There’s no volunteer behind the horseshoe desk in the lobby today, just a family sitting on the couches in a small anxious knot, a mom and a dad and a kid, and they look up as I walk past, as if I might have the bad news they’re waiting for. I nod apologetically and then I stand there, turning in all directions, trying to orient myself, looking for Elevator B.
A nurse in scrubs rushes past me, stops at a doorway, mutters, “Oh, shoot,” and turns back the other way.
I think I’ve figured out which way I’m going, and I take two steps and experience a pulse of intense pain from my bandaged eye. I gasp, raise my hand to it, shake it off, no time just now.
The pain, because—what was it that Dr. Wilton told me while winding gauze around my head? The hospital is experiencing a shortage of palliative resources.
Facts are connecting themselves, glowing to life in my memory and then connecting themselves, one to the other, forming pictures like constellations. But there is no joy, I feel no pleasure at all, because my face hurts, and my side where the gun barrel dug into it, the back of my head where it banged against the wall, and I’m thinking, Palace, you dunce. Because if I could just go back in time and see things clearer, see them correctly quicker, I would have solved the Zell case—and there would be no Eddes case. Naomi would not be dead at all.
The elevator door slides open and I step inside.
No one else gets on; it’s just me, the tall quiet policeman with one eye, running his fingers up and down the sign, like a blind man reading Braille, trying to read the answers off the sign.
I ride it for a while, a few times up, a few times down. “Where,” I mutter to myself, “where could you be keeping it?” Because somewhere in this building is a place analogous to the doghouse at J. T. Toussaint’s, where presale product and ill-gotten gains are being hoarded. But a hospital is a place full of places—storerooms and surgeries, office suites and hallways—especially a hospital like this one, chaotic, chopped up, frozen midrenovation, it’s a place full of places.
At last I call it quits and get off in the basement and find Dr. Fenton in her office, down a short hallway from the morgue, a small and immaculate office decorated with fresh flowers and family pictures and a print of Mikhail Baryshnikov, the Bolshoi Ballet, 1973.
Fenton looks surprised and not pleased to see me, like I’m a garden pest, a raccoon maybe, she thought she was rid of.
“What?”
I tell her what I need done and ask her how long that takes, typically. She scowls, and says, “Typically?” like the word no longer has meaning, but I say, “Yes, typically.”
“Typically, between ten days and three weeks,” she says. “Although, the Hazen Drive staff being what it is, at present, I imagine it would be more like four to six weeks.”
“Okay—well—can you do it by the morning?” I ask, and I’m waiting for the scornful bray of laughter, bracing myself, thinking how I’m going to beg for it.
But she takes off her glasses, gets up from her chair, and looks at me carefully. “Why are you trying so hard to solve this murder?”
“I mean—” I hold up my hands. “Because it’s unsolved.”
“Okay,” she says, and tells me she’ll do it, as long as I promise never to call her or seek her out again, for any reason, forever.
And then, on my way back to the elevator, I find it, the place I was looking for, and I gasp, my jaw drops open and I literally gasp, and I say, “Oh, my God,” my voice echoing down the concrete basement hallway, and then I turn and run back to ask Fenton for one more thing.
My cell phone isn’t working. No bars. No service. It’s getting worse.
I can picture them in my mind: untended cell towers tilting over slowly and then falling, connecting cables drooping, dead.
I drive back to the library, put quarters in the meter. I wait in line for the phone booth, and when it’s my turn I reach Officer McConnell at home.
“Oh, hey, Palace,” she says. “You work upstairs. You want to tell me what on earth is going on over there? With the chiefs?”
“I don’t know.” Mysterious men in sunglasses. McGully, something’s fucked. “I need your help with something, Officer. Do you have any clothes that aren’t pants?”
“What?”
McConnell writes down where she’s supposed to go and when, where Dr. Fenton will meet her in the morning. There’s a line forming outside the phone booth. The old lady with the wire cart from the hardware store is back, waving her arms at me, like, hello, and behind her is a businessman type in a brown suit, with a briefcase, and a mom with twin girls. I flash my badge through the glass of the phone booth and duck down, trying to arrange myself comfortably in this tiny wooden room.
I raise Detective Culverson on the CB and I tell him that I solved the case.
“You mean, your hanger?”
“Yeah. And your case, too. Eddes.”
“What?”
“Your case, too,” I say. “Same killer.”
I run over the whole thing for him, and then there’s a long pause, radio crackling in the silence, and he says that’s quite a lot of police work I’ve been doing.
“Yeah.”
He says the same thing I said to McConnell last week: “You’re going to be a great detective one day.”
“Yep,” I say. “Right.”
“Are you coming back to headquarters?”
“No,” I say. “Not today.”
“Good,” he says. “Don’t.”
4.
Even in the most quiescent policing environments, there is that occasional violent and random incident, where someone is murdered for no good reason in broad daylight on a busy street or in a parking lot.
The entire Concord Police Department was on hand for my mother’s funeral, and they all rose and stood at attention as the coffin was carried in—fourteen staff members and eighty-six officers in their uniform blues, stiff as statues, saluting. Rebecca Forman, the force’s certified public accountant, a sturdy middle-aged lady with salt-and-pepper hair, seventy-four years old, dissolved into sobs and had to be escorted out. The only person who remained seated was Professor Temple Palace, my father; he sat slackly in his pew throughout the short service, dull-eyed, eyes staring straight ahead, like a man waiting for a bus, his twelve-year-old son and six-year-old daughter standing wide-eyed on either side of him. He sat there, just sort of slumped against my hip, looking more perplexed than grief-stricken, and you could tell right there—I could tell—he wasn’t going to make it.
I am sure that in retrospect what was hard for my father the English professor was not just the simple fact of her death, but the irony: that his wife, who sat from nine to five Monday through Friday behind bulletproof glass in a police station, should be shot through the heart by a thief in the T.J. Maxx parking lot on a Saturday afternoon.
Just to give you a sense of how low the crime rate was in Concord at that time: in the year in question, 1997, according to FBI records, my mother was the only person killed. Which means that, retrospectively, my mother’s odds of falling victim to a murderer in Concord, in that year, came in at one in forty thousand.
But that’s how it works: no matter what the odds of a given event, that one-in-whatever-it-is has to come in at some point, or it wouldn’t be a one-in-whatever chance. It would be zero.
After the wake, my father looked at the kitchen, his glasses sitting on his nose, his eyes large and confused, and said to his children, “Well, now, what are we going to do for dinner?” and he meant not just tonight but forever. I smiled uneasily at Nico. The clock was ticking. He wasn’t going to make it.