Requiem for Innocence

by BV Lawson

  Nelia consulted a piece of paper with her notes. “If you check the time stamps from the camcorder, there are some bits you may be interested in. Here’s the first.”

  She paused the video to create a still image. “This is the slip where Quintier parks his boat. Note that the boat is out.” She then moved to a second spot on the video. “And here’s a half hour later, or ten minutes before the incident with the firecrackers and Virginia. The boat is back.”

  “Hardly damning. But interesting.”

  “I picked out a couple of faces.” She pulled up two still images from the crowd and placed them in a split screen. “Barry Farland on the left and Freaky Farland on the right.”

  “I see the sheriff told you about the Will.”

  “He did. Barry seems relaxed, but Freaky is kinda wild-eyed. And what’s he doing there, if he hates to be seen?”

  Drayco turned to scan Nelia’s face instead of the video. “You’ve made up your mind one or both Farlands are the culprits?”

  “Nope.” She smiled at him. “I am the model of objectivity.”

  He smiled back. Mindful of the sheriff’s warning, he quickly added, “Did our budding videographer capture the attack on Virginia, by any chance?”

  “Not directly. He did catch a piece of the wheelchair going into the water as well as your Olympics audition.” She jumped ahead to a spot in the video thirty seconds after the firecrackers.

  It was enough for Drayco to feel the attack was part planned and part opportunistic, dependent upon the unpredictable crowd numbers and reactions. Within those thirty seconds, there stood Lucy Harston, a look of horror on her face and no Virginia by her side. That was all it took for the attacker to move through the stampeding crowds and maneuver Virginia away. The perpetrator was helped by Virginia’s love of the water—if you’re in a wheelchair, you have to be as close as possible in order to see it without bodies blocking the view.

  Drayco asked Nelia to stop the video at the point where the wheelchair disappeared and toggle it. “From the height of the shots, I’d say our videographer is slightly over four feet tall. If you look closely through a brief patch of daylight between the herd, you can make out fingers on a hand pulling back from Virginia’s chair. And right there, another glimpse, this time of a foot. The hand and foot withdraw in tandem.”

  Nelia brought her nose closer to the screen. “It’s the right distance someone would need to give a good shove and let momentum carry Virginia over the edge. If that’s the culprit’s hand, you can’t tell much—no rings, no unusual markings. A hint of dirt or grease. And it looks like those fingers belong to a male.”

  “The foot is interesting. Wouldn’t you say that’s a brand-new shoe? He’s wearing shorts, but with that lily-white skin, I’d say this is someone unaccustomed to shorts or sun.”

  “Too bad we didn’t get better images of the Farlands. Or the bottom halves thereof.”

  “So now you get to go through the video frame by frame for a better picture of the owner of those shoes?”

  “I’m not hopeful. Those are ordinary boat shoes in a common style and color. Every man there wore either those or sandals.” Nelia relaxed into her chair. “Good thing I don’t have a job where I stare at computer screens all day, or I’d be sporting glasses by now.”

  He patted the video screen. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”

  “A wasted effort.”

  “Not so fast. We know some of the stars in the suspect gallery were there, or in the case of Quintier, potentially there. We’ve verified the attack was planned in advance. And that it was staged by at least one male, and the man in question works with his hands. Or did right before the attack. He has an aversion to short pants—maybe by choice, maybe scars, skin cancer. And he does a lousy impression of Speedy Gonzalez.”

  She gave him The Look, arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or pulling my leg.”

  “It may not seem like much now. Neither does an uncut diamond.”

  If the leading suspect responsible for pushing Virginia was indeed male, that would take the wind out of any theories about Lucy and the Munchhausen syndrome. Not that he was sorry.

  Nelia’s hand hovered over the playback controls. “You want to go through the video one more time? I can show you the part with the couple making out behind a tree. The boy who shot this video used up a large section of his memory card on those two. Imagine.”

  Nelia punched in a time code, and the video picked up at a point before the attack on Virginia. There they were—a young pup barely eighteen, if that, with the outlines of a blonde woman. The tree and the boy blocked her face from view.

