by Rick Boyer
"You? Medical examiner?" she said. "You nuts, or what?"
"Or what," I said. "Now can you try to get your brother on the phone?"
NINE
"No, Doc. Keegan's not trying to blow you guys out of the water. Believe me. It's just that he doesn't want you to get an unrealistic view of the situation, is all."
"But why does he have to paint the bleakest possible picture, for Chrissakes?"
"Look, take the alibi thing. You say you were with Jack for two days aboard the boat. Fine. But you're his father; you're an interested party, a biased witness. A jury could be persuaded you're lying to protect your son. I mean, Pocassett's just a hop and a skip from Woods Hole. They could buy it that Jack went back to the house and ransacked it to divert suspicion away from him. What would be great is an unbiased witness, a casual observer. That's why it's a shame you didn't bump into some Joe Blow who could've seen—"
"Yeah, but tough shit, Joe. We didn't. And what really pissed me off was when he suggested Jack could have tossed the house himself before he left on Friday. Why did he even suggest that?"
"Why? Because a prosecutor's going to, if this thing goes that far."
"You really think it's going to? I can't believe it. You really think—"
"Look, I hope to hell not. But just don't count on being out of the woods, is all I'm saying. Where's Sis?"
"In the shower. You want me to get her?"
"No, I'll call back. And I'll be down there tomorrow, so in the meantime keep cool, and don't get yourself in troub—"
"You know I'd never—"
"Ha! I know you too well."
"Moe's coming down today. I think I'll take him with me when I see Lionel Hartzell, the loony professor with the magic silver fish.”
"The what?"
"Never mind. Bye."
I hung up and sat back in the dorm's easy chair, uneasily, waiting for Mary to emerge from the shower. She did, dressed in a madras wraparound skirt and a white silk blouse, with big silver earrings and sandals with cork soles. She looked like a Mexican woman, only darker.
The phone rang again, and I picked it up.
"Dr. Adams? Hi, this is Art Hagstrom. I don't know if you've ever heard my name before, but I'm—"
"The director of MBL. Yes, Jack's mentioned you often, and most favorably, too."
"Well I'm glad to hear it, and the feeling is very mutual. Jack's a fine young man and a good scholar, too."
"Even though he might be a murderer."
"Aw, c'mon. Nobody here believes that. In fact, the reason I'm anxious to pay you a call is to discuss something that could be important."
"Where are you now?"
"Downstairs in the lobby."
"Well, come on up, then."
Art Hagstrom was tall, with dark curly hair, and a set of bushy eyebrows to match. Jack had told us about his national reputation. His pleasant smile and casual manner belied the path-breaking work in gene cloning and cell replication that he was engaged in. He sat at the table with us, dressed in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, Topsiders dock loafers with no socks. He sure didn't look like a research scientist. He leaned forward, clapped his cupped hands together as if calling a meeting to order, and said: "Okay, here goes. I may slip into a shit pile for telling you this, but, as I said, it may have a slight bearing on all this craziness. I only ask that you not tell a soul. Agreed?"
We nodded.
"Good. I'm going to tell this to the police, but I feel you should both hear it too, since you're Jack's parents. just as long as you keep in mind that it's mostly hearsay. The upshot is: I have reason to think that Andrew Cunningham, despite his charm and talent, was not the young innocent he appeared to be."
"Really? Hmmmm. Funny you should mention that. Jack had some interesting things to say about him on the way down here. So what do you know?"
"Well, first of all, I'm not trying to paint a villainous picture here. There was no denying his brilliance, or his good looks. Or his charming personality, or his drive. Perhaps it's his drive that I'm touching on here. About two weeks ago, I was visited by two gentlemen in extremely expensive, well-fitting suits. One of them was big, so big he looked like a linebacker. In the privacy of my office, they informed me that Andy owed them a lot of money in the form of an unpaid loan, and could I please set aside part of his paycheck to square things?"
"Sounds like they weren't from the local finance company," said Mary.
"Sounds like maybe they were some of your countrymen, hon," I said. Immediately, I felt a sharp kick in my shin. Cork soles notwithstanding, the pain was considerable. She leaned over close to my ear.
