THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE (17 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“ARABESQUE PENCHEE,
ladies
, Arabesque Penchee!
”

Marie Radigan crossed the floor gracefully, toes pointed outward in the pigeon style walk typical to students of ballet. “If I had wanted
Allongee
, I would have said
Allongee
and made myself clear about it!”

Marie approached the bar. Her right hand gripped the wood rail more tightly than was necessary, and more so than she was accustomed to doing. While supporting herself with one leg, Marie extended the other behind her, knee straight, font pointed, torso pivoting on her hips so that the line of her body was roughly parallel to the floor.

“We’re ballerinas, not middle line backers.
Allongee,
” she said, explaining.

Marie then released the bar, extending her arms fully and leaning forward to the floor and back in a fluid, graceful, seesaw movement, all the while keeping her body and raised leg in fixed alignment. From this perspective she was able to note the scuffs on the plank floor, and the errant dust bunnies gathered round the baseboard like a collection of cotton candy. They scattered in response to her draft. Usually so meticulous, Marie hadn’t bothered today to polish or even to sweep, preoccupied as she was with the death of Missy Bitson.

“
Penchee,
” Marie croaked, executing the movement and straightening herself. “Now,
you,
” she said.

Marie vacated her position by the bar as her students scrambled to take her place. Small in size, the class consisted of half a dozen twelve to fourteen-year-old schoolgirls, exceptional dancers all: jazz, ballet and tap. Each Monday afternoon they were released from the monotony of a weekly gym class to attend the special weekday program. The program had been established in cooperation with the local school authority and in response to a request from the Artistic Director for the Church Falls Theater, Joel Pataki. For years, Joel had bemoaned to Marie the lack of available local, young talent to fill walk-on stage, chorus and even, once or twice, principal roles during the summer theater season. With the help of an acting instructor and vocal coach, Marie had for three years been turning out a troupe of talented young thespians, some of whom she was convinced would ultimately be compelled to pursue adult roles and perhaps even move on eventually to more meaningful fulltime training in New York.

Marie observed the girls. Normally, they were chatty and keen. Today, they seemed stunned into a dull silence, like survivors of a train wreck for which the full magnitude of the tragedy would come later, only after shock and the guilt at having been spared finally fades. They moved listlessly through their routine, unwilling to engage in idle chatter on the subject of Missy Bitson, lest they be thought callous, yet unable to articulate those thoughts and feelings that even now they knew to be profound but of which, so soon after the tragedy, they were still unsure.

Marie’s typically critical assessment moved from the students to a reflection of herself in a floor to ceiling mirror running the length of the studio. Flat of chest, narrow of hip, Marie’s five-foot frame could be mistaken easily for one of her students; many times it had been. Devoid of make-up and with her thin blond hair pulled back from her brow, the lines about her eyes were clearly visible, though not sufficiently so as to mark her true age. From a distance, attired casually in tee shirt and denims and with her pale skin and hair worn in wisps about her face, Marie passed easily for a woman—or
woman-child
—half her thirty years.

Outside, the day turned bright. The sun successfully bullied through the last of the remaining cloud, finding its way through a recently installed picture window and reflecting off the floor like a puddle. The window was Marie’s concession to any possibility here for natural light. This past winter it had provided much needed illumination, even if Marie knew in summer it would raise the temperature ten degrees beyond what the air conditioning could comfortably maintain. No bother: the girls perspired lightly. When they did, to Marie they released an aroma both musky and sweet, familiar to her and somehow comforting, unaffected by the falsity of deodorant or strong perfume. Marie neither wore deodorant or perfume of any kind, preferring to shower three times daily: immediately upon rising in the morning, always after dance, and before retiring to bed.

Marie was an only child, the product of a failed marriage and a mother who abandoned (condemned?) her to her father. (This prior to the child ever having had an opportunity to mature to the point where she would no longer compete with her mother for her father’s affection, which at the time Sophie Radigan could not have known her daughter hadn’t, and wouldn’t do.)

