Most people who know me think the reason I became a police officer was as simple as the fact that my father was one, and while there may be a measure of truth in their suppositions, I think the reasons are deeper than even I sometimes understand.
The days of my youth were spent much like any other mid-western teenager. Murton and I would attend our high school’s football games on Friday nights in the fall, the autumn air cool and thick with the aroma of red and white striped boxes of salted corn popped over the heat of gas fired oil pans at the concession stand. At half-time the marching band would perform and the sounds of the bass and snare drums would thunder off the out-buildings and reverberate through the grandstands like gunfire from a war not yet fought by children who, in reality, were only months away from sacrificing their lives for a cause they would never have the opportunity to know as both futile and unwarrantable.
My grandfather would often accompany me to the games, then end up by himself as Murton and I walked the grandstand area to visit with our friends. Sometimes when I looked back to where he sat my eyes would catch his gaze only to discover he was watching me and not the game. It was those times that I would leave Murton to his teen-aged conquests and go back to sit with my grandfather and watch the game with him, our words few, but our bond as strong as ever. Less than two years later, on the very night Murton was ripping open sterile gauze packs and pressing them into my wounds while my blood seeped between his fingers, half a world away my grandfather died in his sleep of heart failure. He was sixty-nine years old.
For months after I returned home from the war I carried an immeasurable sense of loss and anger around with me over the events of the war, my injuries, and the loss of my grandfather while I was away. I was mad at myself for being gone when my grandfather died, mad at Murton for the loss of the men in our unit, and in truth, mad at my grandfather for abandoning me. I was even mad at Murton for saving me. If you have ever been close to someone who has been the victim of a violent encounter then you know what I am talking about. The sudden shock and distress that comes with the knowledge of harm and injustice done to a loved one is something you carry with you for years, if not forever. I became a police officer because those feelings are ones I hoped to help put to rest in others, perhaps even myself.
I found the broken down church in Broad Ripple easily enough. Cora, had indicated to me that the building looked like it was being held together by bailing twine and when I arrived I had to admit that her assessment was not very far off the mark.
The building was originally constructed well over a hundred years ago and although it was larger than a small country chapel, the resemblance was unmistakable. The entire structure was made up of red brick and clapboard, the latter having long ago lost its protective coat of top paint, the boards now rotted and sagging at their joints. The nail holes wept reddish brown stains which left vertical tracks in the wood that looked like blood. A traditional steeple sat atop the main entrance to the church and the iron cross that stood like a spire against the morning sky leaned slightly askew and was held in place with guy wires attached to its base. The wires were pulled taught and were pinched against sagging gutters at the roof’s edge, then attached to steel bands that encompassed the perimeter of the structure. When I looked closer I discovered it was not the cross that angled out of plumb from the steeple, but the entire steeple itself that was out of square and sitting precariously on top of its base, perched to one side like the leaning tower of Pisa. I parked my truck a safe distance from the structure and walked inside, my gaze held to the steeple until I was at the front steps of the building.
As I opened the door and stepped inside I heard the sounds of children laughing and jumping about from the second story and I have to admit I wanted to warn them of the structural integrity of the building and perhaps even admonish them for the danger they were placing themselves in by dishing out more abuse than the building was capable of accepting. I listened as a pipe organ played from the chapel area, the notes bellowed with a hallowed, laborious effort that sounded both painful and redemptive all at the same time.
I followed the sounds of the children up the main stairwell and when I poked my head into to classroom I gave witness to one of those moments that make me happy to be alive. There were about twenty or so pre-school children in the room, the tables and chairs all pushed against the walls, and the teacher, a young girl of college age stood at the front of the room where she acted out a one person play of some sort. I don’t know what the play was about, but the children seemed thoroughly amused at her attempt to entertain them. She was playing two separate parts and every time she switched roles she would move to the other side of the room in an overly dramatic fashion and try to disguise her voice. She was not a very good actor, but she certainly knew how to entertain children. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she stopped mid sentence and still in her character’s voice said, “And how may I help you today, kind sir?”
The children all turned and looked at me laughing and clapping as if I were a part of their play. I thought about throwing my arms open wide and in my best theatrical voice announcing the purpose of my visit, but in the end I just smiled and told the young lady I was looking for Amy Frechette.
