The Question of the Felonious Friend (14 page)

Ms. Washburn sounded slightly irritated. “I didn't ask about that and you know it,” she said. “Do you want to hear what
was
said?”

“You sound like an old married couple.” I looked up at the voice and saw Mother walking in from the parking lot. “I was in the neighborhood.” That is what Mother says whenever she decides to visit my office, although I have told her to feel free to drop in whenever she wants.

Ms. Washburn greeted Mother—they have become friendly—and guided her to her reclining chair. Mother's knees have good days and bad ones, and the way she was walking today indicated this was not one of the good ones. She sat heavily on the recliner and let out what I'm sure she thought was a contented sigh. But I worried that it indicated a level of pain that was increasing lately.

“It sounded like you were talking about Tyler Clayton,” she said when she had sat and extended the footrest on the chair. She waved her right hand. “Don't let me stop you. You're working.”

I informed Mother of our progress, or at least our activity, since lunch when she had seen me last. She listened attentively. “So Tyler's out on bail for now,” she said. “Maybe that will help him get back to speaking.”

“He is already speaking,” I pointed out. “He is restricting himself to saying only one thing.”

Ms. Washburn apparently decided not to argue that point—perhaps Mother's comment about us sounding like a married couple had worried her, although it had simply puzzled me (how can a person
sound
married?)—and pressed on with her recounting of the call with Mason Clayton.

“Yes. Tyler is home now at Mason's house. And according to Mr. Swain, the trial probably won't happen for at least six months, if it happens at all.”

“If it happens at all?” Mother sounded concerned, leading me to wonder if I had missed some nuance in the news from Swain. “Does he not expect there to be a trial?”

Ms. Washburn hesitated before answering. “I didn't get much about that, but Mason says so far Mr. Swain is recommending that Tyler let him negotiate a plea bargain.”

That would not be an unexpected turn. One of the ways an attorney like Swain retains a reputation for keeping his clients from being convicted is to rarely allow them to stand trial. Swain was simply protecting himself instead of his client. It was clear to me that Tyler had not shot Richard Handy, and I reiterated that stance to Ms. Washburn and Mother.

“
You're
certain, Samuel, but the court is going to need proof.” Mother leaned back in the recliner, which made her appear to be preparing to sleep, although I knew it was a tactic designed to keep her knees elevated over her heart. Mother's orthopedist had recommended she stay that way for three hours every day. She normally does so for an hour in the morning and another when she is preparing for bed. This would be the third. “Even if that's not part of answering the question you got from Mason, if you want to keep that boy out of jail, you need to concern yourself with proof.”

“You make a good point, Mother. Ms. Washburn, what else did Mason tell you?”

Ms. Washburn sat and looked at me for a moment. “Didn't I just say that? Didn't I just tell you that proof was important, and didn't you tell me it had nothing to do with answering Mason's question, which was our only concern? How come it convinces you when your mother tells you but not when I say it?”

The words were coming at me too quickly. “Which question would you prefer I answer first, Ms. Washburn?” I asked.

Mother chuckled. “Just like an old married couple,” she said.

Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Forget it. The only other thing that happened on the phone was that Mason gave me two e-mail addresses, which he said Tyler gave him when he got home. Apparently Tyler is communicating better through the keyboard than through speaking.”

That was not unusual for people diagnosed with autism spectrum disorders. For some, the idea of writing or typing out a message is much less stressful than speaking. It is not common among those who until recently would have been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. We are known as “little professors” among those who have a taste for demeaning nicknames, because we tend to impart great amounts of information on specific topics.

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, focusing my attention on her once again, “did you hear me?”

“I'm afraid not. Could you repeat what you said, please?”

She did not roll her eyes in exasperation, which is one of the qualities I most appreciate in Ms. Washburn. “I said that Mason gave me contact information for two people in Tyler's S and S group, Adam Pasternak and Margie Cavanagh. He said he wouldn't call them Tyler's friends, but they were people who knew him. Tyler won't say anything more about them. He's not communicating much, especially about Richard's death, Mason said.”