Marie agonized over the reasons for her mother leaving. Repugnance? Remorse? Through childhood and adolescence and for many years thereafter, she had believed it to be repugnance, repugnance being most consistent at the time with Marie’s own feelings toward herself. Later, when she was older and better able to understand, Marie accepted Sophie’s decision to be from remorse, not for what she had done, but from a deep and irredeemable shame for what she hadn’t and couldn’t.

Her father did not openly begrudge the premature loss of a wife or a mother for his child. In all ways, Marie stepped in to fill the void. If the relationship was thought odd by neighbors and friends—the Radigans having no immediate family living either near or in Church Falls—it wasn’t said. At least not openly, though had Marie been party to it she would have known it to be a point of gossip among the older women. Working around a full schedule at school and extracurricular activities including jazz-dance and ballet, Marie completed the household chores and the daily preparation of meals with the efficiency and aplomb of a modern day housewife juggling the competing demands of family and a job outside the home. If Marie thought this premature transition from child to homemaker odd, she didn’t say and didn’t complain.

The police hadn’t yet come, though Marie knew they would. Missy’s connection to the studio, and to Marie, required it.

Marie had spoken to Missy yesterday, had met with the girl on the day it was her misfortune to die. Marie had been walking, returning home from church alone while her father, as was his custom, slept in. On returning home that day and on each previous Sunday morning going back almost twenty years, it was Marie’s own custom to prepare her father breakfast: three eggs scrambled, pancakes topped with blueberry preserves, four strips of bacon well fried, one slice of Texas Toast, orange juice from frozen concentrate (in the opinion of Jeremy Radigan the
Not from Concentrate
brand being far too dear) and coffee. (If her father was a creature of anything, it was of habit.) Though she joined him at the table, Marie did not partake of the meal, sipping black coffee instead. There was her weight to consider and besides, the sulfurous odor of cooked egg and bacon was itself enough to send her running for the toilet.

Walking that day, Marie crossed paths with Missy, by the river, believing at the time the younger woman had purposefully sought her out. Missy did, after all, live on the opposite side of the Hudson from Marie.

The conversation was civil enough at first, becoming strained as they talked. The more they talked, the more strained was the tone of the conversation, the more strained the conversation the more they were compelled to talk. It was as if the exchange itself had an immutable force of its own, the ultimate conclusion foregone despite, or in spite of, the actual words spoken.

Though the day was not yet warm, a bead of sweat appeared on Marie’s brow. Her shoulders ached from tension. Marie clenched her small fists, short fingernails making crescent shaped indentations in the palm of her hands. In contrast, Missy displayed no obvious physical manifestation that might reflect the tone of the discussion or the nature of her own contribution, which Marie thought peculiar in the extreme given her own agitation. A full head taller than Marie, Missy’s lanky frame appeared relaxed, her hips slim in form-fitting jeans. Beneath her snug halter, Missy’s breasts were a visible insult to her teacher’s own flat chest.
This,
she thought,
this
is the reason for my having become to him an
afterthought?
A child? Would the little princess do his laundry, cook his meals, clean his toilet?

Struggling to maintain control of both her emotions and the conversation, Marie succumbed to anxiety by striking Missy with an open right palm on the left cheek, drawing a nominal amount of blood and leaving a minor discoloring of the skin. To Marie’s surprise, Missy hit back: not hard, but enough to surprise, setting Marie back on her heels.

Recovering, Marie said, “I won’t tell you again, Missy; stay away from my father.”

“You don’t understand, Marie; it’s not that simple.”

“I see you, you know. I watch. It’s indecent, the way you carry on.”

Missy said, “You don’t know the half of it, sister.”

“I don’t want to know.”

Dabbing at her cheek with the back of her hand, Missy said, “I’ll tell my parents, and I’ll tell the other girls. How many do you think will stay?”

“You won’t; with your reputation? Who do you think would listen?”

“Ed Dojcsak would listen. He knows your father is a degenerate.”

“Do you want to see him in jail?”

“If
only
. It would keep him away from me, from
us
. Doesn’t it make you want to just puke? Your old man makes my skin crawl; just being in the same room with him makes me want to vomit. I don’t know how you can stand to live in the same house with him.”

Marie seethed. “Stay away from him, Missy. I won’t tell you again. Stay away from my father.”

For only a very brief and fleeting moment that day did Marie consider confessing any of this to the police.

