The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "If Jerry did this, why wouldn't Moria call the police?"

  "Because she had a large stash of cocaine in the house, and she was on the verge of getting more. I believe she had found someone who was willing to buy beyond the going price. She was going to make a big 'score', as they say in your country."

  "She didn't need money."

  "She might have felt the need for money, which comes to the same thing. This would be especially true after her father disinherited her."

  "Jesus."

  "You knew about that."

  "I just can't believe you know."

  "She was bartering her jewelry for drugs, so there had to have been some stress on their financial situation." Ari paused. "Remember the family portrait on Moria's dresser? It appeared to have been taken in the Massington home. In the background was a painting by Matisse. Mr. Massington might have had a fondness for modern art. Perhaps he began funding Jerry's exhibits because he had faith in his rising star. But once it became apparent that Jerry could only repeat himself, he stopped. That was when Jerry became angry and told him you were his daughter's real father. Hence the disinheritance and the sudden end of Moria's allowance."

  Ari found this last sentence felicitous and nodded to himself.

  "Moria was familiar with the drug world through her friend, Tina Press," Ari continued. "She decided she could make up the loss in income by buying large quantities of 'product' and reselling it at various cooperative taverns. She laundered the income through Moria's Notions. She felt fairly safe. After all, her father was keeping an eye out for her."

  "I tried to make her stop."

  "As any good father would. But while Moria felt secure outside, she was afraid for the lives of herself and children in her own home. Jerry's behavior had become more erratic as galleries refused to display his art based on merit alone, without rental fees. She bought a gun to protect herself and hid it in the small water-control cabinet near the front door. The outlet to the yard had probably been switched off for the winter. It was unlikely Jerry would find it. So she felt safe that night after she locked Jerry out of the house. Even if he managed to break back inside, she had the gun to protect her. Except Jerry had found the gun. He had hidden it under the gazebo floorboards."

  "You still have five or six hours unaccounted for, between the door business and the murders."

  "When Jerry broke through, Moria ran for the gun and found it missing. She had no idea where it was, and if she tried to run away, Jerry could easily shoot her and the boys. So she played for time. She calmed him down. Perhaps they even made love. The boys, who had been terrified by all of this, were reassured. They were told to dress for bed--small boys never do such things voluntarily. They sat in Joshua's room, which was the only one with a TV, and watched television or played computer games. No one told them to switch them off and go to sleep. So they played far into the night."

  "Why would they be fighting in the first place?"

  "Jerry was on a hairtrigger. Two things conspired to set him off that night. I don't know what the first was. Perhaps Moria had made a disparaging remark about his paintings. A frustrated artist would be sure to overreact, especially with the criticism coming from his lifemate. This was perhaps the first time Moria had given her opinion about the smudges. In any event, the house settled down. Jerry might have even gone to bed. Did you notice the shirt he was wearing when he was killed? No buttons, quite baggy...as much of a pajama top as a regular shirt. And he was wearing no socks under his shoes.

  "Moria did not go to bed. She suspected--perhaps even somehow knew--the Kayak Express would be running that night. Perhaps it was normal for them to put in an appearance the day before Christmas, to sell product to holiday revelers. A busy time. Unfortunately, Moria did not have their cell phone number, or she would have advised the kayakers not to set off their rockets that night. Perhaps she did not understand the risk she was taking. If Jerry could not be accepted as an artist, he could at least be seen as a local celebrity known for his good works. Even if his donations had dried up after the loss of Moria's allowance, his standing in the community lingered. That the money came from his father-in-law made no difference. He was the public face.

  "Think of the storm of mockery that would fall upon Jerry and his family if they were arrested for distributing cocaine. Not only were the Rigginses no better than anyone else, they were a bit deal worse. But while this might have been preying on Jerry's mind, it was only a minor contribution to the final tragedy.

