The Graduation (4 page)

Ray Bradbury had written a short story called “
Rocket Man
.” Michael had read it in junior high. It told of a man who piloted a rocket for a living. Most of the time he worked alone in space, but occasionally he returned home to earth. He had a wife and son, and although the story was largely told through the son’s eyes, it was the wife’s point of view that had stayed with Michael. It came to him as he stood in the cemetery at the foot of Alice McCoy’s grave.

The wife always worried that her husband would crash into the moon, or die on Mars, or Venus, or on any other planet in the solar system. Then she would never again be able to look up when the moon was in the sky, or when the particular planet was close to the earth. For that reason, she tried to keep distance between herself and her husband. She knew that one day she would lose him, and that from then on there would always be a light in the heavens to remind her of him, and break her heart.

Of course the husband’s rocket fell into the sun. It had been a sad story. Yet the Western custom of pumping dead people’s veins with preserving fluids, Michael realized, and sealing the bodies in airtight coffins to bury them in concrete-lined holes, affected him in much the same way. One of the reasons he couldn’t get over Alice, no matter how often he told himself her soul was free, was that her decaying body was always, in a sense, beneath his feet. He wished they’d had her cremated and thrown her ashes into the ocean, or tossed them onto the wind.

At the same time, he wondered if it would have made any difference.

He had not intended to visit the cemetery. He had many things to do. He had to question the coroner who had performed Alice’s autopsy, examine the bedroom again, speak to Clark, and give that silly speech. The fact that he had so many things to investigate all on one day caused him to wonder about his convictions. He could have made his appointment with the coroner months ago. He could have had Bubba duplicate Polly’s keys anytime. And he had found Clark three weeks ago, but still hadn’t approached him. There was really no two ways about it—he had postponed the investigation. The question was, had he done it because he was afraid to discover a fact that proved she had pulled the trigger?

But why would she kill herself?

Even Jessica had not attempted to address that point. Maybe Clark would. Michael glanced back toward his car and the gun safely stored there. More questions came to mind. Why had he postponed his investigation until this particular day, the last day of school? And why did he feel he could no longer postpone it?

“
I feel it. It’s a bad feeling.
”

It was hard to stand beside her grave, but harder still to leave it. He wished he had brought flowers. This was the first time he had been to the cemetery since the funeral. He glanced at the two graves on either side of Alice: Martha McCoy and Philip Bart, Alice’s aunt and an employee of McCoy Construction who had died from an on-job accident. The grass was not quite as green around their tombstones. They had been in the ground less time, but perhaps it would always be greenest near Alice.

It was just a thought. He turned and left the cemetery.

Michael had obtained his appointment with Dr. Gin Kawati under false pretenses. He had called the doctor the previous week and explained he was an assistant editor at a local paper in need of technical information on modern forensic techniques for an article his boss was doing on how modern murders were sometimes solved. Michael had given the doctor the impression the name Dr. Kawati would figure prominently in the article if he would help him out. The doctor had sounded interested.

Michael drove to downtown Los Angeles and parked across the street from the ARC Medical Group. This was his first visit to the office, but Bubba had been there before when he swiped certain codes from the physician’s secretary. It was those codes that had allowed Bubba and Michael to dump the medical group’s files onto Tabb High’s computers homecoming day.

The receptionist showed him directly into the doctor’s office. Dr. Kawati was of Japanese descent—which was no big surprise given his last name—short and mustached. He was not old—thirty-five at most—and appeared at first glance to be friendly. He gave Michael a warm handshake and offered him a seat beside his cluttered desk. But Michael couldn’t help glancing at the man’s hands and thinking to himself that here were hands that spent their days dissecting people. Michael couldn’t understand how anyone could willingly go into such a gruesome field.

“I wear gloves,” Dr. Kawati said. Michael glanced up.

“Pardon?”

“I wear gloves when I perform an autopsy.” The doctor smiled, “l have yet to be at a party or any social occasion and not have someone stare at my hands. Don’t be embarrassed, I am proud of what I do.”

