Laughing Man (2 page)

As an adult, Erthmun was haunted by the memory of Uncle Jack's death. The man's last words, heard only by Erthmun himself, were, "Oh, shit!" Uncle Jack said this as if at a fleeting annoyance—a missed turn while driving, a name forgotten, a passing rain shower on a sunny day. Erthmun thought that it was a strange attitude in the face of death—annoyance—and found himself ashamed of Uncle Jack for it. He would have preferred that the man died kicking and screaming in anger because his life was coming to an end. What else was there, after all, but life?

Uncle Jack was also a man who told stories that made his young nieces and his nephew huddle together in delicious fright. These stories also caused Erthmun to stand at his bedroom window for hours and hours in search of the marvelous, misty, and dangerous creatures that, according to Uncle Jack, inhabited the hills and fields around the house on Four Mile Creek.

"It's like this," Uncle Jack said. "You can't see them if you're actually looking at them. You won't see them that way. That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" He laughed. "You can only see them if you're not looking at them."

Eight-year-old Lila said, "But Uncle Jack, how can you see them if you're not looking at them?"

"Yeah, how can you see them?" asked six-year-old Jocelyn.

Uncle Jack laughed again and explained, "Well, try this one night. Go out and look up at the starry sky and then find a patch of sky where there doesn't appear to be any stars. Look hard into this patch of black sky, and if you look long enough, after a while, very, very faint stars will appear, but not exactly where you're looking. They'll appear only where you're
not
looking."

Lila smiled. "I did that once, Uncle Jack."

"Of course you did," he said. "And that's how you see these creatures I'm talking about, too. Because they're so fast, because they run so fast—faster than anything you've ever seen, faster than the wind—and because they can look like the things around them. They can look like the grass, or the trees, or the sky and the clouds. You can't see them unless you look just ahead of them or just behind them."

"Behind them," Erthmun repeated.

"Behind them," Uncle Jack repeated. "Or above them, even."

Lila said, wide-eyed, "What do they look like, Uncle Jack?"

"They look like you"—he touched her nose gently—"and you"—Sylvia's nose. Then he looked hard at Erthmun and continued, "And they look like you especially, Jack." He touched Erthmun's nose. He lingered with his finger on Erthmun's nose. Then he gave him a small, secretive smile, as if the two of them shared a secret, although Erthmun had no idea what that secret might be. Uncle Jack laughed again and added, "And some of them even look like me!"

Lila, still wide-eyed, asked, "Where do they come from, Uncle Jack?"

"Well, Lila," Uncle Jack said, "where does
anything
come from?"

"Where does anything come from?" Erthmun said.

"I don't know," Lila said, clearly perplexed.

"From heaven," Sylvia offered.

"From heaven," Erthmun said.

Uncle Jack said, "Where do the plants come from, and the cows, and the fish in the sea?"

The three children looked in wonderment and confusion at him.

And Uncle Jack declared, "Why from
here
, of course. From the earth itself."

"The earth itself," Erthmun repeated.

"From
every
where!" Lila said, as if in awe.

E
rthmun was a homicide detective in Manhattan's 20th Precinct. He was almost preternaturally good at his work, but his methods had aroused suspicion among the powers that be because, as far as everyone else was concerned, Erthmun's ideas of "probable cause" for search and arrest often amounted to no more than hunches.

PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT OF CRIMINAL TRIAL HELD AT RICHMOND COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT, STATEN ISLAND, 1993:

C.E. (Counsel for the Defense): "Could you describe what you saw there, Detective Erthmun, at the end of the driveway, that morning, when you arrived at 18 Morningside Lane?"

Jack Erthmun: "18 Morningside Lane? Yes, sir. I saw the body of a very obese Caucasian male dressed in a white shirt, black pants, and black shoes. He was lying on his stomach, and there appeared to be a bullet wound at the base of his neck—"

C.E.: "Did you do a direct examination of this wound, Detective, to determine if it was an exit wound or an entrance wound?"

J.E.: "Not as such. No, sir."

C.E.: "Why not?"

J.E.: "Because only the medical examiner is allowed to touch the body."

C.E.: "Which would not have precluded you from doing a visual examination, isn't that right?"

J.E.: "I didn't think it was necessary."

C.E.: "You didn't think it was necessary?"

J.E.: "Yes, sir."

C.E.: "You didn't think it was necessary to try and determine whether this wound, which was apparently the victim's cause of death, occurred as the result of a bullet fired from in front of the victim, or from behind the victim?"

J.E.: "No, I didn't."

C.E.: "Could you tell the court why, Detective?"

J.E.: "Because I knew that the victim had been killed by a bullet that entered his body from the front."

C.E.: "You
knew
[emphasis] that the bullet had entered from the front
before
[emphasis] you actually did a close visual examination of the body?"

J.E.: "Yes."

C.E.: "How did you know this, Detective?"

J.E.: "I knew because of the victim's [witness hesitates] demeanor."

C.E.: "His demeanor? Could you explain that?"

J.E.: (hesitates) "Yes. I would say that it was in the nature of . . . instinct or intuition."

C.E.: "I'm still unclear as to what you mean. Could you try to be a little more forthcoming, Detective?"

J.E.: "I'm not sure. I mean [witness hesitates], I mean that the victim, within the crime scene, was [witness hesitates] expressive."

J.K.: "In what way, Detective?"

J.E.:
"I
think in a holistic way. The victim at the crime scene was expressive in a holistic way."

J.K.: "Detective, are you trying to be confrontational?"

J.E.: "No."

C.E.: "Isn't it true, Detective, that your methods of investigation have been described as unusual?"

