Scene Stealer (8 page)

“Did you touch anything?” Lieutenant Brown asked the hairdresser.

“Oh, my Gawd. No! I took one look and ran.” The woman's complexion under her heavy make-up was an anemic white. She still clutched the can of soda. “I was only gone a couple of minutes,” she said. “Mr. Barton said he was feeling thirsty. A lot of guests get thirsty. Their mouths get dry. Nerves, you know. He asked me to get him a Diet Coke. My Gawd! This is his Coke.” She stared at the can.

“Where was the hair-dryer when you left the room?”

“On the cabinet next to the sink. We always keep it there.” Shaking, she shifted the soft drink from hand to hand, unable to put it down.

“Which shelf?” I asked.

“The top one. So it would be handy. Above the shelf with the shampoos and conditioners.”

“Was the hair-dryer plugged in?” Lieutenant Brown and I both asked the same question.

“Miss Weidenmaier, will you please wait with the others.”

“Perhaps, Lieutenant, the identity of the perpetrator may be found on a security camera?”

Lieutenant Brown turned a glare that was meant for me on a young recruit nearby. “Escort this lady to the Green Room.”

It was my turn to glare. “Lieutenant Brown, Bertram Barton was my student. I should like to be of assistance in finding his murderer.”

Timothy Brown gazed at the ceiling for a moment as if the answers to all his problems were to be found there.

“I understand your feelings, Miss Weidenmaier.” He spoke in a condescending manner—more suited to discourse with a five-year-old. “But the police department has certain rules that must be followed just as schoolteachers have rules and procedures. Surely you understand that? Now you will be informed as soon as a determination is made. Besides, there is the possibility of an accident.”

“Young man, I have never talked down to a student. I would appreciate your granting me the same courtesy. We both know that hair-dryer did not dive into the sink!”

“My Gawd!” The can of soda struck the floor. The recruit released my arm, and with one spring, managed to catch the hairdresser and make a comfortable cushion for her fall.

I thought my behavior professional, but Lieutenant Brown ordered me to stop my amateur sleuthing. The last thing I wanted to do was upset dear Lieutenant Brown; he had quite enough on his plate. I hid my hands in my lap, crossed my fingers and made him the promise he expected—children claim a promise doesn't count if you cross your fingers. I neglected to mention my upcoming visit with Kevin's father, Captain Charles Corcoran.

His doctor resisted my efforts to find out the nature of the captain's illness but I managed to convince the man my visit would be just the right medicine. Something I said must have given him the impression I had been Captain Corcoran's favorite grade-school teacher.

10:00 a.m. the next morning when I left my apartment, the temperature had climbed past eighty degrees Fahrenheit. A record-breaking temperature according to the weather report; it was much too warm for a fall day. I dabbed the beads of perspiration from my forehead and unbuttoned my tweed jacket; wishing I hadn't packed away my summer clothes.

The subway had been stifling, the atmosphere fetid. I navigated past spilled soda pop that left sticky patches on the car floor to the disgust of all but a buzzing horse-fly, avoided an empty beer bottle that rolled from one side of the train to the other and finally found a seat not occupied by discarded newspapers. By the time the hour-long ride brought me to the Kingsbridge Avenue station and I walked up a steep hill to arrive at the hospital, my humor was as damp as my blouse.

The security guard, stationed at the door, handed me a clipboard and I added my name and time of arrival to the sparse list of visitors. A few grizzled veterans wandered aimlessly around the lobby; relics from a forgotten war. If my fiancé had survived, I thought, he would be their age. My eyes felt moist; allergy, perhaps, it was so hot today. I pressed the elevator button, determined to concentrate on the present. Best not to dwell on the past, on what might have been.

Where was the elevator? The wait was interminable; I pressed the button once again. If there hadn't been an alarm attached to the door leading to the stairs, I would have been tempted to make the climb. Climbing stairs were reputed to be an excellent exercise for the muscles of the heart.

The first car to arrive was filled to capacity with a cart laden with dirty luncheon trays. I managed to squeeze into the second elevator, sharing the limited space with a laundry cart pushed by another tired-looking orderly who answered my greeting with a grunt. The elevator groaned and creaked but made the climb to its destination.

Walking down a long corridor, past rooms with open doors, I caught sight of men taking afternoon naps, playing solitaire, thumbing through magazines. Except for an idle glance or two, I was ignored; just another occasional visitor, here to see a neglected relative or friend.

