I responded to his catechizing with some asperity. “I hope you don't think this is remarkable, but I don't know the answer to your questions. You're badgering me with impossible questions. I'm trying my damnedest.”
“Sorry.” His deep voice thrummed soothingly. “I guess I got overzealous.”
“'S okay,” I mumbled. I handed him the master list of names and addresses of those involved in the murder. “Here, make yourself useful. Navigate us to Mr. Trask's.” We hadn't been able to catch him after the meeting, and I wanted to talk to him.
We twisted through the streets of several subdivisions before we got to his house. This was the oldest section of River's Edge. The trees that lined the streets were gray giants that promised vast comfort and restfulness on long summer days. We found a cul-de-sac surrounded by crumbling homes. The oldest, dingiest, and dirtiest was the one we wanted. The roof of the boxy rectangle had tar paper showing. The north wall of the garage had caved in. A battered Ford pickup truck sagged in the driveway. Old tires half-covered with snow rested in scattered patterns on the lawn. In the middle of these mounds of rubber, broken bits of bricks sat in a pile half-covered with a torn tarp that flapped in the wind. The snow we'd had couldn't conceal the rank ugliness and squalor of Mr. Trask's home.
He met us at the door with a Strohs beer in one hand, a bag of Dorritos in the other, and a gut in between that had to be the result of years of indulging in the first two.
He squinted at us through the storm door. I had to bellow to be heard over a television set. I got a suspicious look, but he opened the door.
He marched us into the living room. Plastic covered the windows, a form of ersatz insulation for the less-well-put-together home. A double-sized lounge chair sat squarely in front of a TV, which blared a football game at us. They were the only pieces of furniture in the room. He lowered the decibel of the TV. An open ice chest crammed with beer cans and next to it a pyramid of unopened Dorrito bags showed preparation for a long winter's day glued to the TV. A mold-encrusted sandwich peeked from under the chair, testifying that some of the trash had arrived prior to now. A dark blue and orange Bears shirt draped over his stomach and hung halfway to his thighs. Faded jeans and shower clogs finished the outfit.
Trask said, “Wait until the guys on the second shift hear this. Scott Carpenter in my home. Can I shake your hand?”
Trask stared at his hand after they accomplished this feat. “Damn, I've touched the most famous right arm in America.” He got misty-eyed.
Scott said, “I wished we'd had more time to talk earlier.”
He grinned at us impishly. “That shit Twitchell and those stupid administrators grabbed me at the police station. They're as worthless as the cops. They tried to warn me about talking to you guys. I think that Mrs. Twitchell is hot-looking for an old broad. But she's stupid. It's her I'd never talk to. She's a bigger bitch than my wife.”
He grabbed some of the older-looking bits of debris and led us to a tiny kitchen, all torn lace and faded plastic flowers. He dumped his trash near enough to the garbage can and invited us to sit at the kitchen table. “Jesus, Scott Carpenter in my kitchen. They told me you were bad guys and to keep you out.”
He pointed to me. “I thought you were kind of a shit at the police station the other night.” He belched loudly. “But you know Scott Carpenter. Shit.” He looked from one to the other of us. He scratched his stomach and squinted at us. “Are you bad guys?”
“The worst,” I said. “Mrs. Twitchell hates us.”
“But my wife likes you. Can't talk enough about what you did for the kids in teaching them. Though she's probably right about that. I haven't been able to get anything through their thick skulls.” He switched topics abruptly. “My wife always tries to act better than herself. She's the one who wanted the divorce. Old, fat Jerome Horatio Trask who couldn't see over his gut to his prick wasn't good enough for her.” He guzzled half a beer, excused himself profusely for his rudeness, and without asking plunked two cold cans of Strohs in front of us. We popped the tops and joined him.
“I know those people laugh at me behind my back. I don't care. What can I do for you two?”
“We're trying to find out who killed the kids.”
“My ex-wife didn't do it. She's too worried about being clean and neat. Everything has to be perfect for her. I was fifteen years ago.” He patted his gut. “I had a washboard stomach and could fuck for hours. To hell with her.”
“We didn't suspect your wife,” I said.
“No, huh? Too bad. If she'd done it, I might get to see the kids more often.” He drank.
“We need some information,” Scott said.
“No problem. You want to know what my idiot son has been up to.” He shook his head sadly. “I honestly don't know.”
For a moment, I thought elements of total sobriety existed in that statement.
He drank. “But what the fuck, kids are kids, you know. They grow up. They move out. My boys aren't the brightest, but if they weren't so goddamn lazy, they could make something out of themselves. It's all my ex-wife's fault. She coddles the little
bastards. Boys need to get straightened out by someone they fear.”
He went on to propound his philosophy of child rearing, a sort of mixture of Rambo and Attila the Hun.
After another solid snort of beer, he switched topics again. “Now, these parents are strange. The Twitchells and the Conlans. They don't like you. They don't want me talking to you, threatened me in fact.” He roared with laughter. “Stupid fuckers!”
“Why not talk to us?” Scott asked.
“Beats the living shit out of me! Those rich assholes think they run everything, and when something blows up in their stupid faces, they try to cover everything up. My kids'll get screwed if they've got anything to do with it. They underestimate Jerome Horatio Trask.” He rolled a muscle or two in his arms. It resembled someone moving reserves of old fat from waste-storage locations. “I wrestled in high school. Almost went to the state championships one year.” He sighed wistfully and got dewy-eyed.
“What happened?” Scott asked.
“I got a girl pregnant. Everything got fucked up. I almost didn't even graduate. Barely escaped marrying the bitch. The bastard parents were well connected. All those fat cats have it in for us working stiffs.” He ranted on about the evil capitalist bosses for a few minutes.
