Close Your Eyes (18 page)

—Dad’s lawyer saw household items, none seemed relevant.

—Called Brendan Crosby, left message.

6/22

—Called Brendan Crosby, left message.

6/23

—Call from Brendan Crosby, found household items taken from house. Will fax photos.

There were no faxes, but a last sheet was stapled to the folder. It read:

7/31

—POSITIVE MATCH with Harry Winston earring. Limited edition, number 1800942, sent to PAULINE HALL, c/o Tiffany & Co., Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, NY, NY.

EARRING = MURDERER

EARRING = PAULINE HALL

EARRING = FREEDOM for DAD

8/20

—Called all listings for Pauline Hall. (List attached
—S
for
Spoke with, LM
for
Left message, CB
for
Call back
.)

8/23

—See updated list.

—Spoke to all but one Pauline Hall.

—Left another message for last Pauline Hall.

8/24

—See updated list.

—Reached every Pauline Hall and none know about earring.

—Called Tiffany on Fifth Avenue. Pauline Hall worked there until February 1985. No further records.

—Dead end?

—Detective Crosby has case files in NY—go see them?

Alex had gotten on a plane to Iraq the following month.

I stood at the door of the shed and looked at the sky. Why had Alex decided to follow up with this clue now, after all this time? I wondered if he had known what would happen to him in Iraq. I narrowed my eyes at the stars. Was my brother up there? Was he anywhere? I clenched my fists, hoping without quite believing that my mom was floating above me, watching me, urging me on toward … what?

All I had wanted was to move forward, as Gramma had instructed, to have a happy life, and yet here was the past, pulling me back again like a fucking tar pit. I could hear my father’s voice in my ear: “You’re a smart girl, Lauren. Figure it out.”

My brother had written
Dead end
. But he had followed it with a question mark. Footsteps rang out behind me, and I turned around. “Do you want me to come with you?” said Gerry.

“What?” I said.

“New York.” He came to me and took me in his arms. He whispered in my ear, “I already found you a cheap ticket.”

3

On the plane to La Guardia, after the flight attendant had passed out peanuts and I’d ordered a six-dollar can of Budweiser, I took Alex’s folder from my bag. I put it on the tray table, next to my beer. I gazed out the window of the plane, seeing nothing but white, then cerulean, as we emerged above the clouds. It was amazing, the way we could graze the heavens inside metal birds. I had never been afraid of flying, not even after September 11. I always felt a rush of anticipation, thinking of the gleaming buildings of Manhattan, the sheer excitement of the city. I hadn’t been there since I was a child.

I flipped through the SkyMall catalog, pausing to read about a scalp massager guaranteed to grow hair. I checked out the home hot-dog cooker and the life-size replica of King Tut’s sarcophagus, which could open to reveal fourteen storage shelves ($895). I returned the catalog to the seat back.

I ordered a Coke when the stewardess came back around and, with a sigh, opened Alex’s folder. I had never wanted to see all these papers, but if it was something I could do for Alex—and I could not think of one other damn thing I could do—I would read every word. There was the old crime-scene report, and there were the testimonies that sent my father to jail.

HOLT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

Incident Report
Investigating Officer: Det. Brendan Crosby
Incident Reported: 8/27/1986
Incident Address: 12 Ocean Avenue
Victim’s name: Jordan Mahdian
Age: 46
Suspects: Izaan Mahdian (husband of deceased)

DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT

Dispatch received a phone call from Izaan Mahdian, 12 Ocean Avenue, Holt, at 7:52
A.M
. Mr. Mahdian had entered his bedroom to find his wife, Jordan Mahdian, on the floor. She was unresponsive with apparent head wound and “her heart not beating.” EMT was dispatched to 12 Ocean Avenue but was unable to revive victim. Officer Campbell McGuinness was on patrol at the time and reported to 12 Ocean Avenue. Mr. Mahdian led Officer McGuinness to the bedroom, located on the second floor of residence. McGuinness radioed for backup and secured the scene. I arrived at the scene at 8:30
A.M
. I was notified that the victim’s children, Lauren and Alex Mahdian, were at a neighbor’s house. We notified next of kin (Morton and Merilee Wegman, Houston, TX).

After photographing the scene, we canvassed for fingerprints and gathered all household items that could pertain to the crime. Forensics Officer Tyler Berman took all evidence to the lab.

The victim was lying on her side at the entrance to her bedroom, wearing a white cotton nightgown. There was a visible contusion above victim’s right ear and a pool of blood underneath her head. The victim’s mouth was open and her eyes were closed. The coroner examined the victim’s degree of acute rigor and decomposition and estimated that she had been dead for several hours.

Shards of glass were found surrounding the victim. There was no further evidence of a struggle, and there was no sign of forced entry into the residence. The husband of the victim was extremely agitated and was taken to the station for further questioning.

INVESTIGATION

I interviewed Mr. Mahdian, who said he discovered the body when he went into his bedroom to get his bathing suit. Mr. Mahdian was distraught. He said he and his wife had had a dinner party the night before. (Interviews with all guests to the Mahdian home attached.)

