickey still there, and then ducks back inside. Always made Charlie laugh, too, but this time he didn’t even offer a courtesy chuckle. I recalled what Alison said, how initial enthusiasm wears off. Addicts and alcoholics race out of the gate. Then reality sets in and people get depressed. The way Charlie’s shoulders slumped and his head hung low, I saw he had the blues. We had to talk. I’d been putting it off too long.

  Heading for the living room, I dropped in the sofa, ready to fill in my buddy on what may’ve been the weirdest two weeks of my life. Charlie didn’t bother glancing over. Now Rocky was drinking raw eggs at the crack of dawn while Philly trains rumbled over track. Charlie and I both owned a copy of the film. I remembered buying the DVDs together, back when you used to have to go to a physical store to do those things. There was this one summer in particular where all we did was drive up and down the Turnpike, hitting vintage record shops, buying music and movies. Man, what were we then? Nineteen? Seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “So, Ethan Crowder—well, let’s back up.” I wanted to spare him the boring stuff, get right to the juicy parts. “We found out Crowder’s ex-wife was living in Wyoming—did Fisher tell you? Woman named Isabelle. Anyway, here’s where it gets strange. Even before that I found that death certificate . . .” I couldn’t remember if Charlie knew about the death certificate. Was he still in the hospital? Didn’t matter. He was there the night I got the coat. “Long story short, Isabelle’s number was on the death certificate.”

  I waited for a little acknowledgment. A show of mild interest wouldn’t kill the guy. It was hard to hear over the TV. He had the volume blaring. I thought about asking him to turn it down, but I spoke louder.

  “We run a DNA test, right? With samples from the autopsy and blood drawn at Rewrite, and you’re never going to believe this, Charlie. Guess?” He didn’t answer, in no mood for games. I went ahead with the big reveal anyway. “Dude, they aren’t even re—”


  That’s when I noticed something was wrong with Charlie. He hadn’t said a word since I walked in. He was sitting there, watching TV with his eyes wide open, but now I saw he wasn’t blinking either. His skin was tinged the wrong color, purplish, sallow and washed-out. Even after noting all this, I refused to allow reality to set in.

  I don’t think I moved for ten minutes, sitting on the sofa, watching my friend’s rigid, immovable body, trying to process this latest final cut.

  When I pushed myself up and walked over, I now saw Charlie clutched a tall glass in his other hand. It was filled with a frothy brown liquid. Took me a moment to understand I wasn’t staring at stout. I was looking at vomit. In a dark corner, I counted the empty bottles. How long had Charlie sat in that chair? Refusing to get up, even as his pancreas and organs failed him, puking from where he sat to speed up the process. A man on a mission with no time to waste, in such a hurry to get out of here that he couldn’t delay departure long enough to throw up in the toilet. Like those bars where they put a drain in the floor, right beneath the stools, so men can whip out their dicks, piss on the spot, and keep drinking.

  “You stupid sonofabitch, Charlie,” I said to no one.

  I knew I had to phone it in. Then I’d have to sit around and wait for the ambulance and coroner, the cops, Turley, answer some more stupid fucking questions. I didn’t have the heart for that right now. I put my hand on his shoulder and felt the cold through the thin fabric of his tee shirt, the life that was no longer inside him. The pungent, sour bile of days’-old vomit rose up from the froth.

  I rushed back in the kitchen, wishing Fisher had forgotten to toss one beer. All this booze, he couldn’t save one beer? I searched the pantry, cupboards, broom closet. I didn’t have my meds with me. Just one drink. I could feel myself cracking the tab, tasting the ice-cold hops gliding over my tongue, soothing the back of my throat, the relief that would come with the clean bubbles and crisp burn. Was that too much to ask?

  No, not a panic attack. Not now. Why did I leave my apartment without my pills? Here it comes. I hyperventilated, heart racing, terror invading, fear overtaking my body, jamming up my limbs, seizing fingertips and toes, choking my neck, cutting off air supply and making it hard to breathe. No choice but to weather the storm. I reached for the edge of something reliable to hold onto.