“Maybe I’ll go. We’ll see how bored I get.”
But when I got up Friday morning, I felt like driving. I hit the road to Claxton after breakfast.
It was actually way too cold
for a picnic on Tuesday, but Mona and I wanted to talk alone. The creepy Samuelson lunchroom always had a couple of lonely souls in it, looking for a little polite conversation to keep them sane for one more afternoon. No privacy there.
We decided on a little triangle of dead grass two blocks from Samuelson, where there were a couple of park benches and an old skeleton of a swing set. By Claxton’s depressed standards, you could probably call this a park. It fit the broadest of Samuelson definitions for the word, anyway. There Mona and I ate our lunches. She spooned yogurt out of a little cup with purple-mittened hands. My own naked hands turned red and raw from holding on to my turkey sandwich in the cold air.
I told Mona about what had tipped me off to Mr. Phillips, and about the conversation that followed. Mona listened in silence. When she finished her yogurt, she took out a giant oatmeal cookie, split it, handed me half, and motioned for me to continue. I finished up by telling her I wanted to include Mr. Phillips—Red—in our subsequent cit search, since he seemed so knowledgeable, so harmless, and so desperate for amusement.
Mona smiled cryptically at this final sentiment. “I don’t think Mr. Phillips needs anything from us. He seems to me someone who can amuse himself just fine.”
“So you don’t want him in on this?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I’m a little wary of how it’ll play out. Can I ask what made you so sure it was okay to talk to him?”
“I can’t say I was
sure
. I was just …
eager.”
“You weren’t at all scared of where it might lead?”
“Not really.” I bit into my cookie half before answering. It was really hard. I wondered if Mona had baked it herself. “Maybe you had to be there, but when I was talking to the guy, I just didn’t feel like he was someone to
fear
, exactly.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. And now he’s involved whether we like it or not.”
“Oh, come on,” I reasoned. I was trying to decide if I should point out that my involving Mr. Phillips made a hell of a lot more sense than her showing Dan those first two cits. “The guy’s so lonely and bored. He’ll be thrilled just to be in on the game.”
“Just because Mr. Phillips is old and lonely doesn’t mean he’s innocent. He might have had something to hide. And it’s not a
game
anymore, Billy.” Mona rummaged in her bag. “Look what I found last night in your beloved microfiches.”
She handed me two photocopies. “From the
Claxton Daily News.”
Claxton Daily News
OCTOBER 16, 1985
BODY FOUND IN FREEMAN PARK
CLAXTON
— An unidentified man was found dead yesterday morning in Freeman Park just a few hundred feet from where his car was parked, according to police.
“A resident found the body near one of the paved park roads while she was walking her dog Thursday morning,” said Sgt. John Polaski, who is leading the investigation. “The dog apparently led her a few yards off the path, where she saw the body. She called us immediately. We later found what appears to be the victim’s car parked a few hundred feet from the position of his body.”
City police, who are working with state police, have identified the man from the wallet in his pocket and documents found in his car. But they declined to name the victim until next of kin have been informed.
“The investigation has just begun, so that’s all I can tell you at this time,” Polaski said.
The results of an autopsy should be available later this week, he said.
Claxton Daily News
OCTOBER 18, 1985
SCANT DETAILS EMERGE
IN GRUESOME PARK KILLING
C
LAXTON
— In what is becoming a mysterious murder case, police revealed yesterday that the 43-year-old man found dead this week in Freeman Park was stabbed to death.
“We found a lot of blood at the scene. It could be described as a gruesome killing. And now we’re just trying to piece together the events that led to his death,” said Sgt. John Polaski of the Claxton Police Department.
The man, Derek George Brownlow of 126 Highland Street in Chesterfield, worked at U-Build-It Hardware Store. He had no family in the area. It appears Brownlow relocated to the area only three months before his death, and police are having difficulty tracing his earlier residence and employers.
“Mr. Brownlow’s neighbors and coworkers expressed their
regret at his death, but no one seems to have known him well,” Polaski said. “We’re hoping that anyone else who knows him will contact us immediately.”
Kyle Strand, a coworker from U-Build-It Hardware, described Brownlow as “private” and “smart.”
