Suburban Dicks

by Fabian Nicieza

  Then, as if the timing couldn’t have been worse, her phone vibrated. It was a text message from Ramon. The DNA on the bones matched. The remains belonged to the same victim. And even better, they got a familial hit matching the DNA of a man currently in the prison system.

  “What’s that?” asked Jeff.

  She hesitated. Because he’d been honest with her, she decided to be honest with him.

  “I’m going to prison,” she said.

  33

  ANDREA’S trip to the slammer had to wait a couple of days. On Monday morning, Kenny pulled into West Windsor Community Park while she was at the pool.

  She saw him. “This one’s for me,” she told Crystal and Molly. Her friends helped her out of the Eno Lounger DL.

  “What’s all this about?” asked Crystal.

  “Oh, it’s part of an ongoing murder investigation,” Andrea replied.

  The more ridiculous it sounded, the less likely Crystal would be to prod. Molly cast a bemused but suspicious glance toward Andrea.

  “Fine, don’t tell us,” said Crystal as Andrea walked to meet Kenny.

  “The shit is going to hit the fan real soon,” he said.

  “You go first,” she replied.

  “Dobeck might know that we know about the conspirators,” he said.

  “You opened your mouth.”

  “I did, but not totally,” he admitted. “He was waiting for me at my place on Friday. I thought he was there about the permits, but he was there about the false report filing Wu and Patel had made.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay, we can still work with that.”

  “And he wanted your name,” Kenny continued. Off her vexation, he added, “But I didn’t give it to him.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But he has a description of you and knows the make and model of your car.” He paused, anticipating her explosion. Then he said, “So, what’s your news?”

  “We got a hit on the DNA,” she said. “A familial match to someone in the prison system. Ramon is setting up a meeting for us.”

  “Holy shit, this is really coming together.”

  “We can prove someone is dead, but we can’t prove a murder or a conspiracy yet,” she said. “It’s going to take a couple days for Ramon to come through, so in the meantime, I’m picking up the paperwork on the Sasmal permit denial from Sharda. You have to push any current West Windsor and Plainsboro administrators who might be involved. If Dobeck suspects, and your official request is making its way through the hallways, people are going to get nervous.”

  “I’m following up on the pool permit request I put in at Plainsboro,” he said.

  “And Kenny,” she said with a weighted pause, “make it noisy.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  ANDREA WENT FROM the pool to the Sasmals’ to pick up their rejected pool permit applications. In the car, the kids screaming and the AC blasting, she flipped through the folder Sharda had given her. Thomas Robertson was the township administrator who had denied the permit without completing the proper environmental work necessary. Could Robertson have done this by himself? Unlikely. He’d been working with the township for twenty years, which would make this a legacy cover-up. And Andrea was unsure if Robertson would have needed help inside the offices. The woman who had fielded her initial call, Elizabeth Gorman, had worked for the township clerk’s office for thirty years. Was it possible that Robertson could perpetuate a cover-up without others noticing or questioning it? Possible—but probable? Just as she made a mental note to get more background on Gorman, Ruth called from behind her, “Moooom, let’s go!”

  She was stopped at a green light.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  KENNY ENTERED THE Plainsboro clerk’s office, greeting Rosemary Gavin with a giant grin on his face and a box of Dunkin’ doughnuts in his hands. He put the box down on her counter and said, “I’m here to see Bill about the permit requests.”

  Opening and shutting the doughnut box as if it were a mouth, Kenny added, “How about if I just surprise him? That is, if you want to eat us . . .”

  Rosemary released the buzzer that unlocked the gate. Kenny sauntered in, grabbing a Bavarian cream with a cellophane napkin as he handed the box down to her.

  “One for Billy,” he said, and she shooed him away.

  He rounded the corner past the cubicle drones on his way to Mueller’s office. Billy was on the phone, his back to the door and his feet propped up on the file cabinet behind his desk. He was in his fifties and had written the book on township codes. He was generally reviled by the average homeowner and beloved by the tax collector’s office. In Kenny’s limited dealings with him, Mueller was a decent guy, but dull.

  Kenny sat down. The sound of his ass lowering onto the leather drew Billy’s attention. He swiveled in his chair, a bit startled to see the reporter facing him.

  “I have to go,” Mueller said abruptly into the phone’s receiver. “No. Yes. I know. I have to go.”

  He hung up and looked at the stack of paperwork in his in-box.

  “Is this about your request, Lee?” he asked, numbly flipping through papers in a show of looking for it. “Because I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

  “What’s there to get to, Bill?” Kenny asked. “My request was properly submitted, properly compiled, and it doesn’t require Code Enforcement to approve of its release.”

  Pause.

  “Does it?”

  Bill tried to spin. “There were some privacy concerns I had to look into,” he muttered, avoiding Kenny’s eyes. “I have to make a couple calls and then—”

  Kenny placed the doughnut on the desk. With thin-lipped disdain, he said, “Billy . . . Billy . . . listen . . . that fear you’re feeling right now? That maybe the jig is up . . . ?”

