Horace Afoot (20 page)

“Ed? Oh, just talk, that’s all. Told us all about the big rescue last summer.”

“The what?”

“That woman you helped him pull out of the cornfield. Say, how come those TV reporters didn’t ever ask you about it?”

“TV?”

“You didn’t see Ed on TV?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Hell, we all wondered why he was getting all the attention. Ed said he figured you didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. Said you’re a real
private guy. Anyway, they sent a reporter from Action News out to Chevyland to interview him.”

A pit has opened in my stomach as I remember the reporter from the
Sentinel
.

“So what’s this you’re asking about love?” A slurp.

“Never mind.”

“Hey, I was beginning to get interested.”

“Forget it.” I depress the button and put the phone away. Television and newspapers. The whole town. The whole country. I get up and begin to pace in the dark. The goddamn news. I can see the headline in the paper. And the news anchor, brow pinched in a theatrical parody of moral concern and straining the resources of an impoverished collective imagination as the news is read from the teleprompter. And next sports and next weather and next and next and next and next. Another awful manifestation of the positivism of the times: keeping up. It implies the struggle to keep one’s head above water, implies drowning in an ocean of facts.

I can’t sleep. Twice during the night I get out of bed to add wood to the stove and stoke the fire. The house is silent and dark except for the orange glow radiating through the glass door of the stove. As morning approaches I manage to drift off. But then at dawn I am up and stoking the fire again, boiling water for tea and frying an egg for breakfast.

First stop is the police station.

The desk sergeant looks up from newspaper, coffee and doughnut.

“I’d like to see Detective Ross.”

The sergeant glances at the clock hanging over the door. “Haven’t seen him yet. He usually comes in around now.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I’ll see if he’s at his desk.” He picks up the telephone, punches in the extension. “Nope. Not in yet. Get yourself some coffee. He’ll be here any minute.” He gestures to a corner where a coffeepot and a stack of Styrofoam cups are neatly arranged on a small table.

“That wasn’t here last time.”

“Nope.” The newspaper rattles. No further comment.

I am drawn, as before, to the faces on the wanted posters. A few minutes later Ross is standing next to me. “Long time no see,” he says, looking freshly arrived and ready to start the day. We shake hands.

“Did each of them get the satisfaction of news coverage?”

“Say what?”

I gesture to the wall of faces. “Did they make the news?”

“Most of them. You bet.” He stands back, crosses his arms over his chest, and begins to expound. “The criminal is the only
real
celebrity, if you ask me. All you got to do is watch the television or read the papers.”

“Celebrity?”

“Sure. Not like entertainers, you understand. It’s different. Crime has consequences. You got victims, ruined lives. They both get covered. But the perpetrator, the criminal, he gets the most attention because he claims the most of society’s resources. We report the crimes, track down the criminals; doctors analyze them, lawyers speak for them, they get tried and judged and sentenced, and then they get locked up and sometimes we even execute ’em. You know how much it costs to execute a criminal in this state? Average?”

I shake my head.

“Three hundred fifty thousand dollars. Average. It’s about the same as keeping them locked up for life. I read it the other day. And you and me? We pay for it. So take your pick.” He waves at the wall with a heavy hand. “That’s what I call real celebrity—when
society
pays. You and me.” He goes over to the coffee table and pours himself a cup. “You come in to see me?”

“Yes.”

He gestures for me to follow him through the doors that lead into the rear of the station. His office is third down the corridor, a room not much bigger than the desk and the filing cabinet it contains. He sits behind his desk and motions for me to take the chair opposite. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to know what you’ve learned about the rape last summer.”

“The cornfield rape?”

“Is that how they put it on TV?”

“What would you prefer?”

“How about just the rape?”

“Which one? We got a bunch we could talk about. Cornfield. Gas station. Liberty Street.”

“There was a rape on Liberty Street?”

“Double. Mother and daughter.” Ross sips his coffee, regards me over the rim of his Styrofoam as if jotting a mental note, and leans back in his chair. “Surprised you don’t know about it. The whole state does.”

“I don’t read the papers.”

“Obviously not. Anyway: case unsolved.”

“Tell me what you know so far.”

“Right up front? Nothing.”

“You don’t have any clues? No suspects?”

He shakes his head. “Except for you and that other fellow, Maver, we haven’t got any witnesses.”

“What about the woman?”

“Well, sure. If she decides she wants to talk about it.”

“What has she told you?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“All I can say is: case unsolved.”

