The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (19 page)

"Seven-thirty. I'm here at the cottage."

"Already? What time did you leave?"

"Five-thirty. You told me it was the best way to
beat the traffic. Listen: hold tight; I've got something to tell
you."

Good Christ, I thought to myself, not again. Why is
this bad tape playing over and over again? Can't somebody switch it?

"Doc?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Your cottage has been broken into. I opened the
front door and walked into a total mess."

I rolled over in bed, holding the receiver to my
head.

"Doc?"

"I'm still here."

"Sorry to have to tell you this."

"Next to the other news I've been getting, it's
not too bad. Does it look as if they took a lot of stuff?"

"If you mean stuff like televisions and
appliances, no. It looks more like somebody was just searching for
something."

"Who is it, Charlie?" said Mary, who had
her eyes open and was propping herself up on her elbow.

"Moe. The cottage has been burglarized.
Ransacked, just like Jack's house."

"Sweet Jesus," she moaned, and pulled the
pillow over her head.

"Listen Moe, stay there and don't touch
anything. Call the Eastham police and ask for Officer David Klewski.
You won't have to give him directions; he knows the way by heart."

Within twenty minutes we were heading back up to
Eastham. Joe followed us in his cruiser. Since it was Saturday, the
traffic on Route 6 was a perfect horror. Still, I was remarkably at
ease. For one thing, the news didn't involve a family member
directly. Secondly, I couldn't help but think that this second
break-in, clearly committed while we were all away, would divert some
of the heat away from Jack. Joe agreed. But be careful, Adams, a
voice in my head said, every time you think things are looking up,
another bombshell arrives.

A little after ten we rolled into the driveway of the
Breakers to see Moe coming out the front door with Officer David
Klewski, who I bet was sick of visiting the Adams cottage. The cop
came forward and leaned into my driver's window.

"When it rains, it pours, eh Dawktah?"

"Do tell. Moe, give us a tour."

It was not a happy one. The crooks had come in
through the back door, on the ocean side, where they would be
invisible from the road. They'd smashed a pane in the door and
reached in and unlocked it. No room had been spared, including the
crawl space beneath the cottage where the beach furniture and Sunfish
sailboats were stored. All the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the living
room were tossed. Debris and our prized possessions were all over the
floors. We had a good fix on when it happened, because our neighbors
who take the mail in for us had checked the place Friday morning, and
it was still intact. It was my initial suspicion that this was the
handiwork of the same thugs who'd trashed Jack  and Andy's house
in Woods Hole, but it certainly was not as neat a job. Simply looking
at the kitchen, with the strewn pots and pans and broken crockery,
told me the search had been quick and noisy.

"Well, dat figures, Doc," observed the
sagacious Morris Abramson. "I mean, in the center of town, dey
hadda be pretty quiet, ya know? But here on the beach, wit' nobody
around, they could be as crude as they wanted."

"At least they didn't slice open the sofas and
chairs like they did a couple years ago," said Mary, referring
to a previous episode in our lives.

"Thank the Lord for small favors," I said,
surveying the wreckage. I made the comment in irony, but the more I
looked around, the more I realized we'd gotten off lightly. Mary
agreed, reluctantly. After two hours of cleaning and straightening
up, she agreed more readily. The seven of us sat on the deck with
fresh coffee, watching the bay kick up into a green and white froth.
It was a clear, blustery, high-pressure day, with puffy white clouds
racing across the dark blue sky in the high wind. Gulls mewed and
dove over the water; waves thundered onto the beach as we sipped the
coffee from giant steaming mugs and raised our voices to be heard
over the surf.

"I can't see anything missing, Charlie,"
said Mary. "What do you come up with?"

"Your binoculars, for one. Mine I took with me
on the boat. But yours are gone. Also your Nikon."

"No!" she shouted, leaning toward me, her
dark hair blowing straight out behind her, like a storm pennant.
"I've got my camera with me. It must be Jackie's camera—"

"Well, whatever, Hon. That spare Nikon we kept
hidden under the old clothes in the hall closet . . . and my radio's
gone, too. Dammit!"

