The Genius (11 page)

I saw, too, pages of transcripts: interviews with neighbors, with local business owners, with the Cardinales, with Eddie’s friends who had been at the park. I saw the coroner’s report and the accompanying photographs. I saw a map of Queens marked with the location of the body and the location of the Cardinales’ home in Jackson Heights—a distance of less than a mile. Less than a mile from either was another spot, one not marked on the map but whose proximity to Eddie Cardinale’s walk of death was all too clear to me: Muller Courts.

Finally, I registered McGrath’s words. I looked at him. “Pardon?”

“There was another before him,” he said. “Nobody connected the two until they assigned a new detective to the case.”

He didn’t need to tell me that he was the detective in question; I knew it from his proprietary mien. I sound the same way when I talk about my artists.

“Back then we didn’t have computers. You kept everything on paper, and that made it easy to miss connections, even with a lot of overlap.” He began digging through the file box, removed another large trove of evidence marked STRONG, H. “This kid, Henry Strong, disappeared about a month before Eddie Cardinale, on the Fourth of July. His family was having a party, and he wanders off. Witnesses were all drunk, and nobody can tell us a damn thing, except an uncle, who reports seeing a colored guy in a leather jacket. They never found a body.”

“Victor Cracke wasn’t colo— black.”

“You said in the article that you didn’t know what he looked like.”

“I know he was white,” I said. “That much I know.”

McGrath shrugged. “All right. Frankly I think the guy who told us that was just trying to make himself feel useful. We never considered it a fruitful line of inquiry.”

I said nothing.

“Do you want to see the rest?” he asked.

I asked how many more he meant by
the rest
.

“Three.”

I took a deep breath and shook my head.

“You don’t?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

He seemed surprised. “If you say so.” He closed Henry Strong’s file and set it back in the box. “Did you have a chance to bring that drawing?”

At McGrath’s behest, I had brought a color photocopy of the central panel, the one with the five-pointed star and the dancing Cherubs. The original I’d left behind; no reason to overhandle an already delicate piece of art.

“I forgot it,” I lied.

If I imagined myself protecting Victor, I thought wrong; lying could only make him—and me—seem more suspect. Immediately I saw the futility of what I’d done, but what could I do at that point? Take it back? Before he could express disappointment I asked for a glass of water.

“In the fridge,” he said.

I went to the kitchen and stood in front of the open refrigerator. The house had no air-conditioning and I let the cool roll over me as I absentmindedly touched packages of sliced ham, a half-eaten block of white cheddar, a jar of kosher dills. On the door, adjacent to a carton of OJ and a plastic pitcher full of water, I saw more medications, amber bottles labeled KEEP REFRIGERATED. What did he have? I vowed to be brave enough to ask him.

But McGrath got the jump on me, and when I returned I almost coughed out my water at the sight of him spreading out photos of the other three victims, lining them up like a team portrait: Victor’s Victims. The phrase flashed through my head and I let out a startled laugh.

“I…” I began but found I had nothing to say. There
was
nothing to say. What was there to say? Every one of the murdered boys was a Cherub, a perfect five for five.

“All strangled, all within seven miles of one another. If you include Henry Strong, that’s starting on July 4, 1966. The last one happens in the fall of 67. Well,” he said, “so far as I know. I’d be willing to bet there’s others that match the MO, later on or in other places. What do you think?”

“Pardon?” I said.

“Do you think I should cast a wider net?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Fair enough. Doesn’t hurt to solicit an opinion, right?” He laughed, again dissolving in coughs.

“Right.” I felt uneasy, as though McGrath was softening me up before springing some trap: the damning revelation that I had Victor Cracke hidden in my walk-in closet.

Which, of course, I did not. I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“I wish I could be more helpful,” I said.

“There’s nothing you know about. The places he liked to hang out, maybe?”

“I have his address,” I said, before correcting, “where he
used
to live. He left long before I came on the scene.”

“Where was that, anyhow? The article said in Queens but didn’t specify where.”

“It did. Muller Courts.”

