Chapter 4: God May Forgive You But I Don't

    I had two choices. One, return to the office, write up my notes into a background piece and begin the myriad machinations that would send this issue to press and keep our sinking ship afloat. Frankly, though, that didn’t sound like me. The other option was to retire to my couch with a beer, a book and the afternoon Red Sox game muted on the TV. But while that seemed to be playing to my strength, I decided to split the difference and phoned in the story to Gladys before heading over to the Episcopal Church.

            I’m not a religious guy so I don’t know much about the Episcopalians other than that they believe Joe Piscopo is The Messiah, but don’t quote me on that. I’m more what the “now you’re showing your age” comedian Flip Wilson described as a Jehovah’s Bystander. That is I believe in a higher power I’d just rather not get involved, thanks. What I did know, however, is that the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous met there for coffee and sadness- I’m assuming the latter which may indicate that I have a problem come to think of it- three nights a week.

            The church itself was a Department of Corrections halfway house style clapboard box on Washington Street between the last surviving Ben Franklin Five-and-Dime store and a new breakfast/lunch place aspiring for hipness called Johnny Java’s. The latter was popular with the pass-through ski crowd, but still hadn’t lured the locals away from The Short Stack Pancake House two blocks over.

            I figured if there was something bothering Curly Carson he may have shared it or shown it at the meetings. I wasn’t sure what the etiquette or legality was regarding sharing what went on in these things, but Hell three people were dead in a town that was an Aunt Bee pie cooling on a windowsill away from Mayberry so I was hoping everyone was on board in trying to understand what happened. That said I really had no idea what went on behind closed doors in these groups. The closest I’d come was through Derf, my former roommate in Boston, a man with a taste for gambling so intense my monthly request for rent money would invariably be met by “let’s see how the Celtics (or Bruins/Red Sox/Patriots) do tonight and I’ll get back to you.” In reality, though, I never learned much from Derf since he only attended GA meetings sporadically and generally with a deck of cards in hand because “When am I ever gonna find myself in a room with a bigger bunch of losers than this? There’s money to be made!” Well, I couldn’t argue with his logic.

            First, however, I had to pee like a racehorse. An idiom Derf assured me did not translate into a profitable wagering theory (as in bet on the horse that relieves himself during the Post Parade…he’ll be lighter) though Lord knows he tried. Thus I ducked into Johnny Java’s only to find the lascivious lusciousness of Miss Iceland at the counter ordering a mocha-venti-latte-grande-macchiato thing-y at $6.50 a pop. If I had any notions, and I was still fooling myself I did, of getting more than friendly with her this trendy side of her pretty much blew a John Holmes-sized glory hole in it. As I looked down trying to determine which cost more, her coffee or my entire ensemble, I heard her voice call out to me.

            “Hey. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me,” she said with just enough of a smile to hold my guilty paranoia at bay.

            “Well, I’d love to stalk you, but to tell the truth it seems like a lot of work on my part,” I cracked. “Plus what with binoculars, ladders, infrared glasses it can really get expensive. And not to mention the time, I could never be that focused. Seriously, back in the 90s Courtney Thorne-Smith doesn't know the bullet she dodged .”

            She seemed to soften for the first time. Maybe she appreciated the help I’d arranged at the high school or maybe she was finally getting me. That last idea had even me chuckling when she offered, “Can I buy you a coffee?”

            “Thanks, but I’m about an espresso shot away from a heart flutter. Let me just use the restroom and we’ll compare notes.”

            The bathrooms were in the back past two rows of empty bistro tables and walls lined with reproductions of impressionist paintings by guys who never felt the need to enunciate the last consonant in their name- Monet? Renoir? Degas? It took a while to relieve myself of the Big Gulp worth of coffee I’d consumed and then figure out the pretentious ozone-friendly hand dryer. So when I got out Miss Iceland had already spread her laptop out on a table (unfortunately not a euphemism) and was talking to Wally Reynolds still in uniform and looking completely out of place.

            “What’re you doing here?” I questioned Wally who was wearing a Miss Iceland induced shit-eating grin that would no doubt disappear the moment we broached the subject of the murders.

            “On a coffee run for the Chief and the guys,” he replied nonchalantly. Behind him I could see the young barista and her lumberjack bearded manager stacking various drinks in those cardboard holders. I wasn’t sure what I found more disconcerting, that looking like a Civil War general had suddenly become hip, or the thought of Andrew, Chief Bowden and the boys walking around with steamed milk moustaches and licking the whipped cream off their White Chocolate Frappuccinos.

