“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. I love the life I lead. I’m fond of my own ass. I don’t want to die. I’m a respectable member of the community and I won’t go down without a fight.”
“Then you better come up with an alternative. I’m giving you fair warning. That’s the best I can do.”
30
Wednesday evening, April 20, 1988
When I got home from work, I tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, turned on the lights, and sat down at my desk. I needed to organize my thoughts. With the investigation in tatters, it seemed imperative to catalog what I knew, consigning the details to index cards. There had to be a pattern, an overview into which all the little pieces would fit. Like an optical illusion, I was waiting for the shift, one image flipping over to its counterpart.
In both junior high and high school, I had trouble staying focused in classes where I was doing poorly, math being my weakest subject. Faced with a “thought” problem, my mind inevitably wandered to other matters. The math whizzes grasped the setup on sight. Not only could they divine the crux of the matter, but they’d start licking their pencil points and scribble the solution while I was still squirming in my seat. I wasn’t stupid by any stretch. I was easily distracted and my attention would shift to details that turned out to be irrelevant.
A train leaves Chicago for Boston traveling sixty miles an hour, while a second train leaves Boston, speeding toward Chicago at eighty miles an hour. A bird flies back and forth between the two . . .
And that’s as far as I’d get. I’d start wondering why the bird was behaving so erratically, positing a virus affecting the bird’s internal gyroscope. I’d daydream about who was on the train and why they were going from Chicago to Boston. Then I’d fret about what was happening in Boston that residents had crowded into the fastest train out. I’d never been to Boston and now I was forced to scratch it off my list.
What I experienced jotting down my notes was just another version of the same. I couldn’t “get” the big picture. I couldn’t grasp what was going on, so I found myself attending to issues that probably had nothing to do with anything. For instance, I wondered what they’d added to Rain’s lemonade that knocked her out. Probably some over-the-counter sleep aid, though the proper dosage must have been a trick. I thought about the kidnapper dressed as Saint Nick, curious how he’d come up with a Santa Claus suit in early July. Short of working in a department store at Christmas or standing outside a supermarket ringing a Salvation Army bell, it couldn’t be an easy outfit to rent in the middle of summer. There was no point in checking local costume shops to see if there were records going back that far. I could do it, but after twenty-one years, I’d be spinning my wheels, staying busy for the sake of it instead of canvassing with any hope of success.
I tossed my pen aside. This was pointless. Usually I surrender to the process, letting my thoughts idle while my attention is otherwise occupied. Recording minutiae is a form of play, temporarily derailing the analytical side of my brain. At the moment, frustration was jamming my circuits. There was something distinctly unpleasant about pondering the same disjointed facts when nothing new was coming in. I could fiddle the story any way I liked and the bottom line was the same. Michael Sutton was wrong. He’d made a mistake. Everything that rested on his basic premise was out the window.
Irritably I gathered the cards, secured them with a rubber band, and stuck them in a drawer. Enough of this. I needed Henry’s company and his counsel. I opened the front door and peered across to Henry’s kitchen. All his lights were out. I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag, locked my front door, and made a beeline for Rosie’s. I spotted him the moment I walked in. I pulled out a chair and sat down, peering at the plate Rosie had just put in front of him.
To her, he said, “Thank you, dear. It looks lovely.” He smiled, watching her depart.
“Is that the special of the day?”
He shook his head. “Oh no, you’ll want to steer clear of that.” He peered over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in eavesdropping range. By then she was at the bar chatting with William while she kept a close eye on us.
Henry put a hand to his mouth, in case she’d recently learned to read lips. “She’s serving calf’s-liver pudding with anchovy sauce. It comes with a cup of souse’s soup, made with sauerkraut.” He paused for a moment while he crossed his eyes and then pointed to his plate. “This dish is stuffed cabbage and it’s not half bad.”
“Got it,” I said.