Plum Island (74 page)

A
light snow fell on Tenth Avenue, and from where I was on the sixth floor, I could see the flakes swirling through the streetlights
and the headlights below.

My class was filing into the room, but I didn’t turn to look. It was the first class of the new semester, and I expected about
thirty students, more or less, though I hadn’t looked at the roster. The name of the course was Criminal Justice 709—subtitled,
Homicide Investigations. There would be fifteen two-hour sessions, meeting once a week on Wednesdays, plus conferences. The
course was worth three credits. We would examine techniques of securing the crime scene, identifying, collecting, and safeguarding
evidence, working relationships with other specialists including fingerprint technicians and forensic pathologists, plus interrogation
techniques. In the last four sessions, we would examine some notorious homicide cases. We would not examine the multiple homicides
on the North Fork of Long Island. I would make that very clear from the beginning.

The students in my course usually ranged from cop wannabes to visiting detectives here in New York on somebody else’s nickel,
some city and suburban uniformed cops who had their eye on the gold shield, or wanted a leg up on the promotion exams, plus,
now and then, a defense lawyer who would learn from me how to get his scumbag clients found not guilty on a technicality.

Once, I had a guy who never missed a session, listened to every word I said, got an A in the course, then went out and murdered
his wife’s boyfriend. He thought he’d committed the perfect crime, but a random eyewitness helped get him a room down the
hall from Old Sparky. Goes to show you. I think he still deserved the A.

I’d written my name on the blackboard, and under my name I wrote the name of the course for the would-be Sherlock Holmeses
who needed more than the instructor’s name and room number to be certain they were in the right place.

So, part of my deal with the NYPD was their cooperation regarding my three-quarter disability, the dropping of all contemplated
charges against me, and the department’s help in securing me an adjunct professorship and a two-year contract at John Jay
College of Criminal Justice. There is a strong connection between the NYPD and John Jay, so this wasn’t too difficult a task
for them to accomplish. For my part, all I had to do was retire and make positive public statements about the NYPD and my
superiors. I’m living up to my end. Every day when I’monthesubway,Isayaloudandpublicly, “The New York Police Department is
great. I love Lieutenant Wolfe.”

The bell rang, and I moved from the window to the rostrum. I said, “Good evening. I’m John Corey, formerly a homicide detective
with the NYPD. On your desk, you’ll find a general course outline, a list of required and recommended reading, and some suggested
topics for papers and projects.” I added, “You’ll all make in-class presentations of your projects.”
And this will cut down considerably on me having to give thirty hours of lecture.

I babbled on a bit about the course and about grades and attendance, and such. I caught the eyes of some of the students in
the first rows, and indeed they ran the gamut from eighteen to eighty, about half male and half female, whites, blacks, Asians,
Hispanics, a guy with a turban, two women with saris, and a priest with a Roman collar. Only in New York. What they all had
in common, I guess, was an interest in homicide detection. Murder is fascinating and frightening; it is the great taboo, the
one crime, perhaps, that every culture in every age has condemned as the Numero Uno offense against society, the tribe, the
clan, the individual.

So, I saw a lot of bright eyes and nodding heads as I spoke, and I guess we all wanted to be here, which was not always the
case in the classroom.

I said, “We’ll also examine some nonscientific approaches to the investigation such as the idea of hunches, instinct, and
intuition. We’ll try to define these—”

“Excuse me, Detective.”

I looked up and saw a hand raised and waving around in the last row.
Jeez.
At least wait until I finish my spiel. The hand was connected to a body, I guess, but the female who owned the hand had positioned
herself behind a huge guy and all I could see was the hand waving. I said, “Yes?”

Beth Penrose stood and I almost fell to the floor. She said, “Detective Corey, will you address the issues of lawful search
and seizure, and suspects’ rights regarding unlawful searches, and also how to get along with your partner without pissing
him or her off?”

The class laughed. I was not amused.

I cleared my throat and said, “I … Take a five-minute break in the classroom, and I’ll be right back.” I left the room and
walked down the hall. All the other classes were in session and the corridor was quiet. I stopped at the water fountain and
took a needed drink.

Beth Penrose stood a few feet away and watched me. I straightened up and regarded her awhile. She was wearing tight blue jeans,
hiking boots, and a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up and a few top buttons opened. This was more tomboyish than I would
have expected. I said, “How’s that bullet wound?”

“No problem. Just a graze, but it left a scar.”

“Tell your grandchildren about it.”

“Right.”

We stood looking at each other.

Finally, she said, “You never called me.”

“No, I never did.”

“Dom Fanelli has been kind enough to keep me up-to-date on you.”

“Has he? I’ll punch him in the nose when I see him.”

“No, you won’t. I like him. Too bad he’s married.”

“That’s what
he
says. Are you enrolled in this class?”

“Sure am. Fifteen sessions, two hours each, meet every Wednesday.”

“And you come all the way in from … where is it that you live?”

“Huntington. Takes less than two hours by car or by train. Class ends at nine so I’ll be home for the eleven o’clock news.”
She asked me, “How about you?”

“I’ll be home for the ten o’clock news.”

“I mean, what are you doing besides teaching?”