“You read minds?” Michael asked, shaken at his own transparency.

“I read mysteries. The human body is the most mysterious of all God’s creations, and when it ceases to work, for whatever reason, it often leaves behind a puzzle more complex than anything you can find in a movie or a book.” He nodded toward the tape player Michael had brought. “That would be a fine opening for your piece. You might want to turn on your cassette machine.”

On the spur of the moment, Michael decided to take a big chance. Perhaps the doctor’s obviously keen perception gave him the inspiration. “I lied,” he said. “I don’t work for a paper.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow, not fazed. “I’m intrigued. What is your real name and why are you here?”

“My name
is
Mike, and I wanted to question you about an autopsy you performed last fall on a friend of mine. Her name was Alice McCoy.” He added, “I realize I deserve to be kicked out, but I really would like to talk to you.”

“This Alice—she was a close friend of yours?”

Michael nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Kawati turned to the computer on his desk. “M—C—C—O—Y?”

“Yes.”

Kawati called up a file menu, then typed in the name. A moment later an autopsy report appeared on the screen. Michael recognized it; he had, after all, read it a dozen times. Kawati frowned. “I remembered the name McCoy when you said it. A most interesting case.”

“Why?” Michael asked.

“A minute, please,” the doctor said, taking several minutes to read the report from start to finish. When he was done, he looked over at Michael. “I believe you are a friend of hers, but why are you concerned about the results of her autopsy?”

“I have serious doubts about the police’s investigation into her death.”

“Please be more specific.”

“I think Alice McCoy was murdered.”

“Why?”

Michael hesitated. “I’ve read your report.”

“Did the police show it to you?”

“Not exactly.”

The doctor smiled. “You
are
an intriguing young man. I won’t ask you how you managed that. I don’t believe I want to know.” He glanced at the screen, frowned again.

Michael spoke quickly. “She didn’t break her nose falling to the floor after firing the gun. She was sitting when she was shot. None of us rolled her body over when we found it.”

“You can’t be certain she was sitting,” Kawati said.

“It is likely when you take into account where and at what angle the slug hit the wall. Also, she had the gun in her mouth, with her hand around it, when we found her. How could she fall and break her nose with that in the way?”

“How could someone have gotten close enough to put the gun in her mouth, wrap her fingers around the handle, and then pull the trigger?”

“Before I answer that, why did you remember the name? What was so interesting about the case?”

“What you mentioned—the fracture to her nasal cartilage.”

“Then you don’t think it was caused by a fall?”

“I didn’t say that,” the doctor replied.

“How else could she have broken her nose?”

“Any number of ways. She could have been struck across the face, or rather, struck directly on the nose. There were no scratches on her cheeks, nor any other signs that she had been in a struggle.” Kawati paused, intent upon the details, apparently not minding the exchange. “You still have not answered my question.”

“In your report you mentioned brain hemorrhage that appeared unconnected to the path of the bullet.”

“It
may
have been unconnected. The bullet followed a twisted route before exiting the back of the skull. The brain was in extremely poor condition. What are you getting at?”

“I have thought about this a great deal. I was there the night of the party.”

“Go on.”

Michael remembered back to another night, to homecoming, to the moment before the varsity tree toppled and destroyed the snack bar. The idea had begun to form in his mind even then. “I think she was dead before she was shot,” he said.

The doctor thought a moment. “It’s possible.”

“Is it?” Michael asked, realizing he had been holding his breath waiting to hear those exact words.

“Possible, but unlikely,” Kawati quickly added. “Why would someone quietly and effectively kill her with a blow to the nose and then put a gun in her mouth and fire a shot that alerted everyone in the house?”

“To give the impression it had not been a murder, but a suicide.”

“Why?”

“To give the police an excuse not to investigate, which is precisely what has happened. They threw the file on the shelf and closed the case before they opened it.”

