It was a ten-minute drive from Charlie Portman’s office to his home outside Kingston. Portman had agreed to take them there so that they could look at the files and pictures his father had been studying the night he died.
The house was modest, but Portman seemed pleased with it. He stood proudly in the unpaved driveway. “Well, this is it,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “Dad lived here with me during his last few weeks. I fixed up one of the bedrooms, put in a ceiling fan, that sort of thing. I think he liked it okay.”
Once inside the house, Portman led Graves and Eleanor up a staircase and into the tiny room where Dennis Portman had died.
“Dad passed away almost thirty years ago.” Portman pointed to the narrow wooden bed at the end of the room. “I found him right there, still sitting up. Pictures and papers scattered all around him. The place is pretty much the way it was when he died. An old bachelor like me, I never had any reason to fix it up. No kids or anything.” He indicated two gray metal cabinets that stood on either side of the window on the other side of the room. “I piled all Dad’s old files in those cabinets. There’s no order to it, though, so you’ll just have to plow through everything. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll be downstairs, making lunch. After that I’ll take a snooze in the hammock. Either way, I’ll be around if you need anything.”
They went to work immediately after Portman left them, Graves at one cabinet, Eleanor at the other, both carefully sifting through what turned out to be the macabre residue of Dennis Portman’s professional life. Photographs of bodies sprawled across floors, streets, beds, floating languidly in ponds, streams, rivers. Bodies that had been shot, stabbed, beaten, then left in their awesome disarray.
At one photograph, Graves suddenly stopped. The picture showed a teenage girl, naked, strapped in a wooden chair, a wide piece of black tape slapped across her mouth. Her hands were roped together at the wrists, but she’d lifted her arms upward pleadingly, her fingers spread, as if begging that her killer spare her this last indignity, the captured image of her agony Graves now held in his hand.
“The things Portman saw,” Eleanor said softly as she moved up beside him.
Graves made no response. He felt his eyes lock on the picture, his body tighten, then grow limp, then tighten again, as if he were caught in a seizure. He turned the picture over, read the note Portman had written in his cramped script. Mary Louise Hagan, murdered January 7, ’61-Unsolved. Even without turning back to the picture, he knew the unspeakable suffering it portrayed. Now the details emerged, and he could see all that had been done to Mary Hagan, the scratches on her face, the burns on her inner arms and thighs, the small nest of dark hair that had been torn from her head and now lay curled around one leg of the chair. He heard her tormentor’s voice, imagined what he’d said at the moment he’d taken this picture, the delight with which he’d said it, Pretty, pretty. Once so pretty.
The name came from his mouth in a broken whisper: “Kessler.”
“What?” Eleanor said.
She watched him with a fierce insistence, and he knew that he had to give her some part of his story. “The girl in this picture. It reminds me of my sister,” he said quietly. He could see a hundred questions in Eleanor’s eyes. “She didn’t just die. Not like I said before. She was murdered. Tortured… When I was thirteen. The man who did it was never caught.” He let his eyes settle once again on the photograph. “For a moment I wondered if perhaps he’d done this too.”
Eleanor glanced at the photograph, then back at Graves. “You said, ‘Kessler.’”
“Yes.”
“You use that name for the villain in your books?”
“That’s right.”
“Is that actually the name of the man who killed your sister?”
“Yes,” Graves said, knowing that had he uttered the same name many years before, he’d have sent Sheriff Sloane in pursuit of the old black car with the Ohio plates he’d watched disappear into a bright summer dawn.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said. “About your sister.”
She seemed to sense that she should not pursue the matter further, that if she did, Graves would retreat into silence. And so she said nothing else, but only stepped away, returned to the cabinet, and began looking through the papers inside it. Almost half an hour had passed before she spoke again.
“Here it is,” she said. From the bottom drawer she lifted a thick manila file. Graves could see the single word Portman had written in tight black letters across the front of the envelope: Riverwood.
Unlike the carefully arranged material inside Portman’s official Murder Book, the papers and photographs he’d collected for his own use were in no specific order.
