Flat Lake in Winter Page 21

  Gunn waited until he was well into his second pitcher to bring up the subject. By that time, Donnie was clutching his sixth Molson Ice. It was easy to keep track, because Donnie liked to keep the empties on the table as a reminder to not overdo it. When he’d hit double figures, he’d quit. Or at least slow down.

  “Remember that fire years ago, up at the Hamilton place?” Gunn asked him, in as casual a voice as he could manage.

  “Yup,

  “Donnie belched. “‘Ninety-one, it musta been. Or ‘ninety-two.”

  “Something like that.” Actually, it had been 1989, but Gunn didn’t argue the point.

  “Smoky sonafabitch,” Donnie recalled.

  “Yeah. Were you in on the investigation?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Remember who was?”

  “How come?”

  “Nothin’ special,” Gunn said. “Got a client who’d like to know.”

  “How bad does he need to know?”

  Gunn had the private investigator’s sixth sense for knowing a shakedown when he heard one. He reached for his wallet, and took a peek inside, noticed he was a little on the light side.

  “Not all that bad,” he said. “Maybe a couple of Jacksons bad.”

  “Make it a Grant,” Donnie said, “and I think I might be able to remember who it was looked into the thing.”

  “You’re one greedy mick,” Gunn said to his fellow Irishman, handing him a fifty. “It’s not enough they pay you a million dollars an hour to play with Tonka toys all day.”

  “Hey, the wife’s expectin’ again.”

  “The wife’s always expecting.” Donnie already had about fifty kids, it seemed. “This better be good,” Gunn said.

  Donnie slipped the fifty into his shirt pocket. “Was ackshully two guys who handled the followup,” he said. “They sent up some guy named Meacham, from the Schenectady arson squad. I hear he passed, though.”

  “Passed what?”

  “Passed,” Donnie repeated. “Like dead.”

  “Great,” Gunn groaned. “How about the other guy?”

  Donnie hesitated a moment.

  “No fucking way!” Gunn told him.

  “Okay, okay. Lemme see. The other guy was the fire marshal from our outfit. I’m just tryin’ to remember his name, is all.”

  “Remember it.”

  “Hey, lighten up,” Donnie protested. But he suddenly managed to recall the name. “Squitieri,” he said. “Jimmy Squitieri, that’s it. Used to call him Spider.”

  “Where can I find him now?” Gunn asked.

  “Jeez, I don’t know. He retired, went down to Florida somewhere.”

  “Florida’s a big place, Donnie.”

  “Saratoga?”

  “That’s right here in New York, over on the Northway.”

  “Shit. Sounds like Saratoga.”

  “How about Sarasota?”

  “Yeah,” Donnie said, “that could be it. Saratoga, Sarasota. Same thing.”

  Which actually wasn’t so bad, Gunn had to admit later, as he thought about it. Locating a James Squitieri in Sarasota, Florida, might not be a piece of cake. But it sure beat looking for a Jennifer H. Somebody in Vermont, or maybe New Hampshire.

  FIELDER AWOKE TO a loud ringing noise in his ears. After a moment’s disorientation, he realized he’d fallen asleep on his couch, in front of the wood-burning stove, for a change. The ringing noise turned out to be the phone. He found it under a cushion and answered on what must have been the fifth ring.

  “I was about to give up,” said a familiar female voice.

  “Who’s this?” he asked. He’d learned some time ago to ask right away, rather than to play along pretending to know until it was too late to ask.

  “How soon we forget.”

  “Jennifer.”

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “I miss you, too. I’ve been kinda busy, I guess.”

  “How is it going?”

  “Better,” he said. “Thanks to you.”

  “Matthew?” She’d told him she preferred it over Matt, which reminded her of a sheriff with a droopy mustache.

  “Yes?”

  “Would it be all right if I visited Jonathan?”

  “Visit Jonathan. . . .” he echoed. For some reason, it had never occurred to him that she might want to, given the original reason for her leaving, and the fact that she hadn’t been back in all these years. But now that she was asking, he guessed it was the most natural thing in the world. Here was her younger brother (not to mention the father of her child!) locked up for murder, possibly looking at a death sentence. Aside from P. J., she was the only family he had left. And P.J. wasn’t in much of a position to be visiting anybody, his offer to Gunn notwithstanding.

  But as Fielder thought about it, he realized maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all. “I’m torn,” he told her. “I know you’d like to, and it might be nice for Jonathan. Only thing is, I may end up having to put you on the witness stand someday. When I do, the DA is going to want to show that you’re just trying to help your brother because you love him. One way of showing that is to ask you if you’ve been to see him. From there, it’s a short step to suggesting you went there to get your stories together, or to coach him.”

  “I could deny it,” she offered, “say I wasn’t there.”

  “He’ll subpoena the visiting records from the jail. It’ll look even worse if he catches you in a lie.”

  “So I guess it would be better for me to stay away, huh?”

  “From that standpoint, yes.”

  “How about you? Can I come see you?”

  Fielder was caught off guard.

  “Here?” That would not go down in history as one of the great recoveries of all time.

  “There, here,” she said. “Wherever.”

