The Weight of Living Page 4

  “And I feel none of it, Frank,” Leonard had said, as harshly and bitterly as Nagler could ever recall his voice.

  Nagler sat silently. He had seen this side of Leonard many times before, but it passed. This time seemed deeper. He reached to hold his friend’s hand. “I’m always here, Leonard.”

  Later, as he spoke with Leonard’s doctor, the plan to find Leonard a therapist or counselor was formed.

  Thus, Calista Knox.

  Thin, boyishly thin, but toned in a way that clearly came from long-term exercise and training. Eyes dark as coal, at first an apparent defense, but later, seen as probing. Hair dyed fire-engine red, cropped madly short, a gallery of tattoos on her arms and lower legs, and back-filling body of a tiger that was made visible to those in the bookshop the times she casually shrugged away the stares as she peeled off a shirt or hoodie and had stood briefly naked from the waist up as she changed from her street clothes to workout garb before her sessions with Leonard.

  As Nagler came to know her, he saw the carnival appearance masked a deep personal understanding of Leonard’s pain; the appearance deliberately chosen as off-putting, more than a “my freedom, fuck you,” but as a way to ease around the stiff and unnumbered rules; to work as an insider while being an outsider, dismissed by the rule makers as frivolous, even dangerous, instead working as a clown does — the red bulbous nose and white pancake face the disguise of an insurgent.

  She was profane, loud, insistent and right. “Get off your fucking ass, Leonard,” she’d scream at him. “Ya got legs, use ’em.”

  At first shocked, Nagler had come to understand that Calista was exactly the person to rouse Leonard’s spirit. She was not brazen; she was honest.

  “We were all too nice to him,” Nagler told her one day.

  She nodded. “Friends are like that,” she said. “Didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But it was not his feelings that were hurt, Frank. It was his soul. You all went through that trouble together. None of you wants to remind the others of the pain. Well, I didn’t go through it. So I get to kick him in the ass to remind our boy that he is the leader of the pack and that he damn well better show it.”

  She lifted her head and stared directly at Nagler. “People lie to one another all the time, Frank, to hide the pain. Wear masks. I look at this little group and wonder who is lying, who will eventually tell the truth, and who will pay for it.”

  She walked away before he could respond, but silently Nagler knew she was right; the shuttering heart. But, he thought, when, Calista, does your mask fall away?

  Nagler listened to Leonard’s protesting cries of pain, the anguish on his face as she called harshly for five more arm curls with the ten-pound weight, ten more leg presses, the admonishments — “you’re not gonna die from work, Leonard, you’re gonna die from sitting” — but he held back any comment; watched as Calista’s words became softer, the touch more tender, the brief hug after a workout lengthen to an embrace; watched as Leonard’s fumbling, blind hand reached for her face and tenderly caressed her cheeks and lips as Calista’s fierce eyes softened, her hard visage retreated and she kissed his fingers.

  ****

  “A hundred pounds,” Nagler laughed, as Leonard sat smiling. Leonard’s wheelchair was tucked into a corner, gathering dust. Calista had abruptly replaced it with a cane — Nagler remembered how Leonard’s face had lost the panic and found the wonder of standing on his own two legs again — and they walked, arm in arm, fearlessly, defiantly. Walked.

  The early April sun flowed densely through the cracks between buildings, red-gold light burning away the frost and winter gloom. The sunlight glowed on the west-facing windows of Leonard’s shop, dimmed by the gray film installed to flatten the glare.

  Nagler turned back to the table where Lauren and Dawson had divulged their latest investigation.

  “A couple of little spies, you two are,” Nagler teased.

  Lauren wrinkled her face back at the comment. “Well, yes we are.”

  Dawson smiled. “You said bring something to you when it seems more criminal than civil. Well, this is more criminal.”

  “What do you mean?” Nagler asked.

  “Records have been changed, maybe at the county clerk’s office,” Dawson said. “We don’t know how, whether someone hacked into the system, or an employee had changed them, but I spoke with more than two dozen of the property owners we found on this foreclosure list, and none of them knew they had been served. Far as they were concerned, their mortgage was up-to-date.”

