Extracurricular Activities (3 page)

I flipped open my phone. “Hi, Ray.”

“Alison…” He trailed off.

“Ray?” I said.

“Alison. I really want to talk to you about the situation with Julie Anne again.” The connection clicked in and out as if he were in a bad cell area. I heard him say my name and then what sounded like “can you hell” but the line was dead. I scrolled through the contacts menu on the phone and hit send when I came to Ray's name.

The waitress came by again. “We have a no-cell-phone policy,” she said.

Of course you do, I thought. You should also have a no-home-perm policy, too, but of course then you wouldn't be able to work here. I got up and went outside through the back entrance so I wouldn't have to see
la famille
Crawford again. The phone rang in my ear and, after five or six rings, went to Ray's voice mail. “Ray, call me back.” I walked to the front of the restaurant and caught a glimpse of Crawford and his family inside.

I stood for a moment on the street corner watching the bustling activity on the avenue. After a few moments of thought, I made another call. The message was short and to the point, and the decision, I hoped, not one that I would live to regret.

“Hi, Kevin? Yes, tell your brother I'd love to meet him.”

I dropped Kevin's dinner off at the dorm where he lived. On my short drive home, I thought about running into Crawford, a situation that could not have been more awkward. I wish I had been able to keep my cool, but something about seeing him with his daughters and his wife made me lose whatever modicum of composure I actually had. And from what I had heard about his wife from the little he told me and from the details that his detective partner, Fred—who as luck would have it was also engaged to Max—had filled in, she was a veritable Mother Teresa, lovely and kind and devoted to her daughters. Crawford had said that they would be getting divorced, but when? It was not something that I felt we could delve into at the Steak House in any meaningful way.

I thought about my impulsive decision to green-light a date with Kevin's brother. A minor twinge of guilt gnawed at my insides; I was really crazy about Crawford, probably more than I ever had been about my ex-husband, but what was I supposed to do? How long was I supposed to wait while he figured out his personal life? Denial is a powerful thing, however; by the time I had reached my exit off the Saw Mill River Parkway, I had completely justified going out with Jack McManus and felt much better about things. I hadn't paid too much attention to what Kevin had told me about his four brothers, but I seemed to remember that one brother was a little too into Madonna and liked to “vogue” at family parties. He also had another brother who was really into
Star Wars,
and had an adult-sized Chewbacca costume that he donned every Halloween. I prayed that neither of them were named Jack.

I pulled into my driveway and gave a nod to Trixie, who looked at me as she always did, tongue hanging out to one side, her black lips pulled back into what seemed like a huge smile. It was nice, after having adjusted to living alone, to have someone or something greet me every evening.

Darkness had settled over everything in the backyard and I carefully picked my way around lawn furniture and trash cans to get to the back door. Damn that nonexistent motion-detecting light. At least there was no ex-husband lounging on my patio furniture. I managed to insert my key into the back door and get into the kitchen without much of a problem and my eyes began to adjust to the blackness of the house. I flicked on the kitchen light and dropped my bag onto the table. It was in that instant of doing the familiar, the normal, the rote, that I noticed that I wasn't alone.

Sitting at the kitchen table, the ends of his wrists bloody nubs, was Ray, my ex-husband, a tortured look forever etched on his handsome, lifeless face.

 

Crawford walked into the precinct that evening; he was pulling a double shift so that he could have all of Saturday night and all day Sunday with his girls. He had left the girls with his aunt Bea; although they were old enough at sixteen to stay in his apartment by themselves, he preferred them to be there when his aunt was in the apartment downstairs. She rarely left after six in the evening unless there was bingo at the church or some devotional hour. Tonight was her television night so she was in, they were upstairs, and he could work without letting his mind wander as to what they might be doing. He had a ton of paperwork to do, never mind if he caught any new cases that night. He opened the door to the main area and the stench of the building—a cross between old gym socks and decaying leaves—hit him and ruined his joie de vivre immediately. He walked behind a gray-carpeted partition and toward his desk.

“Hey, Mr. Best Man!”

Crawford looked at him, confused.

“Fred tells me you're the best man for the big day,” Champy said, pulling at the waistband of his pants. “Nice going. Lots of responsibility with that role. You know, taking care of the bridesmaids and everything.” He wiggled his substantial brows lasciviously.

“Hey, Champy.” He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, clearing a space on his desk for the cup of coffee that he had bought at the deli. “What's going on?”