“Did it?” McGrath picked up the
Times
and slid his reading glasses on. “I must be going senile.” He read. “Indeed. I stand corrected. Weeell”—he tossed the paper aside and picked up the map of Queens—“we can probably guess the punchline.” With a pen he dotted the locations of the other three bodies. They fanned out neatly from Cracke’s neighborhood, as close as a half-mile and as distant as Forest Hills.

“The last one,” he said. “Abie Kahn.” He picked up a photo of a boy in a yarmulke. Without referring to the file, he told me the date of the disappearance: September 29, 1967. “A Friday afternoon. His father’s a handyman, runs ahead to the synagogue to fix a leak in the rabbi’s office before the Sabbath services. Abie is messing around in the house, his mother finally yells at him to get moving, he’s going to be late. Nobody’s on the street at that time—they’re either already in the synagogue or at home getting dinner ready. Abie sets out on foot and never gets there. He was ten.”

At that point I began to wonder if McGrath knew I was lying about the drawing—if he meant for the macabre lineup to plumb my conscience.

“That’s my daughter,” he said, following my gaze, which had until that moment been out of focus. The daughter in question, her picture adjacent to the kitchen, a waify brunette with a studious expression, did not resemble McGrath so much as echo his intensity. On the other side of the doorway hung another photo, also of a woman, similarly shaped but more severe, older than the first by five or six years.

“My other daughter.”

I nodded.

“You have kids?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

“There’s time,” he said.

“I don’t want children,” I said.

“Well, all right.”

The crash of the ocean; Springsteen on the radio; gleeful shrieks.

“My car is waiting for me,” I said.

McGrath stood. Rising from his chair left him out of breath, rheumy and sallow and smiling like Bela Lugosi.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

He stopped at the edge of the porch, explaining that if he went down the stairs I’d have to carry him back up, and that didn’t make much sense, now did it?

I agreed it didn’t.

“You’ll let me know,” he said, shaking my hand, “if you turn up anything.”

“Sure thing.”

“You have my number.”

I touched my breast pocket, where I’d placed the Post-it he’d given me. “All right, then,” he said. “Drive safe.”

More time had passed than I realized, and if the driver had in fact decided to come back for me, he was gone by the time I found my way out of the maze and into the cooperative’s parking lot. The pub had swelled with happy-hour patrons, and I encountered a host of curious stares as I entered and asked the bartender for the number of a local car service.

“You can try,” she said, “but they don’t like to work too much.”

Thirty minutes later I called the dispatch again, wondering where the fuck my car was. The man at the other end did not seem inclined to help me, so I went back into the bar and got the number for a second service, who told me they had no cars available.

By that time I had been waiting for over an hour, and my options had dwindled to two: get to the subway—itself a good five miles away—or call a friend. I tried Marilyn, who did not pick up. Nor did any of my other friends who owned cars, friends I could count on one hand. I called Ruby, who offered to get in a cab, drive out, and bring me back; but rush hour meant the outbound portion of the trip alone would take more than an hour. I told her not to go anywhere yet and walked back to McGrath’s house.

This time I found it myself, although I did make several wrong turns. I knocked and footsteps came swiftly, making me wonder if he had been malingering to draw sympathy.

“Yes?” The woman who answered wore a gray pantsuit, a black cotton blouse, simple silver earrings in the shape of fleurs-de-lis. I recognized her as the younger daughter, much better looking in real life than in her photo, which made her seem like the Captain of the Debate Team. Had she been there the entire time?

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Ethan,” I said.

“Can I help you, Ethan?”

“I was just here,” I said. “With your father. My car didn’t pick me up. Would you mind if I came in for a moment to ask him for—I need a number, so I can—I can get back home.” I paused to appreciate the inanity of the preceding paragraph. Not lost on her, I noticed.

“I live in Manhattan,” I added.

From inside, McGrath called, “Sammy?”

“Is that him? Tell him I’m here. Ethan Muller.”

The woman gave me another quick up-and-down. “Hold on,” she said, and closed the door in my face. A short while later she returned, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. He hates solicitors.”

(Did I really look like a Jehovah’s Witness?)

“I don’t know what it is about Breezy Point,” she said, allowing me inside, “but we have a hard time getting taxis out here. They think it’s in Jersey or something. I’m Samantha, by the way.”