The woman threw both her hands to her breast, her eyes wide, and said, “See children, see, the stranger in our midst seeks out our fearless leader, even though he mispronounces her last name. Come, come, let us show him the way. The children all jumped up and followed the woman to the doorway. She winked at me and walked down the stairs, the children marching and clapping along with her and a few seconds later I followed them down. I did not march or laugh or jump or clap, but I probably should have. You only live once.
The woman and children led me to the main chapel area, down the aisle between the pews and up to the altar where another woman sat at the pipe organ, her back to us. When she heard the children she stopped playing and turned on the bench and faced the group and I saw her smile falter just a little when she looked at me. The daycare worker and the children kept right on marching past the alter and headed back upstairs to resume their fun.
Then something happened that left me momentarily unable to speak and caused a slew of questions to form in my mind at once, none of which I was prepared to ask let alone comprehend the answers. Amy Frechette walked over and extended her hand and said, “Hello. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? From the state? Murton’s told me all about you, but I’d recognize you any day from all the pictures he’s shown me. Do you know where Murton is?”
She stepped down off the altar and we sat together in the first pew. I had little if any preconceived notions of what a female pastor may look like, but if I had, I think Amy Frechette would fit the bill with perfection. I guessed her age a little younger than my own, perhaps thirty-five or so. She wore a matching plain brown skirt and blazer over a white turtle neck sweater. When I did not immediately say anything, I expected her to ask me about Murton again, but instead I followed her gaze to the brass organ pipes that lined the alter wall. Her eyes were down turned at the outer edges and marked with crows feet that crinkled with kindness when she spoke. “Our organ player moved on about a year ago. I’ve been filling in ever since. It’s a beast of an instrument to play.”
“I thought it sounded just fine,” I said.
She accepted my compliment with modesty then said, “I haven’t seen him in over a week. I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was strong but I could see the soft skin under her chin when it trembled. “You’re the best friend he’s got, Detective.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said.
Her unexpected smile caught me off guard, but the light in her eyes reminded me of the look I used to see on my parents faces when I was a child and they watched me discover something wonderful and joyous, like a rainbow, or the flight of a box kite for the very first time. But then I watched the light go out of her expression, replaced by something dark and defensive. “You’ve not been kind to him, Detective,” she said. “He thinks of you like a brother.”
“I’m here on another matter, Ms. Frechette. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Murton, and by extension, his relationship with me?”
She shook her head and chuckled, then turned in the pew so she was facing me. “How do I know about your relationship? I guess Murton hasn’t been exaggerating when he speaks of your feelings for him. We’ve been living together for over a year, Detective. I guess I somehow thought you knew that.”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that. In fact, I think there are a number of things I don’t know about Murton these days.”
“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” she said.
I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “What do you know about a man by the name of Franklin Dugan?”
“Who?”
“I am investigating a series of murders. One of the victims was a man named Franklin Dugan. He was the President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s-”
“What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.
“If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”
She pointed her finger at me. “Murton carries images around in his head from the war that leave him little room for peace. The man he beat was a drug dealer who tried to steal from him. I make no excuses for his past behavior, Detective, but I don’t delude myself into thinking it was something it was not. He’s paid his debt to society. Why not leave him be?”
I decided to try a different direction. “Tell me about Samuel Pate.”
“What about him?”
“You sold him your church. Why?”
She pinched her lips together and shook her head the way a grade school teacher might if she were addressing the slow student at the back of the classroom. “First of all, Detective, you don’t sell a church. No one does. You might sell a building that once housed a church, but the church is never for sale. As far as the sale you’re speaking of, it was more of a merger.”
“A merger?”
“That’s right. The Pate Ministry wants to branch out. They’ve brought me on board as one of their staff ministers. The building we’re sitting in is scheduled for demolition in a few months. In time, it will be replaced with a modern ministry center designed for and around the children of our community.”
“So you’re going to be an employee of Pate’s?”
“I already am,” she said.
“What about the money?”
“What money?” she said. What on earth are you talking about?”
“Franklin Dugan and Sunrise Bank handled the financing for your so called merger. Again, I’ve seen the paperwork. It was a multi-million dollar deal. Shortly after the paperwork was completed, Franklin Dugan was murdered at his home. He was shot to death, Ms. Frechette, and your boyfriend, Murton, has shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into my investigation. He has a record for almost beating someone to death. By your own admission he’s a tormented war veteran. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
I watched her swallow then clench her hands together. It took her a few moments to speak, but when she did, I wasn’t all that surprised by what she said.
“He’s been working security for the Pates,” she said. “This deal has been in the works for over a year now. That’s how we met.”