            “You were in there for quite a bit,” Miss Iceland smiled up at me, “and Officer Reynolds and I were just wondering…number 1 or number 2?”

            They chuckled. I rolled my eyes. “First, let me say if this really was what you were discussing I weep for the future of conversational discourse in this country. Second, if you’re going back there you may wanna light a match.”

            Miss Iceland laughed a little too hard, but it occurred to me she just might be getting the hang of things around here. As an outsider and newbie she wasn’t just going to roll into town like Kolchak the Nightstalker and start uncovering secrets. She had to soften up the troops and Wally, at least, was eating it up.

            Just then Paul Bunyan called out that Wally’s order was ready. He said goodbye to Miss Iceland with a touch of his PBA baseball cap as if he’d just been introduced at the All-Star Game and waddled off. I kept an eye on him wondering if the reason the police switched over from the diner was because they were getting some kind of discount. No money changed hands- though it could have when the order was placed- but Wally did sign some kind of receipt before walking out with a wink that certainly wasn’t directed at me.

            “So how’d it go down at the high school?” I asked, figuring she’d want to get down to business.

            “Your people were nice. They got me up to speed and introduced me to the administrators,” she said while tapping away at her laptop. “I got some good background on Ted Sheehan, but they couldn’t give me anything on the girl due to student record confidentiality. Still, the second I asked about anything relating to the murders or motive they clammed up like Marcel Marceau.”

            “Nice,” I replied. “I woulda went with Shields and Yarnell, but Marceau works.” She smiled at me and if it hadn’t quite melted the police enough to get information I had to admit my PIN numbers were hers for the asking. Not to mention Mr. Peabody, as I called it, was up and inquisitive.

            “So if you’re not getting coffee…or stalking me…why are you here?”

            “Well besides the fact that this bathroom is silverfish-free unlike my one at home I was about to drop by the church next door.”

            “No offense, but you don’t exactly come off as a man of God…”

            “Hard to slip anything past you,” I responded sarcastically. “But actually Curly Carson was a recovering alcoholic. AA meetings take place at the Episcopal Church. I figured I’d check in with the priest…uh, minister…pastor guy or whatever that runs the program. See if he can shed light on his recent mental state. Care to join me?”

            “Yeah sure,” she agreed and packed up her laptop, picked up her coffee. A slight tug on my jeans to adjust Mr. Peabody accordingly and we headed out..

            A door to the left of the main entrance read “OFFICE”. A light was on in the window so I tried the nob, but no luck. I knocked lightly at first then louder and after what seemed a long time a face peered through the square of window and began to unlock the heavy door.

            I recognized the face as that of Logan Brooks, the reverend or what have you. He was just the man we were looking for, but that was to be expected. He ran the church and all its various projects almost single-handedly. From food drives at Thanksgiving to Toys For Tots at Christmas to clothing collection year round. Though in his early 60s, he possessed an energy level I couldn’t match on a 3-pack of Red Bull and a fistful of Vivarins.

            My erstwhile Artfield Review-er Gladys was a parishioner and friend and handled all his work at the paper. Therefore I only knew him through his occasional visits to the office and Town Council meetings where he was often to be found promoting a cause or recruiting assistance, with varying degrees of success, for said cause. He generally dressed casual; a black jacket over a white polo shirt or cardigan depending on the season. But he was most recognizable by a shock of dense gray, black hair which shot up and back off a shockingly low forehead and that I suddenly noticed was coming at me at an astonishing speed.

            I never thought I’d put myself in these shoes, but I felt like a slave trader accidently trying to solicit the abolitionist John Brown. All I saw was a forest of hair, fiery eyes and a craggy face demanding “What do you want? Why are you here?”

            I took a half step back, bumped into Miss Iceland and she dropped her quarter filled coffee cup on the pavement. It made a small, harmless mark on the sidewalk, but this only seemed to enrage him more.

            “And get that crap out of here,” he rasped pointing at the cup that Miss Iceland was dutifully retrieving. A blue-green vein throbbed on his temple and for a second I wondered if I could even spell the word “aneurysm” close enough so that spell check at least knew what I was going for when I wrote up his death for this week’s edition.

            I could sense he was about to slam shut the door so I made a quick appeal to his better nature. “We just wanted to talk about poor Curly Carson and what might’ve driven him mad.”

            “You drove him mad. This town drove him mad. And now his blood, his daughter’s blood and Sheehan’s blood is on all your hands. And now the diocese is closing the parish down and forcing me to retire. Not enough parishioners to justify this size building, they say.  I’m finished with you people. May you all burn in Hell!”