  "Moria, still awake, is waiting for the Kayak Express. She was as desperate as her husband, and in her desperation she took the fatal step that killed her. To steady her rattled nerves, and to make certain she was awake when the Express came, she used cocaine.

  "Near midnight, the Whistling Jupiters go off above the island. Moria runs outside. But the noise wakes Jerry. He puts on his trousers and shoes and goes out to the gazebo. When the kayakers arrive, he is there to threaten them with the very gun Moria had bought from them. She calms him down temporarily and reassures him she will not buy any more product. He retreats to the porch and watches. She asks the kayakers to come back in a little while, after things have settled down.

  "In the meantime, William has gone to bed. Joshua is alone in his room, when he is attracted to the sound of movement. He goes into his parents' bedroom and sees they are gone. He hears talking outside and looks out the master bedroom window. He sees his parents talking to the kayakers. He's a curious boy. He runs back to his bedroom and puts on his robe and slippers. He's going to go outside. But when he gets downstairs, he sees a small plastic bag filled with white powder sitting on the living room coffee table. 'Isn't that the stuff Mom takes whenever she feels upset?' Of course, Moria would never have indulged herself while the boys were around, but it's possible Joshua saw her taking the drug without her knowledge. He might even have noticed how his mother seemed more alert and lively afterwards. He takes the bag and goes back upstairs. William hears his brother shuffling around in the next room and rejoins him. They wonder if the powder will keep them awake all night tomorrow so they can greet Santa Claus in person. There's only one way to find out.

  "The parents are back in bed. Moria pretends to sleep, hoping her husband will nod off before the kayakers return. But Jerry hears a noise in Joshua's room and gets up to investigate. Moria, pretending to sleep, keeps pretending.

  "Jerry goes into Joshua's room and finds Joshua holding his brother against his chest. William is having a seizure. Jerry sees the envelope on the bed and realizes what has happened. He hesitates to call for an ambulance, because he knows that any doctor will report what has happened to the police, and the last shred of hope for whatever dreams he might have had will be gone. He shouts for Moria, then races into the bathroom. He returns with a facecloth soaked with cold water, a glass of water, and his wife's prescription bottle of Valium. He is going to try to reduce William’s heart rate. Perhaps he gives a pill to Joshua, too, because he is sitting wide-eyed on the bed. He's not in very good shape, either. But it was too late."

  "I can't be certain of this, of course, because the results from the coroner’s report have been withheld from me, just as they were withheld from the newspaper. But judging from what I saw in the pictures, I think my conclusion is reasonable: William was the first of the Riggins to die, and it was not due from a gunshot. The traces of blood and mucous on Joshua's shirt, where he had held his brother against his chest, seem to indicate a hemorrhage.

  "Jerry is sobbing by now. He tells Joshua that his brother has fallen asleep. He carries William to his room and puts him in bed, pulling up the covers to his chin.

  "He can't believe it. For years he has lived in a fantasy world. Reality is coming down all around him. And now his son is dead and he knows it's as much his fault as Moria's, because he knew all along about her drug dealings. So…is it all over?

  "He is not sure what he will do next. But a man in his situation often chooses nihilism. It's a concept I'm symp
athetic with. He takes the gun from wherever he put it after his encounter with the kayakers and returns to the bedroom--to find Moria sitting up in bed, looking out the window, obviously waiting for the return of her dealers. He says something to her, or perhaps he says nothing. Perhaps she never knew that William had died of a drug overdose.

  "After Jerry shoots her, he goes to Joshua's room. Joshua has begun to remove his robe, which was wet with his brother's blood. He can see his father is distraught. He has heard the shot that killed his mother. His father tells him to look away, and then shoots him in the side of the head.

  "Jerry goes into William’s room. He shoots the body, hoping to disguise the real cause of death.

  "Then he goes downstairs, turns the easy chair around, and sits, watching the river. The Moon. Filling himself with final sights. He is unaware that Howie Nottoway has put in an anonymous call to Crimestoppers."