Champy, about the same age as Crawford, but red faced and old looking after a lifetime of bad food and excessive drinking, stood up behind his desk. His given name was Arthur Moran, but he had gotten the nickname of “Champy” some years before. As a uniformed rookie, he and his partner had been sent on a call to a Lower East Side gay strip club—“Champy's”—to break up a fight between a dozen or more drag queens; when everything was sorted out, he ended up with the unfortunate responsibility of escorting one Dusty Rhodes out of the bar in handcuffs. Dusty was a six-foot-seven drag queen with a blond beehive of hair and a thing for cops. As they exited the bar, a photographer for the
Daily News
snapped their picture, Dusty's lips plastered to Champy's baby face. His reputation, and nickname, was solidified on that day. Forevermore, he was “Champy”—a name he wore a little too proudly. He smoothed down his blue and yellow tie, about three inches shorter than it should have been, given his height. “We're catching together today.”

Crawford looked around and saw that they were the only two detectives in the squad and groaned internally; Fred never worked nights and that meant a new partner for the shift. He was hoping that at least one other detective was in the rotation but Champy was alone in the squad room. A day with Champy was not on his list of “things I really love,” but more akin to a colonoscopy, an IRS audit, or having his fingernails ripped off one by one. Although he was one of the best detectives in the squad when it came to clearing cases—perps usually gave it up as quickly as possible in order to get away from him as quickly as possible—his style was different from Crawford's. Whereas Crawford liked to follow the rules as closely as he could (within reason), Champy worked a fringe detail where nothing really mattered besides solving the case. Civil liberties? Never heard of them. Innocent? Champy would make you believe you were guilty if it meant getting out of work earlier. And he never met a perp he didn't like for a crime. Crawford steeled himself for a very long day.

“Don't look so happy, Bobby,” Champy said, a bit dejected as he sat back down at his desk.

Crawford felt instantly guilty. “I'm thrilled, Champy. You and I don't get to spend enough quality time together.” He went through the stack of folders on his desk. “Anything happening?”

“Not too much. Casey and Mariano are working the double from Kingsbridge.”

Two people had been killed in an apartment in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx the week before and Casey and Mariano were still working the canvass of the neighborhood and following a couple of leads. The original theory was that it was drug-related, but they weren't sure. “Anything from Alex?” Crawford asked.

Champy shook his head, annoyed. “That guy is less of an informant than a fucking pain in the ass. I told him to keep his ear to the ground, gave him another twenty, but he hasn't given me shit.”

If it had to do with drugs, Alex would know. Crawford had had more meals with Alex than he cared to admit, but every once in a while, he got something valuable. “Maybe he'll come through.”

Champy snorted. “Yeah, and maybe my wife will give me a blow job.”

Crawford looked up from the file he was reading.

“In other words, my friend, it'll never happen.”

“Keep the faith, Champy. Anything's possible.” Crawford smiled. The world of Champy. Not one he'd want to spend too much time in, but an amusing stop every once in a while. He went back to the file on his desk.

“Oh, and I took a call from a guy named Stark,” he said, crossing the room and handing Crawford a pink slip of paper with a name and number written on it. “Dr. Ray Stark, he said. Wants to set up a date to talk about that statement you asked for. Sounded dramatic,” Champy said, rolling his eyes.

Crawford took the slip from Champy and shoved it into his pants pocket. Dealing with Ray Stark's “dramatic” situation, as Champy had dubbed it, was not high on his priority list.

He turned when he heard Danny Concannon, the Homicide Division's lieutenant, open his office door and emerge.

Concannon was fifteen years past retirement—he had put in his requisite twenty years, but was a “lifer.” Mandatory retirement at sixty-two was what he was striving for, and at age fifty-eight, what he would eventually attain. He was a big and blustery man and Crawford loved working with him. He was the kind of guy who started every fourth or so sentence with “If they can put a man on the moon, then…” but he was honest and forthright and treated all of his cops with respect. Crawford knew that it could be very different from his own experience on the PD. Danny scanned the detectives' bullpen and saw that only Champy and Crawford were at their desks.

“Moran! Crawford! Body parts in Van Cortlandt Park. Right by the stables. Patrol's got hands and feet. Nothing else. Get over there.”

Champy pushed his chair back from his desk. “How do we know it's a homicide?” He stood. “Maybe we've got some John Doe running around…excuse me…hobbling around with no hands and feet.”

Concannon stood in front of Champy's desk, staring at him in disbelief. “Moran, get your ass out of here and go look at the hands and feet.” He started back to his office, muttering, “If they can put a man on the moon, they can give me a cop who can figure out that a vic without hands and feet IS DEAD.” He slammed the door to his office.

Crawford stood. “Let's go.” His night with Champy had begun. They would work through the night in a desolate park. They didn't call it the graveyard shift for nothing.

As I've learned from the other murder investigation I was involved in, nothing screws up your weekend like finding a dead body.

“Ray?” I managed to squeak out, knowing instinctively that he was not going to answer me. I edged closer to the table and tentatively touched his shoulder, succeeding in making him list to the side. Fortunately, the wall prevented him from sliding off his chair.

