“Not easy,” I said. “It took both of us.”
“Let’s establish something,” Richie said. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“And I love you,” Richie said.
“Yes.”
“It’s a place to start,” Richie said.
“How about Kathryn?” I said.
“I was working on loving her,” Richie said.
“Yes.”
“But I couldn’t get rid of the fucking picture,” Richie said.
I nodded.
“My friend Julie says that love is just a collection of pathologies,” I said.
“I like Julie,” Richie said, “but she doesn’t know anything.”
I smiled.
“You know,” I said. “That’s true. I love Julie, but I never pay any attention to what she says.”
“So why’d you quote her now,” Richie said.
“To avoid saying things that matter more, I guess.”
“We better talk about things that matter,” Richie said.
“Yes,” I said. “I can’t be married.”
“I sort of picked that up,” Richie said.
“It’s not because I don’t love you,” I said.
“I know,” Richie said. “I didn’t know it then. But now I do.”
“I don’t even know yet why I can’t be married,” I said. “I’m working on it. But so far I just know I can’t.”
“You couldn’t when you married me the first time.”
“No.”
“Kind of sad,” Richie said. “If we had been then who we are now, we probably wouldn’t have gotten married.”
I smiled.
“In which case maybe we’d have been able to stay together,” I said.
“Could we call that irony?” Richie said.
“We could.”
Each of us drank some whiskey.
“So what can you do?” Richie said.
“As opposed to not being able to marry?”
“Yeah.”
“I do better with what I can’t do,” I said. “I really don’t think I could live with anybody.”
“Okay,” Richie said.
“Okay?”
“We can love each other without living together.”
I smiled.
“In fact, we are doing that now,” I said.
“Sort of,” Richie said.
“Sort of?” I said.
Richie nodded.
“Oh,” I said. “That.”
Richie nodded again. I drank a little whiskey.
“You’re married,” I said.
Richie nodded.
“I just broke off a very intense relationship,” I said.
Richie nodded.
“I don’t know what’s right or even fair in all of this,” I said. “But I know I can’t be someone’s mistress.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be,” Richie said.
“You can’t be married to Kathryn,” I said, “and have me on the side.”
“I know,” Richie said.
“It’s funny,” I said. “We’re both drinking, but we’re not drunk.”
“I know,” Richie said.
“Or maybe we are so drunk we think we’re sober,” I said.
“We’re not drunk,” Richie said.
“What should we do?” I said.
“We could try sex, see how that works,” Richie said.
“Not in the middle of confusion,” I said.
Richie nodded.
“You’re probably right,” he said.
“We need to know just what it is we’re doing,” I said.
“Wouldn’t that be a first,” Richie said.
His hands were motionless on the tabletop. I put mine on top of them. We looked at each other without saying anything.
“It’s a start,” I said.
He nodded.
“We do love each other,” I said. “There are worse places to begin.”
“On the other hand,” Richie said, “that’s where we started the first time.”
“Maybe we’re smarter this time,” I said.
“Hard to be dumber,” Richie said.
“What was it that baseball player said?”
“Yogi Berra,” Richie said. “It’s never over till it’s over.”
I nodded. He stood. I stood and we walked to the door. On my bed, lying on her side with her feet sticking out and her head under my pillow, Rosie never stirred. At the door we kissed each other. More than friendly, less than passionate.
“We’ll talk,” Richie said.
I nodded. He opened the door.
“Don’t throw the picture away,” I said.
He smiled and went out.
13
My father and I sat in the homicide unit with Frank Belson at police HQ.
“We got the list boiled down to thirty-three,” Belson said.
“Thirty-three suspects?” I said.
“Best thirty-three guesses,” Belson said.
Belson had his jacket off and his tie loosened. His gun in its holster lay on his desk beside the phone.
“Anybody got a false ID?” my father said.
“Nope. They all check out.”
“Anybody with a record?”
“Five of them,” Belson said. “Two possession with intent, one unlicensed firearm, one assault on a police officer…”
“What was that?” my father said.
“Guy got into a fight in a bar, cruiser guys showed up, he took a swing at one of them.”
“Did he by any chance happen to accidentally bang his head on something after his arrest?” my father said.
Belson smiled.
“Car roof, I believe,” Belson said “His vision was a little blurred from the mace.”
My father nodded.
“Anything else on him?”
“No,” Belson said. “He had a fight with his girlfriend and tied one on. Girlfriend showed up in the morning with a lawyer and got him out. He’s an orderly at City Hospital. Been there seven years. No other problems.”
“How about number five,” my father said.
