Red Leaves by Paullina Simons
Or both.
Another swig, and the drink was now gone. To get more would’ve required more effort than Spencer was prepared to make. The emptiness and the aching he was feeling inside could not be filled with whiskey. He was sure it could not be filled with Southern Comfort, not even a whole bottle of it, and he was sure Kristina’s emptiness couldn’t have been either.
Kristina hadn’t deserved to die.
But what did Spencer know? He hardly knew her. Maybe she had deserved to die. Maybe dying had been her only redemption. But somehow he doubted it. Her dying didn’t seem redemptive, it just seemed like dying.
Dying young.
Dying before one’s time, dying too soon, not meant to die, why her, no, too much, too much to bear, too much to endure alone, she was in the prime of her life, she was full of life, she was so full of life, she hadn’t even had any babies yet, but God knows she wanted to, God knows they were trying, Andrea, Andie. You were too young to die. I hope you remember our honeymoon, our five days in Paris, sitting in the pit of the underground because the subways were paralyzed by bomb threats, walking in the rain around Versailles, eating baked Alaska on the boat trip on the Seine, and making love on an old bed that creaked. Five days. We made plans to come back to Paris when it wasn’t rainy season, maybe sometime in the spring. But spring came and you were already dead, head-on, hundred-mile-an-hour collision, when we found you, you were in the backseat of your killer’s car, right through your windshield and his windshield. If he hadn’t died, I would’ve killed him myself. You were the passenger; your girlfriend, the driver, she survived. But she was nothing to me. I didn’t find her in the backseat of another car. Just you.
What killed Kristina? Andie, I kind of liked her. She reminded me a little of you. The hair, or the eyes. The sweet smile. You had a pair of black leather boots, but you weren’t unceremoniously buried in the snow for nine days with nobody looking for you. When you died, we all knew. You didn’t lie there for nine days without your family mourning you.
How long is Kristina going to be in the morgue, pre-autopsy, post-autopsy, before someone claims her thawed-out body, before someone steps forward and says, It’s me, she’s mine, can I have her? I love her and I’m going to miss her. She is my daughter, God, my only girl! Or one of seven, she is my sister, my only sister, or my oldest. She is my wife. She was my wife, and I loved her and I buried her and myself along with her, and for the last five years I’ve been trying to claw out of the grave, little by little, inch by inch. I thought I was doing pretty good, and you, Kristina, made me look forward to Friday, but now I’m looking forward to nighttime again, to the oblivion of the night, or to the high noon of the day, when the sun is too bright for me to grieve much.
Spencer fell asleep in the chair. When he awoke, just before dawn, he stumbled up and went to sink into his bed. The days of his falling asleep, clothes and all, in the chair, night in and night out, were over.
Spencer woke up around nine o’clock on Friday morning, about an hour late for work. He had a terrible headache. A strong cup of coffee, white and sweet, usually cured it fast. There was no coffee in the house, though. Spencer kept it that way deliberately. Got him out of the house fast. Today was no exception; there was a lot to do.
Today Spencer put on his only suit. It was similar to the one he had worn to Andie’s funeral. Showered, shaved, white-shirted, and somber-tied, Spencer left his apartment, where there was no coffee and no food, and went down to the local Mobil Mart, where the smell of fresh brew almost made Mobil Mart homey.
He called in to the police station from his car radio and then drove to the Hanover city hall and courthouse, where he obtained a search warrant for Kristina’s room.
While on the phone with Kyle, Spencer asked the dispatcher if Concord had been notified of the homicide. Kyle said he didn’t know but he thought so. Fell was supposed to be taking care of that. Friday was Chief Gallagher’s day off from the office. Friday was Gallagher’s day to play golf, to drive to Haverhill forty-five miles north to the Major Crimes Unit, or sometimes to drive to Concord. Spencer asked Kyle what the chief was doing today. Kyle said he was taking his daughter to the mall to buy her a confirmation dress or something.