“Have you attempted to contact the two players yet?” I asked.

Mother gave me a disapproving look I did not understand.

“You saw me get off the phone with Mason,” Ms. Washburn said. “When did you think I had time to get in touch with Adam and Margie?”

“That is a fair point.” Sometimes when my mind wanders the passage of time is a less definite thing for me. “Would you do that, please?”

“What should I ask?” Ms. Washburn wanted to know.

“Ask when we can meet with them, and if they would mind coming here.”

Ms. Washburn nodded, but looked up. “Why here?” she asked.

“Because our travel time might be limited,” I said. “We have a great many people to see.”

Ms. Washburn moaned a bit. “You can say that again.” Then she looked up at me. “But don't.”

Mother chuckled. “An old married couple,” she said.

Seventeen

Adam Pasternak was a
young man of twenty, he told us, who had taken up Swords and Sorcerers because he thought it would be a good way to meet people online. That had turned out to be only partially true, he said.

“I guess when I said I wanted to meet people, I meant I wanted to meet girls,” Adam told us. He had been happy to answer Ms. Washburn's e-mail query and had driven to the Questions Answered office immediately upon responding. It seemed that Adam did not have a great deal he needed to do. “As it turned out, the only girl I met was Margie, and she wasn't interested in me. I mean, I've never
really
met her, you know. We just play S and S online. But anytime I tried to e-mail her or anything, she didn't answer.”

I looked at Ms. Washburn, behind her desk and taking notes but doing her best to maintain eye contact with Adam. She did not look in my direction, which gave me no particular insight into the nuance of Adam and Margie's relationship. It was too late to ask Mother, who had taken the opportunity to say her farewells and drive home. So I said, “Were you interested romantically in Margie Cavanagh?” It didn't seem to have any relevance to Richard Handy's shooting, but we did not have enough facts to rule out any possibility yet.

Adam looked uncomfortable; even I could see that. He rotated his neck a bit and pulled at the open collar of his t-shirt, which bore an image from a science fiction film franchise. “I don't know,” he said. “I mean, she's a girl and she likes RPGs, so it seemed possible, but Margie never gave me a chance to find out.”

I looked at Ms. Washburn again. She said quietly, “Role-playing games.”

“What about Tyler Clayton?” I asked. “How did he fit in with the group?”

Adam shrugged. “Okay. I never really talked to him except in the game. It's not like we were that social a group. We got together online, went on the mission of the day, and that was pretty much it until the next Wednesday.”

“What did you think when you heard Tyler was arrested for murder?” I asked.

“He
was
?” Adam said. He broke into a grin. “That's so
cool
!”

Margie Cavanagh had not responded to Ms. Washburn's e-mail yet and it was almost time for us to close the office. We decided to regroup and begin organizing interviews for the next day. Ms. Washburn left, I did some more contraband research, found one interesting possibility I could not confirm, and called Mike for a ride home.

He arrived promptly as always but his demeanor was less gregarious than usual. I felt it was not my place to ask why, but Mike immediately volunteered. “Broke up with my girlfriend,” he said. “Found out she was seeing another guy on the side. Made her choose, and she chose the other guy.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said, because that is what I have been told is the appropriate response to such news. I don't really understand the concept of “breaking up,” since people who are not married have no legal or verifiable commitment. Either one can terminate the relationship whenever the mood strikes, but there must be more to it than that because intelligent people like Mike attach a great deal of significance to the end of such a relationship. I might not be able to empathize, but I can respect him enough to recognize that it must be emotionally troubling.

“It's okay, Samuel. I knew it wasn't gonna last from the beginning. It just hurts more when there's somebody else. Makes you feel like you weren't good enough or something.”

And that brought my mind back to Billy Martinez. I don't think I heard anything else Mike said on the ride home, but he thanked me for being a good listener when I exited the cab and said he might call me for a ride the next day if he needed to talk some more. I told him I would always be happy to ride in his taxicab and went into the house.