The report he’d written on Mona Flagg in 1946 lay amid a scattering of pictures that in themselves seemed to bear no relation to the murder of Faye Harrison. It consisted of nine single-spaced typewritten pages, and it was packed with details. Portman had gathered what amounted to a full criminal history of the Flagg family, beginning with Angus Flagg, a rumrunner who’d ferried illegal liquor down the Hudson to a thirsty Manhattan during Prohibition. Angus’ son, Lemuel, had continued the family business after Angus’ death in 1931, but with the end of Prohibition a year later he’d turned to more sophisticated crimes. He’d sold bogus stocks and real estate, carried out various forms of insurance fraud, and had even been implicated in a foiled plot to kidnap the teenage son of a wealthy industrialist whose summer home was only fifty miles from Riverwood.
Elmira Flagg, Lemuel’s wife, had kept herself busy as well. According to Portman’s report, she’d set up illegal card games, fenced stolen goods, and run a string of flophouses that were little more than low-rent brothels. The two had met in 1924 and married four years later. Elmira had given birth to her first child, a son named Roy, seven months before the wedding. Her daughter, Mona, had arrived four months after it.
Roy had followed in his parents’ footsteps. Though not for long. At twenty-three he’d been killed in a bank heist in Providence, Rhode Island. A third child, another boy, had drowned under what Portman described as “mysterious circumstances” at the age of ten. A second daughter, named Augusta, had apparently run away from home at fourteen, and after that simply vanished.
As for Mona, she had remained with the family, though from all Portman could find out, she’d managed to stay clear of most of its illegal activities. She’d been arrested for shoplifting at eight, dragged before a juvenile court judge, read a stern warning, and set free. As far as Portman had been able to determine, she had never been arrested again, though the old detective bluntly declared that it was “unlikely that she had never been recruited to work in one or another of her family’s many illegal schemes.”
But if, as a teenage girl, Mona had participated in various criminal conspiracies, such participation had ended abruptly when, as a young woman, she’d suddenly packed up and moved to Boston. Once there, she’d taken a room in a “female residence hall” and enrolled in a nursing school. Two months later, in June 1946, she met Edward Davies.
“So this was why Portman suspected Mona at first,” Eleanor said matter-of-factly. “Because her family were criminals.” With that, she turned back to the remainder of the papers and photographs Portman had stuffed into the Riverwood file.
There were a great many of them, considerably more than had been included in the Murder Book. Portman had gathered information on every aspect of life at Riverwood. There were neatly organized copies of bank statements, trust fund accounts, records of land transactions, deeds. Other items seemed merely to have been thrown haphazardly into the file-a topographical map of Riverwood and its environs, an empty envelope marked Devane Assoc., months of telephone and telegraph records.
In addition, Portman had collected scores of photographs of Riverwood itself, pictures of the grounds and the lake taken from various angles and at different times of day, of the granite bluff that overlooked Manitou Cave, of the trail that led from it to the river below. He’d collected photographs of people too. The servants who worked at Riverwood, the men employed to build the second cottage, along with each member of the Davies family and their two summer guests, Andre Grossman leaning casually against the wall of the boathouse, Mona Flagg in a white summer dress, her back to the pond, her body bathed in a brilliant summer light. On the back of each picture Portman had reproduced the timetable he’d constructed for each person photographed, one which followed that person’s movements from approximately 8:30 A.M., when Faye Harrison had been seen sitting alone in the gazebo, until 4:00 P.M. that same afternoon, by which time she was already dead. At the end of each report he’d listed those witnesses who’d been able to substantiate the claims of each person, the household servants who’d seen each other as well as members of the Davies family at various times, along with the witnesses who’d seen Edward and Mona on the river.
“Portman said that his father had all the pictures spread out on the bed before he died,” Eleanor said as she began to arrange the photographs on the narrow bed.
She plucked one of the photographs from the rest, a shot of Allison and Mr. Davies as they strolled beside the pond, Allison’s arm tucked inside her father’s. “Even if Portman had known that someone at Riverwood had a powerful reason to kill Faye, there was still no opportunity for any one of them to have done it.”