  The word relationship gradually came into focus. Fielder reminded himself how self-sufficient he’d become, how happy he was being alone in his cabin in the woods. He wasn’t so sure he was ready for any of this.

  “I really miss you, Matthew.”

  Then again . . .

  “Look,” he said. “I want to see you, too. But for the same reason it might be better for you to stay away from Jonathan, it might not be the best thing for you and I to be, you know-”

  “Linked romantically?”

  The phrase reminded him of one of those television entertainment shows, or the newspapers they sold at the supermarket checkout counters. He could picture their photos on the cover of the National Enquirer, under three-inch headlines.

  DEATH ROW INMATE SWEATS IT OUT WHILE LAWYER, SIS GET IT ON

  “Right,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got to finish some paperwork. But by next weekend, I may need to take a drive, and-”

  “Interview me again?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  FIELDER PUT THE finishing touches on his motions. He’d ended up asking for everything he could possibly think of, all the way down to disciplinary records of any state troopers and investigators who might be called to testify at trial. Then he drove to Cedar Falls, where he served a copy of his papers on the District Attorney’s Office and filed the original with Dot Whipple at the courthouse. While he was there, he dropped into the jail to see Jonathan again. He wanted to prepare him for visits from the various doctors who’d soon be coming in to talk to him.

  Jonathan had been talking to doctors since early childhood, it turned out, and he seemed to take the news pretty much in stride. But Jonathan seemed to take everything pretty much in stride.

  Again, at some point during their conversation, he muttered the word “Baby.” Again he drifted off when Fielder tried to follow up on it. And again, he looked pale, thin, and tired. And even more withdrawn than he had at the previous visit. Fielder had the strange sensation that they were starting to lose him.

  “SURE, I REMEMBER Jennifer,” said Sue Ellen Blodgett. She’d dropped the Simms when she’d gotten married. “It was just too much of a mouthful,”
she’d explained. “Sue Ellen Simms Blodgett. Know what I mean?”

  Hillary Munson had smiled and assured her she knew what she meant. Hillary looked across the Formica kitchen table at Sue Ellen. The gawky, unattractive girl had grown up into a slightly less gawky woman, but the addition of fifty pounds hadn’t done much for her unattractiveness. She balanced her youngest daughter on one knee as she gazed back at Hillary through purple-framed glasses.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Hillary asked.

  “Oh, not for years. But we’ve talked on the phone a couple of times. And exchanged a letter or two.”

  “Do you remember her brothers?”

  “Yup. Porter, he was a hell-raiser. Jonathan, he was always real quiet-like.” She paused to wipe a glob of purple jelly from her daughter’s chin. “Are they really going to, you know, give him one of those lethal injections, like?”

  “They aim to try,” Hillary said. “What else do you remember about him?”

  Sue Ellen did her best, but it was clear from listening to her that she had never spent much time at the Flat Lake estate and hadn’t seen anything of Jonathan in the ten years since his sister had left the state. She recalled the boy’s good looks, his shyness, and, above all, his slowness.

  “He was one step above a retard, if you ask me. No offense, but he was always pickin’ up sticks or rocks or pine cones, or going, ‘Can we play now?’ or ‘Can we eat now?’ He could barely take care of his self, like.”

  A second of Sue Ellen’s daughters wandered into the room and began tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “When can we go out?” she whined.

  Hillary decided to cut to the point. “Do you remember anything about Jonathan’s sleeping?” she asked.

  “He used to wet the bed, if that’s what you mean. Then, later on, he started walkin’ in his sleep.”

  Hillary sat up. “Walking in his sleep?”

  “Yup,” Sue Ellen nodded. “What do they call that, Sominex, or something? Got so they had to put special locks on the doors. I even heard he was the one who lit the fire. Prob’ly did it in his sleep, huh?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Hillary asked her.

  “I think there was talk,” Sue Ellen said. “And, of course, you know about how he used to come into Jennifer’s room?”

  Hillary nodded noncommittally.

  “She musta told you about that?”

  “How did you find out about that?” Hillary asked her.

  “Oh, she told me,” Sue Ellen answered. “We were best friends, like. I mean, I always had other friends. But I don’t think Jennifer did. I was her only friend, far as I know.”

  “What do you know about her child?”

  “Troy? I know Jonathan’s the father, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me. She even sent me a snapshot. I might still have it somewhere.”

  “Do you think you could take a look?”

  Hillary meant sometime after the meeting, but Sue Ellen stood right up, shifted her baby to one hip, and walked into the next room. When she reappeared a few moments later, her second daughter was holding on to her skirt, and a third one had somehow materialized and was trailing a few feet behind them. But Sue Ellen was carrying a cardboard carton under one arm.

  “Some of my memorabilia,” she explained, setting the carton down. “I’m very organized.” She rummaged through the contents for a minute or so, before extracting a worn envelope, which she raised above her head with a triumphant “Da-dahh!” and presented to Hillary. Inside was a photograph of a baby, who could have been Jonathan himself, and a letter, written in fading blue ink.

