Death Vows

by Richard Stevenson

  Timmy said, “Why wouldn’t the DA have thought of that? He’s there in Pittsfield, and he must know about any organized crime that goes on.”

  Furst reached for her drink and finished it off. She said, “Thorny would know about such things, yes. But Thorny is a man in love with the obvious. Or what’s obvious to him, anyway. And what’s now obvious to Thorny is, the Sturdivant murder is an unfortunate spat involving a couple of South County fags.”

  I said, “Might I convince him otherwise?”

  “You could try,” Furst said. “But you’d probably have to drag in the actual mob contract man to do it. That sounds risky, Don. Probably impossible.”

  Timmy said, “Anyway, you’re probably imagining all that mob stuff. The Mafia is a dying institution. Black gangs have taken over the mob’s most popular function, keeping a sizable percentage of the population narcotized. The mob in this country exists mainly on HBO now, doesn’t it, Ramona?”

  She said, “No, not really. They’re actually still around,” and we all wondered what that could possibly mean in a place as sweetly benign as the Berkshires seemed to be.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Berkshire County House of Correction was off a main highway a few miles north of Pittsfield, near a shopping mall and a cement plant. The place was on the new side, with the let’s-not-overspend look of something put up by the Army Corps of Engineers in New Orleans – or maybe an especially brutal high school. A light drizzle was falling Saturday morning just before ten, a bummer for the weekenders in Great Barrington but probably no loss to the men and women who had been locked indoors for having behaved incorrectly, or for seeming to Thorne Cornwallis to have done so.

  I went through the security rigmarole – multiple ID checks, heavy metal doors opening and closing electronically – and was led eventually to a small room with a window to a corridor where corrections officers were stationed. I sat on one side of a metal conference table, and Fields was led in and left alone on the other side.

  He looked awful. His blue eyes were bloodshot and his red lips dry. Fields’ orange jumpsuit was a size too big for his mid-sized frame. He was subdued, as if he were resigned to spending the rest of his life in this building, even though no matter what happened he would not. Fields had a bruise on his left temple, and I asked him about that.

  “Did you get hit? You’re bruised.”

  A wan shrug. “An inmate. Last night I tried to change the TV to the Independent Film Channel.”

  “And somebody preferred Bill O’Reilly?”

  “No, sports.”

  “The inmates are learning about fair play. This is good, maybe.”

  “Not fair play. Jumping on people.” He said, “I appreciate your coming here.”

  “Glad to help. I’m getting paid. And in some weird way, I may have set all this in motion. I mean, myself and Jim Sturdivant and Steven Gaudios. So I have to get you out of this.”

  Fields said listlessly, “Yeah, that would be good.”

  “You didn’t shoot Sturdivant, did you?”

  “No.”

  “But you did hit him with a large cheese.”

  “He had it coming,” Fields said. “I know, I know. Assault is assault. And I don’t believe in violence. In Guido’s that day, I just lost it. I do that sometimes, as you have no doubt heard. Apparently it’s congenital, not that that’s any excuse.”

  “What did Sturdivant say that set you off?”

  “He… well, he insulted my mother.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The funny thing is, my mother is a horrible human being.”

  “How so?”

  “I was reacting to the fact that what he said about her is all true. When I heard it, I just blew up.”

  “Understandable. What did Jim say?”

  “Anyway, he didn’t even know my mother.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “How could he? Or at least there’s no way he could know that the woman who is my mother is my mother.”

  I said, “Is your mother a well-known criminal?”

  This produced a little slit of a smile. “You could say so, I do believe. The mother stuff started because Jim said I had offended his mother. Of course, I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. It turns out – he told me in Guido’s, and I remembered – that I had once told her and Jim’s brother to be quiet during a movie. They’d been bothering other people in the theater.”

  “I heard about this incident,” I said.

  “So when they wouldn’t shut up, I made them leave. They were really obnoxious about it. The guy – it was Jim’s brother, I now know – threatened to have somebody break my legs. The guy was a total thug.”

  “He used those words?” I said. “Somebody was going to break your legs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did anybody? Break your legs, or retaliate in any way?”

  “No, the guy and the old lady just left in a hurry. This was after somebody called the cops. A Great Barrington cop arrived just as they were leaving, but they seemed to want to drop the whole thing and just get the hell out of there, which they did do.”

  Outside the window, two officers led an unshaven young man in manacles down the corridor. Fields noted this somberly, as did I.

  I said, “Have you ever been in jail before, Barry? Or whatever your real name is.”

  He looked back at me and said, “No. I’m the first in my family to be incarcerated. Ironical as that may be.”

  “Are you going to tell me now about your family situation? My impression is, it’s dreadful.”

  His gaze was steady. “No, I’m not going to tell you about my family. Not now, not ever.”

  This was getting annoying. Fields bore no resemblance to Pol Pot, or to Ayman al-Zawahiri, or to George W. Bush’s recently retired secretary of the interior, Gale Norton. I said, “How come you won’t tell me? I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “Because that was then, and this is now. I’m not the same person I was before. That person is essentially dead, and to me so are all the people from that dead life. So just drop it. Because if you keep asking about my past life, you will be wasting your breath.”

