Police Chief, Harvey Flemings, faces the dark reality that he doesn’t give one hoot for the murdered woman and battles his desire to drop the case. But, can he?
Chapter 1
The day, August 12, 2004 (also the 144th anniversary of Clara Hitler’s birthday), was a day when the past catches up to you. Like death, the past steals up behind you and taps you on your shoulder. At least, that’s what the knot in my gut implied. August 12 was the day I felt God turn away. When I look back on this day, I wonder if Hitler’s mother believed in God, if she did when she as a child, as a young woman, or in dying.
I remember my own youth and believing in God, the figment of what God might be the white robe and long silken beard, a kind face and open arms, healing arms to hold you when you cried or were afraid – a vision of greatness, one who could absolve any sin – no matter what. I did believe then, but do less so now. I want to believe but monsters are real. I remember how afraid of the dark I was and of monsters hiding in my closet.
As I grew up, the visions of monsters waned. I talked myself out of believing in their existence. I was told there are no such things as monsters. I was told a man shouldn’t show fear or cry. However, now, as I near retirement at age fifty-eight – as a person whose experiences have led him along a specific past – I feel my courage slipping back to the past and my belief in monsters returning.
Innocence, like a dwindling season, nags like a dream you can’t fully recall, only the thin smoke of it lingers and becomes the sole reminder that it was there. Like the hazy dream, innocence lingers – innocence lost – and it haunts me like a old home movie when, at any given point in the evening after watching, the film breaks and the reel spins out of control.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, the story as I write now would mean nothing. I saw it all – lived it all, so, it’s my duty to tell you, to reveal somehow the way it all started, how events progressed, describe to you the players involved, paint a picture for you of the staged body, define the anguish of loss – the loss of beauty and innocence.
August 12 started an advent of action that morphed into madness, a madness I can’t even now come to terms with. Maybe by describing the tale will somehow exonerate the guilty, lift gazes above the crime and touch some purer sense of justice so we can understand the whole truth, make the inexplicable explicable – but right now I have to ask myself if that will ever be possible.
A solitary bird flew into view – a lone gull. It passed low over boats that bobbed lazily on waves of dark green in the small island’s marina. I leaned on my elbows against the dark mahogany window sill and looked out from Guy’s second-story office window inside the courthouse. The hard wood trim of the window pinched my skin and the pain seemed to be reflected in the scene as I watched.
The gull’s stark white body contrasted vividly against a crystal blue background. When, all at once, ten more gulls came in close behind. They looked like kamikaze fighter pilots as they aimed at their targets. The bright summer sun hung high in the sky and cast shadows off the sea birds’ bodies, causing a double-sightedness to onlookers who rose to attention in horror and scrambled in all directions from beneath them. Then, as if bombs released from the underbellies of Jap fighter jets, the gulls let go random splashes of dung that landed squarely onto upper decks, a green plastic chaise, the wooden-slatted boardwalk, the reddened back of a woman tanning, blackened-creosote-covered pylons; and, as if added for emphasis, muck slid poignantly down the windows of several boats. The ten appeared as twenty. A gull chorus cawed Tora! Tora! Tora! Wailing and yelling from boaters cursing melted up and into the open window where I stood. Their shrieks heightened quickly and then
diffused into the thick summer air. A warm wet breeze swept through Guy’s office and brought in a sweet and rotten odor with it – sweet from honeysuckle clinging to rocks and trees, from pines bending in the wind, and from cotton candy spun cones; rotten from diesel leaching from scows. The breeze ruffled a wisp of my thinning, grizzled hair and I felt the strands lift into what would have become a comb-over if the wind had been a little stronger. The skin on my head felt dewy under my hand when I pressed the hair back into place. That was possibly the only good thing about wearing a hat on these warm summer days – I didn’t have to worry about my hair.
Guy pressed down his intercom button. I looked at him over my shoulder.
“Maryann, Harvey’s here. Can you bring in the Malouf case file in for me?” Guy Cantwell, the prosecuting attorney here in Thirsty Cove, kept eye contact with me while he instructed his paralegal through the phone.