"Next one's gonna be higher up, and right over home plate,” she hissed in a whisper only I could hear. And then, in an audible voice as demure as a newly sworn-in nun, she said, "Please continue, Dr. Hagstrom."
"Uh . . . sure. Well, it didn't take me long to realize these were underworld characters. I explained that I had nothing whatsoever to do with Andy's pay. And, as you know, the pay for graduate assistants is hardly extraordinary. Of course I didn't want to deal with them, but I was a little worried about what they might do in the community if their so-called 'loan' wasn't repaid. So after they left I called Andy, who admitted that he had considerable gambling debts from card games, racetracks, and casinos in Atlantic City."
Mary and I exchanged a glance.
"I never found out the actual amount," Hagstrom continued, "but I'd guess it was in the thousands. I hope to God it wasn't in the tens of thousands."
"But why would these guys hit you up?" asked Mary. "I mean, wouldn't they just put pressure on Andy? Maybe threaten him?"
"I don't think their visit was for my benefit, really, Mrs. Adams. Personally, I think they'd already let Andy know where he stood with them. I think their visit to me was simply to add emphasis. To make it official, so to speak. I'm pretty sure they knew I'd speak to Andy. Maybe threaten to let him go if the debts weren't cleared up. From the way they acted, and from that car they were driving . . ."
"White Cadillac Eldorado, smoked glass windows, chrome spoked wheels, continental kit?" I asked nonchalantly.
Hagstrom sat bolt upright. "Hey, that`s exactly right. How`d you know?"
"Jack told me about a so-called 'friend' of Andy's from Providence. He mentioned seeing Andy sticking his head inside the driver's window of a white Caddy. I know the car. Not this particular one, but the ones like it; there are maybe two hundred of them in the East. Mary's brother's a detective and he's told me about the mob's wheels. The Wiseguys outgrew black Caddies back in the sixties. And of course, the new guys, the young bucks, don't drive Detroit iron anymore. Wouldn't be caught dead with it. They say that nowadays Caddies are for the black and Hispanic hoods. No, they want nothing but high-class kraut, the big Mercedes and Beemers. In off colors, like coffee and claret. A few choose the big jags. But the old-time Wiseguys, they love their Caddies. Maybe a Lincoln Town Car or two thrown in—"
"Cut it out, Charlie!" Mary snapped.
"Anyway," Hagstrom continued, "they seemed to flaunt the mobster look, you know? They wanted to give the impression that if this thing with Andy weren't resolved, they were going to hang around Woods Hole until it was. Can you imagine the effect that would have on morale here?"
"I see what you mean. So they paraded around here enough to tarnish the kid's image, then split?"
"Uh-huh. They drove off in the afternoon, around three. Back to Providence, I guess. The car had Rhode Island plates, but it was one of those custom-made plates. What are they called?"
"Vanity plates.”
"Right. I'll never forget the name on it: SLINKY."
"Slinky? Like those kid's toys?" said Mary. "Those springy things that walk down stairs?"
"Uh-huh. SLINKY
"And what did Andy have to say about this?"
"Well, he didn't deny it. And he said that he wasn't gambling for the love of it, either, but because he was hoping to turn his meager savings into big bucks."
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"Did he say he planned to pay them back?" asked Mary.
"Oh, he assured me there was no long-range problem. Of course, in light of what's happened, I felt I had to tell you."
"Why haven't you gone to the police?" I asked.
"You mean before now? Why? When I first heard of the boy's death, it was presented as an accidental overdose of medication. And by the way, it was medication for a condition that I—and most of the staff—was unaware of. But a state detective called me early this morning—"
"Paul Keegan?"
"Right. So you know him. He wants to talk with me later today, and over the phone he filled me in on Andy's death. I thought it was a good idea to talk with both of you first."
"And for that, we thank you," said Mary softly. "We might need all the help we can get on this thing."
I left the chair and paced slowly to and fro on the carpet. A large vessel must have been entering Woods Hole's Great Harbor; I heard the faint deep blast of her whistle. The windowpane rattled.
