The Poet Read online

  “Okay, Jack,” Laurie said after picking back up. “I just checked our indexes. We have no books containing Poe’s works in whole. I’ve got the poetry disk in, so let’s give it a whirl. What do you want?”

  “There is a poem called ‘The Haunted Palace’ that is part of the story ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ Can you get that?”

  She didn’t answer. I heard her typing on the computer.

  “Okay, yeah, there are selected quotes from the story and the poem. Three screens.”

  “Okay, is there a line that goes ‘Out of space, out of time’?”

  “Out of space. Out of time.”

  “Right. I don’t know the punctuation.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She was typing.

  “Uh, no. It’s not in—”

  “Damn!”

  I don’t know why I made such an outburst. It immediately bothered me.

  “But, Jack, it is a line from another poem.”

  “What? By Poe?”

  “Yes. It’s in a poem called ‘Dream-Land.’ You want me to read it? The whole stanza’s here.”

  “Read it.”

  “Okay, I’m not that great at reading poetry but here goes. ‘By a route obscure and lonely, / Haunted by ill angels only, / Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, / On a black throne reigns upright, / I have reached these lands but newly, / From an ultimate dim Thule— / From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, / Out of SPACE—out of TIME.’ That’s it. But there is an editor’s note. It says an Eidolon means a phantom.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was frozen still.

  “Jack?”

  “Read it again. Slower, this time.”

  I wrote the stanza in my notebook. I could have just asked her to print it out and then gone and picked it up but I didn’t want to move. I wanted, for the short moment, to be totally alone with this. I had to be.

  “Jack, what is it?” she asked when she was done reading. “You seem so anxious about this.”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve gotta go.”

  I hung up.

  In an instant I began to feel overly warm, claustrophobic. As large as the newsroom was, I felt like the walls were closing in. My heart pounded. A vision of my brother in the car flashed through my mind.

  Glenn was on the phone when I walked into his office and sat down in front of him. He pointed to the door and nodded like he wanted me to wait outside until he was done. I didn’t move. He pointed again and I shook my head.

  “Listen, I’ve got something happening here,” he said into the phone. “Can I call you back? Great. Yeah.”

  He hung up.

  “What’s—”

  “I need to go to Chicago,” I said. “Today. And then probably to Washington, then maybe Quantico, Virginia. To the FBI.”

  Glenn didn’t buy it.

  “Out of space? Out of time? I mean, come on, Jack, that has got to be a thought that goes through the minds of many people who contemplate or actually do commit suicide. The fact that it’s mentioned in a poem written by some morbid guy a hundred and fifty years ago who also wrote another poem this other dead cop quoted, it’s not the stuff conspiracies are made of.”

  “What about Rusher and Roderick Usher? You think that’s a coincidence, too? So now we have a triple coincidence and you say it’s not worth checking out.”

  “I didn’t say it’s not worth checking out.” His voice rose a notch to a level signaling indignation. “Of course, you check it out. Get on the phones, check it out. But I’m not sending you off on a national tour on the basis of what you’ve got now.”

  He swiveled in his chair so he could check his computer for pending messages. There were none. He turned to face me again.

  “What’s the motive?”

  “What?”

  “Who’d want to kill your brother and this guy in Chicago? It doesn’t make—How come the cops missed this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you spent the day with them and the case, where’s the hole in the suicide? How could someone have done this and just walked away? How come you came away yesterday convinced that it was suicide? I got your message, you said you were convinced. How come the cops are convinced?”

  “I don’t have any answers for that yet. That’s why I want to go to Chicago and then to the bureau.”

  “Look, Jack, you’ve got a cushy beat here. I can’t tell you how many times reporters have come in here saying they wanted it. You—”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Who wants my beat?”

  “Never mind. It’s not what we’re talking about. The point is, you’ve got it good here and you get to go anywhere in the state you want to go. But for this kind of travel, I’ve got to be able to justify it with Neff and Neighbors. I also have a newsroom full of reporters who would like to travel every once in a while on a story. I would like them to travel. It helps keep them motivated. But we’re in an economic downturn here and I can’t okay every trip that gets proposed.”

  I hated these sermons and I wondered if Neff and Neighbors, the managing editor and editor of the paper, even cared whom he sent where as long as they got good stories. This was a good story. Glenn was full of shit and he knew it.

  “Okay, I’ll just take vacation time and do it myself.”

  “You used everything you had after the funeral. Besides you’re not going to run around the country saying you’re a Rocky Mountain News reporter if you’re not on an assignment for the Rocky Mountain News.”

  “What about unpaid leave? You said yesterday that if I wanted more time you’d work something out.”

  “I meant time to grieve, not go running across the country. Anyway, you know the rules on unpaid leave. I can’t protect your position. You take a leave and you might not have the beat when you come back.”

  I wanted to quit right there but I wasn’t brave enough and I knew I needed the paper. I needed the institution of the media as my access card to cops, researchers, everybody involved. Without my press card, I’d be just some suicide’s brother who could be pushed aside.

