Expiration Date (14 page)

She reached out to hug me.

“Why don’t you come for dinner later?”

I only half-hugged her back—mainly because I had shoved my dead right hand into my jeans pocket. Letting it hang loose would be suspicious, and putting it up in my scarf sling would seal the deal. Mom would frog-march me down to the ER in seconds.

“We’ll see.”

“We have to talk, Mickey. About your grandfather. And what to do with him.”

He was staring at us.

“Mom, he’s right here, you know.”

“I know that. Anyway, try for six. You can just walk up Oxford…”

“I know where you live.”

“Funny, you don’t act like it.”

“Yeah, Mom. Bye.”

Another five minutes passed before I’d worked up the courage to start asking questions. Grandpop, limited to eye contact, seemed to encourage me. He’d shoot me a stare, as if to say
Well, get on with it
before giving up and rolling his eyes and taking another labored breath.

“Grandpop, I found the pills.”

This got his attention. Dead stare.

“I’ve used the pills. I’ve walked around in the past, just like you must have.”

Dead stare.

“I also looked through your papers and found the files about my dad.”

Dead stare.

“I also know who used to live downstairs.”

That finally provoked a reaction. Grandpop’s eyes narrowed. His mouth moved like he was trying to pry a piece of bread from the roof of his mouth, but he couldn’t.

“What were you trying to do? Were you trying to prevent dad’s murder?”

Grandpop’s chest rose more quickly now. His eyes darted to the door, then back to me. He opened them wide, and then they rolled away again, like he was lost in exhaustion.

“What were you going to do?”

There was a rumbling in his throat now—an animal growl that started low and gradually increased in volume. His right hand trembled and began to close in a loose fist.

“Grandpop? I need to know what you were going to do.”

His eyes opened again and locked on mine. His jaw dropped a fraction of an inch.

Then he slowly turned his head and there was nothing.

After another twenty minutes, I left the hospital and walked back to the apartment.

I’d had enough.

Enough of the pills. Enough of the calls. Enough of the past. I put the plastic bottle of pills back in the medicine cabinet and, after a few minutes of deliberation, I slipped the padlock through the steel eye on the medicine cabinet and snapped it shut.

There were more calls from my mom but I ignored them. No, I would not be joining my mom and her boyfriend for dinner in Northwood this evening. I would be staying home and dining on apples, peanut butter and a new six-pack of Golden Anniversary I’d purchased just for the occasion. Which pretty much broke the bank, but so what.

I’d had enough of the past.

The only music I had in the apartment was my father’s old albums. My CD player was in storage, and the disk drive on my laptop was broken. But I didn’t want to listen to any of my father’s music. Nothing old. Not now.

The only books I owned were musty old crime paperbacks and collections of classic journalism—most of them picked up at that mystery bookstore on Chestnut Street. I used to walk in with twenty bucks, and the proprietor, Art, would send me out with a small shopping bag full of beat-up paperbacks. The appeal was simple: the novels acted like little portals into the past. I’d had enough of that to last me for a while.

The journalism and memoirs, too, were vintage: Hunter Thompson. Charles Bukowski. Joan Didion. John Gregory Dunne. Pete Dexter. Ancient history. Journalism was dying.

Everything around me was drowning in the past. The scrapbooks, full of old photos.

Like that scrapbook, full of images of my father as a soldier in Vietnam.

What’s embarrassing is how little I know about my father’s time there. I know he served two tours. I also know he volunteered for the army to avoid the draft—he was able to pick a better spot. My mother would make vague references to my dad shooting machine guns from helicopters and running through the jungle while tripping on acid. Then again, she also swore that my father had a secret Vietnamese half-family, and one day, they’d show up fresh from Saigon and demand to live in our house and eat our food.

It was the “eating our food” part that seemed to worry my mom the most.

I remember exactly one Vietnam War story, which came right from my father’s lips. I was in the basement, and a cockroach skittered across my leg. I was about five. At that age, roaches terrified the shit out of me. I screamed and bolted upstairs, and my face smashed right into my father’s hard belly. “Roach! Roach!” I was yelling.

“Hey, cool your tool,” my dad told me. “Cockroaches are nothing. In the war we had scorpions, and they’d climb in your boots when you weren’t looking. If you didn’t shake them out of your boot, you were in trouble. One guy I knew stuck his foot inside his boot, turned white, then started yelling. He died a few minutes later.”

That’s my one Vietnam story.

Now that I thought about it, our longest conversations—consider that a euphemism—were about dying or death.

My first ever memory of my father was the two of us walking next to an in-ground pool. I must have been two or three years old. No idea where we were; nobody in family could afford a three-foot vinyl pool, let alone the in-ground version.

But the pool had a cover on it, weighed down with decorative stones at the edges. I must have started to walk near the pool, because my father’s hand clamped down on my shoulder. Uh-uh, he’d said. You go in there, there’d be no more Mickey.

No more Mickey.

The best definition of death I’d ever heard.

I laid back on the couch and stared at the ceiling and did absolutely nothing except take a sip of beer every so often. I thought about my arm, and maybe the fact that I should have it checked out. This wasn’t a joke; I had three functional fingers. What kind of job was I supposed to find where I could use only three fingers?

Maybe I could be a night watchman, just like my grandpop. Maybe that mental hospital would hire me. And then some weekend, maybe not too long from now, I would just stop working and check myself in.

I swear I heard an audible
snap!
as the pieces fit together in my head.

Literally, it was in the last box I checked. A collection of paystubs, bound together by a dirty and cracked rubber band.

Paystubs from the Adams Institute.