At the rear of the studio, Jeremy Radigan now watched the class in progress, his attention wandering alternately from the children to his daughter. The studio was his idea and his creation, built as an addition to their home after a second decisive and final rejection of Marie for admittance to Julliard.

“Of course,” she said to her father of his idea for her to offer formal instruction, “Those who can’t do, teach.” Marie had just turned seventeen.

A telephone rang; Jeremy’s cellular bleating the mechanical ring-tone of, “As Time Goes By”. He answered and within moments terminated the connection, looking agitated. Brightening then, he smiled at Marie, waved a “toodle-oo” wave with his nicotine-stained fingers and departed through a separate side exit.

Marie smoothed her hair, of which none were out of place, cradled her shoulders as if she were cold and returned her attention to the class, ambivalent, though no longer self-conscious about the prospect of being considered an
afterthought
.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“IT’S GOING TO BE
a hot summer,” Christopher Burke said.

He reclined in his chair, powerful legs outstretched, well muscled arms draped across the back of the vacant seat beside him. “
A
long…hot…summer,
” he mused as if he didn’t mind. His eyes drifted to a pair of teenage girls who had stripped down to halters and hip hugger jeans in seeming celebration of the warm spell.

Sara said, “So long as it draws the tourists.”

Sara was aware of, but trying to ignore the girls who had perched themselves on a low, stone wall that separated the river from the street. One of the girls sat facing them, her unfettered breasts struggling to remain restrained by the thin fabric of her top. (Or, depending on your viewpoint, to escape the thin fabric of her top.) The other had turned toward the river, dangling her feet recklessly in the air twenty feet above the water, tapping away frantically on her mobile.

They sat—Dojcsak, Pridmore and Burke—apart from the other diners, the remaining few who had chosen to return late to work from a long lunch. The sun had passed beyond its zenith and with the day still clear and warm, Dojcsak had requested a table for three outside, in an isolated corner of the patio where it overlooked the river as it passed through the center of town. Here, their conversation would not be over heard.

The
Oasis
was a former gristmill, a village landmark with seating for two hundred inside, an additional fifty out. On Friday and Saturday evening it featured live country and western music. On more than one occasion, Dojcsak’s department had been summoned by the owner to control the rambunctious crowds that on summer weekends spilled from the doorway and into the street. The food was acceptable, the wait staff accommodating, the view unequaled and the beer served in chilled mugs. The beer was always ice cold, which for Ed Dojcsak was the main thing.

Ordering his second beer before finishing his first, Dojcsak was in the process of washing down the last of a grilled Vienna sausage wrapped in a crusty bun when the waitress returned with his order. He ignored an accusatory glance from Pridmore, accustomed as he was by now to the disapproval with which such looks were usually accompanied. Pridmore sipped unsweetened iced tea from a straw, Burke Diet Pepsi straight from the can; Sara had lunched on cob salad, Christopher a Philly Steak sandwich with cheese, extra onion and fries. As distinct in temperament as in appetite, Dojcsak thought. Recalling Maggie Bitson’s characterization of her daughter Mandy, Dojcsak thought about Burke: if Christopher isn’t careful, he’ll turn out like me.

“I should see to that,” said Burke.

Knowing better but compelled nevertheless to ask, Sara ventured, “See to
what
, Chris?”

“
That,
” he said, referring to the girls by the river. “They may fall, require mouth-to-mouth, you know, or cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”

“Anything to cop a feel eh, Chris? You’re a pig. Despite your apparent worship of the female gender, privately, I think you despise us all,” Sara said, satisfied for him to have proved his predictability, if only to her.

Burke shrugged, smiled knowingly. “I agree, Sara; I’m behaving badly. But my wife is pregnant.”

“They’re kids, Chris. You’ll have a daughter of your own soon. Would you want men drooling over
your
girl that way? Men twice her age?”

“I’d cut the nuts off any man who looked at a daughter of mine that way.” Burke was serious now. Reluctantly, though not self-consciously, he diverted his attention from the girls.