When I got back out to the Safeway, I saw the manager of the store arguing with Donatti. He wanted to know when he was going to be allowed to open the store back up. Donatti walked away from him while he was still yelling and came over to me. “What’s going on?” I said.
“Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, witnesses are gone.”
“So why don’t you let him open?”
Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish, all fucking day.”
I picked up the wrapper and rolled it between my fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”
Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kind of decisions.”
I looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”
“You got it, boss.
I looked at Sandy. “Where’s Rosie?”
“He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery somebody or other.”
I shook my head.
Sandy looked at me, her head tilted. “What?”
“Aw, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“That seems to be a habit of yours.”
“Hey now…”
“Hey now your own self.”
“Listen, I’d like for you to go back to the shop, take everyone’s notes and get them into the computer. The victims, their families, their co-workers, friends, neighbors, witness statements, all of it. This is all connected somehow. You’re the one with the psychology degree. See if you can psychologize some sense out of it all.”
“I don’t think that’s a real word. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
I gave her my best fake smile. “I know. I was trying to be charming.”
“Keep trying. See you tonight?”
I leaned in close, smelled her hair and whispered in her ear. “Count on it. I’ll let you psychologize me.”
“Like we’ve got enough time for that.”
“Hey…”
I had a thought and punched Rosencrantz’s number into my phone. “Still at the bank?” I said when he answered.
“Aw fuck, who ratted me out?”
“No one. I’m psychic. Are you still there or not?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
I took the key that Murton left on the bar out of my pocket. “Let me talk to Margery for a minute, will you?”
“She’s in the can, freshening up. We’re uh, gonna have a late lunch. Wait a minute, here she comes.”
“Have her pull up the records for their safe deposit boxes. See if one of them belongs to Murton Wheeler.” I listened to Rosie repeat my instructions and then I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard. A few seconds later I had the answer.
“No Murton Wheeler listed.”
“How about anyone with the last name of Wheeler?”
I listened again to the sounds of the keyboard before he told me there were no Wheelers listed at all. After thinking for a moment, I asked him to have her try Samuel Pate.
“Sorry Jonesy. No Pate listed either.”
I was about to hang up again when I thought of one more thing. “Ask her if she can identify a safe deposit box by the code stamped on the key.”
A few seconds later he said, “She says the keys are code stamped to match the boxes. If you have a key she can match it to the box, then check the box against the owner to get a name.”
I gave him the code and waited while he repeated it to Dugan’s assistant. When Rosencrantz came back on the line his voice sounded flat, like he was talking to me on the other side of a glass wall. “What the hell is going on, Jonesy?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“That key code you gave me belongs to a box currently shown as being rented to you. You know those signature cards they make you sign so they know it’s your box? I’m looking at yours as we speak. It’s your signature, man.”
When I arrived at Sunrise Bank, Rosencrantz was waiting for me at the entrance to the executive offices. He stood leaning against a marble tiled wall, a half eaten apple in his hand. When he saw me, he pulled the signature card out of his breast pocket and handed it to me without saying anything. I studied the card for a moment then looked back at him. “What do you think?” I said.
He took another bite of the apple and thoroughly chewed, then swallowed before he answered me. “I think we should go see what’s in the box, Sherlock,” he said.
I let the focus drain out of my eyes before responding. “As long as we’re on the same page, then.” I took the apple from his hand and took a bite before I gave it back. “After you,” I said.
We found Margery, who introduced us to an account manager named Beth, a heavy breasted, dark haired woman who reminded me of my first grade teacher. She took us downstairs to the safe deposit box area and I had to sign the signature card to demonstrate that the box was mine, even though it was not. When she compared the signatures she looked at me, looked at the card again, then back at me. “You say you never rented this box?” she said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well, that is weird, isn’t it? I mean, your signature matches perfectly. I’m probably breaking some rule by allowing you access to this box, but you guys are the good guys, right? And with what’s happened to Franklin, I don’t think anyone would object, do you?”
Rosencrantz dipped his chin and looked at me. I frowned at him, then gently took the bank’s master key from Beth’s hand and inserted it into the top lock on the box, turned it counter-clockwise and heard it’s tumblers ratchet into place. I then took the key Murton had left for me at the bar and placed it in the lower lock, but before I turned it, Rosencrantz’s hand clamped around my wrist like a pair of vise grips. “Tell me again where you got the key,” he said, the look on his face one of intention.
