Читать книгу The Late Matthew Brown - Paul Ketzle - Страница 15

six

The ground beneath our feet was collapsing. This was the summer of sinkholes, and they were ubiquitous, popping up everywhere unexpectedly and with a seemingly intentional flair for the dramatic. Despite the brief and torrential afternoon rains, the water tables were running low after years of below-average precipitation and our thin aquifer ceiling was brittle and crumbling. With the slightest weight or pressure, it could break. There was no telling where or when it would strike.

It began one afternoon when a section of the Augustus Highway caved in during the height of rush hour, taking out a semi at full stop and sending the trailer-load of pigs squealing into a twelve-foot-wide crater. Most of the pigs survived the fall, however, miraculously pulling their chubby bodies onto the highway—and right into the oncoming traffic. Cars everywhere braking, suddenly swerving, piling and compounding.

A few days later, a much larger disaster, also miraculously without fatality (human, at least). A trailer park, three homes sucked underground. Every last bit obliterated—trailer, lawn gnomes, plastro-turf, large-bulb outdoor Christmas lights. Neighbors hovered together around the pit, thanking God that no one had been at home, placing arms around the returned families grieving and staring blankly down into the disaster, the sudden loss beyond their comprehension. The assembled memorabilia, the private stashes, custom-groomed suburban front facades, crumbled and scattered. Once, a row of homes overflowing with life. Now—

A week later, a man died while waiting at a bus stop. Witnesses said it was as if the earth just swallowed him up.

There was no way to know what might go next. Watch your children, authorities said. Drive with caution. Pay your premiums and make sure all of your affairs are in order. Downtown among the semi-high high-rises, few dawdled or loitered. We walked with lighter steps, slipping into our buildings, fully aware that it might be for the last time. I eyed the long shadow of the new capitol building with appropriate distrust.

In my office, I found two men waiting, neither of whom I knew. The younger of the two was looking at the picture frames lining my wall. They were old photographs I had collected of the capital’s downtown over the decades—horse and buggy streets, unique building architecture and signage, the sparseness of a small town that had since overrun itself. The man was leaning in close, lifting up his thick-framed, heavily tinted lenses.

“These are some crazy pictures,” he said, without looking over as I came in. “I don’t think I’ve seen ones like them.”

“Thanks,” I said, walking over to my desk. Another man, gray fraying about his temple, sat in front of my desk in the leather chair, wordlessly tapping a pencil on the leather molding.

“Old pictures like this,” said the man by the frames, “I’m always curious to see what I can recognize. It’s not discovering what’s missing that is so fascinating, but seeing that something has endured after all these years.”

“The more things change, as they say,” I mumbled, not sure what else to say. I shuffled uneasily, waiting for either of my visitors to get to the point, any point at all having to do with me. “Can I help you gentlemen with something?”

“Bill Stanton,” the younger man said, stepping away from the pictures and toward the desk; but rather than hold out his hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. “Special prosecutor’s office.”

The older man was still quiet, still tapping his pencil on the armrest without looking up, and it seemed clear to me now that they’d made an agreement about who was to do the talking. He was obviously displeased with the arrangement. I imagined the politics between them, of the young up-and-comer pushing aside the aged veteran.

I gestured Stanton toward the other chair by my desk and set down my briefcase. “Should I be worried?” I attempted a carefree laugh.

“We just want to have a conversation,” Stanton said, trying to make it sound lighthearted, but still something made him seem grim. There was a graininess to him, like a figure in one of those old photographs, just out of focus. But you could tell in an instant—here was a man who took the measure of things. A man of sums, someone for whom everything would eventually add up.

“You are currently associate director of the Department of Corrections?”

“If I’m not, I’m in the wrong office,” I joked.

Stanton smiled lightly, and his partner just rolled his eyes.

“Now, you used to work at the Bureau of Environmental Study.”

“Over a year ago,” I said. “I was the director for about three years. Is that what this is about? The investigation at Environmental?”

The older man looked over at his colleague, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “We’re not at liberty to say.”

“I just want to know if I’m being investigated, too, for some reason.”

The two men sat quietly for another moment, neither taking eyes off of me.

“We aren’t at liberty to say.”

“What are you at liberty to say?”

“We were hoping you might be able to help us with any information from your time working at the Bureau of Environmental Study.”

“What sort of information?”

“Anything at all that might be of interest.”

“I don’t know about anything illegal, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Did you ever come across anything unusual in your time working there? Did anyone ever ask you to do anything that you considered ethically… questionable?”

“Not that I recall.”

Stanton and his partner exchanged a quick look, but didn’t say anything.

