A disturbing nature, p.27
A Disturbing Nature, page 27
“No, I don’t think so.” Mo points the head of his spoon at Langford. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I was never interested in girls. They were always looking to impress the other guys and were often mean to my friends and me. I’ve always had more fun doing stuff with my guy friends: traveling together, fishing, or hanging out at the pub. In fact, I have some other friends I’d like you to meet who are more like Mr. Griffin and yourself.”
“I like Mr. Griffin. He’s always good to me. I guess Kay’s my only friend that’s a girl, kind of like Miss Hathaway is for you.”
“Rose isn’t my only female friend. But, yes, I see your point.” Langford rests his elbows on the table and leans toward Mo. “Do you find girls pretty?”
“My mom was really pretty.” Mo rubs the back of his head. “Kay’s pretty.”
“What about other girls? Did you find other girls pretty when you were growing up? Do you find them pretty now?”
Mo furrows his brows. “What other girls?”
“Oh, I don’t know, just the girls you went to school with, or the ones you were friends with.”
“I never was friends with any girls.” Mo holds the glass over his mouth, shaking out the last bit of Oreo paste.
“How about the ones you said were mean to you? Were any of them pretty? Is Emily pretty?”
“No!” Mo slams the glass down on the table. “No! She’s not nice. She’s not pretty. I don’t like talking about her.” After several seconds of silence, he sits back. “I’m sorry, I’d rather not talk anymore.”
“I understand, Mo.” Langford’s smile is laced with success. “I guess we just aren’t enslaved to the whims and wiles of the opposite sex.”
Mo doesn’t attempt to follow this last comment and, with the warm milk kicking in, begins to rub his eyes. “I’m tired. Is it okay if I go to bed?”
“Sure, you know where it is. I have to help a friend clear tree branches in the morning, so feel free to sleep in. If you want to go for a walk, just leave the front door unlocked. It’s fine. I should be back around ten. Then, we can go for an early lunch before I take you home.”
Mo nods, tugging at the front of his robe. “Goodnight.”
-49-
STIRRING THE CAULDRON
Saturday, 27 September 1975
Palmer’s been going to the same barber for over thirty years. The black leather chairs are worn, the orange neon sign is faded, and the red, white, and blue pole no longer rotates, but the barber is always current. Anything happening in the neighborhood gets discussed there, and Palmer gets updated once a month, travel permitting.
The first time his mother took him to Bennie’s Barbershop, Palmer’s father was in England. Otis worked there, catering to a few tolerant, White customers along with the Black clients, until Bennie retired, surprising everyone by leaving the store to Otis. Most of the White customers never returned, and the Black clients were too few, so Otis moved his shop, and Bennie’s became a fixture in the south end of the city.
In its original location, Palmer’s mother found the barbershop convenient, and she wasn’t concerned with a Black man cutting her son’s hair, working alongside her husband, or eating at the family dinner table, for that matter. When Bennie’s moved, Palmer’s mother followed and retained a friendship.
Despite limited schooling, Otis is an astute student of history and has a keen sense of moral obligation, educating his younger customers through experience and acquired wisdom. As a small business owner in segregated Boston for many years, his path has been challenging. Still, he understands his contribution to the much larger movement, choosing to share rather than preach.
The barbershop opens at nine, so Palmer arrives at eight the last Saturday of each month, departing before any neighborhood regulars arrive. It’s an understanding suiting the circumstances: passive in its acceptance of the way things are, conscious of the way they have to be. Palmer’s never late.
Otis smiles through his overgrown white mustache as he secures the neck strip. “Sure been awhile, Mr. Palmer, hasn’t it?”
“It certainly has,” Palmer says. “Been out of town the past six months.”
Otis flings the barber cape around Palmer and ties it around his neck. “Big business stuff going on? Mergers and acquisitions and all that high finance stuff?”
“Yup, business has been booming.”
“I wish I’d gone to school for business or something like that. Maybe I’d have been able to help the community more.”