The nursing station sat in the center of the hallway where an attendant kept one eye on his charges, the other on a televised ball game. The patients in this section sat staring into space, conjuring images of a better past. The attendant stirred just long enough to give me the captain's room number.

I found the room at the end of the corridor, a double room with only one occupant at present. The man sat on the edge of the twin bed, closest to the window, morosely eyeing a skein of lime-green yarn.

I tapped on the door. He looked up; a slow smile panned across his face.

“Ahh,” he said, “you must be my fairy godmother.”

“Unfortunately, I am not, I am Augusta Weidenmaier. You wouldn't be Charles Corcoran?” He certainly did not match Mrs. Corcoran's description; this young man had straight, jet-black hair, a drooping mustache and sad, brown eyes.

“No. The captain was discharged to a halfway house thursday. Lucky bas…'Scuse me, ma'am. He was so anxious to get out he left all his medals in a drawer.”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment then grinned again. “My name is Thomas. You can call me Tommy.”

“Yesterday! The doctor never mentioned that the captain had been discharged.”

“Breakdown in communications. Happens all the time,” Tommy said, referring to the doctor. “With all the pills they gave him, he was feeling better. He stopped getting that stabbing pain behind his eyes. He was a good patient; the doctors and therapists all respected him. They gave him this breathing exercise—breathe in then exhale, breathe in then exhale. He did it when he was feeling nauseous.”

“Why was Captain Corcoran hospitalized?”

“Breakdown. Women will do it to you. Kevin's mother has custody of the kid and the captain hates that. Me—I'm never gonna get married. Women get a man in trouble. That's why I'm here. Could I borrow your hands for a minute?”

“Beg pardon?” Oh, my word! Was I in the psychiatric ward?

“To hold the skein of wool,” he explained. “Have to roll it into a ball. Occupational therapy; they say knitting is good for the nerves. Mine are shot.”

I held out my hands.

“Are you related to old Charlie?”

“I'm a friend of Kevin's.”

“He'd knock the shi…Excuse me, ma'am. Captain Corcoran would kill me if he heard me call him Charlie. A real stickler. No one calls him Charlie. Hell! I bet no one called him Charlie except his mother and she died when he was a kid.”

“I take it the captain is a strict disciplinarian.”

“You're not kidding.”

“Do you know about Kevin, have you heard about the captain's son?”

“You'd have to live in a monastery not to know. Every time you turn on the TV, there he is. Cute kid. Some bastard…I beg your pardon, ma'am…stealing the kid. It's not like Kevin's a star on one of the soaps. How much money do you suppose he makes doing those commercials?”

“Where was Captain Corcoran the day Kevin was kidnapped?”

“C'mon, lady. You don't think the captain did it? Besides he was here last Tuesday—that's when the kid was taken. Right?”

I decided to just listen to the young man.

“He was…wait a minute…there was a game at Shea Stadium…the captain had a day pass. He put on his civvies and off he went to the game. He said that's where he was going. The captain wouldn't lie. Everybody admires him; he's straight, an up and up guy. Besides, why would he do a thing like that? Why would he steal his son? No, no he wouldn't. They'd lock him up and everyone wants to get out of this joint. I'm working on getting out myself. Secret is don't get too excited in front of the medicine men. Know the captain wanted to talk to the guy who runs Cowboy Bob's. Ran Cowboy Bob's. The captain thought maybe he could get some leads.” Tommy switched from present to past tense. “The guy who was murdered. Gee! You think the captain offed him? No. Not the captain.”

The boy looked as if he might break into tears. I changed the direction of our conversation. “Where is the halfway house?”

“Manhattan. I'm hoping to make it there myself.” He tossed the ball of wool into the air. “What do you think of this shade of green?”

 

A tired counselor downstairs told me Captain Corcoran had never arrived at the halfway house. The counselor had notified the authorities and would keep the captain's file open. There was nothing more he could do. We shook hands and he accompanied me to the front door where we came face to face with Lieutenant Brown, Sergeant Harris and a covey of police officers. One of the officers flashed his identification at the bewildered counselor and they disappeared inside.

The lieutenant's face and neck turned ruddy red. I could feel a similar color creep over my own.

“Lieutenant Brown,” I said—determined to smooth over the awkward encounter. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

“Miss Weidenmaier, what are you doing here?” Without waiting for my answer, he made a slight motion with his head. Marjorie Harris placed a firm hold on my arm and led me to an unmarked police vehicle half a block away.