After dinner, since there was no baseball game that night, I told Mother I was going to do some work upstairs and went to my apartment in the attic. There isn't much there, at least less than the space would hold, although the pitched roof somewhat limits the height of furniture I could decide to install if that were my priority.

It was summer, so I turned the air conditioning unit on in my bedroom's lone window. This area of the house was not built with someone occupying the attic in mind.

I am not fond of headphones, as they put undue pressure on either side of my head. Ear buds are dangerous to one's hearing, so I avoid them whenever possible. In the attic, where I know the walls are thick and well-insulated, I play music on a stereo system that was my mother's in the 1980s and 1990s.

It includes a compact disc player, into which I inserted the Beatles album
Abbey Road
. That is among the most complex collections the band created, but so familiar I could listen to it, appreciate the artistry, and think separate thoughts at the same time. That might not be the case with
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
or
Let It Be
. The history of the recording sessions would intrude on my thoughts if those albums were playing.

I do not like to talk to people on the telephone, which is one of the reasons Ms. Washburn so often handles that part of the Questions Answered business. I believe, also, that she prefers to make and receive all the business phone calls because she seems somehow insulted or surprised when I decide to take one myself. So I decided tonight not to call Billy Martinez or Margie Cavanagh.

The only contact information I had for Detective Hessler was his business card, which included only his phone number at the police station. I thought it unlikely he would still be there this late in the evening, and even less likely he would want to share information with a civilian. Perhaps an in-person meeting tomorrow, sometime before three p.m., would be more effective.

Instead, my best course of action for the evening was to revert to my habits before the founding of Questions Answered, only with a more specific focus. Part of the reason Mother suggested I start the business—in addition to her desire to see me leave the house on occasion—was that she knew I would often spend my time doing research on three screens with Retina display connected to an iMac on my desk.

She felt that practice could be successfully monetized, or at least that it would help me focus my skills toward helping others and not simply satisfying my own curiosities. I resisted at first, but as usual, Mother had prevailed. And as was equally typical, she had been proven correct. I not only made some income through Questions Answered, I enjoyed the challenge that answering unexpected questions could bring.

As John Lennon was beginning the vocal on “Come Together,” I sat down at my desk to retrace my steps and examine the question from perspectives I had not yet considered, a practice I have found helpful in the past.

First, I researched the name Richard Handy in the Somerset County area. The criminal record (charged with selling contraband) was there, and little else followed it. The only obituary that had been published online or in print listed the name of his aunt, Audrey Seldin, as his only survivor. His parents' names were not listed. Clearly, Richard had not been married and had no children, which was not in any way a surprise.

Tyler Clayton's name, absent his recent arrest for Richard's murder, did not yield anything even that illuminating. He was listed among graduating students at Franklin High School ten years earlier. He had, apparently, taken some courses at Middlesex County College following graduation but had not received the associate's degree that institution offers. He did have a Facebook page, which I accessed through Ms. Washburn's account (with her permission) since I do not participate in social media. But Tyler rarely posted, except to discuss Swords and Sorcerers or video games.

He had three Facebook friends listed. One was his brother Mason, one was his sister Sandy Clayton Webb, and the other was Richard Handy.

Perhaps I had been mistaken in my answer to Tyler's question, I thought as George Harrison was singing “Something.” If I had believed that Tyler truly had shot Richard, it might have been possible I'd be feeling partially responsible now. But I knew that wasn't the case, so I pressed on.

Besides, the difference between a Facebook friend and a true compatriot in life is often quite pronounced, I am told. This might have been one more way Richard had tried to convince Tyler he was a friend while simply trying to keep the exorbitant tips coming.

I was convinced that the hundred dollars per day was the key. But I still had no tangible evidence the payment was made more than the one time Ms. Washburn and I witnessed it. Hacking into Tyler's bank account would not be simple, but it would be possible after a large number of steps, not the least of which was determining in which bank he deposited the money he made from his job at the Microchip Mart. It would be a long process and not one I could successfully complete tonight.