So
this
was the hospital where Grandpop had worked from about 1989 until he retired in 2003. A mental hospital.

No, not just a mental hospital. The
same
mental hospital where they kept Billy Derace, the man who witnesses say stabbed my father to death in a cheap dive.

My father. Grandpop Henry’s son.

How had Grandpop been allowed to work there? Surely there had to be some kind of background check for security guards at the hospital. Then I looked down at the envelope and saw the name: Henryk Wadcheck. The world knew my murdered father as Anthony Wade. No connection there. And I’m sure Grandpop hadn’t volunteered that information.

So was he just working there for the money? Or did he have a plot in mind?

Of course he had a plot in mind.

Because in 2002, he moved to the apartment
one flight up from where Billy Derace grew up.

Because he had a locked medicine cabinet with a plastic bottle full of pills that would send him back in time.

Two
events could be a coincidence. Not all of this.

And as I knelt in a messy pile of boxes and papers, there was a knock at my door.

Meghan didn’t say a word. She just walked in, placed a paper bag of groceries on the cherrywood desk. She glanced down at the mess on the floor, which, through her eyes, must have looked like I was building a wino-style nest for myself in the middle of the apartment. Then she reached into her oversized Kiplinger purse, pulled out a curled stack of papers and handed them to me.

“What’s all this?”

Meghan looked at me.

“Patty Glenhart was real.”

The top sheet was a photo of the original
Bulletin
story I’d first read back in 1972. “Girl Missing.” Same lead, same byline, same story.

The next sheet, however, was her death notice.

“Wait—she
died
?”

“Keep reading.”

The piece was from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, and dated January 8, 1987. Patricia Anne Glenhart, twenty-seven years old, found beneath a truck two blocks from Frankford Avenue, wrapped in an old overcoat. She had been sexually assaulted, stabbed thirty-seven times.

“She’s dead,” I repeated.

“Yeah,” Meghan said. “She has been for over twenty years now. Mickey, let me ask you something, and please don’t mess around with my head. Please tell me the truth.”

“Of course.”

“The day you moved here, you were joking about somebody called the Frankford Slasher. Turns out he was real.”

“I told you!”

“Do you know much about the case?”

“I grew up here, so I remember hearing a lot about it. But I also wrote a short follow-up piece for the
City Press
a few years ago. The murders are still unsolved, as far as the police are concerned.”

“So you’re familiar with the names of the victims.”

Another snap in my head.

“Wait—Patty Glenhart was killed by the Frankford Slasher?”

Meghan nodded.

“But it was Patricia Bennett. Her married name. But her maiden name was Glenhart.”

I flicked through the rest of the papers—which were
Inquirer
and
Daily News
accounts of the Slasher. Every article after January 1987 mentioned Patty Bennett. Meghan had highlighted the name in bright yellow.

The last piece was my own, from the
City Press.
It was titled “Under the El.” There was a sidebar listing the fifteen known victims. In the middle of the list was Patty Bennett’s name.

“No way.”

“You wrote the piece, Mickey. Maybe you didn’t consciously remember her name, or having read her maiden name somewhere, but your subconscious sure did. So when you started having your visions about saving some little girl, you dredged her up, and…”

“No. Not possible.”

Of course I wrote the piece. I remembered agonizing over it, because I had a simple rule about writing first-person journalism pieces: namely,
don’t.
But it had been the anniversary of the first Slasher victim, and I had been desperate to come up with something to fill a cover slot, and once my editor heard about it, she pretty much strong-armed me into making it a personal essay/follow-up piece. She had visions of state—maybe even national—awards; instead, it was more or less ignored except by certain Frankford business owners who called for a good month to complain.

The victims of the Frankford Slasher were considered “nobodies”—female barflies, active or retired prostitutes, or other lost souls. They hopped bars—mostly Goldie’s at Pratt Street, sometimes the Happy Tap closer to Margaret Street.

The Slasher was a few years into his work before anyone noticed the pattern. First was fifty-two-year-old Maggie Childs, who lived in Oreland, a town in Montgomery County, but was reportedly a Goldie’s regular, estranged from her husband. Her body was discovered in August 1985. Just five months later, the body of sixty-eight-year-old Carol Joyce was found on her bedroom floor, naked from the waist down, and stabbed six times, with the murder weapon still lodged in her torso. Joyce lived in South Philly, but was also a Goldie’s regular. So was sixty-four-year-old Edie Pettit, who was found stabbed to death Christmas Day 1986. Just a few weeks later, in January 1987, twenty-eight-year-old Jan White, a former go-go dancer and homeless woman who slept on the street near Goldie’s, was found beneath a truck near Dyre Street. She had been sexually assaulted, stabbed forty-seven times, and wrapped in an overcoat.

Neighbors soon put pressure on the police to catch the madman responsible for the killings.

Well over a year passed before sixty-six-year-old Janet Bazell was found stabbed to death in the vestibule of her apartment building on Penn Street near Harrison. She had been out drinking in the bars under the El, trying to forget the fact that she’d been evicted from her apartment that same day, November 11, 1988. Then, on January 19, 1989, Terry Conroy, thirty, was found in
her
apartment on Arrott Street, just above Griscom, cut to ribbons and wearing nothing but a pair of socks.

Witnesses started to come forward; Bazell and Conroy had been seen hanging out with a young white man, barely in his twenties. Sketches were made, circulated. No arrests came of them.

With the seventh murder came a break in the case. Carol Strauss, a forty-six-year-old woman with a history of mental illness, was found stabbed thirty-six times behind a seafood shop early in the morning of April 28, 1989.