I said nothing and turned away to look out the window again. Boaters milled about noting the slimy mess left by the birds. They strung out hoses, sprayed droppings away, pulled out tarps for cover, wiped down deck furniture down, and took showers.
In this small island town, everyone you know can be seen out on the street almost any day. As Police Chief, I’ve probably met everybody at least once and talked to them twice as much as that. Thirsty Cove is the county seat in the Catalines. We sit smack in the middle of a few cloistered and widely-dispersed islands tucked in the armpit of Washington just before the cold choppy northern-most waters of the Puget Sound. All but Dahl Island are uninhabited.
As of two weeks ago today, the town has been rumbling from news of the brutal murder of Leona Malouf. The island is on high alert. You can feel a throbbing, a distant tribal drumbeat, skin deep of its calm exterior. From her death, yes, but the throbbing started because of how she was killed not because she was killed, the fervor started like a drop of rain on a pond and flowed out concentrically in waves. The pulse echoed throughout our community and its reverberation tipped the scales. If it had been human, paramedics would’ve needed paddles to jump-start its heart. A blue blanket would’ve been laid over the island’s dying body and been wheeled away – its death caused, in part, by Leona’s.
Leona lived comfortably separated from the common folks. Her expansive lifestyle enjoyed ambassadorial accommodations, visiting dignitaries, foreign ministers, embellishments from royalty, imported truffles, escargot, creams and butters, tailored clothing, hand-cobbled footwear, 24 carat bangles and watches, stones from the depths of metamorphic rock, and was replete with pampering. The island touted her as somewhat of an icon here on this remote island. When Leona moved here, it felt like a wave of gulls. She made people scatter. They couldn’t run quickly enough for cover.
As people do when tragedies end, they recover – they rebuild their lives. The initial wreckage and ruin can be daunting at first. They pick through the garbage, and search – in hopes of uncovering the place they once lived. They will recover because they aren’t privy to all the facts. They’ll heal.
Now that Leona is dead, the people of Thirsty Cove can mend. They will stumble around in the rubble for a while. Rocks will turn to dust. Dust will blow away. Soon their world will return to normal – life here will regain some modicum of what used to be – the onion layers of suffering and our holocaust will peel away. Only a dark distant memory will replace the disaster and, like the boaters, people will cleanse themselves and attempt to spray off the rancid spoor she left behind.
The ground steamed in sunny spots on the paved road and my tongue felt pasty and tasted bitter from the fourth cup of morning coffee I’d just polished off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a stick of cinnamon gum. It’d been my latest addiction since I’d given up cigarettes thirteen years ago. That and the booze I enjoyed more regularly than not lately. As I walked from Guy’s office back to mine, I couldn’t help but chuckle about a gull that had stolen a scrap of fish after its virulent assault on the boaters. It circled the area in a boastful manner with the fish in its beak, soaring gallantly, veering away, and then finally landing high on one of the ferry’s pylons. A younger gull popped its head up and with a gaping mouth screamed to be fed. It was a perfect example of survival of the fittest – human against beast. Sometimes the two become indistinguishable.
I was still thinking about something Guy said: If the P.A.’s office could indict they would. They’d go for the maximum – the death penalty. Guy is an influential member of the government. His comment would look sweet in the papers. He’s affable too and good-looking, he’s tall and fit – he works out at the gym everyday – and the ladies just love him. He’s single, never been married and he rents a beach house on a secluded cay near the lighthouse. He’s the most sought after bachelor on the island. Women far outweigh men in his constituency so basically he’s got a pretty secure job here in Thirsty Cove. He was some kind of war hero during the war in Nam, a Navy SEAL or something impressive like that – a real hero which adds to his attraction for his voting public.