  I said, “What did Sturdivant call your mother?”

  “He didn’t really call her anything. He just said I had insulted his mother, who was a refined Christian lady. He said next to his mother, my mother was probably an unholy screaming bitch.”

  “And that struck a chord?”

  Fields let himself smile. “I had to pay for the cheese. Two hundred eighteen dollars. I didn’t even get to keep it. It’s probably down at the Great Barrington police station. The Barrington cops are eating fine Italian cheese with their Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  I said, “Witnesses at Guido’s said you threatened to kill Sturdivant. And the night before, you even told me you were so mad at Jim you were going to get rid of him. What is anybody supposed to make of that?”

  Fields lowered his head. “I know I said that. That’s so awful.”

  “But you didn’t mean it.”

  He looked up at me now and said, “That’s what my mother and father used to say to me when I was bad. They said they were going to get rid of me. Or they were going to kill me, because I didn’t deserve to live. It’s hard to believe, I know.”

  “Well.”

  “And I sort of picked up that habit, apparently. Along with my family’s anger. It’s a problem,” Fields said, indicating the prison bars next to him.

  I didn’t really know how to respond, and Fields seemed ready to move on. So I said, “What about Bill Moore?”

  “What about him?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s helping you out, he told me.”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me that. He’s gone – gone to Washington, according to Jean Watrous.”

  “Then you can believe it. Jean would know.”

  “But how can Jim be helpful to me in Washington?”

  Fields considered this. “Bill k
nows people there who can probably give him information about Jim Sturdivant. Okay? Just be patient, Donald.”

  “Is Bill a former mob wiseguy?”

  He laughed. “Jesus, no.”

  “He told me he worked for the FBI. But I checked. No William Moore fitting Bill’s description ever worked for the FBI. So, what’s the story, Barry?”

  After a moment, Fields said, “The thing is… Well, actually… Bill changed his name, legally.”

  “After he left the bureau?”

  “Just after.”

  “How come?”

  Fields stared at the table and did not reply.

  I said, “Did the bureau help him change his identity? Was it their idea?”

  Fields shook his head once. “No.”

  “He changed his name on his own?”

  “You’d have to ask Bill about that,” Fields said. “It’s something that he wants to keep private.” He looked straight at me, poker-faced, and waited.

  I said, “Bill changed his name. You seem to have changed your name. Bud Radziwill seems to have changed his name. There must be something in the water in Massachusetts. Maybe Myra Greene is really Suzanne Rockett, and Thorne Cornwallis is actually Duncan N. Cadwallader. And before I leave the state I will have turned into somebody else too. What the hell is this all about, Barry, this business of just about everybody involved in this weird, ugly mess wearing masks?”

  “We all have our reasons,” Fields said.

  “Oh, you do.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “I might believe it if I only knew exactly or even approximately what it was I was supposed to believe.”

  Fields looked at me with what I took to be pity. “Look,” he said. “My family are monsters. I’m ashamed of them. Bud feels the same way about his. So, please. Just drop all that. I understand why you’re frustrated and confused, Don. But just try to understand. And Bill… well, he did something he’s ashamed of, and he’s trying to forget it. Not to forget it – he never can. But just to not have it coming up all the time. Okay?”

  I said, “Could any member of your family have been involved in Sturdivant’s shooting?”

  Fields looked startled. “They don’t know where I am. Or even who I am.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He shuddered. “Anyway, they don’t go around shooting people. They don’t have to.”

  So, what were Fields’ horrible family? Third World arms merchants? The Ceausescus of Romania?

  I said, “You told me yourself, Barry, that you were afraid that your family had found you. When you discovered that I was checking up on you, you thought it might be your family I was working for. Maybe somebody from wherever you came from did track you down. And set you up for the Sturdivant murder. Is that how your family operates? Your loathsome, despicable family?”

  Fields slumped. “I wish.”

  “You wish what?”

  “That they were that subtle.”

  “I want to pursue this. Along with other angles, including a possible mob-hit scenario.”

  “My family are not gangsters. That I can guarantee you,” Fields said and rolled his eyes toads-style.

  “But maybe Jim Sturdivant’s family has mob ties. This I’m about to look into.”

  Fields said, “I guess that’s what Bill might have meant.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to some people and look at some computer files that might have something on Sturdivant’s father and brother. Something at the Justice Department. Jim still has friends there. I met some of them once. They’re not as hard on Jim as he is on himself. Most of them aren’t, anyway.”

  I wondered about something. “Barry, if Jim is onto what he thinks might be a mob connection to Sturdivant’s murder, why doesn’t he just pursue that himself? Why spend money on me? Why bring me into it at all?”

  “Because,” Fields said without hesitation, “I don’t think he wants to solve the murder. He wants you to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “If he solves the crime, people will wonder how he did it and ask a lot of questions about Bill’s past. And that is exactly what he doesn’t want to happen. But if you solve the crime, he can resume his life as William Moore and I can resume my life as Barry Fields. It will be almost as if nothing ever happened.”

  “What’s your real first name? Does it start with a.?”

