Inside Discount Liquors, I wandered the wide, endless white aisles of hooch and tried to decide what I wanted. Failing that, I decided to get everything. I put a new bottle of gin in the cart, along with lime juice, a six-pack of Black Label, rum, two liters of Coke, and an experimental bottle of pear schnapps, which I’d heard was pretty good. If the first year was euphoric, the fifth was going to be a revelation.
No one seemed impressed or alarmed by my purchases. In a liquor store, my selections probably seemed about right for a young man of legal age preparing for a small party at his pad. Besides, the woman behind me in line was buying four bottles of Absolut Citron and two of Southern Comfort. Her story was probably far more troubling than mine.
On my way out of the store, something on the sliding glass door caught my eye. It was a large sticker that they’d used to decorate the glass. “Celebrate
Life!”
it said, in sparkly silver letters. The edges of the sticker were peeling and
brown. The very top of the exclamation point had been pulled off, and the “C” was curling in on itself.
I laughed, standing with my blue plastic Discount Liquors cart poised in front of the open glass doors.
Celebrate life!
I intended to. But what did that really mean? And how many of us actually know how to go about it? I stood there puzzling over my own attempts, past and present, until the SoCo and Citron lady came up behind me with her cart. She wanted to get by. I pushed my cart through the doors and we were both on our way.
When I woke up the next
morning, my breath tasted like rotten malt and squandered youth. I’d had a couple of beers upon returning home, rummaged through a few piles of cits, then dozed off on the futon. As I watched myself lift my toothbrush in the bathroom mirror, I knew that I wouldn’t be making it to work that day.
After leaving an apologetic message on Dan’s voice mail, I went to bed for a few more hours. I got up around noon, knocked back a couple of shots of gin, and perused my refrigerator for something to eat. Eggs, milk, cheese, and onions would make a passable omelet. I didn’t have any real vegetables, but that hardly mattered. A few more shots and I wouldn’t be fit to wield a knife anyhow.
After I chopped the onions, I took a third shot and quickly chased it with milk, which was a mistake. While my onions sizzled, I frantically opened my new Coke bottle and took a big cleansing swig.
When I carried my plated omelet to the kitchen table, I found it covered with cit piles and old photocopies.
“The story that never fucking ends,” I murmured, pushing the papers aside to make room for my plate. “Get over yourself, Mary Anne.”
When the plate was clean, I was ready for another drink.
I set up my shot glass and gin bottle on the table in ceremonial fashion and wondered if I was doing this for myself or an imagined audience of everyone who had ever failed to empathize. No matter. Once the shot had slid down my throat, it didn’t seem an important distinction.
I pulled Mary Anne’s mess in front of me, fanning a bunch of cits out across the table. Scanning them, I saw no
Teaglass
cits. I swept them onto the floor and grabbed another pile. I proceeded like this for the better part of an hour. When I finally found another Mary Anne installment, I added it to the
Teaglass
stack.
“Victory drink,” I said aloud, and had some schnapps. This did the trick. After a couple more piles of cits, the kitchen started a slow carousel movement.
I dragged myself into the living room and lay on the futon for a while, watching the ceiling spin.
Of all the things you could be today …
The phone rang. I reached for it without getting up.
“Yo?” I said into the phone.
“Billy!” It was Mona. “What’s going on? I thought you were coming back today.”
“I called in.”
“What? You’re supposed to
be
here.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Emergency situation at the office? They need me? Words being coined at an alarming rate? Old folks lining up at both doors, demanding to know who the hell hijacked the word ‘gay’ and gave it to the fairies?”
“Is everything okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m
sick,”
I said. “Tomorrow everything will be all right.”
“You sure of that? Cuz
I’m
not. You’re starting to worry me.”
I looked over at the mess on my kitchen table.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But try not to let it ruin your afternoon.”
Mona seemed reluctant to go, but my stomach was starting to revolt.
“Bye, Mona,” I shouted into the phone, then ran into the bathroom.
I slid onto the floor in front of the toilet.
I’m that guy
, I marveled.
That
guy. I’m that stupid guy who finds himself wasted, curled around a toilet. I’m every dumb-ass freshman I ever helped stagger home from a frat house. Every moron who I stepped over in the dormitory hall. I thought I’d escaped that guy, but here he was. Just as stupid as the rest of them. Probably no smarter for the philosophy or the experience.
Five years ago yesterday, my father drove me home from my last treatment. We stopped at Riverdale Park, which was completely empty of people. No surprise, as it was bitter cold. We smoked a joint together. It was a relief to spend some time away from my parents’ living room couch, where I’d spent most of the previous six months.