“Smash-and-grab in a jewelry store,” Belson said.
“Anything on the guy with the gun?”
“Lab’s got it, but I’d say that it had never been fired.”
“Why does he have it?” I said.
Belson grinned.
“You’ll like this,” he said. “Protection against the Spare Change Killer.”
“Okay, so there’s the five with records, what about the other twenty-eight?” my father said.
“FBI profile, age, no alibi, instinct, hope…”
“I wouldn’t put too much on the age thing,” my father said. “Could be a copycat. Could be twenty years old.”
“We’re not ignoring that,” Belson said. “We’re just trying to get some sort of probability list.”
“And where do we come in?”
“We’ve invited all thirty-three in for reinterviewing,” Belson said. “Thought maybe you could observe, see if anything hit you.”
“You want us in the room or through the glass?” my father said.
“I’ll leave that to you,” Belson said.
“We’ll take it case by case,” my father said.
“Your call,” Belson said.
“Anyone decline to come in?”
“Three people.”
“Any reason?”
“They knew their rights,” Belson said. “If we wanted them to come in, we’d have to arrest them.”
“He might
want to come in,” I said.
“Same way he wanted to revisit the crime scene?” Belson said.
“Something like that.”
“Might be,” Belson said.
“When do we start?” my father said.
“Doors open tomorrow,” Belson said. “Nine a.m.”
14
My father and I sat in his car parked along the Charles River in Brighton and ate sub sandwiches for lunch.
“I saw Richie the other night,” I said.
My father put his sandwich down on the dashboard and drank coffee from a big foam cup. He put the cup back in its holder and patted his lips with a paper napkin.
“Uh-huh.”
“Daddy,” I said. “Do you like Richie?”
“I did,” he said.
“Do you still?”
“Don’t think about him,” my father said. “When you were with him, he was family. Now you’re not, he’s not.”
“Do you think he’s a good man?”
“If you do,” he said.
“Besides me,” I said. “Regardless of me.”
“I’m your father,” he said. “There’s no such thing as regardless of you.”
“Damn it, Daddy,” I said, “I’m looking for advice.”
My father ate some of his sandwich.
“About Richie?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know anything against him,” my father said, “except that you divorced him.”
“What if we got back together?” I said.
“You want that?” my father said.
“I don’t know.”
“Then I don’t know, either,” he said.
“What kind of advice is that?” I said.
“All I got,” my father said. “I can’t tell you who to love. I can’t tell you if you ought to love him.”
He stared through the car window at the river for a short time.
“But if you do love him,” he said, “you need to act on it.”
“He’s remarried, you know.”
“Doesn’t matter. Married, single. You love him, you do what you need to do and you don’t worry about anything else.” He grinned at me. “Except, of course, your aging father.”
“You feel that way about Mother?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” I said.
“I know what a pain in the ass your mother can be. But I also know I love her.”
“So you don’t think it’s crazy,” I said. “Richie and me, again.”
“I don’t know if it’s crazy, and I don’t care,” my father said. “You love him, you do what you need to do.”
“What about his wife?”
“Not your problem,” my father said. “He loves her, he’ll stay with her. He loves you and he’ll leave her.”
“What do you suppose Mother would say about this?”
“Nothing you want to hear,” my father said. “Or Elizabeth, either. I can deal with them.”
“You can?” I said.
He smiled.
“Imagine them if I couldn’t,” he said.
“Julie says love is all just pathologies,” I said.
“Julie’s a dope,” my father said. “You still seeing Dr. Silverman?”
“When I can.”
“Ask her about it,” he said.
“You act as if you know what she’d answer.”
He shrugged.
“Ask her,” he said.
“You know her?”
“Ask her that, too, if you care,” my father said. “If it’s in your best interest, she’ll tell you.”
“But you won’t,” I said.
“I never been shrunk,” my father said. “But I know it’s not always a good idea for a patient to know a lot about the shrink.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s true.”
We had both finished eating and were sitting, looking at the blank, gray river.
“So if I were with Richie, you’d like that?” I said.
“If you did,” he said.
“What if I didn’t?” I said.
“Then I wouldn’t.”
I laughed.
“You stubborn bastard,” I said.
“But sensitive,” my father said.
15
I stood at the viewing window beside my father. There were chairs provided, but we both stood, drinking too much coffee, watching a parade of white males, ages forty to sixty, being questioned by detectives. Several of the men brought lawyers. But with or without counsel, the questioning was polite. No tough talk. No good cop/bad cop. No threats.
“Just need to go over a couple of things, sir…. Thanks for coming down, sir…. We’re really grateful to you for your help on this, sir.”