His eyes were open and he stared at me, unseeing. I, however, stared at him for far longer than I should have. I don't know how much time passed but I felt as if I were glued to the floor. Finally, my flight instinct took over and I backed out of the kitchen, first slowly, and then gaining speed as I crossed over the threshold of the back door.

I stumbled backwards out of the house, going ass over tea kettle when I hit the wrought-iron table on the patio. The racket brought my neighbor to the left, Florence, out of her house in record time. I have to carry her recyclables out every week because of her sciatica or lumbago or whatever her disease of the week is, but once I hit that table, she flew out of the house like an Olympic sprinter. From now on, she was carrying out her own goddamned recyclables. Florence loves a good drama; she had watched, with rapturous glee, my marriage unravel from between the vertical blinds in her kitchen. Trixie set up a howl that was ear piercing. It crossed my mind that a man had been murdered inside my house and nobody raised an eyebrow; I, however, fall over a picnic table and the National Guard practically appears.

Florence got a look at the body, and pronounced Ray officially “dead.” She was then so kind as to call 911. I sat on the grass with my head between my knees rocking back and forth and hoping that I would wake up and realize that it had all been just a horrible dream. And that my ass wouldn't hurt like a mother once the shock of finding a dead body passed. Florence stood sentry at the bottom of the driveway so that she could show the cops where the body was. I guess “it's in the kitchen” would have been too much of a stretch for them, in her opinion. She was a major player in this drama and she would not be denied.

The police came quickly. After all, we live in a sleepy suburban town. Unless someone forgets to pay for their Dunkaccino at the local doughnut shop, there's not a lot going on. A dead body? Well, that was big doings. They really didn't know what to do with me; I guess they kind of considered me a suspect, but not really. It was clear that I had been shocked and awed by the discovery and that counted for something. I also didn't look like someone who could wield a chain saw with ease, and the person who had hacked Ray up seemed to have been a professional, given the “signature” of the missing body parts. Nevertheless, the detective assigned to the case—one Joe Hardin—asked that I go down to headquarters with one of the uniformed cops and make a statement. I was more than happy to oblige. Anything that got me out of the house and away from the scene of gore was more than welcome.

Oh, and there was one more disturbing fact: not only were Ray's hands missing, so were his feet. And they were nowhere to be found. My entire house had been searched and nothing had turned up.

Before I left, I asked Detective Hardin if I could make a quick phone call. Despite the way things had been left with Crawford, I knew that he was the only person I could count on to truly help me in a situation like this. Hardin, a hound-dog-faced fellow who looked perpetually sad, cast a glance in my direction and asked me who I wanted to call. I tried to look as convincing as possible and said, “My priest.” I figured it was better than “my lawyer” or “my married boyfriend, the cop.”

He gave me a dubious look and a nod. Even though I didn't think I was the most viable suspect, Hardin seemed liked the type who wouldn't rule anything out before making a decision. Or maybe he thought I was Jewish and was wondering why I had a priest. He weighed my request. “I'm not going to ask why you need to call your priest, but call him if you need to,” he said after a few seconds of thought.

One of the cops had brought me my bag and I punched the numbers into my cell phone; Hardin walked a discreet distance away, convincing me of my notion that they really didn't think I was a maniac with a chain saw. When the call connected to Crawford's cell, it went directly to his voice mail. I left a calm and casual message that gave him the details: Ray was in my kitchen, he was dead, and he had been dismembered. Hey, could you give me a call when you get a chance? Thanks. Buh-bye.

I didn't want to push it with Hardin, so I didn't ask for another phone call. I wanted to get down to the station as quickly as possible, get my statement recorded, and then get out of there. It didn't occur to me until I was in the cop's cruiser that I would probably have to stay in a hotel that night because my kitchen was blood soaked. I didn't think Magda, my cleaning lady, was up to that challenge. She could barely wield the attachments on my Electrolux. But she was a whiz with grout.

The police station wasn't far from my house. I had led a pretty law-abiding life up until this point, so I had never been inside its charming Tudor-style walls. I was not shocked to find it clean, well lit, and stocked with Starbucks coffee. I had once been in a precinct in New York City and can testify that it was not clean and that the lighting made everyone look deathly ill. And no Starbucks coffee. The uniformed officer asked me if I'd like a cup of that delicious coffee, but I was so jittery from my discovery that I passed.

“We have decaf, too,” he said, anticipating the fact that my shaking hands might preclude my having some caffeine.

I accepted the decaf; I didn't want to disappoint him. He seemed hell-bent on making a cup of coffee. After he handed it to me, complete with the little guard that surrounds a very hot paper cup, he led me into a brightly lit room with a long mahogany table and close to a dozen comfortable chairs around it. I wasn't sure if I was going to get questioned or make a presentation on the fourth-quarter sales goals of Wal-Mart. I took a seat at the end of the table and waited to make my statement.