“Now I guess I just sit tight for five years,” I’d said. “And wait. And hope it doesn’t come back.”
My father kept turning the car on, running the heat full blast, turning it off again.
“You warm enough?” he kept asking.
I said yes, and a little later, told him I’d been thinking. I wasn’t going to try and take second-semester classes locally. That I was thinking about taking it easy till September, when I’d finally be leaving for college for real. So I’d have a chance to think some things over. Then I’d start school the following fall. Then maybe I’d try philosophy. Philosophy seemed a worthwhile subject to me now. I didn’t know why. It just did.
He nodded, his eyes wide and searching, like he was trying to find his reply somewhere in my face. Then he spoke:
“You’re going to come through this, and you’re going to know who you are. So much better than some people do. I just see it happening for you that way, William. Five years from today, you’re going to be finished with college. You’re going to be starting your life on your own. You’re going to wonder where the time went. You’re going to realize you haven’t even thought about this for a long time.”
I don’t remember replying. He’d been wrong, but it was a touching thought.
“You’re going to be such a fine young man. You already are. But then, even more. I can just see it. Such a fine, strong young man.”
He was embarrassing me.
“As long as I quit it with this reefer,” I said, taking the joint from him. It seemed to me he’d had enough.
But my dumb joke had come a little too late. To my astonishment, my father had already started to cry, quietly, wiping his eyes and then drying his wet hands on his black upholstery. When he couldn’t seem to stop, it was me who ended up driving us the last couple of miles home.
He’d never quite arrived—this brave, fine young man my father had promised. I’d always told myself this fifth anniversary would be my last. But then, I’d always imagined I’d be a far different man by now. A man who, by the fifth, would not even notice the date’s passing. Who’d have more important things to think about. Who wouldn’t be lost anymore.
I remained on my bathroom floor for a good half hour at least, until I heard a light tapping on my door.
“Billy,” a low, scratchy voice was insisting. “Do you have a second?”
It was Tom. I got up and pulled the door open.
“Down and out, huh? Taking a sick day?” he said, stepping inside. “I noticed your car was here, and Jimmy said he thought he heard you walking around up here.”
“Yeah, well. You’re right. I’m taking a sick day.”
“What’ve you got?” he wanted to know. “The flu? Just don’t cough in my direction, all right? I’m practically homeless, so I can’t afford to be sick.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “You want some tea or something?”
“Sure. Looks like you’ve been self-medicating with something a little harder,” he observed, gesturing at the bottles on the counter. “You think that’s the best way to treat a flu? Shit, man.”
I began to boil some water and take out some mugs.
“How have the holidays been treating you?” I said, changing the subject.
“Not bad. Jimmy and Barb got me some movie passes. I’m looking forward to using those.”
“Nice.”
“Not going so good for Barb, though. She’s been sick. Maybe you’ve got whatever she’s got.”
“Maybe.”
“She’s been holed up down there for three days. Sick as a dog. In bed, drinking lots of tea. The whole deal. Bet she’s going nuts in there, with only Jimmy to keep her company. You know what? I think Jimmy
likes
having Barb all laid up in there. Gives him a sense of purpose. Now, I’m not suggesting any Munchausen-by-proxy shit, anything like that, but—”
“Would you like a cookie or something? Something to go with that tea?”
Tom shook his head while he squeezed his tea bag with
his spoon and his thumb. My stomach didn’t like the carnality of this act. I put my hand on my middle and took a few shaky breaths.
Tom didn’t notice. “Hey, Billy. I’ve been meaning to ask you. How are those lottery tickets working out for you? Jimmy mentioned you’re on a gambling kick.”
“Not exactly. I won five bucks and bought some more tickets with it. But those ones turned out to be losers.”
“That’s usually how it happens.”
“True,” I admitted. It was difficult to feign interest in the lottery tickets. I’d managed to do one a day for about three mornings, then scratched the rest on a particularly boring evening.
Tom took a long sucking sip off the surface of his tea.
“I actually came up here because I’ve got something for you,” he said. “I don’t know if it still interests you though.”
“What?”
“That Glass Girl article I mentioned. I dug it up for you at the library.”
I looked down at the headline.
Unsolved Crimes: Claxton’s Coldest Cases
.
“Thanks, Tom. This is great. I’ve been really curious about this.”
“I copied the whole series for you. All three articles. I think you’ll find the Olsen double-murder/suicide pretty interesting too.”