To Sara, men like Chris Burke represented the worst of the species, compelled to lead with either their fists or their prick. He wore reflective sunglasses, no doubt to intentionally conceal the movement of his eyes, Pridmore thought. With the
shit-kicker
boots and faded denim jeans pulled too tight across the crotch, Burke looked more like a miscreant than a cop, she decided; sexy in rugged kind of way if you went for that sort of thing, which in Church Falls, Sara knew many pathetic women of a certain type did, and had done.

Wiping a dollop of stray mustard from his lip, Dojcsak erased the last remnant of his meal. He had removed his jacket and sat hunched over the table, perspiring heavily, beer mug clasped between his meaty palms as if to protect it should someone attempt to take it away before he could finish. Cleanly shaven, Dojcsak’s jaw and cheeks tingled. His eyes strayed to the river, but he was not looking at the girls.

A blue heron had appeared over the horizon, spreading its wings to a span of six feet in preparation to land. The birds had returned to the river five years before, after a more than twenty-year hiatus, testament to the successful efforts of area conservationists to clean up the waterway. Not coincidently, those same efforts had been the catalyst prompting the development of a nascent yet unexploited tourist industry in the small town. As a dumping ground, the river had no appeal. As a place where people could safely bring their children to picnic and to swim, walk their dogs, drop a pole or even water ski where the depth allowed, the river was a centerpiece around which commerce blossomed; craft shops, antique shops, artists galleries featuring stained and blown glass, watercolors and even the more substantial and progressive medium, like bronze and wrought iron sculpture. A regional summer theater had been established with the aid of contributions from local poobahs and was set to commence its fifth season. The streets were quiet now, but Dojcsak shared Pridmore’s sentiment; for area merchants, it had been a long and difficult winter.

“Christopher, I would gladly repay you tomorrow for a cigarette today,” Dojcsak said, eyeing Burke’s package of Marlboros across the table. He had finished his own package an hour before.

“Christ, Ed.” Burke pushed his cigarettes to Dojcsak. “You started a fresh pack this morning. Are you inhaling them?”

Pridmore looked at Burke, rolling her eyes as if to mock the absurdity of his observation.

Dojcsak said, “It’s my final kick at the can. I plan to quit.” He ignited the cigarette while running a meaty palm over his cheeks and across his chin.

Christopher Burke eyed Dojcsak skeptically. “Sure, Ed,” he said, as if he knew better than to believe it.

He turned to conduct a final inspection of the girls, watching as they stepped down from the wall, his eyes following as they walked along Main Street to the center of town. High school kids, he grunted to himself, more disappointed than ashamed.

Pridmore and Dojcsak had returned from interviewing the Bitsons and back to the office shortly before noon. The State Troopers designated by Jimmy Cromwell to assist in the investigation had completed their canvass of the crime scene and were busy transposing hand written scrawl from personal note pad to the official forms that Mrs. O’Rielly had supplied to them for the purpose.

“Have you people not heard of computers?” the younger of the troopers complained.

“It gets the job done,” was all Dojcsak said in response.

The reports were brief, possibly too brief? The eldest of the two explained: “You know without us having to tell you; the area is heavily commercial, such as it is. Run down. The few tenants there are were either sleeping or too drunk to notice a killing was taking place in their neighborhood.” He paused to reconsider. “Matter of fact, sir, if you don’t mind my saying, given the character of the residents, I’m not so sure they would come forward even if they had seen something. Neither Ron,” here he indicated his partner, “or I want to unnecessarily elaborate, but it seems to me you may have an immigration challenge up here.”

There was no witness to the passing of Missy Bitson. It was raining; people remained indoors, picture windows shuttered to the gloom. Dojcsak thanked the officers for their effort and assured them he would inform Cromwell of their diligence. At half past noon, Dojcsak skipped to the restroom to shave while Pridmore left a message on Burke’s mobile instructing him to meet at the Oasis for a late lunch, sometime between one-thirty and two.

Dojcsak used the hour remaining on the telephone, first to call home. Luba was sleeping comfortably, his wife informed him. The doctor had been and with nothing to report by way of progress, he didn’t. Luba was still dying, her condition would not improve and the best they should hope for was a rapid expiration before it became progressively worse.

“Henry said that?” Dojcsak asked, stunned. “In those words?”