“He was always reading something,” Strand said. “On his lunch break, and whenever he had cash register duty. Just a smart, quiet guy.”
Brownlow’s upstairs neighbor, Vince Poulton, said he didn’t speak to him much.
“He received few, if any, visitors, as I recall,” Poulton said. He admitted that he had no clue why someone would want to kill Brownlow.
Scant details like these aren’t giving police much help in tracking down Brownlow’s killer. They are again asking for anyone with information about the deceased to contact them immediately.
This murder brings the annual total in Claxton to 14, which is higher than in previous years.
“Jesus,” I said. “Sounds like he was running from the mob. He moved here from nowhere, had no people, and then got whacked. How’d you find this?”
“Naturally I started with October of 1985, since that’s what all the cits say. It seems like whoever wrote the cits wanted to make it easy. It took me a couple of visits, but there it was.”
“Is this all you found?”
“I looked through a few weeks’ worth of newspapers after this article, but the follow-ups didn’t say much more. It looks like the investigation just didn’t go anywhere. I stopped looking when I hit November. I should probably go back and keep looking, but I don’t know if it’ll turn up much.”
“So maybe it’s not an editor writing a story just for laughs.”
“Apparently not.” Mona frowned. “There’s a real dead guy in this thing. After seeing this, do you still trust Old Man Cruller?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured. The sight of the name Derek Brownlow in the article had sent a chill through me, but I wasn’t sure if it made me feel differently about Phillips.
“Well?” Mona prompted. “How do you feel? Still no fear?”
“Maybe some,” I admitted.
Mona squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples.
“But I think my curiosity is stronger,” I said.
“Okay, fine. Your curiosity is stronger than your fear. But which is
smarter?”
“You can’t really think of it like that. The stronger feeling always wins out, not the smarter one.”
“Maybe if you’re a caveman, sure.”
“Listen, Mona. Think of it like getting on an airplane. You were pretty scared when you left last week. But you got on the plane anyway, right? Why did you do that?”
“Because of Thanksgiving. Because of my family. Because I had to.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten on if you truly believed it was going to crash. You knew that you’d land, that you’d see your parents on the other end. Because if you didn’t truly believe that, how could you have gotten on?”
“I didn’t know it wouldn’t crash. I didn’t believe it wouldn’t crash. I
hoped
it wouldn’t.”
“But that must have been a pretty strong hope. And the hope must have been stronger than the fear. Stronger than you want to admit. Probably stronger than you even realize. Your actions prove it.”
“I guess. But when it comes to flying, it usually feels about fifty-fifty, fear to hope.”
“Deep down, you know your odds are better than that,” I insisted. “That’s why you get on.”
“So …” Mona raised a single skeptical eyebrow. “How do you think your odds are now?”
The cold was getting unbearable. I yanked at my collar and then shoved my hands deep into my pockets. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, how likely is it that keeping your coffee date with Mr. Phillips will be productive and not … destructive?”
I hadn’t a clue. But since either outcome was likely to be pretty interesting, it looked like my odds were pretty good.
“There’s no way of knowing that. All I know is that I’m not scared enough in this case to let it change my course of action. I want to satisfy my curiosity.”
Mona shook her head. “Blood on his hands,” she said.
“You know, that phrase sounded metaphorical to me from the very beginning.”
“It might have sounded metaphorical,” she murmured, flicking the photocopy, “before the goddamned corpse turned out to be literal.”
“Mona,” I said. “This is Doughnut Man we’re talking about. Let’s get a grip. Listen. I won’t mention you, I won’t mention the articles. And if it gets ugly, I think I can take him.”
Mona rolled her eyes. “Granted, Mr. Phillips is a skinny old man and you’re a hefty hunk of manhood. But it’s the
situation
we should be wary of. Sure, maybe Mr. Phillips isn’t dangerous. But maybe he’s connected to someone who
is
. With a real dead body in the mix, who knows what we might be getting into?”
“Maybe it runs all the way to the
top
. Maybe it goes back
to Daniel Samuelson. Maybe this whole dictionary thing is just a front for a century-old WASP mafia.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m serious.” Mona glared angrily at the empty swing set.