  Nelia leaned in and studied the couple. “Looks like a first encounter to me. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Kinda like my first boyfriend, Billy Necking.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Broke my heart when he left me for a majorette. He was my first. In every way.” She grinned, and, as he noted with amusement, not a sign of a blush anywhere.

  “So, a high school crush, then?”

  “College.”

  “Ah. Most college students end up with a minor in deflowering.”

  “And a major in drinking.”

  “Did good ole Billy propose?”

  “He became a Catholic priest. Then I met my husband.” She jotted down a time check from the video on a pad in front of her. “What about your sordid tale?”

  She caught him off guard. “My first time?”

  “In the interest of scientific curiosity. I have an anthropology minor. Old habits.”

  “I was sixteen.”

  “Let me guess—some cute little flutist in the band. Or a soprano in the chorus who wore braces.”

  “She was thirty-five and associate concertmaster with an orchestra in London.”

  She gaped at him. “You do realize she could have been arrested for statutory, don’t you?”

  “At sixteen, I was six-three and a baritone. It was Christmas Eve after a concert, I was alone in London in a dreary hotel room and feeling sorry for myself. She showed up and decided to give me a nice Christmas present.”

  “More memorable than a tie or keychain.”

  “She also gave me this.” He pulled the necklace he was wearing from under his shirt.

  “Looks Celtic.”

  “It’s a Celtic dragon sword. In Celtic folklore, dragons were symbols of knowledge and wisdom. And the alternate spelling of my surname is Latin for dragon.”

  “Did you date afterward?”

  “It was just that one time. I was in town for a Beethoven concerto with the orchestra and then back to the States.”

  “Yet you still wear the necklace.”

  He moved the sword underneath his shirt. “It’s a reminder. Not necessarily of her. I’ll always be grateful for the kindness she showed me.”

  Nelia smirked as if to say, “Among other things.”

  “I was a tough kid, older than my years. Had to be, with my father gone much of the time and me missing school on concert tours. I punched the living daylights out of two school classmates who made the mistake of bullying me about my piano playing. Cost me a month of detention—and piano playing—but it was worth it. No bullies bothered me after that.”

  “I know the feeling. A woman has to work twice as hard in a man’s profession. My violinist mother was horrified when I told her I wanted to work in law enforcement. More horrified when I went into the Army Reserves.”

  “And my FBI father was dismayed I wanted to be a musician.”

  “The differences between attitudes toward sons and daughters, I guess. I had Barbie dolls but dressed them up like Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Made little guns so they could have shoot-outs.”

  “Nancy and Bess versus Frank and Joe? Let me guess, girl power ruled the day.”

  “Guess again. I had a crush on Frank, so I always let him win.”

  She reached for her coffee cup, but her hand slipped and the steaming
brown liquid spilled off the table and onto her chair. Drayco jumped back while grabbing Nelia’s hand, pulling her up with him.

  She tensed up for a moment. As she relaxed, she said with a nervous laugh, “Thanks for saving me from being Freaky’s twin.”

  He’d acted out of instinct and training. Now, with his arm around Nelia’s waist, he felt as awkward as his sixteen-year-old self was with the violinist. He released her quickly and was about to offer a muttered apology when he glanced at the video, still trained on the couple behind the tree.

  He pushed the pause button. “Well, look at that.”

  Nelia smoothed the hitch in her uniform and moved her head closer to the monitor. “What is it?”

  “The partner of our make-out boy. See there? She moved, and you can catch a glimpse of her face.”

  Nelia’s eyes widened. “Talk about statutory. Isn’t that Iris Quintier?”

  “Sure looks that way to me. Guess she has a thing for boys.”

  “Or she thinks if Caleb finds out, he’s less likely to kill a teenager?”

  Drayco grimaced. “He’s quite capable of being behind the attacks on Virginia.”

  “You really think he did it?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just that he’s capable of doing it.” He stared at the image on the screen. “Poor Iris. I guess the sheriff filled you in on Beth’s ledger and the abortions.”