“Maybe, but I think you’re better off right where you are. You provide a genuine service to folks here in the neighborhood. I have to deal with some real dangerous men in my business. They’d just as soon tear your head off as listen.”
Otis checks the length of Palmer’s hair between his fingers. “I hear what you’re saying. There’s a lot of vipers and vultures in corporate America.”
“Absolutely. And a lot of animals running wild in the streets.”
“Say, how’s that family of yours doing?”
“They’re doing well, thanks for asking,” Palmer checks himself in the mirror, “but my hair isn’t. Couldn’t find a decent barber in Seattle. Stopped trying a couple months ago.”
“I can tell.” Otis combs Palmer’s hair down in front, covering Palmer’s eyes. “But at least you’ve got hair to worry about. All I got is this ring above my ears and around back.” He laughs. “Wife says she’s gonna trade me in for a full head of hair one of these days.”
Palmer enjoys laughing with Otis—a very good barber and an excellent conversationalist. He shares just enough half-truths to move the early dialogue along. When the superficial discussion ends, they often switch to a topic of local significance. Today is no different.
Otis lathers the back of Palmer’s neck. “What do you think about this busing situation?”
Palmer clears his throat. “It’s a tough one. Don’t you think?”
“Sure is.” Otis swishes the straight blade along the razor strap. “I’m not sure I much blame the Irish folk here in Southie. I’ve been living in Roxbury my whole life. Many of the folks there would rather send their kids to local schools, too. I sure hope the violence settles down. Police escort the buses in motorcades right by the store here. The government’s got to do a better job of funding schools in poorer communities; help these kids get a better education near their homes.”
Palmer nods. “I agree with you, Otis. For what it’s worth, I think it might make sense to look at reallocating citywide educational funding to improve the schools in historically underprivileged and underserved communities like Roxbury. That might eliminate the requirement to bus children while improving the financial prospects of students from traditionally low-income neighborhoods.”
Otis stares at Palmer in the mirror. “Amen. That’s a mouthful of common sense right there. You should think about running for governor. I know I’d vote for you.”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about politics, but I’m not sure forcing folks to confront endemic problems when those forced to bear the brunt are the ones with the least means is a practical approach. The wealthy deal with it by taking their kids out of the public school system, while the poor and working class become embittered. There’s an air of hypocrisy about it.”
Otis puts his hands on his hips. “I couldn’t agree more. Until folks of every race, creed, and color can accept others as equals, mixing up the bottom of the cauldron amounts to stirring up a lot of muck.”
Palmer checks the length of his bangs. “Suffice it to say, we live in a complicated society. We aren’t gonna figure it out until everyone’s given the same opportunity to sit at the table. We aren’t there yet. Maybe sometime in our lifetimes, the table will be large enough for everyone.”
“Don’t know about my lifetime,” Otis says, “but maybe yours. I sure hope so. I’m not sure this is what Dr. King had in mind. Good people still dying for no reason and violence in the streets. Whites and Blacks still fighting over segregation, and politicians still wringing their hands. We all breathe the same air but seems like some folks wanna make it so others can’t breathe it just cause they’re different.” He removes the cape, brushes Palmer off. “I guess some change is just gonna take longer, right, Mr. Palmer?”
Nodding, Palmer hands him a ten. “I’ll see you next month, Otis. I sure hope things settle down here.”
“Me, too.” Otis rings up the register. “Better days are a-coming.”
Palmer continues to nod as he slips out. He looks up and down the street before lighting a cigarette and hopping in his car. Turning right on New Dudley towards Columbus, he sees graffiti on an abandoned building, swears mixed with racial slurs spray-painted in bright colors. He shakes his head, knowing the answers won’t be black or white either.
-50-
LANGFORD’S PROMISE
Saturday, 27 September 1975
Mo wakes up in Langford’s downstairs guest bedroom, tired and restless. After a night of tossing and turning, he heads over to the kitchen, where Langford has placed carafes of milk and juice along with an assortment of fruit, muffins, and cereal on the island. As it was during the night, he dwells on Emily. Did he think she was pretty when he lived with the Branch family? Did he try to get her to like him? Did he make an effort to be friends with her? Would he still be with Jake at the Branch home if he’d tried harder to be friends with her?
