by Rick Boyer
"Hartzell must have slid it under the door. Good God, Mary, he's a sickie, all right."
But that wasn't the only treat in store for us that Friday. Joe and Jack showed up before three, when the phone call was supposed to come through. As they got out of Joe's cruiser, I knew right away the news was bad. Joe stood solemnly, his eyes on the ground in front of him. Jack wore the face of the condemned.
Mary ran out with me, her hands clutched into pale fists. Joe let us get up close to him before he shook his head. And then we knew for sure.
* * *
"No, no, Doc. Your going up there wouldn't have changed anything, believe me. It was over in a minute, and not a goddamn thing we could have done about it. Jake Schermerhorn, the guy your pal, Brady Coyne, found for us, is the best attorney around, too. It's just that it's murder one, Doc. Hell, the judge said he just didn't have a choice but to call the grand jury. He had no out, and I realize that now . . ."
Mary thumped her fist on the roof of Joe's car, then rested her head on the fist, crying.
"And will they indict?" I asked.
"Probably," he said in a deadpan voice. "They'll indict and set a trial date. Which means we've got to come up with another lead or suspect pronto to keep Jack out of the hot seat. I'm sorry."
"You knew, didn't you?" said Mary, looking up at her brother with tear-stained cheeks. "Goddamn you, Joey, you knew before you even left—"
He shook his head, slowly and sadly.
"No Mare. But I had a feeling. The evidence—the evidence at this point anyway—is just too overwhelming. I thought if you were there you might have, well, blown your cool and the judge would have—
"You're goddamn fucking right I would have blown my cool! What do you think I—
I put my arm around her, trying to steer her back to the dorm. But it was like trying to steer a mustang. Her emotional fit proved one thing, if nothing else: Joe's instincts about her being anywhere near the courtroom were correct.
The Adams family sat together for an hour in the room. Jack said that on the way up to Boston his uncle had prepared him for the reality of the situation.
"But everybody knows and likes this Jake Schermerhorn, Dad," said Jack, sitting on the edge of the bed, opening and closing his hands, trying to be upbeat. "Everybody's got a lot of respect for him. You remember what Brady Coyne had to say about him."
"I'm not doubting any of that. It's just the . . . whole thing.
Hey, I forgot—
I hauled out the mutilated badge and folder and showed them to Joe, who's face wore a look of horror as he examined it.
"Holy shit. Have you touched the metal?"
"Not much."
"Let's get it dusted for prints, then," he said, carefully folding it up and putting it back in the envelope. "This might be the break we've been looking for. I think old Hartzell's just given himself away. You say Moe was on the interview with you? That's good. That's great, in fact. We can use a witness, especially a practicing shrink."
"That's why I took him along."
"Has he seen this?”
"No. But he's going down to the cottage tomorrow; we loaned him a key. When we go up to meet him there let's take it with us."
"No, we'll just tell him about it; I want this in a lab right away. By the way, Paul and I have located our friend in the big white car. Slinky's real name is Edward Falcone. And he is connected. A low-echelon Wiseguy from Providence. We do a lot of work with the Providence law enforcement people, as you can imagine. We'll have Slinky up here before long to question. But what you and I are going to do right now is find Lionel Hartzell."
We left the dorm and went over to his house. Not there. Went to his office. Same result. Asked for his whereabouts at the administration office in the restored building on Water Street called the Candle House. Drew a blank. Nobody knew where Hartzell was hiding. And Art Hagstrom, we remembered, was out of town, gone to a conference at the jersey Shore.
"Let's go back to his place," said Joe. "I might even pick the friggin' lock. I know he's hiding somewhere."
"But where? Remember what the lady said: he's a loner. He could be anywhere."
"We'll track him down. Hey, are you sure you left the badge in his office?"
"Positive."
"You couldn't have dropped it on the way out?"
"I don't see how; I missed it right after the interview."
"Hmmn. Well, maybe it's God telling you that you shouldn't have done that interview, Doc. I know Keegan will be pissed."
"Fuck Keegan."
"Hey, don't say that. You should have seen him in the chambers. He's on our side. Hard to believe sometimes, but true. Boy oh boy, I wonder what Joe Kenny would think."
