We stare at one another.
“But I’m guessing,” I say, “that you didn’t think of it on your own, did you?”
She says nothing.
“You were on the run. Your one ally, Ry Strauss, is crazy. You couldn’t call your mother. You probably didn’t count on the police suspecting her too — but now they had eyes on her.” I steeple my fingers. “I’m putting myself in your place — trapped, alone, young, confused. Who would I call for help?”
Her weight shifts from one foot to the other. She doesn’t say it, so I do.
“Grandmama.”
Three reasons why this made sense to me. One, she loved Cousin Patricia. Two, she had the resources to hide her. Three, Grandmama would do anything to protect the family from the scandal this revelation would bring forth.
Cousin Patricia nods. “Grandmama.”
Before you judge, it isn’t just a Lockwood thing. Families protect their own. That’s what we do. And not just families. In a sense, we all circle the wagons, don’t we? We use the excuse about the “greater good.” Churches cover up their clergy’s crimes and hide them in new locations. Charitable organizations and ruthless businesses are all adept in the art of covering up indiscretions, at self-protection, at rationalizing with some configuration of the ends justifying the means.
Why would it surprise anyone that a family would do the same?
From the time he was young, my uncle Aldrich committed bad acts and never paid a price. He never got help, though to be fair, you can’t really help someone like that.
You can only put them down.
“So what next, Win?”
How did I put it before? There is no bond like blood, but there is no compound as volatile either. I think about that common blood coursing through both of us. Do I have some of what Uncle Aldrich had? Is that what makes me prone to violence? Does Patricia? Is it genetic? Did Uncle Aldrich just have a damaged chromosome or chemical imbalance or could some kind of major therapy have helped?
I don’t know and I don’t much care.
I have all the answers now. I’m just not sure what to do with them.
Chapter 36
Life is lived in the grays.
That is a problem for most people. It is so much easier to see the world in black and white. Someone is all good or all bad. I try sometimes to glance online, at Twitter or social media — at the outrage real, imagined, and faux. Extremism and outrage are simple, relentless, attention-seeking. Rationality and prudence are difficult, exhausting, mundane.
Occam’s razor works in reverse when it comes to answers: If the answer is easy, it is wrong.
I warn you now. You’ll disagree with some of the choices I make. Don’t fret about it. I don’t know whether I made the right ones either. If I was certain, per my personal axiom, I would probably be wrong.
When I arrive back at the Dakota, PT is waiting for me. I bring him up to my apartment. I pour us both cognac in snifters.
“Arlo Sugarman is dead,” I tell him.
PT is my friend. I don’t really believe in mentors, but if I did, PT would be one. He has been good to me. He has been fair.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“I had my people call the crematorium that works with St. Timothy’s to look into their records for on and around June 15, 2011. They also looked into death certificates for the Greater St. Louis area for that date.”
PT sits back in the leather wing chair. “Damn.”
I wait.
He shakes his head. “I wanted him, Win. I wanted to bring him to justice.”
“I know.”
PT raises the cognac. “To Patrick O’Malley.”
“To Patrick,” I say.
We clink glasses. PT collapses back into the chair.
“I really wanted to right that wrong,” he says.
With the glass near my lips, I add, “If you did anything wrong.”
PT makes a face. “What does that mean?”
“You were the junior agent,” I say.
“So?”
“So those were his calls, weren’t they?”
PT carefully puts down his glass on the coaster. He watches me. “What calls?”
“To not wait for backup,” I say. “To go in through the back door on his own.”
“What are you trying to say, Win?”
“You blame yourself. You’ve blamed yourself for almost fifty years.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I shrug. “Who called that tip in?” I ask him.
“It was anonymous.”
“Who told you that?” I ask. “Never mind, it’s not important. You both drove to the house, but when you got there, Special Agent O’Malley made the decision not to wait for backup.”
PT looks at me over his snifter. “He thought time was of the essence.”
“Still,” I say, “he broke protocol.”
“Well, technically, yes.”
“He kicked in the back door on his own. Who fired the first shot, PT?”
“What difference does it make?”
“You didn’t mention it to me. Who fired first?”
“We don’t know for sure.”
“But Special Agent O’Malley did discharge his weapon, correct?”
PT stares at me hard for a few long seconds. Then he tilts his head back on the leather and closes his eyes. I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. He just sits with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. PT looks old and tired. I stay silent. I’ve said enough. Perhaps Special Agent Patrick O’Malley was just overzealous. Perhaps he wanted to catch Arlo Sugarman and make himself the hero, even if it meant shattering standard FBI procedure. Or perhaps O’Malley, a father financially stretched with six kids, had heard that Nero Staunch had put a bounty on the Jane Street Six, and really, they were killers anyway and so what if one of them got shot trying to escape?
I don’t know the answer.
I don’t want to push it.
Life is lived in the grays.
“Win?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t say another word, okay?”
I don’t. I just sit there with my drink and my friend and let the night close in around us.
The next morning, I drive out to Bernardsville, New Jersey, and I visit Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan again.
This for me is the grayest of the gray.
They made me promise to tell them what I learned about their children.
So do I? Do I tell these two elderly parents that their children are dead — or do I let them go on believing that maybe Billy and Edie survived and have children and possibly grandchildren? What good will knowing the truth at their age do for them? Should I let them live with their harmless fantasy? Will the truth cause too much stress at their age? Do I have the right to make that call?
I warned you that you may disagree with some of the calls I make.
Here is one.
Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan have waited nearly fifty years to learn the truth. I know the truth. I promised that I would tell them the truth.
And so I do.
I don’t go into gruesome detail, and mercifully they don’t ask.
When I finish, Mrs. Parker takes my hand in hers.
“Thank you.”
I nod. We sit there. They cry for a bit. Then I make my excuses and leave.
They’d wanted to know who killed their children.
Here again I am making a call you may not like.
I tell them it was Vanessa Hogan.
As I leave the assisted living village, I take out my phone and hit the send button on my email. I am emailing an audio file to PT. Of course, I realized that Vanessa Hogan might ask for my phone in order to confess — and of course, I carry a spare.
I cut out the opening — my words about my own unlawful acts — but the FBI will have her full confession on tape. Vanessa Hogan crossed the line in my view. You hear me say this, and you think me a hypocrite. You counter about my “night tours” and my beating of Teddy “Big T” Lyons in the beginning of this tale. Teddy did me no harm. On the other hand, Vanessa Hogan’s victims — Billy Rowan and Edie Parker — were responsible for the death of Vanessa Hogan’s only son.