His questions extend to his brother and the Branch parents. Why did Jake move to Peter’s room? Why did Jake like Peter more than him? Why did Mr. and Mrs. Branch like Jake more? Why didn’t they believe him? Why did they believe Emily instead? Why was he banished? Cycling through questions he cannot answer, he’s filled with disappointment, betrayal, and anger.
After breakfast and five days of rain, Mo, like many of the locals, is eager to enjoy a cloudless morning. Walking along the access road, he passes a few individuals enjoying the early autumn foliage. Several hundred yards down, he notices a small opening between trees leading into the back of Langford’s property, an old path hidden under groundcover.
Mo gets distracted in the woods behind Langford’s house for over an hour. When he emerges, his boots are muddied, as are his gloves and the lower part of his uniform around the ankles. He’s sweat-stained from the humidity hanging under the canopy and has scratches all over his hands, arms, and face from fighting his way through the undergrowth.
Back at Langford’s house, he sits on the porch swing. Taking his boots off, he places them next to Langford’s equally muddy pair. Mo notices the professor’s boots are identical to his but more worn, the side stitching lifting from the sole.
Langford steps onto the front porch. “Wow, did you roll around in the mud?”
Mo moves his boots and gloves into the sun to dry. “It’s soaking wet way in the back of your yard. It was fun, though, because everything’s so green…except the ground. It’s brown.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve ventured back there. Did you find anything interesting?”
“It’s hard to walk around, but there’s a lot of beautiful trees and some flowers still blooming in one nice open area.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Langford holds the door open for Mo. “I’m also glad you took your boots off. You can go take a shower if you’d like. We’ll head out for an early lunch before I take you home.”
Riding in Langford’s car, Mo’s exhausted but glad the rain and his overnight distress have passed. He looks forward to going to church with Kay’s family tomorrow. Mrs. Harrington, herself a Catholic, had helped arrange for Mo’s family to attend church with the Branches. After Jake’s mother came to the house, Ken would never again step foot in a church until he was carried in on the day of his funeral.
When they first went to church with the Branch family, Paul and Mary hadn’t been born, and Peter and Jake were just babies. Mrs. Branch and Grandma Cleveland would hold them during service while three-year-old Emily sat by Mo, sometimes in his lap, playing with her dolls and stuffed animals. For those few years, until even a new Branch station wagon couldn’t transport them all, he loved little Emily and thought she loved him. At the time, Mo did think Emily was pretty.
Langford pulls his car to the curb in front of Mo’s townhouse and lowers the radio.
Mo steps out and rests his arms on the sill of the open passenger window. Looking in, he says, “I had a nice time and liked walking around your property this morning.” He hesitates while pulling away before leaning back in. “Mike?”
“Yes, Mo?”
“Can we please not talk about Emily anymore?”
“Yes, I promise not to talk about her in the future.”
Mo turns and walks to the townhouse, hoping Mike will keep his word.
Part Iii: THIRTEEN CIGARETTES
-51-
OSMOND’S SERMON
Sunday, 28 September 1975
Palmer has no need for an alarm clock. This morning, the first light hit One Boston Place at six thirty-seven. It didn’t creep into the windows on the thirty-second floor until two minutes later, and it crossed the path of Palmer’s eyelids at six forty. That is, it would’ve crossed the path of Palmer’s eyelids at six forty if it weren’t Sunday. Today, the drapes stayed closed.