"Who's Joe Kenny?"
"The retired cop who gave me this badge folder. Remember? I wonder what he'd think if he saw it now."
"I know what he'd think. He'd think Lionel Hartzell is a weird, vindictive son of a bitch who should be locked up."
We went back to the Hartzell residence. Joe decided not to pick the lock.
"Anything against regulations could blow the whole thing," he said. "Let's try again tomorrow. We'll find him sooner or later."
So we returned to the dorm and girded our collective loins to make the best of a bad situation. We went to dinner at a nice restaurant up the road, the Coonamessett Inn, and it buoyed our spirits. With Jim and Janice gone back to Boston, we had a pleasant, if subdued, family evening. The next day was Saturday, and we were heading back to the Breakers.
* * *
"Doc? Moe."
"Jeez, what time it it?"
"Seven-thirty. I'm here at the cottage."
"Already? What time did you leave?"
"Five-thirty. You told me it was the best way to beat the traffic. Listen: hold tight; I've got something to tell you."
Good Christ, I thought to myself, not again. Why is this bad tape playing over and over again? Can't somebody switch it?
"Doc?"
"Yeah, what is it?"
"Your cottage has been broken into. I opened the front door and walked into a total mess."
I rolled over in bed, holding the receiver to my head.
"Doc?"
"I'm still here."
"Sorry to have to tell you this."
"Next to the other news I've been getting, it's not too bad. Does it look as if they took a lot of stuff?"
"If you mean stuff like televisions and appliances, no. It looks more like somebody was just searching for something."
"Who is it, Charlie?" said Mary, who had her eyes open and was propping herself up on her elbow.
"Moe. The cottage has been burglarized. Ransacked, just like Jack's house."
"Sweet Jesus," she moaned, and pulled the pillow over her head.
"Listen Moe, stay there and don't touch anything. Call the Eastham police and ask for Officer David Klewski. You won't have to give him directions; he knows the way by heart."
Within twenty minutes we were heading back up to Eastham. Joe followed us in his cruiser. Since it was Saturday, the traffic on Route 6 was a perfect horror. Still, I was remarkably at ease. For one thing, the news didn't involve a family member directly. Secondly, I couldn't help but think that this second break-in, clearly committed while we were all away, would divert some of the heat away from Jack. Joe agreed. But be careful, Adams, a voice in my head said, every time you think things are looking up, another bombshell arrives.
A little after ten we rolled into the driveway of the Breakers to see Moe coming out the front door with Officer David Klewski, who I bet was sick of visiting the Adams cottage. The cop came forward and leaned into my driver's window.
"When it rains, it pours, eh Dawktah?"
"Do tell. Moe, give us a tour."
It was not a happy one. The crooks had come in through the back door, on the ocean side, where they would be invisible from the road. They'd smashed a pane in the door and reached in and unlocked it. No room had been spared, including the c
rawl space beneath the cottage where the beach furniture and Sunfish sailboats were stored. All the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the living room were tossed. Debris and our prized possessions were all over the floors. We had a good fix on when it happened, because our neighbors who take the mail in for us had checked the place Friday morning, and it was still intact. It was my initial suspicion that this was the handiwork of the same thugs who'd trashed Jack and Andy's house in Woods Hole, but it certainly was not as neat a job. Simply looking at the kitchen, with the strewn pots and pans and broken crockery, told me the search had been quick and noisy.
"Well, dat figures, Doc," observed the sagacious Morris Abramson. "I mean, in the center of town, dey hadda be pretty quiet, ya know? But here on the beach, wit' nobody around, they could be as crude as they wanted."
"At least they didn't slice open the sofas and chairs like they did a couple years ago," said Mary, referring to a previous episode in our lives.
"Thank the Lord for small favors," I said, surveying the wreckage. I made the comment in irony, but the more I looked around, the more I realized we'd gotten off lightly. Mary agreed, reluctantly. After two hours of cleaning and straightening up, she agreed more readily. The seven of us sat on the deck with fresh coffee, watching the bay kick up into a green and white froth. It was a clear, blustery, high-pressure day, with puffy white clouds racing across the dark blue sky in the high wind. Gulls mewed and dove over the water; waves thundered onto the beach as we sipped the coffee from giant steaming mugs and raised our voices to be heard over the surf.