“From Murton Wheeler. He’s the one I asked you guys to run the sheet on.”
“Yeah, I just put that together,” he said. “This is the guy that almost got your bacon fried outside Kuwait, right?”
“Something like that,” I said. “He also saved my life. I took some shrapnel. He pumped me full of morphine and blood expander until the medics arrived. I would have bled to death. You can let go of my wrist now.”
“I will, but don’t turn that key.”
“Why not?” I said.
“What was Wheeler’s specialty in your unit?”
It was one of those questions that make you doubt yourself and wonder if perhaps you might have chosen the wrong line of work, the way a surgeon must feel the first time he commands an operating theater and holds a scalpel in his hand, knowing he must slice into human flesh and explore the physical depths of the human body. “He was a demolitions expert,” I said. “It was his job to blow the Iraqi ammo dumps.” I felt myself swallow, then I let go of the key as carefully as I could.
The three of us stood there and stared at the box in the wall. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beth put a hand to her throat then whisper ‘oh my God.’ I turned and looked at Rosencrantz and said, “Let’s clear this building and get the bomb squad down here.”
But as I soon discovered, you do not clear an operating bank during business hours as quickly as you would like, no matter the reason. The bank’s in-house security had to be notified, the main vault locked down, the teller drawers locked, the computer’s had to be shut down, and all of that took most every employee in the building working together almost thirty minutes. I wondered what they would do if a fire broke out. When I asked the security chief that very question he looked at me with an expression that seemed to indicate I might not be operating at full speed. “We’d get the hell out,” he said. I stared at him until he shook his head and walked away.
When the bomb squad technicians arrived, Rosencrantz and I showed them the safe deposit box, then we walked across the street and waited inside a coffee shop. I bought two large cups of coffee from a purple haired teen age boy who had enough piercings on his face to set off an airport metal detector. A college text book lay on the counter next to the cash register entitled ‘Ethical Issues of Molecular Nanotechnology.’ He saw me looking at the book and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty heavy stuff, man. Did you know that it won’t be long before they’ll have computers so small you’ll need a microscope to see them? They’ll put them inside little capsules you can swallow that’ll cure cancer and all kinds of shit. Isn’t that something? Say, you want cream or sugar for your joe?”
I wasn’t sure which question to answer, so I handed him a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change. When I handed Rosencrantz his coffee, he said “I almost forgot. Your boy Wheeler? He came up blank.”
“You must have missed something then,” I said. “He’d be on record with the V.A. Plus, he was busted for assault. He did time in Westville.”
Rosie shook his head. “I think you misunderstood what I said. Everybody’s got something, right? A traffic ticket, a divorce settlement, a beef with the IRS, whatever. I wasn’t saying he comes up with no record. I’m saying he doesn’t come up at all. We checked Federal, State, local, the service, everything. There’s nothing there, Jonesy. He doesn’t exist, at least on paper anyway. You know how hard that is these days?”
“Yeah. It’s impossible,” I said.
Or was it? Two hours later, after the box had been sniffed by two dogs, a hand held chemical detection device, then finally x-rayed, the bomb squad technician walked out the front door of the bank and looked around until he saw me and Rosencrantz through the glass front of the coffee shop. He waved us over, but just as we crossed the street and were about to enter the building a black Crown Victoria slid to a stop behind us, it’s front tire bouncing off the curb. A young man who looked like he had just graduated from college got out of the car and approached the front entrance of the bank. He wore a dark blue suit under a light-weight tan trench coat and his hair looked as if had been cut just this morning. He walked over to where we were standing and identified himself as Agent Gibson with the FBI.
“Is one of you Detective Donatti?” he asked.
The relationship between Federal, State, and Local law enforcement is often portrayed on television or in fiction novels as strained, competitive, or tenuous at best. But in real life, particularly after the terrorist attacks of 9/11, there is an interdepartmental agency wide level of cooperation which works better than most people might imagine. But not always.
Rosencrantz looked at Agent Gibson, then said, “I think what you meant to say was ‘ Are one of you Detective Donatti?’ You see, grammatically speaking, when asking-”
I cut him off before he went any further. “I’m Detective Jones with the Indiana State Police. Donatti works for me. How may I help you?”
Agent Gibson peeled his eyes off of Rosencrantz and looked at me. “A request was put in for information earlier today regarding Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”
“You’re federal agents and you’re asking us why Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation?” Rosencrantz said.