“I guess that sounds incriminating,” I added quickly. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“That’s fine.”

“I mean, I don’t think so. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking in absolutes.”

“That’s fine,” Stanton said again.

“I mean, my job was pretty benign. No one really ever asked me to do anything. It was a lot of paperwork. A lot of signatures. Boring stuff. Looking over recommendations and reports from the actual scientists. I wasn’t really qualified to pass judgments or anything. Basically, I just followed the recommendations that came across my desk. Pretty simple, really. I think I’d remember if someone made a special request. But I can’t be sure.”

Never having been interrogated before, and feeling the absurdity of trying to defend myself for having to defend myself, fear wasn’t really at the heart of my experience. I stood outside of myself, looking in on these men who seemed so clearly to want me to tell them something, yet unable to realize that I had nothing to tell them.

“What about your replacement. Mr. Morr?”

“What about him?

The older man sat up. “When he was your assistant, did you ever ask him to bend the rules?”

“Guess that depends upon what you mean by ‘bend.’ ” I smiled, but neither man smiled back. “I mean, no.” Slowly, it was dawning on me that my innocence wasn’t any kind of protection, and I sunk back into myself. “I’m suddenly feeling a little anxious here,” I said.

“We’re just having a conversation.”

“I wasn’t some guy with an agenda. I had no reason to bend the rules. I don’t even know what rules we’re talking about. Much less why I’d want to bend them.” I didn’t mention that I’d have had very little idea how to do so anyway.

Both men said nothing. The younger man, Stanton, seemed on the cusp of speaking, but then tapped his colleague’s sleeve.

“Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Brown. We do appreciate your cooperation. If we have further questions, we hope you’ll be available.” They shook my hand, Stanton’s handshake less firm, but congenial.

As they left my office, they passed by Hal, who was hovering by the door.

“I’m an idiot,” I said, watching Stanton and his colleague follow the cubicle maze out.

“No argument here. What’d they want?”

“They’re not at liberty to say.”

“They asking about Corrections?”

“No. Environmental. I just hope they aren’t also interested in me.”

“Ready for lunch?” he asked, brushing past my concern with a dismissive cock of his head.

“I just got in.”

“Gotta eat sometime.”

“In an hour, maybe, sure,” I said.

“Sure, sure.”

As Hal left, I paused to consider my brief interview with Stanton and his largely silent partner. The truth was, I didn’t have anything to tell them at all, and despite my clumsy attempts to incriminate myself, I consoled myself with the thought that they were most likely merely fishing for information. I had nothing to offer them, though, and so my contributions to any kind of investigation of the Bureau, especially of current personnel, were likely minimal. What I knew about Bernie Morr, especially over the past year, was even less, and if they hoped to use me to get to him, they were going to be sorely disappointed to discover my overwhelming ignorance.

My in-box was beginning to fill with requests for media credentials for the upcoming execution. With the date now set, one month away, the media was starting to jump into the fray. Ten years without the state killing anyone had made my task especially difficult. We lacked any kind of clear procedure.

Of all my tasks, the most bizarre was the matter of the last meal. I held Adler’s request card, boxes marked, crossed off, blurred and smudged eraser marks, finally double-starred to indicate exactly which choice he wanted. The special request lines were filled with looping, bubbly characters that might have been drawn by Hero were she of a different sensibility, the sort who would have appreciated my bedroom design efforts, instead of the brutal killer that Adler was. He wanted a steak, medium rare, lobster (or shrimp, if that wasn’t available), BBQ chicken, dark meat, fruit salad—no bananas—grape juice (wine and other alcoholic beverages were not allowed), pecan pie, a single glazed doughnut.

I phoned Hal and told him I was ready to go eat.

We often took lunch at Early’s, a small kitchen crowded between rusty warehouses, two blocks from the train tracks. This proximity had always bothered me. It felt too easy, obvious: a living cliche. The line bums. Shanty houses. Pounding rhythms rising from shuffling boxcars. Poverty spreading over everything, onto us, like an odor, scents compelling and repulsive, stench of garbage and the billowing hickory smoke.

Early’s stood between the Murat Gun & Pawn and the Country Feed store—an oasis for lunchtime travelers. Early himself was a lanky, lean black man of indeterminate years. His face seemed young, but both hair and voice carried hints of graying age. Today the dining room bustled like a marketplace or the floor of the Stock Exchange. Short bursts of laughter cut through the overlapping conversations, Early’s sister Edna’s great bellow carrying most from her position at the register. A brilliant red scarf engulfed her yards of thick hair. The place was just now opening after being closed for two weeks during an investigation concerning food poisoning. Rumor placed the blame on the ox-tail soup.