“Alrighty,” I said. “Cool. I’ll know all of the Claxton lore eventually.”
Tom wrinkled his brow as he took a sip of his tea. “Are you sure you’re all right up here?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just don’t seem your usual self.”
“Not sure what that means, man,” I said.
“That’s too bad, Billy. I’m sorry to hear that. Because ‘Know thyself’ is, like, one of the most important tenets of philosophy.”
I laughed.
“Which
philosophy would that be?” I said. “The school of platitudes?”
“Don’t be a punk,” Tom said. “It doesn’t become you. Neither does inebriation, by the way.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Do you have anything else for me today?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied, a little stiffly. I’d hurt his feelings. “Unless there’s something you need?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that philosophy’s worthless when you’re sick and drunk.”
Tom set his cup down, lined up his spoon next to it.
“I disagree,” he said, getting up. “But I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thanks for the articles.” I opened the door for him.
As soon as he was gone
, I read the first article:
Claxton Daily News
DECEMBER 1, 1997
Cold Case: “The Glass Girl”
A BOTCHED KIDNAPPING
OR CRIME OF PASSION?
Editor’s Note: This is the second in the three-part series about unsolved murder cases in Claxton over the last decade
.
C
LAXTON
— Sometimes a case is more about questions than answers.
As Claxton’s only cold case investigator, Lt. Alvin Martino, leafed through the pages of Derek Brownlow’s case file on a recent afternoon, all he had were questions.
Why was Brownlow killed?
Was he trying to attack someone who fought back, or was he himself a victim?
Where would someone find a piece of glass in the middle of a park to stab Brownlow in the neck?
And why did no one come forward in what many considered a heroic act?
Brownlow, a hardware store worker with a criminal background, was killed twelve years ago, just a few months after he moved to Claxton. Police found his lifeless body under a tree in Freeman Park.
At first the murder seemed random. But evidence found in Brownlow’s home and car—as well as details about his conviction for attacking a woman in Pennsylvania and suspicion that he was involved in two murders there—led police to theorize that he was killed while trying to kidnap someone.
Many in the public and the media attributed the killing to a mysterious young woman they called the “Glass Girl,” in reference to the murder weapon, shards of a broken bottle or glass. Witnesses had seen a young woman entering the park around dusk.
“It’s a frustrating case,” Lt. Martino said during a recent interview in his office at police headquarters. “At first we had a lot of leads. It seemed this fellow got involved in something he couldn’t handle. Or maybe that’s what we wanted to believe because of his background. Sometimes facts just don’t come out.”
In his 22 years of reviewing cold cases in Claxton and with the Massachusetts State Police, Martino has helped solve dozens of murders. But rarely, he admits, has he come across a case with so many striking details but so little forensic evidence.
“The weapon had no usable fingerprints. We didn’t find any other broken glass in the area, implying it was brought in for the
attack,” Lt. Martino said. “In searching through the victim’s personal effects, we found a lot of evidence, but none of it has proved conclusive, at least so far.”
A commonly overlooked detail about the killing, Lt. Martino said, was that Brownlow didn’t appear to have bled to death.
“The autopsy indicated that the cuts did not sever the jugular,” he said. “The glass was apparently moved as the victim attempted to remove pieces from his neck. The cause of death actually appeared to be choking, probably on his own blood.”
A few years before moving to Claxton, Brownlow served seven months in a Pennsylvania prison for attacking a young woman, whom police said he had been stalking. Brownlow broke her arm and knocked out several of her teeth when he tried to abduct her outside the office where she worked.
“I guess he wasn’t as good at grabbing women as he’d have liked to be,” Martino says and shrugs. “It looks like he botched it a few times.”
Brownlow was a suspect in the murder of a nurse in 1979 and the disappearance of a college girl in 1975. In both cases, authorities did not find enough evidence to arrest him, Martino said.
After Brownlow’s death, the media spent weeks speculating on the possibility that a mysterious “Glass Girl” heroically killed Brownlow in a thwarted kidnapping attempt. Claxton police questioned several young women from local high schools and the community college in an effort to support the theory. But they found no trace of the woman in question.
“A few young women did come forward claiming to be the ‘Glass Girl,’ but after questioning them about the details of the case, we concluded that all of them were hoaxes,” Lt. Martino said. “The actual ‘Glass Girl,’ if there was one, elected not to come forward and help us solve this case.”
Although Brownlow apparently knew few people in Claxton, it’s possible that he was killed in a fight or a crime of passion, he said.
“Frankly, this one has baffled all of us.”