"Andy was a poor boy, you know," said Mary, and then proceeded to explain his background to Art. I was uneasy, and continued to walk around the small room. I lighted a pipe and puffed and thought. Finally, I spoke.
"I don't think the mob killed Andy," I said. "For one thing, no matter what he owed them, he was small-time. The mob only kills big shots, and Andy wasn't one. Secondly, when we consider the way the murder was done, the ingenuity behind it, we can rule out the Wiseguys. When they make a hit, there's nothing subtle about it. We've all heard about the bloated, stinky corpses found in car trunks. There are stereotypes about the mob, but like many stereotypes, they have some basis in fact. No: whoever killed Andrew Cunningham knew him intimately, knew of his illness and medication, his schedule, everything. The murderer even had access to his pill case."
Hagstrom shook his head and furrowed his bushy black eyebrows. "Son of a bitch. Then no wonder it looks bad for Jack."
I turned, stunned at these words. Mary sat frozen, looking helplessly at Hagstrom. We both knew he was right. Our optimism brought about by the sacking of Jack's house was fading. Facts were facts: in the eyes of the law, Jack was the most likely culprit.
Hagstrom sensed our distress, and made an valiant but futile effort to comfort us. We thanked him, and he rose to go.
"If I can be any help, just come over to my office in the Candle House any time. It's right on Water Street. By the way, though, I won't be here the next several days. Four of us from the MBL are going to a conference at the Jersey shore. You can get the number from my secretary. Goodbye, and best of luck."
* * *
Ah-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-(weee).
OOOOOO (wee)!
OOOOOO (wee)!
One long, two short. The ship crept ahead, scarcely raising a ripple at her prow. Her whistle blasts meant "keep clear; restricted in maneuverability." The ship eased up to the WHOI dock. She was the research vessel Knorr, operated by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. It was the same vessel I'd seen from the motel window minutes earlier.
"Did you see that current kicking up on her beam out there?" said Jack. "Jeez, that tidal rip hits a two-hundred footer sideways, it's a bitch to get her moving right. Did you know she doesn't have a prop? She's got directional hydro jets. She can—"
"Jack, where's Mom?"
"I don't know. I saw her walking down Water Street a little while ago. I think she probably went shopping up the way."
"Thanks. I'm going to go looking for her."
I found her in a boutique looking at batik blouses. But she wasn't really looking at them; she was picking them up and flinging them down again.
"I'm so scared, Charlie. I'm so scared all over again about Jack. I mean, look: here's Arthur Hagstrom, a trained, educated professional, who's known Jackie for two summers now. Trusts him like a father. And what does he say right off the bat? 'Whew! No wonder it looks bad for Jack!' Good Christ, Charlie!"
She was looking down at the pile of cloth. Dark spots were appearing all over it. I lifted her face up and dried her eyes with the cuff of my sweat shirt. "Sorry hon," she said, and sniffed. She was talking with that hiccuppy, squeaky high voice that women have when they're crying, and blinking away a lot of tears. Well, it melted me, just like that. Always does.
I gave her a hug, right there in the store, and kissed her.
We glided out of there and down the street. At the little drawbridge on Water Street she drew me close and hugged me hard. I could feel her chest shaking as she cried.
"It'll be okay," I whispered.
"Charlie. Promise me you won't quit the medical examiner job. Promise me you'll keep it."
TEN
ONE GLANCE at Alice Henderson and it was easy to see why the guys were attracted to her. She was lithe and athletic, a tall blonde with dark skin and eyes. And only a few minutes with her convinced me of her mental agility and powers of recollection. We were sitting on the forward hatch cover of the barque Westward, the most beautiful sailing ship I'd been on in years. A beautiful woman oh a beautiful ship. I was surrounded by beauty. But it didn't keep me from the business at hand, and I'm afraid, looking back, that I put Alice Henderson under a lot of pressure that summer afternoon. I had to; I wanted to find out the truth, and the digging was bound to be painful.
She wiped her eyes again and lighted another cigarette, her fourth in the short time we'd been talking. Between drags, she was winding her long hair around in her fingers, chewing on strands of it, shaking it back over her shoulders, and fidgeting in general.