  Nagler leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “What does that mean?”

  Lauren jumped in. “That someone went to court and bought their property without them knowing anything about it.”

  “Oh, how does that happen?”

  Lauren glanced at Dawson, who nodded.

  “What seems to be happening is this: A property that is not actually for sale or in foreclosure is being listed on court records as part of a sheriff’s sale. No one shows up, except an attorney for this unknown third party — neither the legitimate homeowner nor the bank that actually holds the mortgage — and the sale is made. A minimum deposit is given to the court to secure the transaction, and the real property owner is shit out of luck.”

  “It’s slick,” Dawson said. “Foreclosure court is held twice a month, sometimes with more than thirty sales on the docket. Our gang slips in one or two phony sales, and they get processed like the others.”

  “Doesn’t the judge notice the difference?”

  “The judge is just given a list, a summary of the cases with docket numbers. Even when it’s legit, the hearings are rapid-fire.”

  Lauren jumped in. “Usually, in an actual foreclosure, the property owner stopped paying the bank months before, sometimes two years before. By the time a property is listed for a court sale, the property owner is often long gone. The bank shows up and reclaims the mortgage and becomes the property owner.”

  “Okay,” Nagler said, nodding. “But in these phony cases, the homeowner is not even aware that the property is being listed for sale, and they find out after the hearing, after a sale has been approved by the court?”

  Lauren and Dawson said together: “Right!”

  “And so they lose their home?” Nagler asked.

  “Or have to buy it back from the crooks,” Dawson said. “Like I said, slick.”

  “Well, you’ve got my attention.” Nagler smiled. “Find me a victim.”

  Lauren winked at Dawson and reached into her jacket pocket for a sheet of paper. “Here’s five.”

  Dawson said, “I spoke with three of them and they’re willing to support any legal action that takes place. One was a woman from Wharton, a retiree. She had no mortgage, but had a son who’s a lawyer. He fired off a nasty return letter and she never heard from them again. But the others had problems. In one case, they found their home offered for sale online and they hadn’t placed it there. And in the third case, their home had actually been sold.” Dawson scratched his neck. “They’re in court. And, you’ll like this...look who the attorney is on each case: Bruno Hapworth.”

  As soon as Dawson said the name, the attorney’s gravel voice filled Nagler’s head. “Nag-laar.”

  Bruno Hapworth was once one of Ironton’s notorious sleaze-bag attorneys, an ambulance chaser par-excellence, handling cases no one else would take and even hitting the court every couple of years with an appeal for serial killer Charlie Adams until Adams shredded Hapworth in court three years ago. After that, Hapworth had handled a case for Harriet Waddley-Jones, the Ironton College professor who broke open the sexual harassment case, and later won a class action suit on behalf of the victims.

  “Hapworth? Oh, man. I thought he was walking on the sunny side of the street now,” Nagler said.

  “Apparently the sunlight shifted,” Dawson said.

  “Wonder why?” Nagler asked.

  ****

  Nagler smiled at his computer screen. He was only off by a half-mil
lion.

  He had guessed that there were about a million Garrettsons, Garrisons, or those with similar names, in the country. The records didn’t explain the spelling variations, but showed there were about a million and a half families, with thirty thousand in New Jersey.

  He had searched the family name because the case files from the Atlanta detective Guidrey had arrived.

  He mused on the name: Randolph Garrettson. Nagler pictured him. Striped shirt, club tie, horn-rim glasses, tight little self-satisfied smile; a mid-level banker, librarian with a habit of working late. He laughed. No, sold ties at a department store, men’s suits, wore one of those yellow tape measures around his neck.

  Turned out, Randolph Garrettson was a mechanic, had repaired tanks and heavy trucks for the army in Oklahoma for three duty terms.

  Bet no one in the army called him Randolph.