Just great, thought Spencer. We’ve got a possible murder and the entire investigation is in the hands of a thirty-year-old Irish small-town cop, Will, a former male nurse, and Raymond Fell, the guy who gives police cameras to his aunt in Cleveland. ‘When the Concord men come, tell them I’m at the college, and get me on my radio, okay? Where is Fell now?’ Fell was in his patrol unit somewhere around Lebanon. ‘I hope he called Landers. I need the victim’s room dusted.’
‘Yeah,’ Kyle said. ‘Ed called this morning. He’ll be up around noon.’
Spencer’s first stop was the office of admissions in McNutt Hall, where he asked to see Kristina’s college entrance application. He needed to find out if she had relatives. The admissions clerk was reluctant to give him the records, which apparently were confidential. Spencer had to assure the earnest girl that confidentiality was no longer an issue. What was more important was having Kristina properly buried when the time came. The clerk was suspicious and relented only after her supervisor was called. She pulled Kristina’s admissions application. Spencer took it and sat down in one of the big plush couches in the comfortable and quiet room.
Last name, Kim. First name, Kristina. Any other names? NO, the application said. Birthdate, November 22, 1972. That’s right, she’d just turned twenty-one, Spencer thought.
I remember when I turned twenty-one. My six brothers and my best friend Matt and I went to Port Jefferson and got tanked. There was a fight – some kid was forcibly undressed, then beaten right on Port Jeff’s Main Street. Drunk as I was, I actually had to make an arrest. I had to call for help because I couldn’t drive the two punks to the station myself. That was my twenty-first birthday.
Kristina’s twenty-first birthday was the second-to-last day of her life.
Spencer continued reading the application. It gave some address in Brooklyn, New York. Spencer would have to check it out. He skipped down. He needed the next of kin. Ah, here it is – mother’s name: Katherine Morgan. Address: unknown.
Unknown? Spencer quickly looked down for the father. John Henry. Deceased. Siblings: none.
Things were worse than Spencer had imagined. But at least there would be no parents claiming the body of their beloved daughter. God, though! Somebody had to claim her. Spencer felt it was his personal responsibility to ensure that someone came forth for Kristina.
Her application raised more questions than it answered. Katherine Morgan? John Henry what? John Henry Kim? What did it mean?
Other information on the application was even less helpful. Kristina had gone to a preparatory school in Brooklyn Heights. She received financial aid through grants, a small loan, college work-study – Red Leaves – and the rest of tuition, room, and board came from her maternal grandmother,
Louise Morgan. No address for Mrs Morgan, though. Was that the grandmother who lived on Lake Winnipesaukee?
Spencer quickly checked Kristina’s high school transcripts and her SAT scores; all were very good. She wasn’t just a jock.
He decided to go to the Dartmouth infirmary on North Main Street near the former Mary Hitchcock Memorial Hospital to check Kristina’s emergency contact information. Louise Morgan was listed as the only emergency contact. Spencer knew there was no point in calling the number. Louise Morgan was dead.
Without leaving the infirmary, Spencer called information for Brooklyn.
‘Kim,’ he said. First name or last? Any first names? He was going to say Kristina, but that was idiotic, so he said no.
No Kims in Brooklyn Heights, the operator told him. How about Morgan? He got three Morgans. Phone calls to each yielded him two message machines and one I don’t know any Kristina, sorry. He hung up on the recordings. What was he going to do, say, I’m sorry, but this is Spencer O’Malley with the Hanover, Ne
He decided to try something else. He called the private school she had gone to. Kristina Kim? No, sorry. Oh, when? Four years ago? Hold on? Ah, yes, Kim, Kristina. Yes, she went to our school. Home address was the one Spencer had in hand. Do you have a home phone for her? Yes, but from four years ago. Better than nothing, said Spencer. He called that number only to be told that it was disconnected and there was no new number. Another dead end.
Now was the time to use the search warrant. Her room surely would contain more information than his two hours at the college had yielded him.