"Look, I mean what is this, Dr. Adams? I told you already. I am not trying to frame your son. I am not trying to put Jack in the hot seat. He's a nice guy. I like him a lot. So why --"
"Hold on. I never accused you of that, Alice. I know you had to answer the questions Lieutenant Keegan asked you, and answer truthfully. You did that. And I admit Jack showed very poor judgment in not coming clean about the fight earlier on. Having Keegan discover it later makes him look . . . uh . . . doesn't make him look good."
"It's all been so . . . terrible . . ." she said, heaving. Her words came in short, hiccuppy gasps, that ragged breathing that comes after a lot ol` sobbing. Yes, I did feel sorry for her. I was feeling sorry for a lot of people these days. Including, probably, me.
"You loved Andy, didn't you? I'm so sorry."
She looked down at the deck, biting her lip and nodding, the tears pouring out of her eyes. Behind her, the sky was deep, dark blue. So blue and dark that you thought you could stare into it. But right away it hurt your eyes. The sea breeze blew her hair out, and she wiped her tears away and looked up again. A gorgeous girl, and this was no way for her to have to spend her summer.
"Do you want us to drive you down to Providence for the funeral tomorrow?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Terry and I are going to drive down. Thanks anyway. I'm not sure I'd feel . . . comfortable . . . riding down with Jack."
"Because he might be a murderer?"
"No," she said after a second's hesitation. I didn't like the pause; it was as if she had to think before answering. "I'd just feel awkward, and he would too. He probably thinks I betrayed him."
"l doubt that. Have you talked with Terry about all this? What does he think?"
"He doesn't think Jack did it, if that's what you mean. We sat around for a couple of nights trying to figure out who could've done it. What we came up with, we decided it wasn't anybody here in Woods Hole."
"How about Lionel Hartzell? They didn't get along, and Hartzell's training would qualify him for the method."
"Yeah, but we just didn't think it fit. Hartzell's strange, but he's not that mean. Haven't you talked with him yet?"
"No. I've called him, but he refuses to see me. I know Lieutenant Keegan's talked to him at least once. But I'll see him one way or another. Right now, I'm waiting for a friend of mine to come down from Boston and interview him with me. He's a psychiatrist."
"Well, Terry and
I don't think he killed Andy; we think it's somebody out of Andy's past. Somebody we've never met."
I thought a second and decided to go out on a limb. I began to describe the white Cadillac to her. But before I could finish, she waved me off.
"Oh, no. Eddie wouldn't do that, Dr. Adams."
"Eddie?"
"Yeah, Andy's friend from Providence. Andy said his name was Eddie. I met him once."
"And?"
"And what can I say? I know he's in some racket or other. Probably gambling and dealing dope or something. Or maybe playing the numbers, or whatever. But he liked Andy; he wouldn't kill him."
"Andy owed him money, Alice."
"I know that; Andy told me. But still, I don't—"
"What's Eddie's last name?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"How can I get in touch with him?"
Another shrug. I sat there on the hatch cover, looking at her. It was something a man could do for a long time without getting bored. My son Jack had been in bed with this girl-woman. Did I envy him? Hell yes.
Stick to the business at hand, Adams.
"Alice, the police have determined that whoever broke into Andy and Jack's rented house used a key. Did either of them ever loan you a key to the front door?"
"I'm . . . not sure I should tell you."
"Well, you just have. Was it Andy, or Jack?"
She bowed her head. "Both. And when Andy loaned me his key later on, I made a copy at the general store."
"Can I see it?"
"No, because I don't have it with me; I left it at home. Why would I need it now?"
She looked at me with a questioning look, which turned sour and pouty, and then she was crying again. I moved next to her and put my arm around her. Nobody else was on deck. The Westward, majestic even in her berth, was all ours. She cried into my shoulder, saying she was sorry about Jack, sorry about Andy, sorry about everything, and that maybe everything was all her fault. Finally her sobbing ebbed and we got off the hatch cover and walked over to the cutaway and down the gangplank.
We walked along the big pier towards town. The giant hull of the Knorr loomed up over us.