"No it isn't. I turned it on when we—"

"Not the stereo, the short-wave. The big SONY.
It's gone."

It wasn't just the high cost of this item that
bothered me, it was the fact that model 6800 W was no longer made.
But I had no gripes; I was counting my blessings. Things could have
been a whole lot worse.

Joe said, "I bet Keegan's going to be interested
in this. Seems like somebody's been looking for something of Andy's,
wouldn't you say?"

"Yep. Or something Andy had that he shouldn't
have. Like Hartzell's papers, maybe?" I suggested.

"Hey, right! He searched in Woods Hole and came
up blank. So then he tried here."

"But whoever killed Andy set the deed in motion
earlier," I said, "several days before the break-in of the
house."

"Before, or roughly the same time," said
Joe. "The odds are overwhelming that the killing and the
burglaries are related."

I nodded to him, then turned to Jack.

"Can you think of anything Andy might have
stolen that somebody would want badly enough to kill him for?"

"No, Dad. And listen: he didn't take old
Hartzell's papers. I would have seen them if he did. Besides, Andy
didn't take Hartzell seriously enough to steal his stuff, believe
me."

"You think Hartzell's nutty?"

"Sure. A little, anyway." He shrugged.

"Is he mean?" asked Joe, sitting down next
to Jack.

Jack shook his head. "A little gruff and nasty
sometimes, but only professionally. I don't think he's really mean,
like a killer."

Joe hauled out the envelope, sliding the badge and
wallet carefully onto the plank table without touching it.

"Remember this, Jack? Your dad showed it to us
last night, but maybe you were so upset you didn't take a good look.
Your 'nutty-but-nice' friend, Lionel Hartzell, did this. He pounded
it with a hammer and burned the wallet. What do you say to that?"

"Yeah, well, I guess he could be mean, then. But
he was never mean to me."

Moe studied the ruined shield with interest,
remarking that it showed a lot of hostility.

"Before we get all worked up," said Joe,
replacing the evidence, "let's not forget we've got no proof.
And unless I find Hartzell's prints on this thing, which I doubt I
will, we've still got no proof. Besides, destroying the badge doesn't
make him a killer. It means he was irritated at having been cornered
in his office by two unauthorized persons."

"I'm an official cop now."

"Uh-huh, but not authorized to do Keegan's job.
Moe, you think this makes him dangerous?"

"In one sense, as an act of disrespect for what
Doc and I put him through, it helps him. It shows he has nothing to
fear from us, knowing he did nothing wrong. Follow?"

We nodded.

"On the other hand, I mentioned to Doc dat I
think Lionel Hartzell shows the classic signs of paranoid
schizophrenia. This diagnosis is admittedly based on a thumbnail
sketch. But, if forced to say yea or nay, I'd say yea. Which
means—and he sat down at the table and swept his gaze over all of
us to emphasize his point, "which means dat if he is paranoid,
den he views all his actions as totally justified, as divinely
ordained, if you will."

"So he'll stop at nothing?"

"Right. The true paranoid schizophrenic has no
conscience, and therefore no telltale guilt feelings, either. He can
lie under oath wid'out a twinge. He can lie under a polygraph, too."

"Gee Moe, that's scary," said Mary.

"Scary because he's hard to corner. He acts
innocent because, in his mind, he is innocent; he's acting with total
justification? "Whatever happens, Jackie, I want you to promise
me you'll steer clear of Lionel Hartzell."

"You know that's impossible, Mom. Hey, I think
maybe everybody's jumping to conclusions here."

We spent the rest of the day at the Breakers, taking
time out for yet another lab team to go over the place. Mary said if
she saw one more lab team she'd pitch a fit. Joe called Paul Keegan
and filled him in about the episode of the badge. Joe said he was
"less than pleased," but would try to get Hartzell
fingerprinted, nonetheless.