            With that the door slammed, the lock turned, the lights went out inside and Miss Iceland turned to me dumbfounded.

            “Pleasant sort,” I suggested, facetiously. And though now I knew for sure we were on to something, I didn’t have a freakin’ clue what in the world that was.

Chapter 3: A Real Ass Scratcher

It was no sense going immediately to my sister’s house as Andrew would no doubt be catching up on sleep. Instead, I drove to the local convenience store and bought a pack of Yodels, one of those sugar-encrusted Hostess apple pies (because I have the cravings of a 10 year-old) and a coffee as big as my head. Keeping up with Miss Iceland, I suspected, was going to require arrhythmia inducing amounts of caffeine in someone as indolent as me.

Twenty pages of J.P. Donleavy and a bursting bladder later I arrived at my sister’s. She told me Andrew would be up soon. He’d only been given a four hour reprieve before he was needed back for his regular shift. The kids, three boys ages eight to five, were all quiet. Either napping or lulled into a Disney-Pixar contrived coma in the TV room. For banging out three kids in such a small window my sister was still fit and reasonably attractive in a tomboy-ish sort of way. From the way she looked at me, however, it was obvious the feeling was not mutual.

“Looks like you been doing crunches,” she said, pointing at my recently expanding waistline. “Nestle’s…”

“Well, I’ve never exactly had the body of a Chippendale Dancer anyway,” I replied.

“Yeah, but now you look like you have the body of a Chip-Ahoy Dancer. There’s plenty of room in your place why don’t you get a treadmill or a stationary bike?”

“I already have plenty of places to hang my clothes. I don’t need anymore. You know I’d never use those things.”

Amy walked over to the counter, poured me a cup of coffee and I was reminded of my barking bladder. I made no move for the bathroom however as I accepted this penance as my payment for access to any information she might have gleaned from her husband.

“Then why don’t you join a gym or take one of those classes they give at the Community Center. You could come with me to Zumba,” she said, chuckling at the prospect.

“Sorry, I already have a workout program."

"Yeah. What's that?" 

“I come home from work, smoke a cigar and eat a plate of linguine while watching an episode of The Sopranos on Netflix. I call it Goombah. All in all I’m feeling pretty good,” I answered, only half joking.

“Better watch it or you’ll be old before your time. You used to live in Boston, work on a big newspaper and now look at you; locked up in your apartment eating mac and cheese and reading books that went out of print 50 years ago.” A child screamed in the next room and without pausing for breath or diverting her eyes Amy shot out a, “Shut the Hell up in there!”

“Well we all can’t be like you, taking a big bite out of life and letting the juices run down our chins. By the way I didn’t know UGGs came out with a peep-toe these days.”

“Very funny,” she spat, hiding her stained, torn footwear beneath the chair. “I have kids, a house…a life here. You know Mom calls me all the time asking when you’re going to get married. What am I supposed to tell her?”

I never thought I’d welcome the company of my brother-in-law, but I found myself listening hopefully for his flat, splayed footsteps on the stairs. “You know what, tell Mom what I tell her. When she asks when I’m gonna get married I ask  when she’s gonna break a hip…conversation over.”

She gave me the patented family eye roll and went for more coffee. “Just think about it. I mean it’s probably better you didn’t marry that Kayla or any of the others. What you need is someone sweet, kind and not nuts.”

“Hell if I’m gonna limit myself like that I’ll never meet anyone,” I cracked just as Andrew rounded the corner rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

He wore a yellow-collared wife beater with matching briefs and his thinning hair was matted forward like William Henry Harrison coming off a two-day bender. He plopped down in a kitchen chair that creaked out for mercy, found a pack of cigarettes in what I originally thought was a fruit bowl (silly me), lit one and accepted the black coffee Amy handed over. “I know, not exactly the Breakfast of Champions,” he wheezed while simultaneously clearing his nose with a low rumbling that seemed as if he was producing not bodily fluid so much as molten lava.

“Actually sex is the real Breakfast of Champions,” I joked as he opened the napkin and examined its contents. “But not much chance of that I suspect.”

After my lame chuckle died out a silence came over the room. The comedian Steven Wright once opined, “There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the bank looking like an idiot.” I knew exactly what he meant as I sat there, full bladder-ed, waiting for Andrew to start blabbering about the murders.

“What a mess,” he said after what seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than fifteen seconds. “You couldn’t have stomached it.”