E
rthmun thought that dead bodies were exquisite. They were so articulate, so passionless, and so passionate. They spoke volumes, not only about the victim, but about the perpetrator, too—all in shades of red and pink and white and brown.

Early Winter

T
he snow was deep in Manhattan, and the air was cold, still, and dense. It smelled of exhaust fumes, deli sandwiches, urine. Erthmun's joints hurt on days as cold as this. He had thought often of moving south, and as often as he had thought of it, he had wondered why he simply didn't do it.

He was in a dreary little park at East 7th Street and Avenue C, and he was looking at a body lying in the snow. The body was that of a white male, about thirty-five years old, clean-shaven, black-haired. It was dressed for winter, in a bright blue parka, heavy pants, orange mittens, and a red cap with a tassel. It lay face-up, arms wide, left leg bent. The body wore black buckle boots, and had a rictus grin that had snow in it. The eyes were open, and they were muddy gray and green. There were no obvious signs of violence, and no clear indication as to the cause of the man's death. He looked like he had simply fallen asleep in the snow.

The little park was bordered by a tall, wrought-iron fence. Various posters had been put up on this fence, and they advertised strip shows, night clubs, Off-Broadway plays. They were attached to the fence by strips of wire or tape. The borough of Manhattan was supposed to see to the maintenance of the park, which included keeping posters off the fence, but this was unimportant work in a city that had much larger problems, so it was work that did not get done.

Erthmun, who was kneeling over the body of the man in the snow, nodded at one of the posters, and said to a uniformed cop standing nearby, "Could you get that for me, please."

The cop looked in the direction Erthmun had nodded, and said, "Get what?"

"Get what?" Erthmun said. "That yellow poster. Bring it to me."

The cop said, "Sure," and did as he was asked.

Erthmun studied the poster a moment. It advertised a revue playing in SoHo called
The Brown Bag Blues
. The letters were in black script. A graphic of a naked woman caressing the letter S in the word
Blues
was in purple. Erthmun gave the poster back to the uniformed cop, said, "Get me that one," and pointed at a smaller poster.

Erthmun's partner was a tall, long-haired woman who dressed well, in tweeds and trendy hats. Her name was Patricia David and she had been standing at the other end of the body in the snow during Erthmun's exchange with the uniformed cop. She smiled—although Erthmun couldn't see it because he was looking at the uniformed cop—and said, "What are you up to, Jack?"

Erthmun said, without looking at her, "I don't know." It was the truth.

The uniformed cop came back and handed Erthmun a white poster. Erthmun looked at it. Patricia David came around the body to look at it, too. She read the poster aloud. "Mortality Makes Mulch of Us All." She grinned. "Pithy."

Erthmun glanced silently at her, then looked at the poster again. The brown words on a white background were neatly handwritten and they were the only words on the poster. A small, hand-drawn graphic of a devil's head lay at the bottom center. Erthmun stared at this devil's head. He touched it, felt nothing. The words and graphic had been done with red marking pen. He held the poster to his nose, sniffed, smelled the unmistakable and stinging aroma of marker ink.

Patricia David said, "Do you think that's important, Jack?"

He looked at her—he had his mouth open a little, like a dog savoring an odor. He closed his mouth and said, "You mean smelling this poster?"

She shook her head. "No, the poster itself. Do you think it's important?"

Erthmun shrugged. "I don't think so."

The uniformed cop said, "They're all over the city."

"Yes, I know," Erthmun said, and handed the poster to Patricia David. "Put this in the car, would you?"

She scowled, took the poster from him, said, "When we're done here,
then
I'll put it in the car."

Erthmun nodded distractedly—he hadn't heard the annoyance in her voice—and turned back to the body. He thought that the snow had melted from the man's rictus grin. This was odd. Surely the body hadn't gotten warmer. He glanced questioningly at Patricia David, then at the body again. He saw that he had been mistaken. The snow hadn't melted.

He bent over and put his ear to the man's mouth, as if the man were going to whisper to him.

"Christ," said the uniformed cop, "what in the hell is he doing?"

Patricia David said nothing.

Erthmun straightened and held his hand out for the white poster. Patricia gave it to him; he stared hard at it for a long moment, then gave it back. "Could you put that in the car," he said again.

She sighed. "When we go back to the car, Jack, then . . ."

"Yes," he cut in. "I'm sorry." He looked down at the body and said nothing for a full minute. Patricia David and the uniformed cop glanced questioningly at one another. At last Erthmun said, "I'm very hungry."

"You're
hungry
?" Patricia said.

Erthmun pointed at the dead man's stomach. "
He's
very hungry."

"Shit," whispered the uniformed cop.

"Shit," Jack whispered.

Patricia asked, "What do you mean he's hungry?"

Erthmun shook his head. "I don't know." It was the truth. He bent over the man's body again, put his hand on the man's belly, pushed hard. The snow around the man's mouth fluttered; a dime-sized clot of snow fell from the man's lips.

"Jesus Christ," said the uniformed cop.

"Jack, is there a reason for all this?" Patricia asked. "We
are
still waiting for the M.E., you know."

Erthmun didn't answer. He pushed on the man's belly again, harder, with similar results. A small groan escaped the man's throat—his vocal chords responding to the passage of air.

Erthmun straightened, shook his head, as if in confusion, glanced at Patricia David, then looked at the dead man's face again. "Did anyone call the Medical Examiner?"

Patricia David said, "Jack, you're the detective in charge; I'd assumed you'd already done that."

Erthmun looked blankly at her a moment, then said, "Oh, yes." He glanced at the uniformed cop. "Call him, would you?"

The uniformed cop said, "Right away," and went to his patrol car.

Erthmun bent over the body again, sniffed at the dead man's mouth, and, again, his own mouth opened a little. Patricia David said, "Something, Jack?"