“No,” Agent Gibson said, a look of exasperation on his face. “We’d like to know why you’re looking for information on Wheeler.”
“That’s not what you said. You said-“
“Rosie, why don’t you wait by the box with the bomb tech?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sure thing, Jonesy,” he said. But before he walked away he turned and winked at Gibson then gave him a big smile and two thumbs up. “Keep up the great work, dude. I sleep better at night knowing you’re out there doing your job. I really do.”
After Rosencrantz walked away I looked at Agent Gibson and tried a little diplomacy. “I’ll be honest with you, Murton Wheeler was a boyhood friend of mine. We grew up together and even served in the first Gulf war with each other. It has been a number of years since we’ve seen each other until just last night. He walked into a bar I own, gave me a key to a safe deposit box inside this bank then disappeared out the back. In addition, two men I’d never seen before until that very same day were following him. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Why are you looking at him?”
“I didn’t say we were looking for him. I said he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“What exactly do you want with him then?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
So much for diplomacy. “Look, Agent Gibson, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. The CEO of this financial institution was murdered yesterday, and we’ve had several other shootings which I now believe are somehow connected. Murton Wheeler ties in to it somehow. Anything you can give me would be a big help.”
“Murder is not a federal offense, Detective, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Have a nice day, then,” I said, and turned to walk away.
“We’re not done here, Detective,” Agent Gibson said.
“Yes we are,” I said without turning around. But after a few steps I stopped and this time I did turn around. “I don’t know what’s going on with Wheeler. We were friends for a long time before he dropped out of my life. But I’ll tell you this, Federal Agent or not, you better watch your back. Murton is not someone you want for an enemy. I can probably help you, if you’ll let me.” But it’s hard to get over on a Federal Agent and he had already lost interest in anything else I had to say, his back toward me as he climbed into his car. I don’t know if he heard me or not.
When I got back inside, Rosencrantz and the bomb tech were looking at the x-ray picture of the inside of the safe deposit box. “It’s either a folded piece of paper, or an envelope or two. Won’t be able to tell until we turn the key.” When neither Rosencrantz or myself said anything, the tech shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were two letter sized envelopes, one with my name hand written on the front. The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes before handing it to me, then said, “You got a case number for my report?”
“I’ll send one over when I get back to the office,” I said.
“Good enough then. Tell that Jamaican who cooks for you I like my sauce extra hot, will you? Man, that’s some good shit. I’ll be in tonight for supper.”
After the bomb tech walked out I asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Aw, those guys just flat piss me off sometimes. They strut around like their shit doesn’t stink and every time you ask them for something they tell you they’re not at liberty to say, but what they’re really saying is we’re just small time, you know? Those kind of guys wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, maybe. I applied twice to be an agent. They turned me down both times. You think it might be my attitude?”
“I don’t see how that could be,” I said.
I saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards, then he said, “You going to open that?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.
Murton Wheeler and I had grown up together playing in backyards and ball fields in a time and place when parents still let children walk to school by themselves and most people didn’t bother to lock their doors at night. It was a time when you looked back at the past and used it as a guide to a better and brighter future because of the people in your life and the good and decent things they accomplished, not just for themselves, but for one another. But we are, I sometimes think, of a generation whose goals and accomplishments seem to take precedent over our moral obligations to those in need or sometimes even the ones we love.
So as young men, still not old enough to drink an alcoholic beverage, when our country called on us to serve we did so without hesitation or question because it was what our fathers and their fathers before them did, all in the ultimate quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Except along the way, when you’re humping an eighty pound pack across the desert sand in one-hundred-twenty degree heat you might begin to question the history and reason of war, and maybe, if you are lucky enough to make it back home you might decide that it was all for a cause greater than you are capable of understanding. Then one day the sins of the fathers are passed on to their sons and middle eastern men with nothing more than box cutters fly airliners into buildings and no one’s life is ever the same again, and like it or not, if you want to sleep at night, you have to admit to yourself that in some way large or small, you are a participant in a game that never ends, the rules ever changing.
I opened the first envelope and saw that it contained a copy of a birth certificate for a female named Sidney Wells, Jr., born in May of 1987. I double checked the spelling of the first name, then the sex of the child. It was either a mistake, or the parents had opted to use the male spelling of the name Sidney for their daughter. The mother’s name was listed as Sara Wells. The line for the father’s name was blank. I had no idea what any of it meant. I put the birth certificate aside and opened the other envelope.