“You sound angry.”

Michael felt a tightness in his throat. “She was very dear to me.” He started to get up. “You’ve told me what I wanted to know. Thank you, doctor.”

Kawati glanced at the screen a last time. “There is one other thing you might want to consider. If some-one did strike her, cracking her nasal cartilage and giving her a cerebral hemorrhage in the process, then he must have done it with a baseball bat. Either that or he was a strong devil.” Kawati put a hand to his chin, nodded thoughtfully. “Incredibly strong.”

Nick Grutler drove fast down the coast, reaching San Diego in less than two hours. He had never been to the rehabilitation clinic before, but Maria’s directions were precise and he found the huge modern, two-story building without difficulty. Since her discharge from the local hospital three months ago, Nick had spoken to her on the phone every couple of weeks. Each time, he had called her. Each time, she had sounded much the same, quiet and withdrawn. Yet the bitterness that had unexpectedly arisen after her accident still remained. It had faded, true; nevertheless, it tore him apart to catch hints of it in her voice. Sometimes he felt as if he were talking to a stranger, that he was in love with someone who no longer existed.

She was sitting outside, waiting for him as he walked toward the front stairs. She had a red wool blanket over her legs and a battered tan suitcase by her side. Only she wasn’t simply sitting; she was sitting in a wheelchair.

Oh, Jesus, please heal her.

He had prayed the same prayer a thousand times since last winter. Jesus was either keeping him in suspense or else He had already given him his answer. Nick was a big, strong young man but he almost broke down and cried at that moment.

“Hi. Maria.” he said. She had cut her hair, her beautiful hair. There was hardly any of it left. It was probably easier to take care of shorter, he reasoned. She smiled briefly, and rolled toward him. He wondered if it would be OK to hug her, if he would hurt her.

“Hello. Nick,” she said, glancing up at him before quickly looking down to make sure of her hold on the wheelchair handles. She still seemed to be learning how to get around. “Thanks for coming.”

He stood above her, afraid to move. “It was no problem. It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you.” She nodded to her bag. “I’m already checked out. We can go.”

He stepped past her and picked up the suitcase. He knew it was all she had to her name. After the accident, her parents had been exposed as illegal aliens in the United States. They had subsequently been deported to El Salvador. Maria’s status was still questionable. As long as she needed medical attention that only the United States could provide, she was allowed to stay. She might be deported now that she was leaving the rehab clinic. Michael had helped Nick write a letter to their local congressman pleading her case. So far, there had been no reply.

Nick helped her into the front seat of his car—he could have picked her up with one hand, she was so light—and folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk. It was a tight fit but he was able to close the lid. He climbed in beside her and started the engine.

“Nice car,” she said.

“Thanks. The Rock sold it to me cheap.”

“The Rock—I remember him.”

“I bumped into him in the parking lot when I was leaving school this morning. He told me to tell you he’d like to see you. Mike also said he was looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Good old Mike. Is he still searching for a murderer?”

There was an edge to her question, but not of sarcasm; she really wanted to know. “He doesn’t talk to me about it,” he said, feeling uncomfortable. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, and comfort her, but he could have made the trip for nothing. She was still a hundred miles away, wrapped in a cool protective shell.

“I bet he is,” she said.

“Are you?” He hadn’t shifted the car into gear yet. He hadn’t intended to ask that question. Maria looked over at him. He noticed a faint two-inch scar near her right eye. She’d had some plastic surgery; she’d need more.

“Yes.”

“And you want me to help you find the murderer?”

“You’ll help me,” she said, implying with her tone that he didn’t understand what she was talking about, which was true.

“How?”

She smiled, slow and calculating. “You’ll know when the time comes.”

Sara hated L.A.’s downtown bus station, located in one of the worst parts of town. She always felt relieved to get in and out of it without being molested. The whole world was full of perverts. Society was sick. It still infuriated her how the courts locked Russ away for a crime he had not committed. She wished she’d sent him an airplane ticket. Then she could have driven to Los Angeles airport instead. She had suggested the idea in her last letter, but he hadn’t answered her last letter, so that had been the end of that.