“Have you ever seen my apartment?” I quipped reflexively, then shut my mouth.

“This was no joke Luke,” he said flatly without the more officious-than-thou attitude he usually took when talking to me about police business. “Blood everywhere…Ted in the bed with a hole blown through his chest. The girl slumped in the corner, her white dress soaked red. And Merwin in the bedroom doorway with a bullet in his temple. It was ugly, man.”

Amy reached over and put a hand on his arm as I took mental notes. “Wait a second, who’s Merwin.”

“Curly Carson, the father. It was a family name. He never liked it.”

Suddenly the name struck a chord in my mind. Years ago when we were having trouble getting players for one of our softball teams Wally Reynolds, the desk sergeant I’d spoken to earlier, offered to “…get this guy Merwin, he played Double-A ball.” When we jumped at the chance to get someone who was a September call up away from the Major Leagues Wally corrected himself, “…not Minor League Double-A ball, I mean he played Sunday mornings in the Alcoholics Anonymous League.” That meant either alcohol didn’t play a part in this case or something had caused Curly to slip off the wagon and possibly propelled the fatal spree.

I made a note to check out the local AA chapter and tried to gently push Andrew for more information. “Any clue as to the motive?”

“I shouldn’t say anymore,” he said and drew on the cigarette. I wasn’t exactly The Mentalist, but I knew that meant he would say more and I went back to standing on the bank again looking like an idiot.

It didn’t take long. “It was the age difference. She was only twenty-three and hell she looked like she was going on twelve. Very pretty, but naïve. The Chief is pretty sure that’s what drove the father mad and I agree with him. It’s a matter of interviewing folks, searching his house and checking everyone’s phones and emails. I’m sure we’ll find something to indicate that.”

I, however, wasn’t convinced. Monica Carson may have looked young, but Ted Sheehan wasn’t exactly Abe Vigoda. In the yearbook pictures he was fit, handsome and had a thick, full head of hair. Men don’t fall apart, present company including myself excluded, that quickly. Besides the Cosmo I flipped through last time I was at the doctor’s office told me 40 was the new 30, 30 the new 20, 10 the new embryo…well, I’m guessing on that last one, but still it was only sixteen years not Anna Nicole Smith and J. Howard Marshall for crissakes.

At this point a generic rock song part Led Zeppelin, part Hocus Pocus by Focus came blaring out of my pocket; the default ringtone that I had no idea, or inclination to learn, how to switch. It was Charlie Grissom telling me that no one at the High School was talking, but he did get pictures and a lot of good background on Sheehan’s career. “Did a blonde show up…from the Burlington Bee?” I asked.

“Yeah. Quite a looker. A lot better than old Glenn Hubbard, huh.”

“Not bad. I’d throw her a chop,” I said, trying to evoke a nonchalant ‘screw her, I did’ attitude while really not knowing what in the Hell that was. “Um…er…well just give her any help you can. She seems like a good kid.”

The phone flipped close with a loud pop causing Andrew and Amy to look up from their coffee cups. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I really gotta upgrade. Nobody has these things anymore.”

“Actually Curly Carson did. I bagged all the items on his person for evidence,” Andrew continued. “Someone said it looked like a disposable. Probably lost his phone and was using that while hoping the real one turned up.”

From what I knew of him Curly seemed like an old school kind of guy. His daughter probably made him get a phone and he chose one of those cheap Consumer Cellular ones. And being resistant to change- as opposed to me who was just lazy- he never upgraded. It didn't merit a mental note.

He looked haggard from the all-nighter so I figured I should push for a few more details before it was too late. “Did she have a key to Sheehan’s place?”

“I don’t think so. Her chain had only two keys on it. One car key, one apartment key. She was renting one of those townhomes in Dorset. We’ll eventually check it out.”

“We will? Three people died why aren’t the State Police being brought in?”

He made a face as if he’d just sucked on a lemon and stabbed out his cigarette in the remains of his coffee. I’d finally gotten under his skin, but, of course, that was inevitable.

“Why do we need the State Police? This is an Artfield matter involving good Artfield people”, said Andrew, rising from his chair. I could tell he was simply mouthing Chief Bowden’s words, but these were likely the last I’d get from him so I let him go on. “Sure old man Carson got crazy over the whole affair, but what’s the point of dragging the State Police into it. They’ll only turn it into some kinda CSI circus. We can handle things just fine.”

And with this he turned and walked out, a hand reaching back under the boxers to scratch a cream cheese white butt cheek, not exactly instilling me with confidence.