He’s the epitome of the sharp-dressing lawyer who studies his opening and closing arguments in front of the mirror, checks his teeth, walks with a purpose, practices his comments for the newspaper, and kisses up to judges. He’s a smart guy and has it all. Guy’s approachable and listens to me. He takes my suggestions as if he were reading from the Bible. I’m not saying he’s in my pocket, nothing like it. But Guy believes I want to catch the bad guy, and so he listens to me. We have a great working relationship.
He was real up-in-arms over Leona’s murder. With an election year approaching, Guy wanted to appear tough on criminals. He was already making comments about the sentencing. One thing for sure, he’s got huge balls when it comes to campaigning. He’s ruthless.
Death penalty cases are always high-profile cases. He’d already been sticking his finger into my investigation. He knew his boundaries, so I could just tell him to fuck off when he started to get in my way. He has some good ideas, however. I usually listen to him, hear what’s on his mind, feel him out a little, consider his motives, the election, all the variables that might be motivating him to act. Then, I tell him to go away. Usually, he does but he’s like a dark cloud sometimes. He shows up at the wrong time and pisses on progress – slows things down. And, because he’s a lawyer, he’s a talker.
When I first met Guy, I didn’t like him. He seemed a bit uppity. Then I figured out he wanted to prosecute wrong-doers as much as I wanted to bring them in. Our courtship was a little bumpy in the beginning, but over the past eleven years he’s been here, we’ve smoothed over all the rough edges. It goes like this: I tell him who the enemy is. He brings charges against them. If we don’t have an enemy we can finger, he doesn’t charge.
As a lawman, I set the standards. I like to believe they are higher standards. We measure offenders by the fistful here. Sometimes we need to tweak our policies to fit an offender’s crime. We’re alone out here. No overseeing agencies back us up. No help finds its way to us. We are the predominant decision-makers between jail and the offender. Guess who wins? We’re not on the Deliverance-side-of-the-river, or anything like it, but we do make the rules.
Guy never oversteps me – he learned this early on. It’s a true working alliance.
Like Shane, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. People have said I tend to walk to a different drummer. My words carry a lot of weight so I tend to stay out of the limelight. I’m not at all like Guy. He craves the camera, public attention, interacting with voters. I’d rather hide out after my day is done. Hunker down, if you will.
My house sits on a beautiful plot of ground and decks surround its exterior. Gardens, ones Maggie started, terrace away from the house and step down from the slight hill it sits on. Here, it’s easy to become a home-body. Herons, mallards and golden-eyes take up seasonal residence on the beautiful pond that comes up right into our backyard and about one hundred yards from the house. We had an old abandoned well on the property when we first moved in. Maggie wouldn’t let me fill it. She said the old well reminded her of a piece of the past people have long since forgotten. She even went so far as to plant another garden around it – in honor of it. She built a peaked wooden structure around it with her own hands. Then, as a final touch, she painted a sign that still reads MAKE A WISH. The lettering is chipped and fading but its still there. Maggie spent many days by that well before she died. I watched her out there from the house. Even now, it breaks my heart to think of.
We moved in here together when we got married. That was some thirty-five years ago. It seems like yesterday. To me, this house, this place represents all of the goodness in the world.
Maggie died of breast cancer. She withered away and ended up dying right here at home. That’s what she wanted. The garden she grew is just as lovely as ever. I’ve taken over her role as gardener nowadays. One of her last wishes was that I learn to love her garden as much as she did, to work it and learn the plants and their needs.
Maggie had what people call a green thumb and she gave me a few pointers. I miss her as much now as I did right after she died. She was the love of my life. I can’t imagine ever being with another woman. I notice women, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t want to smear her memory because I got lonely or horny or something like that, for Christ’s sake. There’s no one here on the island I’m interested in anyway. A few women have made it known they’re interested in me. You know, in a way, it offends me. I guess I should be flattered but instead, it nauseates me. Maggie was my one and only. The thought of someone else just doesn’t size up in my head.