“Ethan.”

“There’s a neighborhood guy who drives a cab.” She dialed for me and handed me the phone.

“Thank you.” I let it ring ten times. “I don’t think he’s picking up.”

“Sammy.” McGrath’s voice crawled down the stairs. He sounded half dead.

“Coming.” To me: “If you can wait a few minutes I’ll drive you to the subway.”

I told her that would be fine and sat down at the dining-room table. Samantha went into the kitchen. I heard her draining a pot into the sink. She emerged with her hands in a dishtowel and set a glass of water in front of me before proceeding upstairs.

Alone, I went into the kitchen. Samantha didn’t seem to be much of a cook. A mop of spaghetti dripped from a colander in the sink. Nearby sat an unopened jar of marinara sauce. Saddened by the sorry state of her dinner—or was it his, or both of theirs?—I poured the sauce into the empty pan and put it over heat.

Upstairs, I heard Samantha arguing with her father, the words indistinct but the tone clear enough: pleading, and failing. Amazing how much you can tell about a song without understanding the lyrics; the frustration she sang broke my heart a bit, and mine is a heart not easily broken, not when it comes to fathers.

As I listened to her, the same thought kept occurring to me: if I were her, I would’ve left a long time ago—had I bothered to go upstairs at all. I thought about my own father, sending me imperious messages via Tony Wexler.
Your father wants. Your father would like. Your father would prefer
. What a nightmare my life would be if my family couldn’t afford intermediaries.

Upstairs, I heard Samantha say, “
Dammit
, Dad.”

The sauce began to bubble. I stirred it and lowered the flame.

She came downstairs half an hour later, apologizing. “He’s in a mood.” Then, noticing the saucepan, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s better warm.”

“He says he’s not hungry.” She rubbed her forehead. “He’s very stubborn.”

I nodded.

She stayed in that position for a moment longer: heel of hand ironing her brow, her fingers curled like a shell. She had a lovely pouting mouth, and her cheeks were brushed with freckles subdued by office work. Did she run a shipping center? Was she in publishing? Administrative assistant at an investment bank? I decided I wasn’t giving her enough credit. She was, I decided, the kind of girl who had made good on her parents’ hard work. Probably she was a social worker.…

As I watched her calm herself down, the similarity between her and her father sharpened. What I had earlier interpreted as intensity I now understood as stoicism. Upstairs, her father began to cough and there was almost nothing on her face—just the slightest strengthening of resolve, the slightest narrowing of the eyes and tightened jaw. She was hardly the most glamorous woman I knew, but standing there, unconcerned with what I thought of her predicament, she had an unvarnished quality that I found oddly attractive. I didn’t meet many girls-next-door.

She said, “I’ll take you to the train.”

We walked to the parking lot. Her Toyota had a police placard in the windshield.

“You’re a cop,” I said.

She shook her head. “DA.”

During the short ride we fell into conversation. She laughed—a big, snorty laugh—when I told her about her father’s first phone call.

“Oh boy,” she said. “That thing again, huh. Well, good luck with it.”

“With what.”

“He said you were helping him out.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“I take it you don’t agree.”

“I’d like to help him,” I said. “I can’t. I spent a fair amount of time explaining that to him.”

“He seemed to think you were very helpful.”

“If he says so.”

She smiled. “Sometimes,” she said, “he gets
ideas
.”

At the subway I thanked her for the ride.

“Thank you for coming out,” she said.

“You’re welcome, although I really don’t know that I’ve done anything.”

“You’ve given him something to do,” she said. “You don’t know how much that’s worth.”

It had been a long time since I’d ridden the subway. Growing up, public transport was off-limits; I took cabs or cars or, when accompanied by Tony, a 1957 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith chauffeured by a silent Belgian named Thom. I can’t call Tony’s fear of the MTA entirely illegitimate. Think about what New York City was like back in the 1980s, and then put me—an underweight white preppie with anger issues—on one of those filthy, ungoverned trains, and you have real reason for concern. Of course, blanket restrictions on my freedom made me all the more likely to buy a token or, if I felt particularly rebellious, jump a turnstile.
Viva la revolución
.