“What about the other ones?”

“The gas station we got. Some guy driving through. Pumped his tank full, put in a quart of oil, raped the cashier in the restroom, and drove away. Finally caught him in Nevada.”

“And Liberty Street?”

“Case unsolved.”

“Do you think they’re connected?”

Ross shrugs.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Probably not.”

“Why not? I have a right to know.”

“And
I
have a duty not to make statements that aren’t fully backed up by facts.”

“You want to know what I think?”

Ross puts his cup on the desk. “Always.”

“I think you know exactly who did it.”

My accusation annoys Ross, and his easygoing, extra-large manner disappears. “What kind of bullshit is that? What did you come in here for?” He glowers at me across his desk. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what you know.”

“Look. I’m not going to argue with you, Mr., ah, Mr. Blake.”

“It’s not my name.”

“Well, it
used
to be.”

“My name is Horace.”

“Look. I got work to do.” Ross’s temper has puffed his eyes larger.

“I’m not asking for anything unreasonable. I have a right to know.”

“You got no rights, Mr. Blake. Your duty as a citizen is to obey the laws and stay out of my way.”

“Stop calling me Blake. My name is Horace. Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”

“Look, I don’t care what you call yourself. Horace Quintus Superfly. Let’s stop the fucking around.” Ross puts his coffee cup on the table and reaches for a notepad and pen. “You’re so interested in the case? Let’s go over your story one more time. What were you doing when the woman came out of the cornfield?”

We lock eyes. “I was walking.”

“Walking where?”

“Along Old Route 47.”

“Why?”

“Because I enjoy it.”

“Where were you headed?”

“The Indian mound.”

“The mound? What for?”

“Because it intrigues me and I like the view.”

“Okay. So you’re walking. What do you see?”

“A woman coming out of the cornfield.”

“Before that. Think. Close your eyes and try to remember every last detail.”

My instinct says not to, but I do as the detective says and close my eyes. At first all I can think of is Ross sitting directly across from me, watching. “Take your time,” he says. I hear his chair squeak and open my eyes to see that he has risen and is turning toward the high file cabinet in the corner. “Take your time,” he repeats.

I close my eyes again, sink down into the chair, and try invoking the dubious conveyance called memory. Short, shuffling indeterminism. The phrase leaps up.
Pop pop
. Blackbirds. Ernest Hemingway and Vincent van Gogh. A short, shuffling indeterminism. What is a short, shuffling indeterminism? The general view that for every event there are any number of unknowable conditions that may or may not apply?
Pop pop
. Blackbirds aloft. Hemingway and van Gogh. A lonely country road on a hot, dusty summer afternoon.
Whoosh
. A car.

I open my eyes. “A car.”

Ross is standing in front of an open file drawer. “A what?”

“A car. I saw a car. No. Two cars.”

Ross returns to his desk and flips through a notebook. “Describe them.”

“I can’t.”

“Try to remember. Close your eyes and go back.”

I do as the detective asks but can’t couple the general memory with specific details.

“What color?”

I try to remember but can’t.

“What make?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t know makes.”

“What do you remember?”

“Standing next to the field. Hearing shots. But they don’t register as shots. Just background noise. Seeing birds flock.”

“You heard the shots before seeing the cars?”

“Yes.”

“What direction were they headed?”

“Toward the mound.”

“Away from town?”

“Yes.”

“And the only car you saw after that was Ed Maver’s?”

“Yes.”

“Which direction?”

“Coming toward town.”

“The opposite direction of the other two cars?”

“Yes.”

“What color is Maver’s car?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Try.”

“I really don’t remember. Blue?”

“Okay. Enough. That’s good. Leave it for now.”

I open my eyes and Ross is jotting notes in his little book. He glances up at me with an expression I haven’t seen him use before. “Good. Very good. You did good,” he says as he jots. “Maybe it’ll come back to you later. When you’re not forcing it. Happens all the time.”

Later in the library with back issues of the
Sentinel
spread before me on the table, I try again to recall details. But can’t. The reason is simple: you can’t recall what you didn’t notice in the first place. Reading the newspaper accounts forces this realization. And I feel somehow implicated, as if my inability to recollect points to a larger defect, a general failure of perception.

I skim the rest of the article and find this quote by Ed Maver at the end: “
It’s the breakdown of the family, if you ask me. Same thing that’s happening all around the country. Nobody taking responsibility for anything anymore. We’re finally getting a taste of it here in our little neck of the woods
.”

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