Belson stood with us, focused on the interviews, listening for every hesitation, watching for every eye shift. He reminded me of Dr. Silverman, who never missed anything said or gestured during our therapy sessions. My father was like that, too. He looked at the interviewees with such intensity that it was as if the force of his interest could pierce every façade.
Spare Change might be in there. Any one of these bland, middle-aged white men could have killed a large number of people for no good reason. Or at least no reason anyone understood.
“You lived in Minneapolis twenty years ago…. I know it’s hard, but have you an address…. Is that in Minneapolis itself…. Suburban Minneapolis…. Were you employed during that time…. Do you have an address for that company…. No, no problem, we can find it…. Thank you for your time, sir.”
And so it droned on. Belson and my father seemed oblivious to how boring it was. I was having trouble. They’re more used to it, I thought. They’ve been doing it longer. Police work was a lot about listening to boring stuff that didn’t do you any good. The trick was to stay with it, and listen to it, and spot the thing that mattered.
“I understand you’re just doing your job…. Officer, I told another policeman already…. Twenty years ago? I don’t know where I was twenty hours ago…. Yes, I already told another officer that…. I’ve never fired a gun in my life…. You don’t think I had anything to do with these killings.”
If anyone had said or enacted anything interesting, we could have discussed it and it would have helped pass the time. But no one did, so we stood and listened and watched as the time dragged past. I was sick of coffee, but there was no lunch in sight, and there was nothing else to do, and I felt like I needed a nap, so I drank some more.
Then at about ten past three, something interesting happened. A slim, balding man came in and sat down. What hair he had was cut very short. He wore an expensive-looking beige tee, tan slacks, and pale tan loafers with no socks. His watch was a Rolex. His slacks were carefully pressed. Everything he was wearing seemed new and fresh. When he came into the room, he walked to the interview officer with his hand out.
“Hi,” he said. “Bob Johnson.”
The cop didn’t take his hand.
“Detective Bellino,” the cop said. “Thanks for coming in.”
“What’s your first name, Detective,” Johnson said. “I’m a first-name guy.”
“Anthony,” the cop said.
“How ya doing, Anthony,” Johnson said.
My father looked at Belson. They both looked at me.
“Fine,” Bellino said.
He slid a list of dates across the table to Johnson.
“Can you tell me, sir, where you were and what you were doing on those dates?”
“Hell, Anthony,” Bob said. “My father is sir. I’m Bob.”
“Sure thing, Bob. Where were you on these dates?”
> Johnson picked up the list and studied it. He had crossed his legs, carefully hiking the pants leg so as not to spoil the crease.
“Wow,” he said. “These are the Spare Change murder dates, aren’t they?”
“Why do you think so?” Bellino said.
“Well, Anthony,” Johnson said. “Isn’t that what this is all about? The Spare Change Killer?”
“Can you remember where you were, Bob, on those dates,” Bellino said.
“Oh God no, Tony. Do your friends call you Tony?”
“Tony is fine,” Bellino said. “You can’t remember what you were doing on any of these dates?”
“No, I’m sorry, but”—he shrugged—“tell you the truth, Tony, I am out and about almost every day. I’d really need to look at my book.”
Bellino was looking at a notebook.
“It’s a little surprising to me that you haven’t,” Bellino said. “We asked you the same thing before, and you gave pretty much the same answer. I’d have expected that you’d look it up by now.”
“God, I know,” he said. “Isn’t it awful? You policemen are all working so hard to solve the case and we civilians…” He shook his head. “Of course I should have looked it up. But…” He shrugged and spread his hands.
“He’s enjoying this,” Belson said.
My father nodded.
“How you all doing with this case anyway?”
“Did you observe anything unusual in the Public Garden the day of the shooting?” Bellino said.
“Just a bunch of cops suddenly showing up,” Bob said. “Too late, I guess.”
Belson walked to the door of the interview room and opened it.
“Detective Bellino,” he said. “We need you out here.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Bellino said to Johnson.
“Sure thing, Tony. No rush.”
Bellino came out. Belson closed the door. Inside the room, Johnson put his feet up on the table and crossed his ankles. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back a little in the straight chair.
“You interview him before?” Belson said.
Bellino looked at his notebook.
“No. Eddie Felice.”
“What do we know about him,” Belson said.
Bellino read from his notebook.
“Financial planner, self-employed. Works out of an office in his house. Told Eddie it’s mostly house calls. You know, sit around the kitchen table in the client’s house, tell him what stocks to buy.”
Spare Change Page 5