I could call Mason Clayton and ask about Tyler's finances, and I might even get a response. But again, making phone calls is not my favorite thing. I am awkward and nervous on a call when I am not very well acquainted with the other party. I tend to choose the wrong word or to forget key questions. I am still somewhat anxious even in face-to-face conversations, but the telephone adds a layer of difficulty in that I cannot use my learned skills of reading another person's facial expression. I was, in short, not going to call Mason tonight.

Instead, I would look into his finances. But first I would compile data on Mason and his sister Sandy Clayton Webb.

Knowing the people for whom one works is not always an imperative in my business. Someone who asks about the comparative gravity of the Empire State Building to the Leaning Tower of Pisa does not invite further investigation (acceleration of an object dropped from any height is a constant, but velocity will vary until terminal velocity is reached because of the density of the atmosphere). But in this case, having some insight into my client and the people involved in the question could prove helpful.

I began with Sandy because she would probably require less time to research. Her personal life was in some ways a matter of public record: Her marriage and divorce were listed in local newspapers, as were the births of her children.

Digging just a bit deeper, I found that Sandra Clayton had graduated from Franklin High School fourteen years earlier, had attended Montclair State University, earning a degree in business administration. There she had met Thomas Webb, shortstop of the Montclair baseball team (which had not compiled a very impressive record) and married him ten years before she and I had met at Questions Answered.

They had two children. Brynna, age seven, was currently a second-grader while her younger brother, Douglas, was attending kindergarten at the Hillcrest School in Franklin Township. Their parents had divorced fourteen months earlier, according to a legal announcement in the
Home News-Tribune
.

Sandy had been working as an industry analyst at Bessemer Trust in Woodbridge before her daughter was born, and returned to work with a smaller firm on a part-time basis two months before her divorce had been finalized. I could only assume she was also receiving alimony and child support from her ex-husband Thomas Webb, who was chief operating officer for an investment firm in Newark. She had not sold the house the couple had bought before the birth of Brynna, and had not missed a mortgage payment or incurred any other blemish on her credit report.

In short, Sandy's information was not terribly interesting.

I did not know Mason's banking information either, but that would not be necessary for the kind of research I intended to do. So I began by running a general search on Mason's name and received over fourteen million hits on Google. By placing quotation marks on either side of the name, however, I could infer to the search engine that those words in that order were necessary to the search, and that cut the results to only 5,600 hits. A much more manageable number.

At that point, Paul McCartney began to sing about “Maxwell's Silver Hammer,” a very odd bouncy song about a serial murderer. But since Richard Handy was not killed with a silver hammer (the fictional Maxwell's victims are a woman he knew from a class, the professor who taught the class, and a judge sentencing him for the previous crimes, which makes little narrative sense), the song was merely background music, not a source of information or inspiration.

Even with the possibilities already greatly reduced, it was fairly simple to eliminate a great many of the suggested links the search provided. Some referred to places, others to parts of longer names. Many were simply references to Facebook, suggesting I look for “people named Mason Clayton” on that site, which would be a measure of last resort. By cutting down on the unlikely and clearly useless references, soon the possibilities were reduced to only 307 suggestions and I began examining those more carefully.

Eventually I could determine that Mason Clayton was thirty-seven years old. He was unmarried and had always been so. He had no arrest record at all. The home he occupied was his own, purchased from his mother Eleanor's estate died four years earlier. He had paid his sister Sandy and brother Tyler, the other heirs, $256,000 for the house, on which he had a mortgage currently worth $197,542 from Valley National Bank, information which would make investigating his finances considerably less difficult if that became necessary. Mason had not missed a mortgage payment since buying the house, but recently two payments had been one week late in arriving.

On the surface that did not seem unusual. But online sources also disclosed that Mason Clayton was not an employee of a company that did light construction and power washing of homes and industrial buildings. That was the information Ms. Washburn and I had been led to believe by Sandy and by Mason, but county records filed seven years earlier told a different tale.