  Fields smiled. After a moment, he said, “Benjamin.”

  “Do you and Bill call each other by your real names sometimes?”

  “Yes. Those are our affectionate names for each other. Our former names. We use them when we make love, and other times too, sometimes, when nobody else is around.”

  “And does your former last name start with an.?”

  Fields grinned again. “Nope.”

  “Barry… I mean Benjamin…”

  “No,” he said, “you have to call me Barry. That’s really who I am now. To you, and even to myself. I really have reinvented myself, Donald, and you have to respect that. As for my family, and any possible connection to Jim’s death, I’ll have to think about that. If it makes any sense at all, I’ll tell you what you’d have to know to check it out. But I have to say, I doubt that’s the answer. These people are worse than mere homicidal maniacs. And if you never have to get anywhere near them, be grateful. Just be grateful for that.”

  “I hope I don’t have to meet them, Barry. But you should know, I will do what I have to do to get you out of here.”

  Fields suddenly teared up and looked away from me. In a thick voice he said, “Good. There’s no time to waste. This place is starting to get me down.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I met Timmy at the Starbucks where I’d dropped him off in a shopping center down the road from the jail. He was going at the Times crossword puzzle, all his mental resources cocked, loaded and firing sporadically. To see Timmy attack the Saturday or Sunday puzzle was like watching Washington commanding his troops at Yorktown. Timmy was barely aware that I had entered the coffee shop, and while he dealt decisively with some linguistic threat on his left flank, I looked over the day’s Berkshire Eagle.

  The Fields arraignment made page one, with a color photo the size of a beach blanket above the fold showing Fields being led into the Great Barrington courthouse. A smaller picture of Cornwallis bloviating on the courthouse steps bore the caption “DA Thorne Cornwallis called the murder of a Sheffield man on Wednesday ‘heinous.’”

  The accompanying story contained no new information, but the reporter had dug up several witnesses to Barry Fields’ assorted outbursts of temper. One woman said she had seen Fields “drag an old lady” out of the Triplex one time for talking. The old lady was not named. A separate story on Myra Greene’s indictment on harboring-a-fugitive charges centered on the popular local woman’s overnight incarceration. Three of Greene’s friends said this time Cornwallis had gone too far and he would surely pay at the polls in November. There was a photo of Greene in chains entering the courthouse, an unfiltered cigarette dangling from her lips.

  Timmy gradually became aware that he was in a room with other people, one of them me, and I described my visit with Barry Fields. I said I was pursuing two angles now, the mob-hit possibility, and the long-shot chance that some member of Fields’ horrible family had set him up.

  Timmy said, “How can you look at Fields’ family when you have no idea who they are?”

  “I might be able to persuade Moore or Radziwill to tell me who Fields really is – or used to be, as he thinks of it – if I can convince them it will help get Fields out of this fix he’s in. Or maybe Jean Watrous can be brought around – even though I did not win her over with my characterization of Moore as an assassin. That really sent her into a swivet, and I wish I knew why.”

  “Maybe because it’s true.”

  “I doubt it. Fields just told me Moore really did work for the FBI, but changed his name when he left the bureau and move
d up here. If it had been the CIA, I’d have to wonder what violence he might have perpetrated in the name of Jesus and George Tenet. But post-Hoover-era FBI agents tend to be law-abiding citizens. One possibility, of course, is that Moore killed somebody accidentally, and that’s the source of his terrible shame and regret. Anyway, Fields says Moore is in DC digging into Sturdivant’s family now, so we’ll see how that goes.”

  Timmy said, “Maybe you could find out who Fields used to be by ID-ing his fingerprints. It’s old-fashioned and low-tech. But I’ll bet it would work.”

  I helped myself to a sip of his tepid latte. “Maybe. I could easily get his prints on something. And now the Great Barrington cops must have his prints on file too, if I could get hold of them.”

  “And your old flame Lyle Barner at NYPD could run the prints through the national data center.”

  “The DA here has probably had Fields’ prints checked. Anyway,” I said, “it’s possible Fields – or whatever his name used to be – was never fingerprinted. If he was never arrested or never served in the military or worked for the government, he might not have been inked.”

  “Sometimes elementary school children are fingerprinted now. Though you have to wonder if Fields’ family would have allowed that. Anyway, maybe to the rest of us Fields’ allegedly vile family wouldn’t seem so rotten. Maybe they’re just eccentric.”

  “No, Radziwill knows about Barry’s family, and he told me they are truly wicked. Much worse than his own family, he said, and apparently the not-really-Radziwills are bad enough. And Moore doesn’t dispute it either.”

  Timmy said, “I wonder what the Republican family-values crowd would make of Fields’ family.”

  “Maybe they’d approve. They’re often pretty daffy.”

  “Or maybe the Republican family-values crowd are Fields’ family.”

  “Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me.”

  “Li’l Barry Falwell.”

  I said, “Timothy, I want you to go to Virginia and get me a sample of Jerry Falwell’s DNA.”

  “Okay. Will a strand of hair be okay?”

  “No, I want one of his jowls. Or a couple of hemorrhoids. Are you up to it?”