The Cavanaugh Quest
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Authors: Thomas Gifford
Thomas Gifford
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
For my mother and father
I am not I;
he is not he;
they are not they.
quest:
a chivalrous enterprise in medieval romance usually involving an adventurous journey.
CONTENTS—Webster’s Third New International
Dictionary
Prologue
D
URING THE LATTER PART OF
this past summer and the early autumn several people I knew were murdered in the most publicized and bizarre crime wave in the history of Minneapolis. It didn’t last long but things like that don’t have to be lengthy to do the damage. Some lives were blown to pieces which were terribly difficult to reconstruct; others floated soundlessly off into eternity like space garbage. Violent death has a way of attracting money and power and media. Having written a previous book about a crime and a trial, I was commissioned by my publisher to write an on-the-scene journalistic investigation of the murders. I was even expected to do some detecting myself, an expectation smacking of another era altogether. As it turned out, it would have been much too close to autobiography for me to give it the proper treatment. So I returned the advance and retired to lick my assorted wounds. No book was ever written and the whole matter remains so shrouded in inconclusiveness that I seriously doubt if there ever will be one.
Lovers of crime fiction and, even more so, followers of true-life crime stories have a weakness: They want the story to come to a satisfactory climax and denouement which finds justice being evenhandedly meted out, the guilty punished, the innocent freed to resume their normal lives. Neat 360-degree affairs rounded off with legalistic tidiness. In the case of the murders in Minneapolis there just wasn’t that happy, convenient set of conclusions followed by the lights coming up,
THE END
hanging in limbo as the curtain rattles closed.
The fact was, the murderer was never brought to justice or even revealed; identified by some of us, yes, but never quite brought to heel. The motive remained hidden from the public and the murders remain officially unsolved. And the innocent would never return to the lives they had once found quiet, comforting, normal.
My life was one of those which exploded. I was no writer, no observer, no reporter. I was a participant. And as the story kept peeling away, like a snake dropping away its skins, it was I who held it wriggling and twisting and darting out. The truth, when such extreme efforts are made to conceal it, develops a peculiar life of its own. It struggles to make itself known, to receive the credit it deserves, to achieve the capital T. The Truth dies hard. Maybe it never dies at all, but lies sleeping, waiting for someone to find it, decipher its code.
This, then, is a story about the search for an elusive truth.
The truth exists independent of us all, for its own sake. It has no moral validity. It reminds me of Melville’s white whale. Captain Ahab was wrong: Moby Dick was not evil, he simply
was.
And so it is with the truth. There it sits, expressionless, a disinterested party. I am what I am, says the truth, and the rest of us are stuck with it.
When you have finished with what I’ve decided to say, you will know the truth and only you will be able to decide if it was worth learning. Worth it for the people involved, worth it for you, and most of all if it was worth it for me.
My name is Paul Cavanaugh. This is what happened.
S
UMMER FREQUENTLY ENDS ABRUPTLY IN
Minneapolis, where the natives speak of the Theater of Seasons with a pride not unlike that they take in the Guthrie Theater and the Minnesota Vikings. It can be there one August day, the summer, and be gone the next as the clouds sift down over the lakes and the beaches go grainy and lonely beside the whitecaps. I knew such a day was coming, had to be coming, but the August warmth was still hanging in the trees and I was sufficiently optimistic to buy some new Slazenger tennis balls the day Hubbard Anthony and I played our monumental world class five-setter. I hadn’t lost the weight I’d promised myself that summer. I was still struggling into my Fred Perry shorts and shirt with the distinctive marking; snug, yes, but I wear them on principle, proving a point which recedes each summer. I was freshly forty and not prepared to make concessions to time.
The day of the five-setter was also the day Larry Blankenship blew his head inside out against the green-and-gold-flocked wallpaper in the main lobby of the building where I lived. I’d played three hours of sweating tennis with Hub at the Norway Creek Club and my ass was dragging. He was sixty years old, hard as the judge’s bench he sat on, and possessed of an infernal stamina which wore me down over five sets.
The temperature hung entrapped at ninety but huge oaks left the clay courts shade-dappled, playable; but Hub craftily used the shadows. After winning the first and third sets I began to go a trifle rubbery in the face of his great, awful cannonading serves. They rocketed down like V-2’s, blurring in and out of the sun and shade, and he took the final two sets, 6-2 and 6-1. I’m a rather boorish loser, but I had to admire the way he’d paced himself.
We stood at the net, Hubbard looking as if he’d been out for a pleasant Sunday-afternoon hit. He was grinning at me, spinning the sixty-dollar Arthur Ashe carpet beater in his large tanned hand.
“I’m sure you cheated somehow,” I said. “Come on back for a drink. Tell me your secrets.” I was puffing.
“It’s only a game,” he said as we walked back to the clubhouse, past the pool with the kids shouting and splashing and the mothers looking eighteen in their bikinis and tans. “But it’s more fun to win than to lose.” Everybody was looking too young, too vigorous. It made me nervous. Hubbard was talking while I watched all the breasts struggling to slip out of their bikinis.
“What?” I said. “I missed that.”
“Zen tennis,” he repeated in that patient, judicial way. “I’ve been playing it for years and now this fellow’s written a book about it. You’ve got to let yourself win, he says, Paul, as opposed to making yourself win.”
“Cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?”
“Well, your body knows how to hit the shots. You must simply let it do what it already knows how to do.” He twirled the racket again.
“My body weighs twenty pounds too much. Twenty pounds larded in between knowing and doing.”
“All you have to do,” he went on, “is let your mind make a picture of how the shot should be hit, how you’ve seen Laver or Rosewall hit it, and
let it happen.”
He chuckled apologetically. “Of course, I’m oversimplifying. …”
“Of course,” I said. Sweat was burning nasty little holes in the corners of my eyes. “Let it happen. …”
Hubbard Anthony was too good for me, a fact which I discovered all over again each summer, but I was counting on time as my ally. In ten years I’d be fifty and he’d be seventy and then, by God, I’d show the old bastard.
Showered and dressed and exhausted, I flung the Porsche around Lake of the Isles Boulevard with a childish daring which I equated with the great Fangio behind the wheel of his Ferrari or whatever it had been. Fangio dated me, of course, and the Porsche looked as old as I felt but driving it fast helped me regain the self-respect I’d labored so long that afternoon to lose, to squander.
I wheeled it up the driveway to the guest’s parking area since I’d have to take Hubbard home later and it was obvious that something was happening. There were two police cars, an ambulance, and a rescue-squad van cluttering up the driveway and a nattering wave of curious tenants lapped at the edges of the red carpet under the canopy. Reflexively I looked up the twenty-five-story façade with its geometry of redwood balconies and sharp angles. It looked as if it were gnashing its teeth at the world. Somebody finally fell off; that’s what I was thinking as I walked toward the apparent disaster area. The pathetic little fountain in the middle of the glaring concrete squirted faintly, tiredly, as if the long day were just too much for it.
“Somebody took a header,” I said. “It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”
Hubbard followed me past the ambulance, between the rescue van and a cop car, and through the delivery entrance tucked in behind a screen of decorative concrete blocks. There was no point in using the front door: Two uniformed cops were blocking it off. There wasn’t a big splotch in the driveway after all. Whatever had happened had happened inside.
The door to the manager’s office was open and the room was empty. The swivel chair behind the desk lay on its side. Someone had gotten up in a hell of a hurry and kicked it over. I used my key on the mailroom door and went through it, out the other end into the lobby with its green thick carpet as soft and yielding as a dune. There were several people standing in a kind of awkward, anticipatory silence and a few more speaking in self-conscious undertone. Bill Oliver, the manager, and his wife, Pat, were standing by the fireplace with its fake fire flickering cheerily behind the plastic log. They were talking to a plainclothesman in a business suit and white shirt while another cop stood staring at something in the corner beside the enormous, sparse, split-leaf philodendron. Two men in white medico costume were bending over the something which appeared to be a pile of green army blankets. Two highly polished penny loafers with virgin tan soles protruded from the bottom of the pile of blankets.
Fritz, one of the caretakers, was standing near the bank of elevators looking past the small crowd, sizing up the situation with soft, pained eyes which looked out from behind a well-creased face that had once been hard and maybe even mean. He was the kind of material they made fiftyish caretakers from: too much booze, too little luck, and a life gone a bit sour.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said hoarsely, dropping his cigarette into a gleaming cylinder of white sand. He looked as if he expected to be blamed for whatever had happened.
“What’s going on?” I asked. Fritz was sweating, per usual. “Who’s under the blankets?” Just looking at Fritz always made me feel peculiarly guilty, as if I’d done something unspeakable to him.
Hubbard couldn’t quite tear himself away from body watching. His long bony arms were resting on his angular hips and he looked very calm. He’d been around, after all.
“I don’t know for sure,” Fritz said apologetically. Under stress his German accent surfaced. He was always apologizing; he acted like a friendly old dog who expected to kick square in his fidelity. “I’ve been up on the roof working on the dehumidifier system, see, and I come down here to check on the lobby vents—people been complaining, see, about coming in outa the ninety degrees and not feeling no big change like they oughta. So Bill ast me to get on it. …” He wiped his grease-stained hands across the olive-green work shirt, eyes flickering softly past my shoulder.
“So, I come outen the elevator and I’m heading through the delivery hallway toward Bill’s office and this guy comes by me, going the other way, goes into the mail room, and I go into the office. Bill’s at his desk there tearing open this here envelope and he looks up and I start telling him about the goddamn vents which are finally putting out cool air—see, nice and cool now—and he’s kinda half listening to me and reading this letter, at the same time like, and sumbitch, he says, ‘Holy shit!’ and he jumps up from behind his desk, the chair falls over, and there’s a hell of a noise … gunshot, I guess, from the lobby area, loud as a bastard, we can hear it through the glass door of the office and the glass door into the lobby, and Bill’s out from behind the desk, through the office door, then he’s gotta fuck with the lobby door, which is locked, naturally.” Fritz took a breath and swallowed. Nothing had changed over by the fireplace, but Hubbard had joined us, smelling of Vetiver and looking cool in his seersucker slacks and Izod shirt. He was watching Fritz and listening carefully, like a judge.
“By the time he got his key out and got into the lobby there,” Fritz continued, “I could see old Mrs. Hemenway come into view and she’s got those little white gloves she always wears, well, she’s got her hand up over her mouth and she’s looking at something …