Not exactly, Rena explained. But he was thinking it. Dojcsak asked after his eldest daughter. Having arrived home late and slept in, Jenny missed her morning classes but pulled herself from bed an hour ago to attend school this afternoon.

Rena said, “She won’t graduate. Not at the rate she’s skipping classes. Talk with her, Ed. She doesn’t listen to me.”

Dojcsak lied to his wife, agreeing that he would.

Rena asked after Missy’s family. It will be difficult for them, Dojcsak said. The death of a child always is, but the circumstances make this especially hard. He told his wife not to wait up; he would be late. With nothing more to say, he hung up.

Dojcsak placed his next call to the victim’s school. Missy attended River Heights Grade School, from where, had she lived, she would have graduated this year. Dojcsak spoke to Dyna Owens, the principal, and confirmed with her that a student had been murdered. Owens admitted she had learned earlier from the other children.

“News travels fast,” Dojcsak said.

“Bad news faster,” she replied.

“Anyone talking about possibilities?”

“No, not yet, though I expect the rumor mill to heat up. If it does, you’ll be the first to know.”

Either way, it would be necessary for local authorities to interview those teachers that had daily, infrequent, or even casual contact with the victim.

“You
can’t
think it’s a teacher,” she said, as if the possibility were unthinkable.

Dojcsak replied blandly, “I won’t rule it out.”

As they spoke, Dojcsak took notes. Recently, he’d been troubled by sporadic bouts of memory loss. He thought of it as mental
brown-ou
t, the neurons processing his near term recollections seeming temporarily to shut down, as if to conserve energy. He found himself unable to recall simple things; where he’d placed a necktie or a pair of shoes, or the morning after a night of drinking, where he’d parked his vehicle the evening before. In his lighter moments, Dojcsak thought of his mind as the State of California.

In what he considered a stroke of neurological irony though, the big things he recalled. The subtle but insidious estrangement from his eldest daughter and his wife; Henry Bauer’s best estimate on when his youngest child might finally die; his own inadequacy in dealing with both; and a past which he felt himself now to be only remotely connected.

Dojcsak had an appointment with the doctor this month, had forgotten, and reluctantly acknowledged to himself the need to re-schedule.

“It’s been a tough year, Ed,” Owens said, drawing Dojcsak back from his own thoughts. “As you know, we have a drug problem.” (A hint of accusation in her tone, as if perhaps the Sheriff wasn’t doing his job?) “Still only marijuana, but it has the potential to escalate, doesn’t it? As a part-time job, the high-school kids see it as a step up from either McDonald’s or the Winn Dixie, pushing pot to the grade-schoolers. And sex? Two girls quit this semester after becoming pregnant:
two
. One fourteen, one fifteen years old.” She paused for effect. “And the school nurse tells me we may have a case or two of STD.”

“Estee
what
?” Dojcsak asked, causing him to think of either motor oil, or perfume.

“Sexually Transmitted Disease, Ed. Apparently, some of the boys are suffering from what the school nurse describes to me as a leaky valve. We won’t know for certain until they see their own doctor, but to me, these boys are way too young for it. I mean, how early can we begin teaching them about safe sex? Before they reach puberty?”

Dojcsak asked specifically about Missy Bitson.

“Missy was okay. Ed. Not a great student, but not a nuisance either. Around here, she kept mainly to herself, but outside of school, she was hanging around with much older boys, mostly former students, mostly trouble makers and shit-disturbers. Her cousin Jordy was the worst of the bunch, and—no offense, Ed—your daughter, too.”

Dojcsak made a list and replaced the receiver.

In the office, Dorothy O’Rielly had lived up to her reputation for efficiency. A temporary assistant was answering calls, most from curious villagers seeking to confirm the death of the Bitson child, but with little if any useful information to contribute. Still, Trinity Van Duesen answered each call patiently, with a degree of sympathy she felt entitled to by anyone living in a small community that had just experienced the loss of one of its own, especially a child. Once or twice she had been forced to press down the receiver on an obscene caller asking for or volunteering intimate details of the victim’s behavior. However distressing it might be to her, Dojcsak insisted that Van Duesen accept the calls and record the information carefully.