  Carrington had slumped in further and further into the uncomfortable chair as Ari recited his case. Now he jerked up. "It was Howie?"

  "You didn't think the Matt and Tracy Mackenzie would involve themselves, did you?"

  "It was a cell phone. Someone on the river could have called."

  "The only people on the river that night were Mother's boys. When they returned, they heard a gunshot. They thought Jerry was firing at them and they fled. Yes, it was Jerry. He had shot himself."

  "And the 'accomplices'?" Carrington asked lowly.

  "You were on duty that night and heard the call go out to Jackson and Mangioni. Recognizing the address, you raced out here out of concern for your daughter. When you ran up the front sidewalk, you saw Jerry's body through the picture window. You circled the house, your weapon drawn, looking for any signs of a break-in. You did not call for backup because you assumed the worst: that your daughter's drug-dealings had gotten her killed.

  "You saw the damaged back door and entered. You went upstairs and found what I have described. At first you thought it was the action of murderous intruders. Then you saw the gun lying next to Jerry and knew the truth.

  "Your daughter might have been the result of an affair with Heather Massington, but you loved her dearly nonetheless. You couldn't bear the thought that she had been murdered by her own husband. Further investigation would have unveiled her crimes. You had to get rid of the gun quickly in order to support the story that intruders had committed the murders. You didn't dare take the gun out to your car because you didn't know who might be watching. And a patrol unit would be arriving at any moment. You saw the central air vent at the top of the wall. You used the same stepping stool Jerry had used while decorating the top of his tree and dropped his gun in the ductwork. Then you turned and saw Jackson and Mangioni watching you through the window. You told them what had happened and convinced them the intruder story was for the best. Nothing could bring back the dead, and the killer had committed suicide. They might wonder why you cared so much about the family's good name, but they went along with your plan. The result is that, to this day, the crime has gone 'unsolved.'"

  Carrington roused himself out of his chair and went over to the refrigerator. He opened it and stared inside. He took out a small bottle and frowned at it. "What the hell, liquid yoghurt?"

  "It's quite good."

  "Bottled vomit." He closed the door and turned to Ari. "So now you've solved your little mystery, who do you plan to tell about it?"

  "No one," said Ari.

  "I can't believe that."

  "You'll have to trust me."

  "Or kill you."

  "Why? I see no reason to threaten your daughter's reputation. What good could that do?"

  "And you'll stay quiet about the Kayak Express? It's more complicated than you let on."

  "Killing me wouldn't be feasible," said Ari reluctantly, knowing he would have to go further than he originally intended.

  "Why not? I know a million hiding places to put your body."

  "You would shoot me here? Don't you think it would be better to choose a spot away from the prying eyes of the Neighborhood Watch?" Ari's grin unsettled the detective.

  "Like in the middle of the woods? Yeah, why not?"

  "You would have to take my car with you, to explain my absence from the house."

  "No problem."

  "But that's actually more complicated than you have imagined, Detective Sergeant Carrington. My body would be located within minutes. The U.S. Marshals Service has incorporated a LoJack device in the frame of my car."

  "Fuck!" Carrington picked up the empty chair and slammed it to the floor. "I knew it! Fuck!"

  "Even if you shot me and dumped me in the river, the Federal government would bring together all their resources to track the killer."

  "You think they care that much about some made-guy asshole?"

  "It would be a matter of national security. They'd have to assume Iraqi agents had penetrated their security."

  "Iraqi?" The detective dwelled on this, the weight coming back down on his eyes. He picked up the chair, checked it over for damage, then sat across from Ari. "What do you want to tell me?"

  "Open that envelope."

  Carrington took up the envelope on the table, studied the commercial return address, and opened it. A USB flash drive fell out.

  "That was left for me. You're lucky the delivery man did not meet Howie, who I believe would have provided a very inadequate explanation as to why he was in my house and pulling out my stove. Can you connect that to your Blackberry?"

  "No."