  “I need more than what you’ve got now to justify this, Jack,” Glenn said. “We can’t afford an expensive fishing expedition, we need facts. If you had more, I could maybe see going to Chicago. But this foundation and the FBI you could definitely do by phone. If you can’t, then maybe I can get somebody from the Washington news bureau to go over there.

  “It’s my brother, my fucking story. You’re not giving it to anybody.”

  He raised his hands in a calming manner. He knew his suggestion was way out of bounds.

  “Then work the phones and come back to me with something.”

  “Look, don’t you see what you’re saying? You’re saying don’t go without the proof. But I need to go to get the proof.”

  Back at my desk, I opened up a new computer file and began typing in everything I knew about the deaths of Theresa Lofton and my brother. I put down every detail I could remember from the files. The phone rang but I didn’t answer it. I only typed. I knew I needed to start with a base of information. Then I would use it to knock apart the case against my brother. Glenn had finally cut a deal with me. If I got the cops to reopen my brother’s case, I’d go to Chicago. He said we’d still have to talk about D.C., but I knew that if I got to Chicago I would get to Washington.

  As I typed, the picture of my brother kept coming back to me. Now that sterile, lifeless photo bothered me. For I had believed the impossible. I had let him down and now felt a keener sense of guilt. It was my brother in that car, my twin. It was me.

  9

  I ended up with four pages of notes which I then synthesized after an hour of study and thought to six lines of shorthand questions I had to find the answers to. I had found that if I looked at the facts of the case from the opposite perspective, believing Sean had been murdered and had not taken his own life, I saw something the cops had possibly missed. Their mistake had been their predisposition to
believe and therefore accept that Sean had killed himself. They knew Sean and knew he was burdened by the Theresa Lofton case. Or maybe it was something every cop could believe about every other cop. Maybe they’d all seen too many corpses and the only surprise was that most didn’t kill themselves. But when I sifted through the facts with a disbeliever’s eye, I saw what they did not see.

  I studied the list I had written on a page in my notebook.

  Pena: his hands?

  after—how long?

  Wexler/Scalari: the car?

  heater?

  lock?

  Riley: gloves?

  I realized I could handle Riley by phone. I dialed and was about to hang up after six rings when she picked up.

  “Riley? It’s Jack. You okay? This a bad time?”

  “When’s a good time?”

  It sounded like she had been drinking.

  “You want me to come out, Riley? I’m coming out.”

  “No, don’t, Jack. I’m okay. Just, you know, one of those blue days. I keep thinking about him, you know?”

  “Yes. I think about him, too.”

  “Then how come you hadn’t been around for so long before he went and . . . I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bring things up . . .”

  I was quiet a moment.

  “I don’t know, Riles. We sorta had a fight about something. I said some things I shouldn’t have. He did, too, I guess. I think we were kind of in a cooling-off period . . . He did it before I could get back with him.”

  I realized I hadn’t called her Riles in a long time. I wondered if she had noticed.

  “What was the fight about, the girl that got cut in two?”

  “Why do you say that? Did he tell you about it?”

  “No. I just guessed. She had him wrapped around her finger, why not you? That’s all I was thinking.”

  “Riley, you’ve got—Look, this isn’t good for you to be dwelling on. Try to think about the good things.”

  I almost broke down and told her what I was pursuing. I would have liked to give her something to ease her pain. But it was too early.

  “It’s hard to do that.”

  “I know, Riley. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  There was a long silence on the line between us. I heard nothing in the background. No music. No TV. I wondered what she was doing in the house alone.

  “Mom called me today. You told her what I was doing.”

  “Yes. I thought she should know.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What did you want, Jack?” she finally asked.

  “Just a question. It’s kind of out of left field but here it is. Did the cops show you or give you back Sean’s gloves?”

  “His gloves?”

  “The ones he was wearing that day.”

  “No. I haven’t gotten them. Nobody asked me about them.”

  “Well, then, what kind of gloves did Sean have?”

  “Leather. Why?”

  “Just something I’m playing with. I’ll tell you about it later if it amounts to anything. What about the color, black?”

  “Yes, black leather. I think they were fur-lined.”

  Her description matched the gloves I had seen in the crime scene photographs. It didn’t really mean anything one way or the other. Just a point to check, one duck put in the row.

  We talked for a few minutes more and I asked if she wanted to have dinner that night because I was coming out to Boulder, but she said no. After that we hung up. I was worried about her and hoped the conversation—just the human contact—would raise her spirits. I contemplated dropping by her place anyway, after I was done with everything else.

  As I passed through Boulder I could see snow clouds forming along the tops of the Flatirons. I knew from growing up out there how fast it could come down once the clouds moved in. I hoped the company Tempo I was driving had chains in the trunk but knew it was unlikely.

