school for? English or something?’
‘History.’
‘You’ve got a good name for a history professor. Professor Benjamin Truman. Very intellectual.’
‘It’s probably not going to happen, Diane.’
‘Yeah, it will.’
‘I only got through one year of grad school. It takes a lot more than that.’
‘You say it like you flunked out. You got called back here. That’s different. You came back to help your mother and now she’s dead, so – You don’t have to stay, you don’t have to be here anymore. You should go back to school. It’s where you belong. Join the chess club or the prom committee or whatever.’ She took a drag on the cigarette and looked out at the hills, then, as if she’d reached a decision, turned to me. ‘You should go to Prague. I have some money, if that’s what’s stopping you.’
‘No, Diane. It’s not about money.’
‘Well, you just make sure you get there. Go to Prague, then get back to school. You know, those guys – Bobby and Jimmy, even Phil, all them guys – they look up to you. They want you to do all that shit you talk about.’
I had no response.
‘It’ll make them happy to see you out there somewhere. Just to think of you out there, like, flying. It’s important.’
‘How about you, Diane? Would it make you happy if I left?’
‘I’d get over it. There’ll be a new chief after you. Maybe I’ll just use him for sex, same as I did you. Maybe he won’t even be a prude like you.’
‘They might hire a woman. They do that now.’
‘That’d be just my luck.’
Neither of us spoke for a while.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore, Ben. It’s starting to feel like a bad idea.’ The tip of her cigarette hovered at the window like a firefly. ‘We both got places to go.’
5
Monday, October 13. 10:00 A.M.
We met at the Attorney General’s office in Portland, a two-hour drive from Versailles. There were twenty or twenty-five people there, a number that necessitated theater-style seating. At the front of the room – onstage, as it were – was the Boston Homicide detective Edmund Kurth. He stood off to the side, arms folded, watching people find their seats. There was still that luminous intensity about Kurth. He looked like he was itching to knock somebody’s hat off.
The audience consisted mainly of state troopers from Maine and Massachusetts, husky guys with buzz cuts and friendly smiles. There were prosecutors from the Maine AG’s office too. It had been a long weekend for the lawyers; they had a gray, haggard look. Cravish, the Game-Show Host, stood off to the side.
I slipped into the back row of metal folding chairs, feeling vaguely like an eavesdropper. My invitation to this meeting was a formality, a courtesy extended to the locals. There were no illusions about that. My job was to show up, have my ticket punched, and go home. I hadn’t even bothered to put on my uniform. I wore jeans and a sweatshirt. (The outfit was more than an expression of my outsider status, though. The truth is, the Versailles police uniform is pure hayseed and I try not to wear it any more than necessary. The uniform consists of a tan shirt, brown pants with a tan accent stripe, and a ridiculous Smokey the Bear hat, which my father insists on calling a ‘campaign hat.’ I dislike the whole getup, but it’s the hat especially – no citizen could respect a policeman wearing that hat.)
Kurth struggled to remain still as the troopers and prosecutors found seats. The muscles in his face played under the skin. After a while – but before his audience had completely settled – he’d had enough of waiting. He walked to a corkboard at stage left, tacked a mug shot to it, and announced, ‘This is the man we’re after: Harold Braxton.’
I craned my neck to see the photos, the traditional twin frames showing the suspect face-on and in profile. Braxton looked to be in his twenties, African-American. The sides of his scalp were shaved and the remaining hair was
‘History.’
‘You’ve got a good name for a history professor. Professor Benjamin Truman. Very intellectual.’
‘It’s probably not going to happen, Diane.’
‘Yeah, it will.’
‘I only got through one year of grad school. It takes a lot more than that.’
‘You say it like you flunked out. You got called back here. That’s different. You came back to help your mother and now she’s dead, so – You don’t have to stay, you don’t have to be here anymore. You should go back to school. It’s where you belong. Join the chess club or the prom committee or whatever.’ She took a drag on the cigarette and looked out at the hills, then, as if she’d reached a decision, turned to me. ‘You should go to Prague. I have some money, if that’s what’s stopping you.’
‘No, Diane. It’s not about money.’
‘Well, you just make sure you get there. Go to Prague, then get back to school. You know, those guys – Bobby and Jimmy, even Phil, all them guys – they look up to you. They want you to do all that shit you talk about.’
I had no response.
‘It’ll make them happy to see you out there somewhere. Just to think of you out there, like, flying. It’s important.’
‘How about you, Diane? Would it make you happy if I left?’
‘I’d get over it. There’ll be a new chief after you. Maybe I’ll just use him for sex, same as I did you. Maybe he won’t even be a prude like you.’
‘They might hire a woman. They do that now.’
‘That’d be just my luck.’
Neither of us spoke for a while.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore, Ben. It’s starting to feel like a bad idea.’ The tip of her cigarette hovered at the window like a firefly. ‘We both got places to go.’
5
Monday, October 13. 10:00 A.M.
We met at the Attorney General’s office in Portland, a two-hour drive from Versailles. There were twenty or twenty-five people there, a number that necessitated theater-style seating. At the front of the room – onstage, as it were – was the Boston Homicide detective Edmund Kurth. He stood off to the side, arms folded, watching people find their seats. There was still that luminous intensity about Kurth. He looked like he was itching to knock somebody’s hat off.
The audience consisted mainly of state troopers from Maine and Massachusetts, husky guys with buzz cuts and friendly smiles. There were prosecutors from the Maine AG’s office too. It had been a long weekend for the lawyers; they had a gray, haggard look. Cravish, the Game-Show Host, stood off to the side.
I slipped into the back row of metal folding chairs, feeling vaguely like an eavesdropper. My invitation to this meeting was a formality, a courtesy extended to the locals. There were no illusions about that. My job was to show up, have my ticket punched, and go home. I hadn’t even bothered to put on my uniform. I wore jeans and a sweatshirt. (The outfit was more than an expression of my outsider status, though. The truth is, the Versailles police uniform is pure hayseed and I try not to wear it any more than necessary. The uniform consists of a tan shirt, brown pants with a tan accent stripe, and a ridiculous Smokey the Bear hat, which my father insists on calling a ‘campaign hat.’ I dislike the whole getup, but it’s the hat especially – no citizen could respect a policeman wearing that hat.)
Kurth struggled to remain still as the troopers and prosecutors found seats. The muscles in his face played under the skin. After a while – but before his audience had completely settled – he’d had enough of waiting. He walked to a corkboard at stage left, tacked a mug shot to it, and announced, ‘This is the man we’re after: Harold Braxton.’
I craned my neck to see the photos, the traditional twin frames showing the suspect face-on and in profile. Braxton looked to be in his twenties, African-American. The sides of his scalp were shaved and the remaining hair was
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