"I can't see anything missing, Charlie," said Mary. "What do you come up with?"
"Your binoculars, for one. Mine I took with me on the boat. But yours are gone. Also your Nikon."
"No!" she shouted, leaning toward me, her dark hair blowing straight out behind her, like a storm pennant. "I've got my camera with me. It must be Jackie's camera—"
"Well, whatever, Hon. That spare Nikon we kept hidden under the old clothes in the hall closet . . . and my radio's gone, too. Dammit!"
"No it isn't. I turned it on when we—"
"Not the stereo, the short-wave. The big SONY. It's gone."
It wasn't just the high cost of this item that bothered me, it was the fact that model 6800 W was no longer made. But I had no gripes; I was counting my blessings. Things could have been a whole lot worse.
Joe said, "I bet Keegan's going to be interested in this. Seems like somebody's been looking for something of Andy's, wouldn't you say?"
"Yep. Or something Andy had that he shouldn't have. Like Hartzell's papers, maybe?" I suggested.
"Hey, right! He searched in Woods Hole and came up blank. So then he tried here."
"But whoever killed Andy set the deed in motion earlier," I said, "several days before the break-in of the house."
"Before, or roughly the same time," said Joe. "The odds are overwhelming that the killing and the burglaries are related."
I nodded to him, then turned to Jack.
"Can you think of anything Andy might have stolen that somebody would want badly enough to kill him for?"
"No, Dad. And listen: he didn't take old Hartzell's papers. I would have seen them if he did. Besides, Andy didn't take Hartzell seriously enough to steal his stuff, believe me."
"You think Hartzell's nutty?"
"Sure. A little, anyway." He shrugged.
"Is he mean?" asked Joe, sitting down next to Jack.
Jack shook his head. "A little gruff and nasty sometimes, but only professionally. I don't think he's really mean, like a killer."
Joe hauled out the envelope, sliding the badge and wallet carefully onto the plank table without touching it.
"Remember this, Jack? Your dad showed it to us last night, but maybe you were so upset you didn't take a good look. Your 'nutty-but-nice' friend, Lionel Hartzell, did this. He pounded it with a hammer and burned the wallet. What do you say to that?"
"Yeah, well, I guess he could be mean, then. But he was never mean to me."
Moe studied the ruined shield with interest, remarking that it showed a lot of hostility.
"Before we get all worked up," said Joe, replacing the evidence, "let's not forget we've got no proof. And unless I find Hartzell's prints on this thing, which I doubt I will, we've still got no proof. Besides, destroying the badge doesn't make him a killer. It means he was irritated at having been cornered in his office by two unauthorized persons."
"I'm an official cop now."
"Uh-huh, but not authorized to do Keegan's job. Moe, you think this makes him dangerous?"
"In one sense, as an act of disrespect for what Doc and I put him through, it helps him. It shows he has nothing to fear from us, knowing he did nothing wrong. Follow?"
We nodded.
"On the other hand, I mentioned to Doc dat I think Lionel Hartzell shows the classic signs of paranoid schizophrenia. This diagnosis is admittedly based on a thumbnail sketch. But, if forced to say yea or nay, I'd say yea. Which means—and he sat down at the table and swept his gaze over all of us to emphasize his point, "which means dat if he is paranoid, den he views all his actions as totally justified, as divinely ordained, if you will."
"So he'll stop at nothing?"
"Right. The true paranoid schizophrenic has no conscience, and therefore no telltale guilt feelings, either. He can lie under oath wid'out a twinge. He can lie under a polygraph, too."
"Gee Moe, that's scary," said Mary.
"Scary because he's hard to corner. He acts innocent because, in his mind, he is innocent; he's acting with total justification? "Whatever happens, Jackie, I want you to promise me you'll steer clear of Lionel Hartzell."
"You know that's impossible, Mom. Hey, I think maybe everybody's jumping to conclusions here."