  She grimaced, and he continued, “Perhaps Iris’s interest in boys is due to her innocence being stolen by her stepfather. Emotional trauma at a young age can make a victim stuck in time, in a way.”

  Nelia sank into her chair, resting her chin on her hand. “Those entries you recreated from that ledger are some of the saddest reading I’ve had in a long time. I know a lot of those women. Some turned out all right, others weren’t so lucky. Allison Kaehn’s been in and out of jail and rehab for doing drugs. Frances Oregan is thrice divorced and on welfare. Barbara Maychelle committed suicide a year ago.”

  She swiveled her chair around to face him. “You haven’t mentioned Virginia’s stillborn twin to Lucy Harston yet, have you?”

  He was still having the same internal debate over that issue since he discovered the ledger. He supposed Lucy and Virginia deserved to know. In learning more about them, he’d reached the conclusion they were strong enough to handle the news. Still, he hesitated.

  Nelia bit her lip, the expression on her face mirroring his thoughts. He cleared his throat and tried to lighten the mood as he looked expectantly around the room. “Didn’t the sheriff say something about popcorn?”

  Saturday 18 July

  Another morning, another Reece outing. It was a good thing Drayco was an early riser although Reece had arranged this particular meeting for ten o’clock. Drayco needed the distraction after yesterday’s meetings with Vesta Mae, the sheriff, and Nelia, each disturbing in their own way. Not disturbing, more compelling. No, make that disturbing. Filled with lies, motives, regrets, and a few other things he didn’t want to think about. Shouldn’t think about.

  He skimmed the copy of the article Reece held out. “So Ray Rebbeck was another of Quintier’s patsies. Where’d you dig up this article?”

  “I was looking for some nuts I squirreled away last winter and found this. I met Rebbeck when he visited the society for research. He remembered me on the phone.”

  Reece counted out the house numbers they were passing. “Whoa, hoss. This is the address.”

  Drayco stopped in front of a tiny bungalow not much bigger than a studio apartment. The last surviving blades of grass long ago gave up and handed the white flag to the pigweed and lambsquarter. Three of the front shutters were missing, and the fourth was hanging cockeyed from the one remaining hinge. Drayco and Reece walked up to the front door with its peeling surround that not long ago served as a tasty termite snack.

  Drayco said, “I appreciate your exalted company, Reece, but you didn’t have to come along.”

  “Mrs. Hammontree gets such a kick of out running the Historical Society when I leave her in charge. I help her, I help you, two good deeds for the price of one.”

  Ray Rebbeck ushered them in as fast as his back hunched at ninety degrees would allow. Drayco looked around for anything resembling furniture where they could sit. Aside from one faded armchair, the only candidate was a diminutive round kitchen table with two chairs. Rebbeck motioned for Reece and Drayco toward the table while he folded himself into the armchair. The room was so compact, the trio could whisper and still be heard.

  In the car, Reece had offered to initiate the conversation, so he plunged ahead. “We haven’t seen you at the Historical Society lately, Mr. Rebbeck. Weren’t you the one interested in Revolutionary War research?”

  “Used to be, I guess. Don’t have a lot of energy these days. And I had to sell my car, so I don’t get around much.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange for someone to come pick you up.”

  “That’d be real nice. I thank you.”

  Rebbeck was only a little older than Winthrop Gatewood but had sunken cheekbones and a ruff of white hair. The stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter lying next to a social security check were silent testimony Rebbeck was on disability and hadn’t worked in some time. His was the true face of Quintier’s business victims, the ones who didn’t have a “lottery money” safety net.

  Drayco said, “Reece tells me you’ve lived in Cape Unity your entire life.”

  Rebbeck coughed a few times. “Sorry. It’s my lungs. Yes, you could say I’m an old-timer with a lot of memories. Wish all of them were good ones.”

  “I don’t want to dredge up most of those bad memories. But I hoped you might be willing to discuss one or two. A little problem with gambling?”

  “Little ain’t the word, least for me. Lost my shirt and about everything else. Caleb Quintier came out smelling like a rose. He’s got money, a nice house, a yacht. I got this,” he waved his arm around the room. “If a man’s home is his castle, I’d hate to see the dungeons in this place.”