But he couldn’t go to the room alone. He waited for Will Baker to meet him with the fingerprint man from Concord.
Spencer did not eat as he waited impatiently for Ed Landers with his gloves and talcum powder and Will Baker with his notepad and his plastic bags. Time was ticking away. While waiting, Spencer placed a call to copy desks of the New York Post, New York Daily News, New York Times, and New York Newsday and asked them for help. A girl, listed with a residence in Brooklyn, had been found dead under suspicious circumstances and there was no family to contact. Could they maybe run something?
Then Spencer took a walk to Kristina’s bridge. It was daylight and the bridge didn’t look mysterious at all. He didn’t get up on the wall this time, he just walked slowly across the bridge, made a right at the conifers, and strolled the meandering path to the death scene. He proceeded to take off the yellow tape. There was no death scene anymore. Just the trees, and the snow and the cold pines. And ruffled snow where Kristina had been. Spencer stopped briefly on the path and looked down to where she had lain buried. This place was eerie, even in daylight. A little farther, Spencer went off the path and made his way carefully through the woods, coming down to Tuck Drive. He looked around. Tuck Drive was nestled in the valley of two steep wooded hills. He had just come down from one. Spencer crossed the road and slowly trudged up the other, making his way past the sharp, low-hanging branches of trees, brushing past the needles of the conifers. The snow soaked his good-for-nothing boots. He emerged panting and wet at the secluded westernmost end of Webster Avenue. The first house on his right was Phi Beta Epsilon.
How fluky, thought Spencer, knocking on the door. Someone yelled for him to come in. He went in and showed his badge to a grungy guy in oversized clothes sprawled out on the couch. ‘Is Frankie Absalom here?’ he asked.
Frankie wasn’t in, Spencer was told. He’d gone home for the weekend.
‘Please tell him,’ Spencer said, ‘that Detective Spencer Patrick O’Malley was looking for him and needs to talk to him about an urgent matter as soon as he returns.’
The guy in the living room nodded and went back to his book, but Spencer couldn’t let it go. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but we dug a body out of the snow yesterday, and Frankie was one of the last people to see this girl alive. I need to speak with him urgently. Can you help me?’
The grungy guy shook his head. ‘Can’t help you, man. Don’t know where he lives in Boston. Try his friend, Albert something.’
‘Albert Maplethorpe?’
‘Yeah, him. They hang out together. Albert will know.’
‘I asked him. He doesn’t know.’
The guy shrugged; his fingers never left the pages of the book he was reading.
Spencer left Epsilon House and jogged back to McNutt, where he pulled Frankie’s application and got his family’s address and phone number. He called, using his calling card, from a public phone on the first floor. The building was quiet.
‘Hello? This is Detective Spencer Patrick O’Malley from the Hanover Police Department. Is Franklin Absalom there, please?’
‘Yes. Is everything all right?’ said a concerned maternal voice.
‘Everything’s fine, ma’am,’ replied Spencer. ‘I just need to talk to Frankie for a couple of minutes.’
‘I see. Yes. Yes, of course. He’s still sleeping, I think, let me – hold on, please.’
Spencer heard ‘Franklin!’ being shouted several times before a groggy voice came on another line. ‘Yes?’
‘Frankie?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Spencer Patrick O’Malley from the Hanover Police Department. Do you have a couple of minutes?’
‘Yes.’ Frankie didn’t sound groggy now.
‘Could you hang up, please, ma’am?’ said Spencer. ‘This will only take a couple of minutes.’
The mother’s nervous voice said yes, and then the other phone was hung up.
‘Frankie, how long have you been down in Boston?’
‘I never came back after Thanksgiving.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just – I don’t know. I needed some rest.’
‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to bring you bad news.’ Spencer paused. ‘Do you know why I’m calling?’
There was no answer. Spencer waited.
‘Frankie?’
‘I hope – everything’s all right.’ His voice was unsteady.
‘No. Kristina Kim was found dead yesterday.’