I ordered the grilled possum on toast, with a side of greens. Hal eyed my plate with distaste.

“My mother used to make that stuff. Nasty, man. Really.”

The crispy cut of meat was draped with spiced apples and rested on a mountain of sweet potatoes. The thin bread, charcoal black and sopping with grease and juice, poked up from the bottom.

“I can guarantee you that my mother never even imagined you could make this stuff,” I said. “I’m branching out. I want the whole Southern experience.”

“Give it up, Matthew, my man. You’re never going to be black, no matter how hard you try.”

“Patience. I’ve only just started.”

We found an open spot at the end of the long picnic bench, the only form of seating in the whole place. Hal had invited one of his assistants, Becky, who slid in silently across from us with a smile.

“This white guilt thing is going just a bit too far,” Hal said. “On behalf of the brothers and sisters everywhere—and I believe I’m speaking for Becky, too—I’m asking you to just butt out. Leave Soul Food to those who’ve got soul. Look at me. You don’t see me out trying to co-opt your damn French restaurants.”

“I hate snails,” I said

“Do you see possum on this plate? I order the chicken.”

Becky sat staring blankly into space while we talked, dragging her fork along her plate of dirty rice, dipping into her bowl of peach cobbler and eating whatever she had scooped without looking. This was her third month at Corrections, and I had yet to hear the woman speak. Hal kept asking her to lunch with us because he wanted to make her feel included. I had begun to consider, despite Hal’s assurances to the contrary, that she was a mute. Hal said she didn’t like to chitchat, that she was waiting for something really good to say. She was, as he put it, choosing her moment.

“Can’t a man eat his meal in peace?” I asked.

“You done with the execution yet?”

“I’m choosing my moment,” I said. “Right now, I’m dealing with his last meal.”

“Anything especially bizarre he wants us to bring him?”

“I just don’t see how they choose.”

“Or do they get a list?” Hal asked.

“How does someone select his last meal?”

“How did you pick this one?”

“That’s what I mean. Exactly. This is totally different. For my last meal on earth, I wouldn’t be eating possum.”

“Famous last words, man. You’ll probably step out of here and get hit by a bus.”

“You’re quite an optimist, Hal.”

“Look at it this way, man. At least you’ve narrowed down your choices.”

“But I’m not choosing it to be my last. The condemned—what do they base their choices on?”

“There are two kinds of people in the world.” Hal set down his fork and cracked his knuckles. “There are those in the gluttony camp, who figure that they want the last taste of anything they could ever possibly have.”

“That’s definitely Adler.”

“But then there’s the ones who seem to be more palate-conscious. They want foods that go well together. They’d never mix shrimp Creole and Yoo-hoo.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Cold tomato juice on your Fruit Loops.”

“Oysters and milk,” I volunteered.

“Hot dogs and chocolate sauce.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Becky looked up as if she was about to say something, but she just smiled and turned back to her food. Hal scraped the bottom of his plate with his fork.

“If those investigators come back, you let me know. We’ve got to watch our backs, my friend.”

When we returned to the office, we found the streets and parking lots overflowing. Police tape wrapped up the courtyard. A half-dozen squad cars had run up onto the sidewalk in front of the new capitol building. News trucks arrived close behind us. WKCL. WRND. WWWN. Reporters began to gather, clutching their sheets of important-seeming papers and brushing back the grooming hands of Make-up. They fought for position at the dais, by the mermaid-sculptured water fountain, by the State seal, any recognizable landmark to prove, via live feed, that they were in fact “on the scene.” Camera lights flooded the terrace, and everyone but the reporters was bleached into oblivion. Officers milled about in the doorway, periodically glancing back at the mob, either to spy a television celebrity, a reporter, even a weatherman, or simply to encourage questions. They carried the authority of the moment, the law. We don’t have all the facts yet, but our people are investigating.

Someone, we heard them say, had barricaded himself at the top of the capitol, inside the observation gallery. He had a list of demands that needed to be filled. First: he wanted doughnuts, Krispy Kreme, in equal parts glazed and jelly-filled. Second, pizza, anyone who delivered, for the officers forced to wait out his siege. He also wanted world peace and equality for all.

Clearly, authorities announced, they were dealing with a subversive element.

Hours passed uneventfully, until the ranks of the press finally began to deplete through attrition. Then, in the haze of late afternoon, Special Forces punctured the glass and launched a canister of tear gas. The sputtering terrorist, actually just a local junior college kid with a history of mental illness, was remanded to the custody of Mental Health. He was placed under a doctor’s care, though he fought for his right to not be forcibly medicated.

Landmarks and Monuments announced the floor would be closed for a week to remodel.