  December 19, 1989

  Dear Sue Ellen:

  Here are the photos of Troy I promised to send you. Isn’t he the most precious thing in the world? What’s more, he’s smart and not afflicted in any way, like you-know-who.

  We’re living with a nice family here, and I’ve got a pretty good job. There’s never enough money, of course, what with rent, car payments and insurance, food, pampers, etc. But I can’t complain. At least we’re safe here.

  How are you and R. B. getting along? Do I hear wedding bells? I’m so jealous, but I’m also truly happy for you. Give him a kiss for me, a big wet one!

  As for J. I guess I can forgive him, more or less. Except for that once, I know he really was asleep. And even that first time, I understand he can’t be blamed entirely. (Even if he almost killed me!)

  As for my parents, I know I should be upset, being an orphan and all now. But you, of all people, know how horrible they were, each in their own way. Do you really think J. started the fire in his sleep? God!

  Sue Ellen, I’m never coming back. That part of my life is over. But I promise to be your best friend,

  Always and forever,

  Jennifer

  P.S. I know how you’re always saving things. But if you keep this letter, please make sure you hide it somewhere safe, so my address never gets back to my grandparents.

  P.P.S. I miss you so.

  “Can I keep this?” Hillary asked.

  “I guess so,” Sue Ellen said. “She’s moved a couple of times since then, anyway. But the other part, you’ll keep that quiet-like?”

  “‘The other part’?”

  “About who Troy’s father is.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  HEADING BACK TO Albany, Hillary figured it was a deal she could live with. From what she knew of Matt Fielder, given enough time, he’d be able to convince Jennifer Hamilton to testify on her brother’s behalf, even if it meant delving into the dark recesses of her own past, and reliving such things as rape, incest, and illegitimacy. But that would only be Jennifer’s word. The letter corroborated Jennifer’s testimony. It described Jonathan’s sleepwalking in writing, a full nine years prior to the Flat Lake murders - long before there was any possible motive on the part of lawyers, doctors, and loved ones to put their heads together and concoct some clever defense that might play at trial.

  That was its importance. And in that respect, it became the first piece of solid physical evidence with which they’d be able to fend off claims that their defense had been fabricated.

  Hillary Munson had come up with the smoking gun.

  JONATHAN HAMILTON’S CASE was back in court on November 17, the forty-fifth and final day Judge Summerhouse had given the defense to get its motions in. Since Fielder had already submitted his papers the week before, the judge could do nothing but adjourn things for the prosecution’s response. He gave Cavanaugh five weeks, until December 22.

  “See that?” the judge told Fielder. “You got forty-five days. I’m only giving the DA thirty-five. Talk about being fair.”

  Talk about being disingenuous. All three of them - Summerhouse, Fielder, and Cavanaugh - knew full well that prosecutors are routinely given two weeks or less to answer motions, which is more than sufficient time for them to print out computerized responses reciting their opposition to whatever the defense asks for. On top of that, it had already been close to a week since Cavanaugh actually received the papers.

  But Fielder held his silence. There was certainly nothing improper about the judge’s giving Cavanaugh a cushion. Besides, the doctors could use the extra time to conduct their interviews of Jonathan and start preparing their reports. Gunn was trying to find a Florida address for somebody called Spider, and Fielder himself was anxious to take another drive to New Hampshire.

  Jonathan struck Fielder as a little improved. They spent an hour talking in the lockup area off the courtroom. Again, Jonathan’s worries didn’t seem to be particularly case-oriented. Instead, he complained of the cold and of being tired much of the time. He thought it might have something to do with the food, or the pills they gave him each morning. Fielder promised to look into both matters. Other than that, however, Jonathan seemed to be holding his own. Fielder told him to be patient, that things were moving along about as fast as could be expected. But the repeated del
ays didn’t appear to bother Jonathan. In fact, it was hard to know if he even had a sense of time, the way most people do. It was more like dealing with a child in that respect. You talked about today; “tomorrow” tended to be a tricky concept.

  From the courthouse, Fielder took a walk around the corner to an army-navy surplus store he’d noticed earlier on Maple Street. There he bought a couple of woolen blankets, which he brought around to the jail and left for Jonathan. That, too, was the kind of thing they’d talked about at Death School - winning your client’s trust by tending to his personal needs. The cost involved was often minimal, and sometimes even reimbursable. But even when it wasn’t, it was well worth the effort. Take the blankets, for example. They’d come to a little over $30 counting tax, an expenditure well within Fielder’s budget. And for once he’d even remembered to ask for a receipt, which he placed on his dashboard when he reached his car, just so he wouldn’t lose it.

  Driving back to his cabin, he realized for the first time that Cavanaugh had had no official statement to make following the court appearance. No death-penalty decisions to trumpet, no DNA test results to celebrate, no motives to reveal. As for Fielder, silence was still the order of the day. There might come a time when he’d want to go public with the defense of sleepwalking, but that time was still off in the future.

  As the Suzuki’s ancient heater finally began to warm up, Fielder loosened the knot of his tie and cracked the window an inch in order to get some fresh air. The receipt which he’d placed on the dashboard immediately lifted off and became airborne. It fluttered about for a second, before being sucked out the opening.