“That’s enough to do. Three day classes, one night class.”

“Do you miss the job?” she asked.

“I guess … yeah. I miss the job, the guys I worked with, the … sense of doing something … but I definitely don’t miss the
bureaucracy or the bullshit. It was time to move on. How about you? Still gung ho?”

“Sure. I’m a hero. They love me. I’m a credit to the force and to my gender.”

“I’m a credit to
my
gender.”

“Only your gender thinks so.” She laughed.

Obviously she was having a better conversation than I was.

She switched subjects and said, “I heard you’ve been out to speak to the Suffolk DA’s office a few times.”

“Yeah. They’re still trying to sort out what happened.” I added, “I’m being as helpful as I can considering my head injury,
which has caused selective amnesia.”

“I heard. Is that why you forgot to call me?”

“No. I didn’t forget.”

“Well, then …” She let it go and asked me, “Have you been out to the North Fork since—”

“No. And I’ll probably never go out there again. How about you?”

“I sort of fell in love with the place, and I bought a little weekend cottage in Cutchogue with a few acres, surrounded by
a farm. Reminds me of my father’s farm when I was a kid.”

I started to reply, but decided not to. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I figured that Beth Penrose wasn’t making
a three- or four-hour commute every Wednesday night just to hear the master’s words of wisdom, words that she’d already heard
and partly rejected in September. Obviously Ms. Penrose was interested in more than three college credits. I, on the other
hand, was just getting used to being unattached.

She said, “The local realtor told me your uncle’s place was sold.”

“Yeah. It sort of made me sad for some reason.”

She nodded. “Well, you can come visit me in Cutchogue any weekend.”

I looked at her and said, “But I should call first.”

She replied, “I’m alone. How about you?”

“What did my ex-partner tell you?”

“He said you’re alone.”

“But not lonely.”

“He just said you had no one special.”

I didn’t reply. I glanced at my watch.

She changed the subject and informed me, “My sources at the DA’s office said it’s going to trial. No plea bargaining. They
want a Murder One conviction with the death penalty.”

I nodded. I may not have mentioned this, but the eviscerated and scalped Fredric Tobin had survived. I was not too surprised
because I knew I hadn’t delivered a necessarily mortal wound. I’d avoided his arteries, avoided putting the blade in his heart
or cutting his throat, like I probably should have. Subconsciously, I think, I couldn’t commit murder, though if in my efforts
to subdue him, he’d died of shock or loss of blood, that would have been okay, too. As it stood now, he was sitting in an
isolation cell in the county jail, contemplating either a life behind bars with Bubba, or an electric jolt to his central
nervous system. Or maybe a lethal injection. I wish the state would make up its mind. I’m in favor of Old Sparky for Fredric,
and I would like to be one of the official witnesses to observe smoke coming out of his ears.

I’m not allowed to visit the little shit, but I made sure he had my home phone number. The little turd calls me every couple
of weeks from the slammer. I remind him that his life of wine, women, song, Porsches, powerboats, and trips to France is over,
and that someday soon, he will be taken out of his cell before dawn and executed. He, in turn, says he’ll beat the rap, and
I’d better be careful when he’s out. What a monumental ego this prick has.

Beth said, “I visited Emma Whitestone’s grave, John.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “They buried her in this beautiful old cemetery among all these other Whitestone graves. Some go back three hundred
years.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

Beth continued, “I only met her that one time, in your kitchen, but I liked her, and I felt I wanted to leave some flowers
on her grave. You should do the same.”

I nodded. I should go to Whitestone Florist and say hello, and I should have gone to the funeral, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Max asked about you.”

“I’m sure he did. He thinks I’m sitting on twenty million dollars in gold and jewels.”

“Are you?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m here to supplement my disability pay.”

“How’s the lung?”

“Fine.” I noticed that a few of my students had gotten restless and wandered out into the hall, heading for the rest rooms
or taking a smoke. I said to Beth, “I should get back.”

“Okay.”

We walked slowly down the hall together. She said, “Do you think they’ll ever find Captain Kidd’s treasure?”

“No. I think paranoid Paul Stevens hid it so well that it will stay hidden another three hundred years.”

“You’re probably right. Too bad.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it should stay wherever the hell it is.”

“Are you superstitious?”

“I wasn’t. Now I’m not so sure.”

We got to the door of my classroom.

She said, “I discovered there’s a swimming pool in this building. Do you ever use it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll bring my swimsuit next week. Okay?”

“Okay…. Beth?”

“Yes?”

“Well … is this going to be awkward?”

“No. But I expect an A in the course.”

I smiled.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I can’t be bribed.”

“Wanna bet?”

A few students in the room were looking at us, smiling and whispering.

We went into the classroom, me to the front, Beth to the back.

I said to the class, “We have another homicide detective with us, Detective Beth Penrose from the Suffolk County PD. Detective
Penrose’s name may be familiar to you from a recent and ongoing murder case on Long Island’s North Fork.” I added, “I worked
with her on that case, and we each learned something from the other’s distinctive style and techniques. Also, she saved my
life, so to repay her, I’m taking her out for drinks after class.”

Everyone applauded.