Frankie breathed in sharply, and for some minutes all Spencer heard was erratic breathing, punctuated by dry moans.
‘Frankie?’
‘Y-y-yes?’ His voice was broken and quiet. ‘God, I –’
A few more minutes passed. Spencer looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Ed and Will were probably waiting for him.
‘Frankie, I’m very sorry. Very sorry to bring you bad news. Just a few questions, and I’ll be on my way.’
‘How?’ Frankie interrupted. ‘What happened?’
Spencer didn’t mind answering this time. Frankie seemed to be taking Kristina’s death to heart. Spencer felt sympathy for him.
‘She was found in a three-foot-high drift of snow.’
‘Was she …’ Frankie couldn’t continue. After a while, he said, ‘Was she hurt?’
Hurt? What a strange question.
‘Like … how do you mean?’ Spencer said slowly.
‘I mean …’ Frankie was having trouble getting his words out. ‘I mean, was she, you know, hurt?’
Spencer considered the question again, his eyes widening. Rummaging in his pockets, he told Frankie to hold on while he found his microcassette recorder and turned it on close to the receiver. Then he answered, ‘Frankie, she was found dead under snow. Does that fall into the category of hurt?’
When Frankie didn’t answer, Spencer asked, ‘Or do you mean, was she raped or butchered?’
‘Yes,’ Frankie quickly replied.
‘No,’ Spencer answered just as quickly. ‘She wasn’t butchered. Now, are you up to a few questions?’
‘Oh sure,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m sorry. This is just …’ He sobbed. ‘Awful. Just awful.’
Spencer said, yes, and then asked Frankie when was the last time he remembered seeing Kristina.
‘Kristina?’ Frankie said, as if hearing her name for the first time. ‘Last time?’
‘Yes.’ Are you buying time, Frankie? thought Spencer, wishing he could see Frankie’s face.
‘Well, I haven’t been back this week.’
‘Frankie!’ said Spencer firmly, beginning to lose his patience. ‘Please. The last time you saw her.’
‘Okay, let me think … I guess before I left for home.’
‘Right. When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I’m trying to remember.’ His voice had a different quality to it from before. ‘We played cards on Tuesday night.’
‘The last time you saw her, Frankie,’ repeated Spencer.
‘Yeah. Tuesday, I guess.’
‘You guess?’ Spencer said, exasperated.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Frankie, listen to me very carefully now. I don’t have a lot of time. A girl’s been found dead. I don’t want to have to come to Boston to get you, and I don’t want to think you’re keeping secrets. So let’s have it. Last time you saw her.’
Frankie breathed in and out several times before he answered. ‘Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday morning?’ Frankie paused and then said quietly, ‘I saw her walking the bridge.’
Yes. Still clutching the tape recorder, Spencer pressed his left hand to his heart. Yes.
‘You did,’ Spencer finally said. ‘Good. What time was that?’
‘Let’s see.’ Frankie said as if he were buying time. ‘Let’s see now. I guess it must have been around one a.m. or so. Maybe one-oh-five. Around there.’
‘One, one-oh-five. That’s pretty precise. How’d you know?’
‘I looked at my watch and thought of going back home ‘cause it was so late, and then looked out the window and saw her.’
‘Why did you look out the window?’
‘I – I was waiting for her to walk the wall.’
‘Were you watching her?’ Spencer asked hesitantly.
‘No. It’s nothing like that. More, like, watching out for her.’
‘Okay, tell me what happened. Everything.’
‘Right. Everything. Okay.’
‘Frankie, are you covering up for someone?’ Spencer said loudly.
‘No, no one.’
‘Because if you are it could make you an accessory to murder.’
‘Of course. I know that. You don’t have to tell me that. I understand. Listen – I told you everything. Last Tuesday, we finished playing cards. I won, as usual. But there was some tension in the room. We were all on edge.’
‘Yeah, I heard something about that.’ Spencer tried to hurry Frankie along. ‘You were supposed to meet Albert in your room.’