  Kenny picked up the doughnut he had set down. He took a giant bite out of it. Chocolate icing smeared his upper lip; a gelatinous glob of cream clung to his lower lip.

  Through a mouthful of spongy dough, he said, “NJSA 2C:5-2.”

  The combination of letters and numbers forced Mueller to focus.

  “Under New Jersey Criminal Code NJSA 2C:5-2, a person is guilty of conspiracy if he/she agrees with another person/persons to engage in conduct or aid another person in conduct that constitutes the commission of a crime,” Kenny rattled off from memory. “Bill, by refusing to provide me with the legally requested information you have sitting on your desk, you would become what law-enforcement officials call a coconspirator.”

  Mueller had spent his entire adult life telling people how they had to comply with the rules he followed. His eyes reflected a truth that had likely haunted him for decades: people who break the rules eventually get caught and people who get caught have to pay the price for breaking the rules.

  Kenny kept his mouth shut and let Bill Mueller stew in his own fear and guilt.

  After several more seconds of excruciating internal conflict, the administrator slowly grabbed the folder containing the permit rejection information from his in-box. He opened a side drawer to his desk, slid the folder in, and then locked the drawer with a key.

  “According to the Open Public Records act, PL1963, c.73, a public agency has a responsibility and an obligation to safeguard from public access a citizen’s personal information with which it has been entrusted when disclosure thereof would violate the citizen’s reasonable expectation of privacy,” Mueller calmly said.

  “Really?” Kenny reacted, surprised by the unexpected size of Bill’s balls. “You realize the house is on fire and you’re rejecting the kiddie emergency escape ladder I’m offering you?”

  “I have to make sure it’s in the best interests of our residents for you to have this information, Mr. Lee,” he said stiffly.

  Kenny wasn’t going to argue. Just to spite this bastard,
he determined he would find a body part on Mueller’s former family farm, even if he had to plant it.

  He remembered that he’d gotten permission to make it noisy. He turned around and shouted at the top of his lungs, “You’re covering up a crime, Bill! It’s not fair that you’re going to get in trouble for what other people did. I gave you the opportunity to come clean!”

  A silence, like the stillness after a car accident, settled over the entire office. Stunned cubicle drones stopped typing, filing, talking, and two dozen heads rubbernecked in Kenny’s direction. A Plainsboro police officer, a younger patrolman Kenny wasn’t familiar with, poked his head out of an office. Kenny was pissed he hadn’t seen the cop before. The patrolman cautiously walked toward him.

  “Sir? Are you unwell?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Officer”—Kenny eyed his name tag—“Olsen. I apologize. I’m a reporter. I was being a little dramatic in order to make Mr. Mueller uncomfortable.”

  “You managed to make everyone else uncomfortable, too,” said Olsen. “Is there any truth to your dramatic explosion?” he asked.

  “The truth remains under investigation,” Kenny replied. “My little demonstration was a frustrated response about my own failure rather than anything definitive I can conclude about Mr. Mueller.”

  “So, we don’t have anything further to discuss?” Olsen asked.

  “No, Officer Olsen, at this time we do not,” said Kenny. He quickly left, all eyes on him as he walked out the door.

  In the parking lot, he texted Jimmy: Can you meet at Fisher Place in one hour?

  In seconds, Jimmy responded: I can @ 11. more bones? this is cool

  He texted: 11 works. bring a work vest for me. thnx.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  KENNY MADE A quick stop at Home Depot to purchase a shovel. It set him back twenty bucks, which only left him forty for the rest of the month. He wanted so badly to nail Bill Mueller, he was willing to starve for it.

  Built in the early 1970s, the Penns Neck subdivision of houses was developed on the land that comprised the original Manning Farm. Adjacent to the David Sarnoff Research Center, which Kenny could see beyond the fields, the development had been popular with the employees of the famous facility. The Penns Neck houses had seen better days. On the plus side, they retained a Father Knows Best vibe that was lacking in the McMansions that proliferated in the area.

  He looked at the PDF of the West Windsor map he’d saved on his phone. The houses backed to several hundred yards of wild grass and scrub that were bisected by the narrow, winding Millstone River.

  Jimmy Chaney pulled up in his Camaro.

  Not even twenty minutes later, Kenny had dug through the soft, wet ground to reveal the victim’s leg.

  He took several pictures on his cell phone.

  He texted Andrea: Jimmy and I just found the other leg.

  And he thought, Fuck you, Bill Mueller.

  34

  Call me.

  That was all Andrea’s text to Kenny said. After waking up flush with victory from having pinned Bill Mueller’s family to the cover-up, he was now worried about what she would say to him. Her text had come in at six thirty. It was seven fifteen when Kenny saw it, seven thirty by the time he called.

  “I’m on my way to your condo,” she said.

  “I just woke up.”

  “I have to drop my kids off with you,” she said.

  “What?” he exclaimed, louder than was appropriate but not nearly as loudly as he’d intended.

  “Ramon called me this morning,” she said. “He was able to get a prison visit for eight thirty at East Jersey State Prison.”

  “Wait, and I’m not going with you?”