Watching her, it struck Graves that she examined photographs in the way Slovak examined them, searching intently for the odd, the thing that didn’t fit.
She picked up a second picture. Faye posed before the desk in Mr. Davies’ office, to her right the enameled box in which Mrs. Davies had stored Grossman’s letters, its lid open, filled with candies wrapped in bright foil. Faye had taken one from the box and held it at her mouth. “Well, we know one thing for sure,” Eleanor said. “That Portman wasn’t trying to hide the truth, cover anything up, protect Mr. Davies or anyone else at Riverwood.” She swept her hand over the accumulated reports and timetables and pictures, the irrefutable evidence of Portman’s long struggle. “Because he was still looking. Even at the very end. He was still trying to find out what happened to Faye Harrison.”
Graves’ earlier reverence for the old detective returned. He saw Portman through all the passing years, aging beneath his plastic rainslick, going blind and deaf, all his systems winding down.
“Portman was like Slovak after all,” Eleanor said. Then she quoted him. “‘She went into the woods. Alone.’ Those may have been Dennis Portman’s last words. What could he have meant by that?” She picked up a third photograph. It was the one Portman himself had gazed at for so long. In the picture, Faye lay on her side, one arm beneath her, the other dangling toward the ground, her fingers curled slightly inward, toward the palm, scarred and reddened, fingernails broken. Softly, she said, “In the beginning, Portman was looking for the truth about Riverwood. But later he seems to have changed his direction. He started looking for the truth about Faye.”
She picked up another picture. Faye gathered with the family and staff of Riverwood, all of them arrayed on the front lawn, clustered together, staring at the camera. Portman had drawn a circle around Faye’s head, then a line that connected it to Grossman. “Look at this,” Eleanor murmured. “Why would he have drawn that line?”
Graves took the photograph. He looked first at one face, then at the other. “Because Grossman is watching Faye.” He handed the picture back to Eleanor. “All the others are looking at the camera. But Grossman is looking at Faye.”
“And Faye knows he’s looking at her. See how stiff she looks. A fake smile. Not a natural one. She knows Grossman is looking at her, and she’s trying to avoid his gaze. Why?”
If Portman had ever discovered the answer to that question, there was no indication of it in any of the materials he’d gathered on Faye Harrison. Instead, as Graves and Eleanor went through the rest of the papers he’d assembled over the years, they found only a baffling collection of school records, teacher comments, report cards. Portman had even managed to get hold of Faye’s medical records, the accumulated history of her physical existence, charts of height and weight from the time she was eight until her sixteenth birthday. Nearly two hours had passed before they’d gone over the last of the documents, studied the final photograph, read the last list or chart.
Graves stated the unavoidable conclusion. “I think Charlie Portman was wrong. I think his father died in the dark. And even if he did find the truth at the very end, he didn’t leave a clue as to what it was.”
“Yes, he did,” Eleanor said. She thought a moment, then began going through the material that still lay spread across the bed. When she found the picture in which Portman had drawn a line connecting Faye and Grossman, she turned it toward Graves. “This is his clue. The one he left behind. There had to have been a reason for him to have drawn that line. Something he found. Something he saw but that we haven’t seen.” She plucked the envelope marked Devane amp; Assoc. from the pile and held it up, displaying its empty interior. “Because it was taken.”
They found Charlie Portman exactly where he said he’d be, stretched out in a dusty hammock behind the house, snoring softly as they approached, rousing himself immediately when Eleanor said his name.
“Oh, boy, out like a light,” he said drowsily as he pulled himself up, blinking.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Eleanor said.
“No, no, that’s all right. Did you find anything?”
“Not exactly,” Eleanor replied. “But we noticed that something was missing.”
“Missing? From Dad’s files?”
“Every other envelope had something in it. This one didn’t.” Eleanor handed him the empty envelope.
“Yes, it did,” Portman said. He was now upright in the hammock, his shoulders slumped, his belly hanging loosely over his belt. “There was some kind of inventory in it. It didn’t have anything to do with the murder.” What he said next did not appear to bother him. “That’s why I let Miss Davies take it.”