have been nice.”
I will not fuel his tropical yearnings with postcards from my past. “It had its moments. It’s done.”
He cuts a bite of donut as if to savor a delicacy on fine china. “On the Faiser case,” he says, “I want to update you.”
“Good—because I want to help. I’d like to see your notes.”
“From the leather notebook? Forget it. The handwriting’s so bad my wife says I could’ve been a doctor.”
“I can puzzle it out.”
He puts down his fork. “Believe me, the notes don’t make any sense. They’re like…a foreign language.”
“I might spot something you’ve missed.”
He shakes his head. “Reggie, you have to understand that this is complicated. I wasn’t exactly myself in the crack years.”
“We were all younger thirteen years ago, Frank. And not so wise either.”
“It’s not that. I was more like another person, nobody you want to know—or I’d want to know, for that matter. In those years,
the guy in the shaving mirror was a stranger.” He fidgets with the fork. “I don’t like to dwell on it. You think what’s past
is past, but it lies in wait like a leg trap. The notebook stirs everything up.”
“I can help. Let me do my part and read the pages. We both have the same goal. We both want to find out whether an innocent
man has spent nearly thirteen years in prison. We can read the notebook together.”
“And have a discussion? We’re not a book club, Reggie.” There’s finality in his voice, and his cheeks are flushed. He snaps
off the plastic fork tines. The donut lies uneaten.
Is this shame, or is he hiding something? Or is the notebook a cop-civilian barrier? Whichever it is, I cannot simply retreat
every time Frank Devaney pulls rank or becomes agitated. “Frank, do you have Henry Faiser’s mug shots from when you booked
him? I’d like to know what he looked like. Any distinguishing features? What can you tell me?”
“He was slender. He looked young for his age.”
“That’s all?”
“My recall’s hazy, Reggie. I told you Homicide was a zoo back then.”
“But surely, you’ve reviewed the files in the past couple weeks. You’re working on his case, right?”
“When I can spare the time.” He drinks, stares off, blinks. “There’s a certain very big case right now. The whole division
is pulled in. It’s a media circus.”
“Sylvia Dempsey?” He nods. “You’re involved in that one too?”
“To lend a hand.”
Meaning that he’s tied up a certain number of hours that otherwise would be spent on Henry Faiser. “TV news says somebody’s
being sought for questioning.”
“I suppose you want to know who it is?”
“In fact, I don’t. I’m doing my best to avoid the whole thing, Frank, and it’s not easy when one story dominates the news,
day in and day out. It’s like an infestation. Anyway, what good would it do to wallow in the murder of a business executive’s
wife who was about my age?”
“That’s right, stay clear. Personal stuff is the kiss of death— that’s a figure of speech. By the way, the husband is a doctor.”
“Not a businessman?”
“A doctor who’s in a business. A skin doctor. We’re working with the Newton police.”
“Newton?”
“Their place of residence. Look, Reggie, there’s a reason I asked you to meet me today. I’ve brought a piece of evidence from
the Faiser case.”
“The gun?” My heart leaps. “No, a stopwatch, like coaches use to time athletes. How about if you hold it and try to get a
feeling?”
“Was it Peter Wald’s? Or Henry Faiser’s?”
“It came from the vacant lot where the murder weapon was found. It was lying in the weeds with empty bottles and other junk.
Our blues brought it in with the gun.”
“Just the watch? Why not the empties and other stuff?”
“Because the stopwatch was found a foot from the gun and looked clean, like it just came out of somebody’s pocket, maybe the
shooter’s.”
“So you
I will not fuel his tropical yearnings with postcards from my past. “It had its moments. It’s done.”
He cuts a bite of donut as if to savor a delicacy on fine china. “On the Faiser case,” he says, “I want to update you.”
“Good—because I want to help. I’d like to see your notes.”
“From the leather notebook? Forget it. The handwriting’s so bad my wife says I could’ve been a doctor.”
“I can puzzle it out.”
He puts down his fork. “Believe me, the notes don’t make any sense. They’re like…a foreign language.”
“I might spot something you’ve missed.”
He shakes his head. “Reggie, you have to understand that this is complicated. I wasn’t exactly myself in the crack years.”
“We were all younger thirteen years ago, Frank. And not so wise either.”
“It’s not that. I was more like another person, nobody you want to know—or I’d want to know, for that matter. In those years,
the guy in the shaving mirror was a stranger.” He fidgets with the fork. “I don’t like to dwell on it. You think what’s past
is past, but it lies in wait like a leg trap. The notebook stirs everything up.”
“I can help. Let me do my part and read the pages. We both have the same goal. We both want to find out whether an innocent
man has spent nearly thirteen years in prison. We can read the notebook together.”
“And have a discussion? We’re not a book club, Reggie.” There’s finality in his voice, and his cheeks are flushed. He snaps
off the plastic fork tines. The donut lies uneaten.
Is this shame, or is he hiding something? Or is the notebook a cop-civilian barrier? Whichever it is, I cannot simply retreat
every time Frank Devaney pulls rank or becomes agitated. “Frank, do you have Henry Faiser’s mug shots from when you booked
him? I’d like to know what he looked like. Any distinguishing features? What can you tell me?”
“He was slender. He looked young for his age.”
“That’s all?”
“My recall’s hazy, Reggie. I told you Homicide was a zoo back then.”
“But surely, you’ve reviewed the files in the past couple weeks. You’re working on his case, right?”
“When I can spare the time.” He drinks, stares off, blinks. “There’s a certain very big case right now. The whole division
is pulled in. It’s a media circus.”
“Sylvia Dempsey?” He nods. “You’re involved in that one too?”
“To lend a hand.”
Meaning that he’s tied up a certain number of hours that otherwise would be spent on Henry Faiser. “TV news says somebody’s
being sought for questioning.”
“I suppose you want to know who it is?”
“In fact, I don’t. I’m doing my best to avoid the whole thing, Frank, and it’s not easy when one story dominates the news,
day in and day out. It’s like an infestation. Anyway, what good would it do to wallow in the murder of a business executive’s
wife who was about my age?”
“That’s right, stay clear. Personal stuff is the kiss of death— that’s a figure of speech. By the way, the husband is a doctor.”
“Not a businessman?”
“A doctor who’s in a business. A skin doctor. We’re working with the Newton police.”
“Newton?”
“Their place of residence. Look, Reggie, there’s a reason I asked you to meet me today. I’ve brought a piece of evidence from
the Faiser case.”
“The gun?” My heart leaps. “No, a stopwatch, like coaches use to time athletes. How about if you hold it and try to get a
feeling?”
“Was it Peter Wald’s? Or Henry Faiser’s?”
“It came from the vacant lot where the murder weapon was found. It was lying in the weeds with empty bottles and other junk.
Our blues brought it in with the gun.”
“Just the watch? Why not the empties and other stuff?”
“Because the stopwatch was found a foot from the gun and looked clean, like it just came out of somebody’s pocket, maybe the
shooter’s.”
“So you
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