I got him back on track by asking whether anything else unusual had happened since Susan's murder.
“One thing. One of those coaches from school called for Eric. They never call here. They don't like me. Just because I go to the games and cheer for my boys. Those assholes don't know shit about coaching, and they don't like to hear it from somebody who knows what they're doing.”
I tried to get the name of who had called. But try as I could to jog his memory, it was lost among the Dorritos and beer already crammed there. As we moved to the door to leave,
Trask said, “How'd you throw that second no-hitter in the Series?”
“Skillfully and carefully,” Scott said.
An echo of laughter rolled around the room. Trask said, “I'll never forget watching it. No-hitter in game five, then bing, no-hitter in game seven. Let me shake your hand again.” This accomplished, he stared at his hand again.
In the car, “We believe this one?” Scott said.
“Maybe. I want to talk to friendly Harry Conlan and find out why he joined in the group to stop us.”
We arrived at the Conlans' a few minutes later. Only Paul was home. Mom and Dad were out doing last-minute Christmas shopping. He was too polite not to let us in, but we remained standing in the front hallway.
“Tell me your connection with Becky's drug schemes,” I said.
He paled and looked close to tears.
“Go easy, Tom,” Scott said. He turned to Paul. “Can we sit and talk quietly for a few minutes?”
Paul shook his head no, but we led him to the room where we'd talked to the Conlans earlier in the week. Paul paced the room as we sat. I tried asking questions. For several minutes, he wouldn't answer.
Scott asked, “Is it that bad?”
“I can't talk to you guys.” Paul stopped in front of the couch where we sat. He held out his arms pleading. “I want a pro career.” He closed his fists. “I'm so close. I can't get thrown out of sports. Maybe I did some stupid stuff, but it can be taken care of. My dad says everything's going to be fine. But you two keep stirring things up. And now Roger's dead. I'm afraid I'll be next, or one of my other friends. Don't you understand? Two people I knew are dead. They say Jeff's got an alibi for one. I guess that's true, but, maybe he's nuts.”
“Paul.” I said his name softly. He stopped. I repeated his name, then said, “Obviously you're in the middle of something that's way over your head. Tell us and we'll help.”
“I can't,” he whispered. “They'll kill me, too.”
“Who will?” I asked.
He stumbled to the French windows and stared at the expanse of whiteness that stretched to the fields beyond. He leaned his head against the glass. I saw a cloud of mist form on the cold pane from his labored breathing.
“Please leave,” he said.
“Paul, if you know who killed Susan and Roger, you've got to tell us. If you're in danger, tell someone, your mom and dad, the police, Coach Montini. You can't hold all this in.”
“I can't tell you anything. I don't know anything,” he said dully.
“You just saidâ” I began.
“Well, forget what I just said. It's nothing you or anybody else can do anything about.”
“At least let us try,” I said.
Something snapped in him. He turned to us, raging. “You think you understand so goddamn much. Some smartass teacher playing detective. You can't figure out anything. You're so stupid. You're such shit.” Tears and sobs mingled with his shouts. “Get out. You're in as much danger as anybody. Get out and leave me alone.”
“Yes, you'd better go.”
We whirled to the doorway. Mr. Conlan strode toward us. Mrs. Conlan stood behind him.
“Leave my home,” he said.
“Not until I find out why your son is so frightened.”
“My son needs you to leave.”
“Don't you care about what's destroying your boy?”
“You are. You've disturbed this family too long.” He reached out to touch his son. The boy knocked the arm aside and fled. Mr. Conlan said, “Sylvia, call the police.” She marched to the coffee table, picked up the phone, and punched three numbers.
Our movements to exit at this point were slow enough to
salvage some dignity but quick enough to cause her to drop the receiver.
It was three. We decided to try Susan's parents. The funeral had been the day before. I thought they might be at home. I didn't know how much they'd welcome our presence or our questions, but we had to try. I needed to know more about Susan.
We rode through quiet streets lined with massive naked trees. The Warrens lived in the Wheatfield Forest subdivision. The homes were among the oldest and smallest in the area. An elderly man answered the door. I explained that we wanted to talk to the Warrens. He seemed uncertain, but after a moment's hesitation let us in and led us into the living room. Five minutes passed before the Warrens joined us. Mr. Warren wore a gray suit. His wife had on a severe black dress and white blouse. An open Bible, red bookmark ribbon slashed across the open page, gleamed in the middle of an oaken coffee table. They sat down. Mr. Warren rested his elbows on his knees. Greasy oil held his hair plastered to his head. Mrs. Warren crossed her legs at the ankle and stared anxiously forward.
I expressed my condolences. Mrs. Warren gave a weak smile of appreciation. I talked about helping Jeff and wanting to learn all I could about his relationship with Susan. I finished my explanation. “We're trying to find the murderer. Can you tell us anything of her life in the past few weeks? Had she changed any? Said anything? Any obvious problems?”
Mrs. Warren answered, “She was the same as she'd always been. All three of us attended services Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. We prayed together at every meal.”
Mr. Warren added, “She never complained, never appeared troubled.”
“She was a good girl.” Mrs. Warren unclasped her hands, smoothed her dress, and continued. “She'd escaped so many of the silly traumas of most adolescents.”
“Jeff said you sent them to a family-planning clinic.”
Mr. Warren looked confused. Mrs. Warren clutched her throat guiltily. She said, “I never told you, Allan.” She patted his arm. “I knew you'd be angry.” She turned to us. “Our daughter was a good girl. But I am a realistic woman. She told me they weren't doing anything, but I insisted she go.”