We spent the rest of the day at the Breakers, taking time out for yet another lab team to go over the place. Mary said if she saw one more lab team she'd pitch a fit. Joe called Paul Keegan and filled him in about the episode of the badge. Joe said he was "less than pleased," but would try to get Hartzell fingerprinted, nonetheless.
Around four Moe and I set up the chessboard on the low table between the easy chairs in the study corner and began to play, listening to the surf crash outside and Mozart's Concerto in A for clarinet on the stereo. The soloist was Benny Goodman. I got skunked, as usual. Am I a closet masochist? I wonder . . . Of course, if I were and Moe suspected it, he'd never say boo; he enjoys whipping my ass too much.
At six I lighted the grill for the halibut steaks, then Joe and I relaxed on the deck, each with a balloon glass of white wine. Since we were alone for a few minutes, and temporarily free from the hustle and tension of the past week, I thought I'd ask him about something that was bugging me.
"Aw, hell no, Doc," he said, answering my question. "Sure, she was in Mexico once when she was in college, during the summer. I think it was right before she met you."
"I know about that. I mean before."
"Naw. She just says that shit to push your buttons when she gets steamed. She's just yanking your chain is all."
"What about those horsemen, coming down out of the sun-parched hills with gold? Guys that she says were dark, saddle lean, and horny? How about them?"
"Pure bullshit, is what. I just—hey! Hey, where'd you get that line?"
"From her."
"I'll be damned. It's kinda good, don't you think? I mean, maybe she could write one of those romance novels; I bet she'd be good at it."
"She says she's always wanted to try writing. But I don't know . . ."
"Well, it might keep her busy, take her mind off all this shit that's been coming down around your ears. Maybe I'll speak with her. More wine?"
The sun went down in glows of gold and purple. The ocean talked to us, thumping and hissing, throughout the dinner on the porch. Overhead, gulls, silhouetted black against the glowing sky, winged their way up and down the beach, mewing and honking. If Jack weren't in the hot seat, it would have been the perfect end to
a summer's day. But things weren't resolved, and I felt a vague uneasiness.
FOURTEEN
THE NEXT DAY the fair weather held; we spent all day Sunday at the Breakers, enjoying the sea and sun. The convening of the grand jury, which Joe assured us would happen shortly, hung over us like a dark cloud. But we did our best to ignore it and have fun.
Mary insisted that the family stick tightly together during this trial (no pun intended). It didn't take the rest of us long to see the wisdom of her stance, which was just as well, because once Mary makes up her mind on a family issue, there is no budging her. Accordingly, early Monday morning found us back down in Woods Hole, settling back into our home-away-from-home room at Swope. We would continue this back and forth trek from Eastham to Woods Hole until the matter was laid to rest, Mary announced. While she unpacked our clothes, and Moe and Joe did likewise in their room, which adjoined ours, I drove both boys back to Jack's rented house over on School Street. As we pulled up I could hear Jack sigh; undoubtedly this would be a tough time for him, and my heart ached. Thank God the storm had freed Tony to be with his brother.
Jack unloaded his bag, and I saw him staring into the trunk of the Audi at the navy and tan canvas duffel that had belonged to the late Andrew Cunningham. The contents having been duly inspected by the local police and the state lab team, the bag had been returned to us with the expectation that we would return it to the boy's parents at the funeral. This we had forgotten to do, and now Jack lifted it out of the trunk and held it in his other hand, walking toward his quarters.
"I'm going back to Providence to visit Andy's folks again," he said. "I promised I would. They'll need it. I might as well take this."
"That's nice of you," I said. "Why don't you take Alice along?"
"Maybe. If she's up to it. But wait, where's the rest of his stuff?"
"That's all I know of. That's what Keegan handed back to us. He didn't have a garment case or anything, did he?"
"No, I mean in here," Jack said, glancing down at the canvas duffel, which he hefted up and down in his left hand. "I remember lifting it out of my Land Cruiser when we got to the cottage. This bag was heavy—much heavier than it is now. I asked Andy what he had in there and he said some textbooks. So where are they?"