What I saw made me squint and blink back the sting from my eyes. It was as if I still stood in the heat of the desert over twenty years ago as an arid wind filled the corners of my eyes with grains of sand from a place I can not seem to cleanse from my soul.
The envelope contained two items. One was a picture of my mother as she lay in her hospital bed. She was propped up by pillows and blankets arranged just so to hold her upright, her lack of strength and fatigue evident in the photograph, even though she was smiling. The side effects from the steroids her oncologists had prescribed had taken a toll on her body, her face puffy and swollen, but the light in her eyes remained strong even as she lay on her deathbed. What gave me pause, though, and caused my hand to tremble beyond my control was the man who sat on the edge of the bed next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding her hand in his. The man next to my mother was Murton Wheeler.
Somewhere in the depths of my consciousness I heard Rosencrantz say my name. When I turned to look at him I saw his lips move, but the sounds I heard were muted, like he was talking to me under water. My throat was dry and when I tried to swallow it felt like I no longer knew how. “It’s personal, Rosie,” I managed to say. “Would you excuse me, please?” I looked at the photograph again, and I didn’t hear his response, but in the periphery of my vision I saw him leave the room and pull the door shut behind him.
I sat down at one of the small cubicles and lay the photograph on the table before me. I can not say for certain how long I stared at it, but eventually I unfolded the pages that were in the envelope as well and began to read. The letter was from my mother, in her own hand, and it was addressed to me, dated less than a week before she died. It read,
My dear Virgil,
This is a fine picture of Murton and me, isn’t it? I thought you might like to keep it. When you and Murton became friends it was a friendship that changed our family for the better. After his own mother died, I watched you boys play and grow together over the years and I began to think of you as brothers, and myself as a substitute for the mother he never had the opportunity to know or love.
Murton was a fine child and from what I gather, he has turned into a fine man as well. I believe it’s time to let the past go, Virgil. You have chosen to punish Murton for what happened, but I thank him. I thank him for asking you to stop that horrible night in the desert. I thank him for wandering off and getting lost in the dark. But mostly, I thank him for keeping you alive while your body bled from the inside. It’s time for you to forgive yourself and Murton for what happened over there, and quite frankly, I think you should thank him too. I have.
I hope throughout the years my love for you was as evident as it could be. I hope you’re lucky enough to eventually find someone to share your life with. Don’t be afraid of marriage. There is a woman out there waiting for you and all you have to do is be open enough to recognize it when she finds you. Have children if you can, and someday when they’re grown and gone and you find yourself older and in the twilight of your life, find this letter and read it again. My hope is it will offer you an understanding not previously possible. I consider it an honor to be able to live on through you and I’m proud to say I am your mother. I love you Virgil, my sweet darling boy.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Don’t forget to duck if someone shoots at you. Ha ha.
Later that night I worked behind the bar with Delroy, but the truth was, the events of the last two days had left me in a fog and I was mostly in the way. Jamaican people on the whole are some of the most patient, kind and forgiving individuals I have ever met, but everyone has their limits. Finally, after I had made a half dozen drinks in a row the wrong way, or more specifically, when he could take no more, Delroy pulled me aside and asked what was wrong. I told him about my case, from when I first heard of Franklin Dugan’s murder, to speaking briefly with an old high school flame and her peculiar and mercurial husband, my encounter with Sandy, seeing Murton, and most of all, the letter and photograph that allowed my mother to speak to me from the grave as if the elements of time, space, and mortality held no sway in her existence even though she had passed over a year ago.
“Let me see dat picture, you,” he said. When I handed him the picture he studied it for a long time before he spoke. “My mother’s name was Hazel,” he said. “She stood ‘bout five feet tall, her, no more of dat, mon. She work her whole life, mostly laundry for the rich people live in the hills high above the road dat look out over the bay water. One day Robert and me went wid her to carry the buckets. We were both only fourteen. When dat truck swerved to miss the goats in the road it headed right toward us. She shoved Robert and me into the ditch but dat truck, mon, it struck her dead. She land right next to us, she did. I never forget it. I never had a picture of my mother, no. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did, I do what it say to do, mon.” Then he did something that surprised me. He handed me the picture then put both his hands on my face and kissed me on the cheek. “Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he tapped his finger at the side of my head. “She don’t live in no picture, either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon my chest over my beating heart and said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”
How did you ever become so wise, Delroy?
Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.