“Lieutenant Brown is not happy with you, Miss Weidenmaier.” Sergeant Harris tried to cover her amusement with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought it would be nice to have a chat with Kevin's father.”

“Did you have your ‘chat,' Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Not yet, Sergeant. Unfortunately, the captain…”

“Miss Weidenmaier, you are coming dangerously close to interfering with a police action.”

“I merely wished to exchange a few words with Kevin's father but he is…”

“Kevin's father may be a dangerous man.” Lieutenant Brown joined us.

“A rash statement, Lieutenant Brown, you haven't interviewed the man yet and, you must admit, Captain Corcoran does not look at all like the chap I saw with Kevin. Unless he persuaded someone to assist him in the child's abduction, he certainly did not kidnap his son.”

“Not kidnapping, Miss Weidenmaier. We want to talk to him about a murder.”

“Murder! Captain Corcoran? Kevin?”

“Robert Barton,” Marjorie Harris said.

“Time, opportunity, motive. He had them all. Go home, Miss Weidenmaier. Stay home, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“What motive do you ascribe to the child's father?”

“Maybe he didn't like fast food.”

“There is no need to shout, Lieutenant.”

“I'm not shouting. I just speak in a loud voice when ladies don't listen. When ladies interfere in an investigation. Now, I will say it one more time. Listen to what I am saying. Go home, Miss Weidenmaier; I'm going to question Captain Charles Corcoran and I am seriously thinking of arresting you. They do not serve tea and crumpets in jail. Do I make myself clear?”

“The questioning will be delayed, Lieutenant. Captain Corcoran is not here.”

“I discovered that myself, Miss Weidenmaier. Trust me, I do not need your help.”

“In life, Lieutenant, everyone can use a little help.”

The door to the police car slammed. The odor of burned rubber assailed my nostrils as Lieutenant Brown left without saying another word. I can't imagine how he obtained his license; he was a terrible driver.

The slim, blonde nurse wore her long hair in a braid clasped high on the top of her head. The braid swayed from side to side as she pranced into Jean Corcoran's room to say goodnight. A smile touched Jean's lips; she thought of a game she and Kevin often played.

“What animal does she remind you of, Kevin?”

“A filly,” Kevin would say. “That's easy.”

Her son; her bright, beautiful boy. She was lost without Kevin, her little man, her life. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

“Shift change, Mrs. Corcoran. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“I'm fine.” If only they would leave her alone. The nurse meant well; they all meant well. Everyone acted as if they cared, but no one did anything to find Kevin. “Thank you,” she added.

“Why don't I just fluff those pillows before I leave? Make you nice and comfy. Lift your head now.”

“Thank you,” Jean said again.

The nurse placed the call-button close to Jean's hand.

“There. Now it's handy, in case you need anything. Just press it and someone will be with you in a jif. I'll see you in the morning.” She wiggled her fingers just like you would when saying goodbye to a baby.

Jean could hear her laugh in response to a teasing, male voice just outside the door to the room. The nurse radiated a poise and self-assurance that attracted men. Young or old, they would all adore her. Jean felt a twinge of envy; she was just the opposite. Petite, even pretty in a pale, washed-out way, but shy, she had always been shy. She had enough friends; wasn't a loner. They liked her because she never talked. Jean was a listener and everyone needed someone who would listen.

Charles said he found her attractive because she didn't chatter or flirt. She fell in love with Charles because he looked like a movie star she fantasized about. He was handsome and tall and had perfect manners. Her friends had dated awkward, crude men; she wanted to marry a gentleman; someone like Charles. When Charles proposed she immediately agreed, and when she knew she was going to have a baby it was the happiest time of her life. She visited museums and art galleries and attended shows because she had read it would influence the child she was carrying. It was true, Kevin loved all the arts but everything changed after he was born. Charles called him his little soldier; he treated Kevin like a new recruit. When he came back after his second tour they began to disagree about everything, and the happy family Jean dreamed about was just that—a dream.

The nurse laughed again; then the sound of her footsteps receded as she walked down the hall. For a moment the hospital was quiet.