  At Bear Lake I found Pena standing outside the ranger shack talking with a group of cross-country skiers who were passing through. While I waited I walked out to the lake. I saw a few spots where people had cleared away the snow down to the ice. I tentatively walked out on the frozen lake and looked down into one of these blue-black portals and imagined the depths below. I felt a slight tremor at my center. Twenty years earlier my sister had slipped through the ice and died in this lake. Now my brother had died in his car not fifty yards away. Looking down at the black ice I remembered hearing somewhere that some of the lake fish get frozen in the winter but when the thaw comes in spring they wake up and just snap out of it. I wondered if it was true and thought it was too bad people weren’t the same way.

  “It’s you again.”

  I turned around and saw Pena.

  “Yes, I’m sorry to bother you. I have just a few more questions.”

  “No bother. I wish I could have done something before, you know? Maybe had seen him before, when he first pulled in, seen if he needed help. I don’t know.”

  We had started walking back toward the shack.

  “I don’t know what anybody could have done,” I said, just to be saying something.

  “So, what are your questions?”

  I took out my notebook.

  “Uh, first off, when you ran to the car, did you see his hands? Like where they were?”

  He walked without speaking. I think he was envisioning the incident in his mind.

  “You know,” he finally said, “I think I did look at his hands. Because when I ran up and saw it was just him, I immediately figured he had shot himself. So I’m pretty sure I looked at his hands to see if he was holding the gun.”

  “Was he?”

  “No. I saw it on the seat next to him. It fell on the seat.”

  “Do you remember if he was wearing gloves when you looked in?”

  “Gloves . . . gloves,” he said, as if he was trying to prompt an answer from his memory banks. After another long pause he said, “I don’t know. I’m not getting a picture in my mind. What do the police say?”

  “Well, I’m just trying to see if you remember.”

  “Well, I’m not getting anything, sorry.”

  “If the police wanted to, would you let them hypnotize you? To see if they could bring it out that way?”

  “Hypnotize me? They do that sort of stuff?”

  “Sometimes. If it’s important.”

  “Well, if it was important, I guess I’d do it.”

  We were standing in front of the shack now. I was looking at the Tempo parked in the same place my brother had parked.

  “The other thing I wanted to ask about was the timing. The police reports say that you had the car in sight within five seconds of hearing the shot. And with only five seconds there is no way anybody could make it from the car and into the woods without being seen.”

  “Right. No way. Would’ve seen ’em.”

  “Okay, then what about after?”

  “After what?”

  “After you ran to the car and saw the man was shot. You told me the other day you ran back to the shack here and made two calls. That right?”

  “Yes, nine one one and my supe.”

  “So you were inside the shack here and couldn’t see the car, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How long?”

  Pena nodded, seeing what I was getting at.

  “But that doesn’t matter because he was alone in the car.”

  “I know but humor me. How long?”

  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say what the hell and fell silent again. He walked into the shack and made a motion with his hand like lifting up the phone.

  “I got through on nine one one right away. That was pretty quick. They took my name and stuff and that took some time. Then I called in and asked for Doug Paquin, that’s my boss. I said it was an emergency and they put me through right away. He got on and I told him what happened and he told me to go out and watch the vehicle until the police came. That was it. I
went back out.”

  I considered all of that and figured that he had probably been out of sight of the Caprice for at least thirty seconds.

  “On the car, when you first ran out, did you check all the doors to see if any were unlocked?”

  “Just on the driver’s side. But they were all locked.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When the cops got out here they tried them all and they were locked. They had to use one of those slim jim things to pop the lock.”

  I nodded and said, “What about the backseat? You said yesterday that the windows were fogged. Did you put your face up to the glass and look directly into the backseat? Down at the floor?”

  Pena understood now what I was asking about. He thought for a moment and shook his head in the negative.

  “No, I didn’t look directly into the back. I just thought it was the one guy, is all.”

  “Did the cops ask you these questions?”

  “No, not really. I see what you’re driving at, though.”

  I nodded.

  “One last thing. When you called it in, did you say it was a suicide or just that it was a shooting?”

  “I . . . Yeah, I said somebody up here went and shot hisself. Just like that. They got a tape, I ’spect.”

  “Probably. Thanks a lot.”

  I started back to my car as the first flurries started floating down. Pena called after me.

  “What about the hypnotizing?”

  “They’ll call if they want to do it.”

  Before getting in the car I checked the trunk. There were no chains.

  On my way back through Boulder I stopped at a bookstore called, appropriately enough, The Rue Morgue and picked up a thick volume containing the complete stories and poems of Edgar Allan Poe. My intention was to start reading it that night. As I drove back to Denver I worked on trying to put Pena’s answers into the theory I was working on. And no matter how I moved his answers around, there was nothing that derailed my new belief.

  When I got to the DPD, I was told up in the SIU office that Scalari was out of the building, so I went to homicide and found Wexler behind his desk. I didn’t see St. Louis around.