* * *
Back in my apartment on East Seventy-second Street after all these months, I noticed thirty-six messages on my answering machine, which was the maximum it would hold.
My cleaning lady had stacked the mail on the kitchen table and there was about ten pounds of the crap.
Amongst the bills and junk was my final divorce decree, which I stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.
I was about to give up on the piles of unwanted mad when a plain white envelope caught my eye. It was hand-addressed, and the return address was that of the Gordons, though the postmark said Indiana.
I opened the envelope and took out three sheets of lined paper, each side of which was filled with neat script, written in blue ink. I read:
Dear John, If you're reading this, it means we're dead — so, greetings from the grave.
I put down the letter, went to the fridge, and got a beer. I said, "Greetings from the land of the living dead."
I continued reading:
Did you know that Captain Kidd's treasure was buried close by? Well, by now, maybe you do know. You're a smart man, and we'll bet you figured out some of this. If not, here's the story.
I took a sip of beer and read the next three pages, which were a detailed chronicle of the events that had to do with Kidd's treasure, Plum Island, and the Gordons' involvement with Fredric Tobin. There were no surprises in the letter, just a few details that I'd missed. Regarding things about which I'd speculated, such as how the Plum Island location of the treasure was discovered, the Gordons wrote:
Not long after we arrived on Long Island, we received an invitation from Fredric Tobin to attend a wine tasting. We went to Tobin Vineyards for the event and met Fredric Tobin for the first time. Other invitations followed.
So began Fredric Tobin's seduction of the Gordons. At some point, according to the letter, Tobin showed them a rough map drawn on parchment but did not tell them how he'd come by it. The map was of "Pruym Eyland," complete with compass headings, paces, landmarks, and a big X. The remainder of that story was predictable, and before long, Tom, Judy, and Fredric had struck a devil's deal.
The Gordons made it clear they didn't trust Tobin and that he was probably the cause of their deaths, even if it was made to look like an accident or foreign agents or whatever. Tom and Judy had finally come to understand Fredric Tobin, but it took them too long and it was too late. There was no mention in their letter about Paul Stevens, about whom they were totally clueless.
It occurred to me that Tom and Judy were like the animals they worked with — innocent, dumb, and doomed from the first minute they stepped onto Plum Island.
The letter ended with:
We both like you and trust you very much, John, and we know you'll do everything you can to see that justice is done. Love, Tom and Judy.
I put down the letter and stared at nothing for a long time.
If this letter had reached me sooner, the last week of my life would have been far different. Certainly Emma would still be alive, though I'd probably never have met her.
A century ago, people occasionally came to a crossroads in their lives and had to choose a direction. Today, we live inside of microchips with a million paths opening and closing every nanosecond. What's worse, someone else is pushing the buttons.
* * *
After about half an hour of contemplating the meaning of life, the doorbell rang and I answered it. It was the cops, specifically some clowns from Internal Affairs who seemed annoyed with me for some reason. I went down to One Police Plaza with them to explain why I'd failed to return official phone calls and why I'd missed my appointment, not to mention my moonlighting as a Southold Township cop. My boss, Lieutenant Wolfe, was there, which sucked, but Dom Fanelli was there, too, and we had a nice reunion and a few laughs.
Anyway, the bosses went through this crap about all the trouble I was in, so I called my lawyer and my Detective Endowment Association rep, and by evening we were close to a deal.
That's life. The meaning of life has not much to do with good and evil, right and wrong, duty, honor, country, or any of that. It has to do with cutting the right deal.
CHAPTER 38
Alight 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'm on the subway, I say aloud and publicly, "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.