“Hey,” I said, waving my hand in front of her face until she looked at me again. “I know you are. I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I see what you’re saying. It’s not Mr. Phillips per se. It’s what might happen if we talk to him.”
“Exactly. And I don’t want you to get in trouble. You’re just going to stick yourself out there?”
“I already have. I
mentioned
the cits. If Mr. Phillips is part of some murderous chain of command, I’m already screwed.”
“And therefore the next logical step is to get yourself in deeper?”
There was nothing logical about it. But
in deeper
sounded like it could be a trip. The way my life was going lately, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe
in deeper was
exactly where I wanted to be. I wasn’t sure how to articulate this to Mona without sounding like an asshole.
“Listen,” I said. “We’ve worked hard so far, and we’ve hit a wall. We’ve found something—someone—who clearly looks like our best bet for more information. We’ve started something, and we want to know more. Why not keep going?”
“Because I keep picturing all of the terrible ways this could end.”
“Like how?”
“Well. Let’s see. There’s you getting fired. Or you ending up sleeping with the fishes in the Connecticut River. Or at the very least, Mr. Phillips being dragged away by a cop, shaking a fist and screaming ‘
And I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for these meddling kids!’
”
I laughed. “I like that, Mona. Keep visualizing that ending.”
“I thought you liked Mr. Phillips.”
“I do. But it’s still a pretty funny image. Listen. I’ll be careful. I won’t mention you, and I’ll call you as soon as I get home and tell you what happened.”
“Okay.” Mona looked at her watch. “Maybe I just have more of an imagination for disaster than you.”
“You think so?” I pulled my collar tight around my neck. I was freezing.
“That’s why I’m afraid of flying, actually. I just have this feeling that my life is destined for some kind of disaster. And getting on an airplane is just asking for it.”
“You think there’s a disaster waiting just for
you?”
“Sort of. I know that sounds self-centered. But whenever I read about a disaster, like an earthquake or flood, I imagine myself in it. I always think it was meant for me. I keep wondering when my disaster’s coming.”
“How do you know it hasn’t already arrived?”
“Maybe you and I mean different things by ‘disaster.’ The kind of disaster I’m talking about, you’d know it when you saw it. I’m thinking, like, you’re on the tip of the
Titanic
just as it’s cracking in half. There’s no question. This is it. This is the disaster beyond your wildest imagination.
This
is what life has been saving for you.”
Her cheeks were red from the cold. She had a soft gray scarf thrown casually around her neck. With her thin figure all buried under wool and sweaters and tights, she reminded me suddenly of a coed in a liberal arts college brochure. There was something cozy about her. A Salinger Franny before the breakdown. I wondered if she felt as innocent as she seemed. It was pretty naive, this notion of hers—that a disaster needs to announce itself in grand fashion, with a deafening rumble or a crack in the earth. I knew from experience
that she was wrong. A disaster can just as easily be a slow, silent rot. A disaster can creep in without much fanfare, and quietly stay.
Maybe she felt I didn’t understand her point, because she changed the subject.
“I got a good letter today. Guy wants to know if he should use ‘shit’ or ‘shat’ for past tense.”
“He should have just looked it up. Either word suffices. Did you tell him so?”
“Billy,” Mona sighed. “Listen to yourself. You’re really hardening up pretty quick. No, it’s not a very intelligent question. But it’s a
real-life
issue. How many times did you wonder that yourself, before working here? If we can answer questions like that, well, maybe we’re really doing something important.”
“If you say so, Mona.”
When the papers went crazy, I knew everything might very well explode. Still, I resigned myself to the stern presence of my fellow word
mavens
. There was at least an odd comfort in submitting to the long silence of the day. Reliable and insistent, it served as a kind of protector. I was reading a book about drug slang, underlining the word “stash,” and you came to my desk. When you saw what I was reading, you said, Now you’re talking. You said that junk slang was your favorite, and wanted to know if there was a chapter on junk. Then you asked if I’d finished that other book yet. No, I whispered. I was unraveling fast. Was it a trick question? What exactly had been in that article that I hadn’t had time to read? Was there something suspect near the corpse? Were you smiling, Red, because of something you knew?
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