Jean shifted her position. A newspaper crackled beneath her head. The nurse must have left it. The first paper Jean had seen since she entered the hospital; the paper was folded to the arts page. There was a tiny photo inserted in a gossip column; the vaguely familiar face caught her attention. The caption beneath the photo read Lawrence Dunn. Did she know him? The name…something unpleasant had happened. She tried to think but the tranquillizers they gave her were too strong, and she closed her eyes, instead.

Jean stirred in her sleep; the faint, spicy scent of bay rum disturbed her dream. Charles entered the dream—the Charles she loved. It was early in their marriage, before Kevin was born. They were laughing, happy.

She turned her head, wanting to put her arms around him, bury her face in his chest and feel warm and loved and protected.

“Jean, are you able to talk?”

His voice. Her eyelids flickered and the dream faded away. Someone was sitting on a hard, plastic chair next to the hospital bed. It was Charles and he was wearing a white coat and he had a stethoscope around his neck. Charles wasn't a hallucination brought on by a combination of tranquilizers and fear. Charles was real. Her hand gripped the sheet.

Don't show your fear,
she thought, but she had never been much good at hiding her true feelings.

“It's all right, Jean.” He tried to pat her hand with his. He was awkward about it; Charles wasn't used to small tender gestures.

“Kevin? Kevin's with you, isn't he?” At least she would know where her baby was. Know he was safe.

“I wouldn't take Kevin without telling you, Jean. I want custody but I wouldn't steal my son. I know things haven't been right between us for a long time…” He groped for his next words. “You're the mother of my son; I couldn't hurt you or Kevin. You believe me, don't you?”

She did. Whatever else he was, Charles Corcoran was not a liar. She believed him.

“If he's not with you, where is he? He could be sick or hurt or he could be dead. You read about it happening to other children. I don't want to live without Kevin.”

“Jean, listen to me. Kevin's not dead. I'm going to find him. I swear it.”

“What will we do?” This time her hand reached for his. The hand was cold. She studied his face; he looked emaciated, haggard. The penetrating blue eyes were lost in shadowed cavities.

“You look so pale, are you still at the hospital?” His sun-washed complexion had been replaced with unhealthy pallor.

“No, they released me. I'm doing okay.”

A quiver of fear made her hand tremble. Charles was different, even before the hospital he had changed, become a stranger. Was he telling her the truth? She wanted to—needed to trust him. She had to trust someone.

“Start from the beginning. Tell me everything, Jean. Even things that seem trivial to you. Who are your friends? Kevin's? Does anyone have a reason to dislike you or the boy? Tell me, Jean. Don't leave anything out.”

She did the best she could, but he wasn't satisfied. “Is there anything else, Jean? Think. Someone, anyone, you might have forgotten to tell the police about?”

She was about to say, “No,” when she remembered the picture in the newspaper. She pointed out the photo in the gossip column. “His name is Lawrence Dunn. According to this he's in a one-man show titled
An Evening with Larry and Will
at an off-Broadway theatre called Saint Genesis. He and Kevin auditioned together for the Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger commercial.”

Jean hesitated. It didn't make sense. “At first, Dunn was charming; telling Kevin stories, laughing and chatting, then they read together.”

“What happened next, Jean?”

“Kevin was asked to wait; Lawrence Dunn was dismissed. Dunn became so nasty, Charles, as if Kevin had anything to do with the casting. Actors are rejected more often than not, Kevin is just a little boy; it wasn't his fault Dunn didn't get the job. Dunn behaved as if it were.”

Stage mother! Dunn had hurled the words at her making them sound obscene.

Maybe, she thought, studying the photo, maybe now that he had his own theatre, now that he was performing Shakespeare, he'd be less frustrated. A nicer person.

“It's my fault. I wanted Kevin to be an actor. I wanted everyone to know his name.” She couldn't look at Charles.

“Jean, listen to me. I'm going to find Kevin. I'll find Kevin and we'll be together again. The three of us. Everything will be all right.”

Charles kissed her forehead. She buried her face in his chest but the scent of bay rum was mixed with the acrid odor of sweat. An odor that had been foreign to the man she had married. Jean slipped out of the embrace, rested her head against the pillows. She closed her eyes—wanting to tell him to go away—afraid to say the words out loud.

When she woke, the newspaper was on her table and Charles was gone. She looked at the front page. A headline on the front page, Robert Barton Murdered. Jean read every word in the article, her hands shaking. Maybe someone had murdered her baby too. Jean screamed, and a nurse ran into the room. She felt a needle prick a vein, her screams subsided and she sank into the comforting darkness.