  “Ramon could only get one non-agency visitor to accompany him,” she said. “And that’s me. I have no one to watch the kids and I can’t bring them to a prison.”

  “Bring them here and prison is where I’ll end up,” he said, looking to see if he had any coffee left. Just enough for one cup. “Andie, seriously, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Three hours,” she said. “Take them to a diner for breakfast.”

  “I have no money left for the month,” he said, embarrassed.

  “I’ll leave you some cash,” she said, embarrassed for him.

  He was cornered. They had to identify the remains and this was the best opportunity to do that. All his excitement about nailing Mueller yesterday dissipated into a feeling of uselessness.

  “Okay, fine,” he muttered.

  Five minutes later, he heard her car doors open and close outside and the sound of her pack scampering around, freed from their shackles. Four of them pounded on his door with their little fists. Kenny opened and feigned happiness at seeing them. They tumbled into his condo, running around him to the left and right. They searched for anything of interest to play with. They wouldn’t find much. There was barely even any bourbon left. One of the smaller ones—Sarah, Sadie, whatever—climbed him like a squirrel on a tree in two seconds.

  Andrea stood in front of her minivan, which was still running. “I should be back by lunchtime,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I get it,” said Kenny. “It’s just that, armed with what we have now, I wanted to go to West Windsor municipal offices and start squeezing them, too.”

  “You’ll have all afternoon,” she said.

  “Unless I really enjoy this and decide to adopt them,” he said.

  “I said I’m sorry, right?”

  He nodded. Then, before she got back into her car, he sheepishly said, “Money?”

  “Ruth has it,” Andrea answered. “I told her not to let you handle it.”

  She drove off. With Sarah still perched on his head, he turned to face the rest of the pack. As he closed the door, he was hit in the face by a pair of his own dirty underwear.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  RUNNING ONLY FIFTEEN minutes late, which was incredibly good for her, Andrea pulled up to the gatehouse at the prison. The institution was the second oldest in the state and infamous for having been the setting for the Scared Straight! series from the 1970s. Its distinctive architectural feature was a massive metallic gray-and-white dome in the center of the building, from which three multistory wings fanned out. The terra-cotta brick façade looked exhausted but still managed to be imposing.

  This was the third time she’d been to this prison. The first when she was eleven years old. She snuck onto a New Jersey Transit bus out of Port Authority in Manhattan and then talked the prison guard into letting her see her “father,” who was really her Fagin-like mentor, Tito Envaquera.

  The second time was for a Columbia University field study program that required her to log ten hours at a penal institution. She chose East Jersey State Prison because she hoped it would give her a chance to see Tito again for the first time in ten years. She was disappointed to find out he had died of cancer just three weeks earlier.

  She walked to the secondary guardhouse, which separated the parking lot from the front gates. Another guard checked her ID and waved her through. As he was closing the fence gate behind her, he asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “If my water breaks, it’ll be a great story I can tell the kid,” Andrea said.

  The guard laughed.

  She walked through the large wooden double doors and into the main entrance. Ramon sat in a metal chair with worn green padding on it, flipping through a folder he held in his hands.

  He stood up and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I still take you to all the best places,” he said.

  She wanted to say, “I wish,” but instead said, “Kenny found the remains of the right leg yesterday. The land where it was buried is in West Windsor, but it was originally owned by the family of a Plainsboro Township administrator.”

  “Th
at’s your neighboring town, right?” asked Ramon, handing his paperwork through a sliding window in the bulletproof glass clerk’s booth. “What does the administrator do?”

  “Code enforcement,” she replied.

  A loud buzzer rang and the heavy, hollow sound of metal tumblers echoed through the stone walls of the entrance chamber. The door to the right of the clerk’s booth opened. Another guard waved them in. He glanced at Andrea’s enormous belly.

  The guard led them down a hallway. Ramon said, “The prisoner’s name is Aaron Beckham. Age thirty-four. Year three of a five-year mandatory minimum for carjacking. No weaponry involved. His first offense.”

  “And it was a familial match, right?” she asked.

  “Eighteen out of twenty-six alleles,” Ramon said.

  “Promising,” she said as they came to a stop outside a thick black door with a caged window built into it. The guard pressed a key card to a sensor alongside the door and it unlocked.

  He led them to a small room with a black metal table bolted to the floor and four metal chairs. Three chairs lined one side of the table facing a single chair on the opposite side. A black exit door was centered in the wall behind the single chair.

  The guard held the chair out for Andrea as they sat. Without an armrest to support her descent, Ramon had to hold her elbow and guide her down. She tried to take it in stride with a half smile, but in truth she was sick and tired of being pregnant. She suspected he could see that.

  A minute later, another buzzer sounded. Tumblers rolled. A second guard opened the back door and Aaron Beckham was led into the room, handcuffed and shackled.

  “Can we take those off?” asked Andrea, surprising Ramon. He went along with her instincts. He nodded to the guard, who removed the cuffs.

  Beckham rubbed his wrists and asked, “Why am I sitting here?”

  Ramon showed his badge and identified himself.