  "Then go upstairs and use my computer. I won't go anywhere."

  "Right. What's on it?"

  "Obscenities."

  "Iraqi porn?"

  "Pictures of atrocities. Men dragged away from their homes in the middle of the night or in broad daylight. Men tortured and murdered. Men ambushed on the road or in their offices. And the men who did the killing. They often make home movies of their crimes. They wear disguises, usually kuffiah scarves, but sometimes I can see through their masks."

  "And report back to...?"

  "CENTCOM. That's United States Central--"

  "I know what it is." Carrington flipped the flash drive between his fingers, as though toying with a napkin ring at a dull dinner party.

  Ari looked closely for any sign of inner resignation that this was all over, that he and Carrington could go their separate ways. He had already put a message in the pipeline for assistance, but in the hope he would not need it.

  "I just can't let it go," Carrington shook his head. "You're like a gun at my head. At Moria's head."

  "My word is my honor."

  In this case, at least.

  "The honor of a man spying on his own people. That's rich. Okay, I can't kill you without incurring a major inconvenience. But I can still cut you off at the balls. I have contacts with the news media. A little call to Twelve On Your Side about a spy setting up shop in one of our more respectable neighborhoods would blow this game wide open. You're a real threat to the community. What if a bunch of Arab assassins shows up and starts shooting rockets every which way? They don't care who they hit, so long as they finally get you. And then there's this number in fucking Iceland, of all places."

  Of all places....

  "You can't say I wouldn't be doing the right thing. I'd be helping the press with some of that goddamn freedom they love so much. Even if the U.S. Marshal found the leak, I would be acclaimed as a good citizen."

  "And the Kayak Express?"

  "Black Mamma wouldn't sell me out. If she did, she'd lose her little white sugar cubes, and she can't live without her sugar."

  Ari believed him.

  "Can you give me a chance to set this straight before you do that?"

  "Sell me," said Carrington.

  "I have been responsible for saving many American lives."

  "How many is 'many'?"

  "I don't know the exact number. I've been told--"

  "Hearsay. Great. Are you out there now, giving mouth to mouth to some poor
slob? Are you gunning down the enemy? Exactly how many bad guys have you ID'd?"

  "Twenty-seven, if you include my work in-country."

  Carrington sat back. "That many?"

  "Yes."

  "And they were legit? You didn't finger them just because you didn't like their dog barking at night? I hear that's a popular pastime over there, using G.I.'s to settle personal scores."

  "I've 'liked' very few people in my life. Most of them are dead. But no, I haven't sent any of them to prison without just cause. I wouldn't want my worst enemy in an Iraqi prison."

  “How many bad guys have been arrested, and or otherwise?"

  "Because of me? Four were killed in combat. Four were executed by the Iraqi government. Five are in Abu Ghraib."

  "A place where you wouldn't want your worst enemy. Thirteen out of twenty-seven. Not bad, and I guess those are the only ones you know about."

  "Yes."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "I want you to meet my handler."

  "A U.S. Marshal?"

  "She is a deputy. She'll be able to set your mind at ease. After all, it would not be in your nation's interest if my services were...nullified."

  "Sounds like a sting."

  "If you were arrested, you would expose me in the courtroom."

  Carrington mulled this over.

  "You want to meet at her office?"

  "I doubt Miss Sylvester would agree to that. Security issues. Besides, I don't know where her office is. Perhaps a restaurant...?"

  "Then I choose the time and place," the detective said abruptly.

  "I need some lead time. I'm sure she has other duties."

  "All right. I'll give you a couple of days. I've got your cell phone number. And by the way, we’ll use my car. I don’t want any of that LoJack shit around."

  And why should that matter if the woman we’re going to meet is the same one who has been tracking me?

  "Agreed," said Ari.

  Carrington stood slowly, looking exhausted. He tossed the key to the handcuffs on the table. "I know you've got some guns floating around here. By the time you get those cuffs off, I'll be gone."