Mr. and Mrs. Mahdian had sexual intercourse at approximately midnight. Afterward, he went downstairs and watched television briefly, then slept in the living room located at the northwest corner of residence. The Mahdians’ two children spent the night in their tree house, located behind the home. Lauren Mahdian (8) said she had “very scary” dreams. When pressed to describe her dreams, she said she could not remember anything. Interview was halted when Lauren Mahdian said she felt dizzy and needed to lie down.

Mr. Mahdian could not think of anyone who would want to harm his wife. A cursory investigation showed that nothing of value was missing from the residence. Several times during the course of the interview, Mr. Mahdian asked, “Are you sure she is really dead?”

I put my head in my hands. Then I straightened and flipped through newspaper clippings:
MURDER ON THE BEACH, THE END OF IDYLL, THE DECANTER OF DEATH
. An enterprising journalist had even interviewed all the jury members after they had sent my father to jail. Alex had kept the transcripts.

Jocelyn Clement, thirty-six-year-old administrative assistant
No, I did not. I did not have a doubt in my mind. For one thing, no one else had been in the house. Nothing was stolen. There was simply no forensic evidence that anyone else had been inside—I saw the crime-lab report! A small fingerprint, but that could have been Jordan’s—I mean Mrs. Mahdian’s—own. Mr. Mahdian’s semen, his fingerprints everywhere. I mean, really, the defense argument was patently absurd: some stranger broke into the house, left no clues, smashed Jordan Mahdian’s skull, and left? It doesn’t make sense. But a jealous husband? Now, that I understand. That makes sense to me.

That neighbor had given Mrs. Mahdian a present, and Mr. Mahdian went nuts. Adam Schwickrath. He gave her a pair of high-heeled shoes right in front of everyone. Were they having an affair? Who knows, but I’m sure Mr. Mahdian thought they were—why else would he have killed his wife?

There was the hospital report from the time he’d slapped her around before. The testimony about Halloween, how he was trick-or-treating after taking some stomach medication and it made him crazy, yelling at some poor kids, scaring them half to death. He had it in him, is what I’m saying. I’m not saying he was all bad, but some people have it in them and some do not.

We read his poems, for Lord’s sake—you can read them, too. All about knives and women and war and sex. He wrote a poem about whipping someone—whipping! That’s not something we talk about in this country. He was a troubled man, and he did not belong in Holt, New York, but that’s beside the point.

I watched his face during the trial. He was often angry, indignant. He thought that he was better than us. He wasn’t sad—he was furious. He scares me. I feel very confident in my decision. I hope he stays locked up there in Attica for the rest of his life.

Dizzy, I unlatched my seat belt and went to the tiny airplane bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. Then I settled into my seat, feeling a dull fear in my gut when the pilot announced, “Welcome to New York!”

4

After taking a taxi from the airport to the hotel Gerry had chosen for me, I showered and tried to lie down. Too distraught to sleep, I called the Holt police station and made an appointment to take the train out and go through my mother’s files in the morning. Brendan Crosby was saddened to hear about the explosion in Baghdad. “I’d wondered why Alex wasn’t calling me every week,” said the detective. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,” he added.

“It’s possible he’s not dead,” I said.

“Oh,” said Brendan Crosby. “Right, of course.”

“They haven’t found him,” I said. “They’ve found plenty of bodies, but not Alex’s.”

“That’s great,” said Brendan Crosby. “That’s certainly good news.”

I got dressed and went for a walk. I had no idea where I was in the city, and it was very cold. Things were smoky again without the benefit of Jane Stafford’s soothing voice. I felt woozy as I stumbled along, my sneakers slapping the pavement. A vendor on the corner was selling handbags and scarves, and I stopped to buy a red scarf with matching mittens.

As the man counted my bills, I saw a beautiful building over his shoulder. I jaywalked across the street and went inside. It was the Park East Synagogue.

Round lights on brass poles surrounded an elaborate blue altar. When I sat down, I began to feel calmer, and the smoke dissipated. I wondered if my mother had been inside this synagogue. It was possible, wasn’t it? I closed my eyes, trying to feel her.

Trying to feel anything.

After my mother’s stone setting, I had been told to stop mourning. So I did stop—I was a good girl. But if you don’t let yourself feel sadness, you don’t feel any other emotions, either: hunger, happiness, love. Sitting in a synagogue pew, I missed the softness of my mother’s hair, her quick, sweet kisses. I missed Alex, and I missed being someone’s sister. And for the first time, I yearned for my father. But perhaps I had wanted him all along.

Without thinking hard about what I was doing, I walked back outside and looked for a bookstore. Before too long, I saw one. It was a dim shop located down a small stairway. The awning read:
USED, RARE, COLLECTIBLE
. A man with a cat in his lap looked up as I came inside, but he did not smile.

I found the poetry section and scanned the titles, my pulse fast. I made myself breathe deeply, as Jane Stafford had advised.
You’re all right, Lauren
, I told myself in my head, with her voice,
you’re fine
.

Then I said it aloud, “You’re fine, Lauren, you’re fine,” as I saw my father’s name. I took the book, one of his poetry collections, called
Incarceration
, from the shelf. It was a hardcover published in 1996, when I had been eighteen years old, a freshman at the University of Texas. In a neat hand, someone had written in pencil,
First edition, $75
.