  Bet no one dared, Nagler thought, as he examined the enclosed photo. The man in the black-and-white was a military skinhead. Dark, shaded eyes and a thrusting, I-dare-ya jaw. Randolph Garrettson was a man who did not know how to smile, Nagler decided.

  Randy, good ol’ Randy. Nickname?

  Tank, Nagler decided.

  Tank Garrettson. Motor pool private. Nagler was sure he never told any of his army buddies his given name was Randolph.

  Is that why you were such a weirdo? Nagler asked as he read the file.

  The record was clear. Somewhere Ol’ Tank went off the rails. Discharged from the Army, no clear reason; beat his wife, wrecked a couple of cars. Killed the family dog. Okay, wow. Nagler raised his eyebrows. She had left with their daughter, and Randolph Garrettson moved into the woods and began to kidnap young girls.

  The report on his death was brief: “Suspect left I80 WB at mile marker one-twenty-five, drove along grass median for several hundred feet, passed through a gap in the guardrail, and driving west alongside EB I80 at high speed, turned and drove vehicle into the side of an EB truck carrying gasoline. Ensuing explosion and fire melted suspect’s truck, five other vehicles were damaged, and the road was closed after the asphalt surface caught fire. Few human remains in truck. ID made based on GA license plate left on highway.”

  Seemed like there were a lot of holes in that report, Nagler thought, but he put it aside when he laid out the four photographs of Randolph Garrettson’s daughter and his three victims.

  They could have been sisters, twins, hell, quadruples, or whatever the hell four sisters born at the same time were called.

  They all had round faces, bangs to the top of their eyebrows, dimples, and sweet half-smiles. And similar names. Randolph Garrettson’s daughter was named Amanda. The other girls were Miranda, Diane and Elaina. Nagler felt a shiver along his spine. Guidrey was right: Creepy.

  Nagler gathered the papers, tapped them on his desk three times to straighten them, folded the pile into the manila envelope and put it all aside.

  Interesting read.

  But what does it have to do with our girl? he wondered.

  He leaned back in his chair, the creaking of old springs filling the dark, empty office.

  A court would hear the petition filed by the Catholic Sisters and state’s child welfare office for joint temporary custody of the girl in a week. That was, at least, something.

  It would give her some legal protection should some unknown parent or person show up, and it would allow a doctor to give her a physical exam, and if necessary, a psychiatric exam.

  Grace Holiman said that while the girl had not yet spoken, she had at least settled into a routine that outwardly created order. She ate regularly, bathed, and read a few books, all of which were scrutinized, Holiman said, for a clue to her personality and state of mind; she seemed to be waiting.

  For what? Nagler had asked.

  Haven’t a clue.

  “What do you call her?” Nagler had asked. “Did you give her a name?

  “No,” Holiman said. “She has one, we just don’t know it. The Sisters call her ‘Miss’ or ‘Dear,’ but we cannot give her a name that is not hers. After the court hearing, we will have authority to begin an investigation. Maybe then.”

  How wounded do you have to be so that you will not speak? Nagler wondered.

  All signs, Holiman said, indicate that the girl was at least of average intelligence, not mentally ill and had not shown signs of autism or any such condition.

  She was just silent, hidden deep inside a wall with no door.

  But her eyes were probing. Or maybe just suspicious, he thought. What do you see when you look out onto the world? Terror? Fear? A place haunted by bad dreams? When will you tell us?

  Nagler ran both hands through his hair in frustration, which added nothing to the discussion except that he needed a haircut.

  What do we know?

  That you were dropped on a snowy downtown street in the middle of the night by someone in a large vehicle and that you sought as a place of refuge a garbage can. People, he thought. Maybe two. A driver and the pusher whose arm we saw. That makes it even more a mess. Conspiracy. Who conspires? Pimps. Drug dealers. Gamblers. Politicians. He shook his head. Everybody.

  Who used you? And for what?

  He held up the blurry photo of the cardboard-covered license plate, and a couple other photos of New Jersey plates for comparison. The short dashes could be A’s or I’s, and longer dashes, T’s, F’s or E’s. Nah, he decided.