  “Did you know other men involved in Quintier’s schemes? Men like Cole Harston, Freaky Farland, Arnold Sterling, Winthrop Gatewood?”

  “When we were a lot younger. Two of those guys are dead now, and I’m not far behind. Maybe Quintier didn’t kill ’em and maybe we’re responsible for our own reckless behavior. But Quintier sure knows how to play to your weaknesses.”

  “Other than gambling, were you aware of any other connections between those names I mentioned?”

  “There was that love triangle, Beth Perlee and Freaky–he was Ferguson then–and Arnold. Arnold won that one. Don’t think a one of them was happy.”

  Rebbeck coughed, harder this time. He got up, headed to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of syrup, taking a swig. With the refrigerator door open, Drayco saw a lot of white space. There was a bottle of ketchup, some pickles, and a can of cat food covered in foil. Yet no cat dishes or cat hair, no evidence whatsoever of a pet. He looked at Reece, who raised one eyebrow.

  Rebbeck said, “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer. If you’d like some water, I can give you a glass from the tap.”

  Drayco smiled at him. “Thank you. We’re fine.”

  Rebbeck eased himself into his chair, keeping the syrup bottle nearby. “Don’t know of anything between Cole and Arnold directly, but Cole and Freaky, well. You may know Cole was in construction. Worked his way up to foreman, but started out in explosives. Rumor has it he’s the one who built the pipe bomb Freaky used on Arnold. There was another pipe bomb explosion ’bout that same time, next county over. That one killed a child. They never found out who did it.”

  Drayco asked, “Do you know who was behind it, Mr. Rebbeck?”

  “Don’t want to speculate. Hate to talk bad of the dead out of respect. Hate to talk bad about the living because I’d like to keep on living myself as long as possible. If you get my drift. Can’t imagine Cole would do that. I don’t know if he knew what Freaky was going to use that pipe bomb f
or or not.”

  Drayco waited for another of Rebbeck’s coughing spells to die down. “You’ve discussed three of the names. That leaves Winthrop Gatewood.”

  Rebbeck adjusted himself in his chair to prop up one foot on a stool. Drayco saw for the first time how swollen it was. Rebbeck sighed, but it wasn’t from relief the footstool brought.

  “Winthrop Gatewood,” Rebbeck began. “Now that one takes me back. We were school chums, fast friends. That was when my family still had money, before my father’s business burned down. No insurance. Before that, Winnie and I could yak about anything. We had big dreams. Dreams of being filthy rich and never having to work. Winnie’s plans kept getting more grandiose. And this was while he was still a young shaver, obsessed with money even then. Guess that’s why he dropped me like a hot potato when I was suddenly poor. Winnie got his wish—I mean what does the man do? Never seen him work.”

  Rebbeck stopped to catch his breath and pounded his chest a few times. “Got the infernal croup. I should say eternal croup. Probably take it with me into the afterlife, up or down.”

  Drayco said, “If you need to stop at any time ...”

  Rebbeck waved him off. “Naw. It’s good to talk at someone other than the TV. Where was I? Oh yes, Winnie and his image. It was always the image. Makes it more queer he’d gamble on Quintier. I wouldn’t have expected him to do that unless he was desperate. Now me, what did I have to lose except more money? When you’re poorer than dirt, what’s more dirt? We had some good times, Winnie and I ...”

  After his voice trailed off, Drayco was going to make their excuses to leave, when Rebbeck piped up. “I know I said I hate to speak ill of the dead. But it’s not Winnie that’s dead is it? It’s his little boy, Jacob was his name. Winnie must have been secretly glad when that boy died.”

  Reece spoke up, “Surely not.”

  “He doesn’t have to share any of that trust fund money, now does he? Or he won’t in a few years.”

  Reece prompted, “That money would have reverted to Winthrop upon his son’s death, right?”

  “Not in this case. Winnie’s father didn’t trust him with scratch. So he made sure it wouldn’t be released to Winnie until twenty-one years after Jacob was born. Not a day sooner. Regardless of whether Jacob was alive or not.”