Palmer’s fingers fumble along the nightstand, knocking over a half-full bottle of Jack, a pack of Marlboros, and a box of Trojans. He coughs into the phone. “Yeah?” His toes feel under the blanket for wayward boxers. “This is Frank.” Sitting up, his feet land in a puddle. “It’s Sunday.” He turns on the light, rubs his eyes, and checks his watch. “Yeah, I can see it’s almost eleven thirty.” He lifts an empty envelope with the words, Thanks, Steve. – Vickie, scribbled on the face, the ‘V’ made into a heart using lipstick. He crumples the note, tossing it in the wastebasket. “I understand.” Reaching down, he picks up the pack of cigarettes, whiskey dripping off the cellophane. “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He smacks the pack against his finger, pulls out the driest one, lights, and takes a long drag.
Faces on aligned photos stare at Palmer as he walks through the entrance hall of the field office. He doesn’t look back. He also doesn’t read the bold lettering on the office door as he pushes against the glass. Once inside, he checks his palm. “Didn’t expect the paint to be dry.”
Osmond stares out the window. “Chipper mood, I see.” He turns to face Palmer. “Damn, Frankie, you look like shit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Knock it off.” Osmond points to the other side of the desk. “Take a seat. And, put out the damn cigarette.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cut the shit. This isn’t a joke.”
Palmer sits, takes a final drag, crushing his cigarette on the desk in front of Osmond’s nameplate. “Better than a badge and gun, huh, Harry?”
Osmond leans across the desk, waits for Palmer’s eyes to meet his. “It’s been four years, Frankie. She’s not coming back.”
“What are you talking about?” Palmer looks away. “They give you a title, and now you’re a goddamned shrink?”
Osmond straightens up. “C’mon, I know it hurt when she took the girls. But look at you. You call this coping? Saturday night parties? Reckless behavior? Hell, it would get you thrown out of the Bureau if anyone else knew.” He shakes his head. “Did you even get a name?”
“Veronica, Valerie, something with a ‘V,’ I think.” Palmer yawns. “This how you get a nameplate?”
“Everyone in this office looks up to you. The younger agents want to be you when they grow up. You’re the closest thing we have to a rock star.” Osmond’s voice softens. “We’ve been friends a long time, Frankie.” He crosses his arms. “You’re well into your forties. It’s time to get your personal life in order. And, for God’s sake, give up the cigarettes. You don’t want to end up like Murphy.”
“Did you call me down here on a Sunday for a sermon?”
“Alright,” Osmond sits down, “as I’m sure you’ve figured out, there’s growing suspicion there may be a mass murderer around Providence. The Rhode Island State Police have put together a task force with local authorities. They’ve requested FBI investigative resources. Captain Monroe asked if you were available.” Osmond slides a folder across the desk. “These are the files on the first two girls: the one found along the water in Smithfield and the other down in North Dartmouth.”
“So I take it I’m not headed back to Utah?”
Osmond shakes his head. “Utah State detectives and Salt Lake investigators have it under control for now.”
“I understand, but from what you said last week, didn’t sound like the two girls here were connected,” Palmer says. “What changed?”
“They didn’t think so until they found a third body in Lincoln, north of Providence, this morning. Hasn’t hit the papers yet, but I’m sure it will soon. I told Monroe you’d be there tomorrow. I’ll send Ross to assist when he gets back from vacation. He’s out of the country until Tuesday. I’ve been having him mentor a young agent, so they’ll both be there Wednesday morning. Let me know what else you need.”
Palmer peels a small piece of tobacco from his lip. He inspects it before dropping it to the floor. “I’m not gonna be able to handle long meetings in here, you know, not without smoking.”
Osmond laughs. “It’s for your own good, Frankie; you smoke a shitload more than Murphy ever did.”
Over the course of several silent seconds, Palmer brushes the ashes from Osmond’s desk. “I do get it, Harry, I understand.” He pushes his chair back. “I feel it, too. We get one of these assholes, and there’s another right behind him. Sometimes it feels like swatting the flies in your house during summer. You don’t know where they come from, and you can’t always figure out what they’re looking for, but they just keep coming, and you keep going after them. Murphy died swatting. I understand, and I appreciate the concern.” He stands, sliding his hand across Osmond’s freshly polished desk.