I thought about Ray while I sipped my French roast and tried to sort out my feelings. I was still stunned by seeing him in the kitchen but I didn't feel like crying. And I cry when I see the hurt look on that caveman's face on the insurance company commercial when he realizes everyone is making fun of him. But my hands danced to a rhythm all their own, and I sat on them to keep them subdued. I kept seeing Ray's face, in death, and while I felt profoundly sad, I wasn't at the point of true grief yet. I wasn't sure if I ever would be. How are you supposed to feel when something this horrible happens to someone about whom you have such conflicted feelings?

The uniformed cop interrupted my reverie and poked his head into the room. “Do you have a boyfriend who's a cop?”

I chewed on that question for a moment. That would be harder to answer than “who would want to kill your ex-husband?” “Uh, he's not my boyfriend, really, because we're kind of broken up right now, but…” I stopped when I saw the cop looking at me with a mixture of confusion and boredom. “I guess so,” I said, as definitively as possible.

“He's on his way over,” he said and pulled his head out of the room again, leaving me alone.

So I guess Crawford had gotten my message and, in true Crawford style, wanted to lend a hand. Why was I attracted to fabulous, but unavailable, men? And why, with my ex-husband dead in my kitchen, was I obsessed with understanding why this was so?

I picked my coffee up with my shaking hands, and took a careful sip. The hot liquid stuck in my throat as I thought about Ray, the way he looked, his missing digits. The contents of my stomach started wending their way up my digestive tract and I took a deep breath, holding it until my nausea subsided. I have a hair-trigger nervous system and have been known to unleash its power at the most inopportune times. I focused on a picture of the mayor of Dobbs Ferry which hung over the door and waited for a feeling of calm to overtake me again.

Fortunately, I was able to hold it together until another detective, this one a woman named Catherine Madden, entered the room to talk to me about my gruesome discovery. I put her age at around fifty or so and she reminded me of someone who had spent many years in the convent before finding that her true passion was police work—short, unstylish hair, sensible shoes, navy blue suit with white shirt. A gold cross dangled from a short chain around her crepey neck. She offered nothing in the way of pleasantries, just a curt “Start at the beginning. What happened?” She jotted down what I thought were the most salient points of my accounting, putting her pen down when I was finished.

“So, who do you think did this?” she asked, pursing her lips together in a very unattractive frown. Didn't she know that if you made unattractive faces, your face could freeze that way? Geez.

“I don't have the slightest idea,” I said. And that was true. If I just thought about cuckolded spouses or pissed-off parents, the list of suspects was long: Peter Miceli, Mob boss and father of Ray's last girlfriend, a nineteen-year-old college student who was now dead; my neighbor Jackson, husband of Terri, Ray's paramour before the Mob princess; presumably the parents of Julie Anne Podowsky, the worst modern literature student ever to grace my classroom; and probably dozens of other spouses, boyfriends, fathers, and brothers of the women that Ray had slept with over the years and had dumped when he was done. Not to mention the actual women. I didn't have any family to blame, fortunately; I'm an only child, and my father—the most gentle of French-Canadian men—had been dead for nearly twenty years. Unless Uncle Claude in Baie-St.-Paul in Quebec had heard of Ray's philandering ways and had decided to kill him on my behalf, I had no viable suspects on my side of the family.

“And you?” she asked. “Where were you between the hours of two and six?”

“I was teaching and then I went to dinner with a friend. Who's a priest,” I added helpfully. Who wouldn't believe a priest?

She stared at me for a few minutes. “I can check that alibi, you know.”

“Please do,” I said, holding her gaze. I prayed that my students had been awake and would know that it was I who had taught their classes that day. There was a good percentage of them who didn't even know what class they were taking, never mind the name of their instructor.

She continued to stare at me. I spied Crawford's face in the glass pane of the door. Yep, still gorgeous. Madden turned around when she saw my attention on the door and beckoned him to come in. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Detective Crawford, NYPD,” he said, flashing his gold shield and shaking her hand. “I'm a friend of Dr. Bergeron's.” He put his shield away. “I have some information about this case, too. Can we step outside?”

I tried to eavesdrop on what they were talking about but I couldn't hear anything. I watched them through the window in the door. Madden got a concerned look on her face and scurried off down the hall. Crawford watched her move away and came into the room.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

I nodded. “I know.”

He stood by the table and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Listen, I have something to tell you.”

He imparted some truly sobering news: Ray's hands and feet had been found next to a horse stable in Van Cortlandt Park. It was the one detail that completed the story of Ray's demise and moved me from a state of shock to one of pronounced grief. I'm not sure why, but it was in that moment that I realized just how much Ray had suffered, and any feelings of ill will that I may have had toward him melted away in a flood of hot tears.