  What else?

  That you’ve said nothing since, but some voice on a phone said, “She is six.”

  Nagler leaned over his desk and dug out a pen and a sticky notepad. He wrote “SIX.”

  Maybe that’s our way in.

  He tore off the note and thumbed it on the top of his computer screen. “SIX.”

  After the court hearing, he thought.

  His phone rang.

  “Yeah, Nagler.”

  A breath, silence, then, muffled: “You still have her, don’t you? I told you I want her back.”

  Hang up.

  Nagler stared at the phone. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I always know, Francis

  “Detective. Nagler. Have a minute?”

  Frank Nagler turned to the voice of new Police Commissioner Jerrold McCann.

  “Yes sir. What’s up?”

  McCann had been appointed by the new mayor after a battle with the city council over police department supervision. Mayor Rashad Jackson wanted civilian control — which, at the time, Nagler thought was odd — and the council thought a trained police officer should head the department. The compromise was that McCann, a former assistant prosecutor, filled the new slot as police commissioner while a former captain, John Hanson, was named acting chief. “In essence,” Jimmy Dawson had written on the topic: “In an effort to produce better police department efficiency, the new mayor just spent a $100,000 on a new square peg to fit into the old round hole.”

  What is it about power? Nagler asked himself. Why does it change a man? Jackson had been the neighborhood rebel, hero to the drumline kids and working-class folks when he demanded the city pay attention to their plight. That action was viewed as leadership, taking a chance — taking on the establishment — and now he is the establishment. How much of a mask?

  Nagler was uncertain what to make of his new boss, who seemed to spend most of his time conducting efficiency studies, drawing flow charts and lecturing department leaders on the new algorithms of police dynamics, or some such crap.

  The chiefs that Nagler worked under up to now might not have been big thinkers, but they understood the dynamics of poverty and gang behavior, how to manage a murder investigation and, most important in Nagler’s mind, when to step in and when to let officers work a case.

  Nagler had a feeling he was about to learn McCann’s take on that last issue.

  McCann filled the narrow hallway like the former football defensive lineman he was at Harvard. Even standing sideways, walkers had to dodge his wide shoulders and wider stance; Nagle
r had thought that McCann’s size — six-eight, two-fifty — would have been a tremendous asset in a courtroom, especially with crimedog gang bangers on trial, all smirky and wise-guy as they sat in the witness chair winking at their homeboys in the audience, then blank-faced as they looked up into the scowling face of the prosecutor who, while standing on the floor, still towered over them. But it turned out McCann had been the department administrator and never tried a case.

  “Find the family of that little girl yet?” McCann asked.

  “No, sir. Social services and the Catholic Sisters have a hearing next week to gain temporary custody.”

  “No one has claimed her?”

  Nagler shook his head. “That’s a bit harsh, sir. In fact, hundreds of people ‘claimed’ her when we ran her photos in the media and on missing-child websites, but none had actual proof that she was their daughter or family member. We can’t just give her away, sir.”

  “I understand,” McCann said coldly, suggesting to Nagler’s ear that he truly didn’t understand, or worse, didn’t care.

  “Look, Nagler, I want you to back off that case. Let the system handle it. We have bigger fish to fry.”

  Nagler stepped back and squinted up at McCann. “Sir?”

  “Let it go,” McCann said harshly. “It’s one little girl. The system will find her family. Move on.”

  “All due respect, sir, the hearing is in a week, and if social services gains custody we might be able to actually investigate whether a crime has been committed. We do have that street video of someone pushing her out of a car into the snow. At the very minimum, it could be child neglect. She is a minor. At the other end, it could be abuse of some sort.”

  McCann glowered. “Let them hold their damn hearing. The city is going to ask the state to ship her to a state youth facility so we don’t have to pay for her room and board. Let it drop, Detective.”

  Nagler’s head was spinning. What the hell? But he said nothing. Tell him about that weird threatening call? No.