Before Maggie died – it was exactly two days before – she wanted me to make love to her. She was very, very weak and thin. Through her thin cloak of ash-colored skin you could see the bones in her face easily. When she asked me, I didn’t know what to do and tried to find an excuse out of it. We hadn’t made love for more than four months by then – it blind-sided me when she asked. My mind went in so many directions and no words came to me even though refusing her seemed the proper thing to do. Sex had become unimportant. Our lives had changed to something else and I didn’t miss the act. I didn’t think she did either. I loved to make love with my wife, don’t get me wrong. We used to have a very healthy sex life. Yet when she got sick, being together became most important, nothing else mattered to me. To her too, I thought.
She cried that night. She said she wanted to feel alive again. She said if I made love to her once more she would feel the way she used to. She smiled at me through her tears. At that point, she must’ve known she didn’t have very long. I didn’t realize it until later. I’d gotten into a comfortable rhythm of taking care of her. I actually enjoyed taking care of her but her body had deteriorated over time and like anyone you’re with for a long period the changes in them are gradual and almost unnoticeable. Maggie hated feeling dependent. She was weak and thin and frail and felt she was becoming a burden to me. Only when she asked for sex did I see her as a physical being again and the way she appeared became blatantly apparent.
When we tried to do it, I couldn’t get hard. I was afraid I was going to hurt her. She had been reduced to skin and bones from the cancer and drugs, and from the pointless surgeries. My mind whirled in guilt by my repulsion toward her, but I could barely stand the sight of what had become my most beautiful wife. It’s shameful, I know. But you have to understand our relationship had changed. We weren’t the sexual youthful couple we first were. Our companionship became much deeper. Sex took a backseat.
Sixteen months before she finally died, doctors told us if anything was going to save her, removing her breasts would. We both agreed and took their advice. By then the cancer had metastasized. After her surgery, she didn’t want to have sex. She went through another nine months of intensive chemo and radiation. The red scar from where they’d cut through her sunken ribcage was the only thing left to remind us of her past femininity – that and a chemical-stint they’d implanted in her shoulder to administer drugs into. You have to believe me, I didn’t care. Our relationship had grown. Even so, that time when we made love, I closed my eyes. To get an erection, I concentrated on another woman. When I finally did we got into a rhythm. I’m happy I did it. I did it for Maggie.
When we finished, I asked her if she wanted a glass of water. She did. But, before I went to the kitchen, I went into the bathroom. I couldn’t handle everything I was feeling because I suddenly realized she wouldn’t survive and I’d just had sex with a dying woman. Even though it’s wrong – I know it’s wrong – the thought of the whole thing became grotesque. I got sick then cried uncontrollably, for how long, who knows, but when I got back with her water she was very thirsty. I didn’t mean to take so long.
I’ve kept the house because of Maggie. She loved it here so much and we made it into this perfect country cottage. Honestly, it’s too big for just one person yet I can’t imagine selling it or living here with someone else. So I decided to get a pet. I made the big leap.
Getting a pet was a big decision for me. A dog seemed too high-maintenance and I’m allergic to cats so I ended up getting a macaw. His name is Billy. He’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I come home and he says, “Hello. Hello. Hello!” He says it in three different voices. When I talk to someone on the phone, if I walk by him, he says, “hello,” in a real quiet manner like when you answer the telephone. When I clean around his cage, he says “hello.” So, “hello” is a big word around here, that and “shut the fuck up!” That’s usually from me. This stupid bird couldn’t form a sentence if he heard it a million times. No lie. But, mostly he just screams at a pitch that could take out windows.
I have a branch in the backyard that I tether him to after I get home. We spend our “together time” out back while I work in the garden. He’s safe there and can’t destroy anything.
He’s chewed a hole in my wall, devoured a wooden chair, he shits on the floor, and causes me an enormous maintenance nightmare. I should’ve gotten the dog. I don’t know why I keep Billy – Billy, the stupid macaw. I don’t even really like him but he’s company, I suppose.
Maggie created this beautiful home for us and I’ve kept everything exactly as she had things when she was alive – except, for Billy.
Copyright 2008 Susan Wingate. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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