Around four Moe and I set up the chessboard on the
low table between the easy chairs in the study corner and began to
play, listening to the surf crash outside and Mozart's Concerto in A
for clarinet on the stereo. The soloist was Benny Goodman. I got
skunked, as usual. Am I a closet masochist? I wonder . . . Of course,
if I were and Moe suspected it, he'd never say boo; he enjoys
whipping my ass too much.

At six I lighted the grill for the halibut steaks,
then Joe and I relaxed on the deck, each with a balloon glass of
white wine. Since we were alone for a few minutes, and temporarily
free from the hustle and tension of the past week, I thought I'd ask
him about something that was bugging me.

"Aw, hell no, Doc," he said, answering my
question. "Sure, she was in Mexico once when she was in college,
during the summer. I think it was right before she met you."

"I know about that. I mean before."

"Naw. She just says that shit to push your
buttons when she gets steamed. She's just yanking your chain is all."

"What about those horsemen, coming down out of
the sun-parched hills with gold? Guys that she says were dark, saddle
lean, and horny? How about them?"

"Pure bullshit, is what. I just—hey! Hey,
where'd you get that line?"

"From her."

"I'll be damned. It's kinda good, don't you
think? I mean, maybe she could write one of those romance novels; I
bet she'd be good at it."

"
She says she's always wanted to try writing.
But I don't know . . ."

"Well, it might keep her busy, take her mind off
all this shit that's been coming down around your ears. Maybe I'll
speak with her. More wine?"

The sun went down in glows of gold and purple. The
ocean talked to us, thumping and hissing, throughout the dinner on
the porch. Overhead, gulls, silhouetted black against the glowing
sky, winged their way up and down the beach, mewing and honking. If
Jack weren't in the hot seat, it would have been the perfect end to a
summer's day. But things weren't resolved, and I felt a vague
uneasiness.
 

FOURTEEN

THE NEXT DAY the fair weather held; we spent all day
Sunday at the Breakers, enjoying the sea and sun. The convening of
the grand jury, which Joe assured us would happen shortly, hung over
us like a dark cloud. But we did our best to ignore it and have fun.

Mary insisted that the family stick tightly together
during this trial (no pun intended). It didn't take the rest of us
long to see the wisdom of her stance, which was just as well, because
once Mary makes up her mind on a family issue, there is no budging
her. Accordingly, early Monday morning found us back down in Woods
Hole, settling back into our home-away-from-home room at Swope. We
would continue this back and forth trek from Eastham to Woods Hole
until the matter was laid to rest, Mary announced. While she unpacked
our clothes, and Moe and Joe did likewise in their room, which
adjoined ours, I drove both boys back to Jack's rented house over on
School Street. As we pulled up I could hear Jack sigh; undoubtedly
this would be a tough time for him, and my heart ached. Thank God the
storm had freed Tony to be with his brother.

Jack unloaded his bag, and I saw him staring into the
trunk of the Audi at the navy and tan canvas duffel that had belonged
to the late Andrew Cunningham. The contents having been duly
inspected by the local police and the state lab team, the bag had
been returned to us with the expectation that we would return it to
the boy's parents at the funeral. This we had forgotten to do, and
now Jack lifted it out of the trunk and held it in his other hand,
walking toward his quarters.

"I'm going back to Providence to visit Andy's
folks again," he said. "I promised I would. They'll need
it. I might as well take this."

"That's nice of you," I said. "Why
don't you take Alice along?"

"Maybe. If she's up to it. But wait, where's the
rest of his stuff?"

"That's all I know of. That's what Keegan handed
back to us. He didn't have a garment case or anything, did he?"

"No, I mean in here," Jack said, glancing
down at the canvas duffel, which he hefted up and down in his left
hand. "I remember lifting it out of my Land Cruiser when we got
to the cottage. This bag was heavy—much heavier than it is now. I
asked Andy what he had in there and he said some textbooks. So where
are they?"