He didn’t answer my letter before that, either.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t into writing letters. She couldn’t stand to write them herself. The only reason she had sent him so many was that she’d had nothing else to do—only get good grades, keep her mother and father from killing each other, and run the whole school. Actually, she was going to give him hell for not answering her—immediately after she determined if he still liked her. She was worried he might have found someone else.

In a juvenile hall full of boys?

One could never tell. They probably had a buxom secretary or two working in the warden’s office. She’d always had the impression Russ could go for an older woman, or a teenybopper for that matter. God help him if he had been unfaithful to her.

He was supposed to be on the one o’clock from Sacramento. She was on time and waiting at the right gate, but when all the people had passed by. there was no Russ. She couldn’t believe it. The bastard had missed his bus and hadn’t had the decency to call her house and leave word that he’d be on the next one arriving at—she glanced up at the schedule board—three o’clock. Three o’clock! She couldn’t wait till then. She was ASB president and this was her last and most important day on the job. That insensitive son-of-a-bitch had dragged her all the way down here
after
getting himself thrown in jail where she couldn’t see him at all, and now he had stood her up.

She reached in her bag for her handkerchief. Life sucked. She hated this trying not to care when all she felt like doing was crying. She dabbed at her eyes. Well, that was the end of that. Jessica would get Bill tonight, and there would be no one there to save poor Sara from being raped by Bubba.

Sara blew her nose and headed for the exit. If she’d known for sure he’d be on the next bus, she would have waited, her important speech notwithstanding. But he had decided not to come, she realized, because he didn’t want to see her. God, she hated him!

She ran into him the second she stepped outside. He was crouched on the curb feeding a pigeon a piece of chocolate doughnut, his duffel bag propped against a nearby fire hydrant. They had cut his hair short. They must have been keeping him inside; he had lost his bronze sheen. It didn’t matter. He looked incredible, simply incredible.

“Where have you been?” he asked, glancing up.

“Where have I been? You were supposed to be on that bus that just came in. You had me standing there waiting for you like some lost bag lady. You have a lot of nerve asking me where I’ve been.”

He gave the bird the remainder of the doughnut and checked his watch. “It’s five past one and you only got here. I’ve been waiting around a couple of hours. I told you I was coming in at eleven.”

“No, you didn’t.” She pulled his last letter from her bag—it was little more than a slip of paper—practically ripping the envelope in the process. “See, it says one o’clock. You wrote it yourself.”

He stood and studied the paper. “There’re two ones there.”

“What? No, that’s not another one. It’s just a scratch.”

“No, I made it. It’s a one.”

Now that he mentioned it, the scratch did bear a faint resemblance to a one. “Why didn’t you call, then?” she asked.

“I didn’t have your number.”

“Why not? What did you do with it?”

“I didn’t do anything with it. I never had it memorized.”

“Is that why you haven’t called me since you left?”

“I couldn’t afford it.”

“You could have called collect,” she began to yell.

He stared at her a moment. “You look great.”

“What do you mean? Do you mean my body or my face?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

She pouted. “How come you’re not being nice to me?”

“How come you’re yelling at me?”

“I’m not.” She wanted to reach over and brush a hair from his eyes as she used to, but she couldn’t see any hair long enough to give her an excuse. “I’m sorry if I am.”

“It’s all right.” He paused. “Your body’s all right.”

“It’s not great?”

“No.”

She started to sock him. but he grabbed her hands and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. A little too quick. She had been hoping for a lot more. As he stepped back and picked up his duffel bag, he averted his eyes. He didn’t want to talk, not about why he had been out drinking homecoming night at a bar he couldn’t remember. She had the feeling he didn’t really want to talk about what he thought of her, either.

“The car’s over here,” she said. She wished she understood him better.