A Disturbing Nature, page 31
Anita pushes her husband’s arm away at the wrist, frowning at Palmer. “The baby’s due in March.”
“Best wishes on the birth of your baby.” Palmer points his cigarette at her hands. “I recommend you get some bacitracin on those fingers; maybe have a professional take a look before they get infected.” He turns his attention to Sebastian with a glare that peers straight into the young man’s soul. “You and your wife are free to go. I sincerely hope we won’t need to speak with you again, Mr. Hoffman.” He leans forward, placing his hand on the table. “You can be certain we’ll contact you if that becomes necessary.”
Walking back to the parking lot, Ross shakes the remaining dirt off his coat. “You talk to Osmond this morning?”
Palmer nods. “Swung by his office before heading to the lab.”
“He tell you the survivor picked Bundy out of a lineup yesterday?”
“Bob in Seattle and Jerry in Salt Lake both gave me a call last night. I let Harry know this morning.”
Ross pats Palmer on the shoulder. “They got him now.”
“We’ll see. The bastard’s cagey.”
Ross furrows his brows. “Hey, Frank, why’d you have to go there with these kids?”
Palmer opens his car door. “Go where?”
“Why investigate their relationship?” Ross says, putting his coat on.
“Because, Gerry, they have bigger problems.” Flicking his cigarette onto the gravel, Palmer slides into the driver’s seat, looking up at Ross. “So, maybe my words get Mrs. Hoffman to show a nurse her fingers, and maybe the nurse will notice Mrs. Hoffman’s bruises and the bald spot in her hairline while documenting she’s pregnant. Maybe the nurse will encourage Mrs. Hoffman to make an appointment to see a therapist along with an obstetrician. Then, maybe, Mrs. Hoffman will go; maybe work up the courage to tell somebody. And, maybe, just maybe, she’ll get away from her piece-of-shit husband and raise that kid with her parents.”
“Geez, Frank, I didn’t think you cared.”
Palmer looks up from the driver’s seat. “I don’t, Gerry. If I did, I’d talk to her parents and not leave it to a bunch of maybes.”
Ross leans into the driver’s window and taps on the chrome. “I saw the bruises. Why not bring the kid in for more questioning?”
Palmer stares straight ahead. “If he were a foot taller and right-handed, I’d have more interest. As it is, he’s just another monster-in-waiting preying on a willing victim.”
-57-
FATHER’S BLACK-HAIRED CRITTERS
Saturday, 4 October 1975
Mo’s baseball cards are spread out on the dining table; assembled so each Red Sox player in the starting lineup is placed in his defensive position. Only the first baseman is missing—the one card Mo still doesn’t have. In a playful gesture, Trevor has placed the Oakland equivalents on the opposite side of the table. During commercial breaks of the pregame, Mo lurches over the cards before returning to the living room, where he stands by the sofa, stares at the television, checking his Timex intermittently.
When the first playoff game begins, he coils on the far end of the sofa, his hands gripped together, leaning on the armrest. He doesn’t make a sound, his only movement involuntary shaking. Focusing on the screen, he does not blink. And he doesn’t feel the four pairs of eyes monitoring his breathing pattern, his every facial expression. The tension in the townhouse is thicker than a bowl of his grandmother’s cornbread batter.
What had been angst during the regular season is now agony in the playoffs. Watching her friend suffer, Kay suggests to Carlton that they head to Rogers Williams Park a little early. Mo’s surprised when Carlton shakes him midway through the game, asking if he still wants to go to the zoo. Torn, Mo agrees under the condition they listen along the way. The anxiety in the house transfers to Carlton’s car before arriving at the park midafternoon.
Despite resistance, Kay persuades Mo to leave his transistor radio in the car. “There are a lot of different things to do here,” she says. “It’s a pretty special place, according to my dad.”
Strolling alongside her, Mo looks in Kay’s direction as often as he can, careful not to walk into anyone. While helping take his mind off the game, it also makes him feel more buoyant.
“My father would tell me all about the park when I was young. Let’s see how much I remember.” Looking at the ground, she begins reciting. “Roger Williams Park is a Providence landmark located on 435 acres. It has eight lakes and borders Cranston to the south.”
Her hand gestures and the cadence of her voice make Mo think of the waitress at McGuinn’s reading the daily specials.
“Founded in 1871,” Kay continues, “the park represents the last of the original land granted in 1638 to Providence Plantation by Chief Canonicus of the Narragansett tribe. Along with a museum of natural history, Victorian rose garden, and zoo, the park has a boathouse and an abundance of walking paths.” She looks up at Mo. “How did I do?”
Mo smiles, hoping she won’t quiz him.
Kay laughs. “That’s good because I memorized the brochure while we were driving here. It took me years to figure out my dad would do the same thing to me.”
Carlton walks behind them. “She does it all the time. I watched her preparing in the car while you were listening to the game.”
Kay playfully elbows Mo. “Let’s go to the rose garden first. I think you’ll enjoy that, right?”
Mo nods, Kay’s nudge leaving a warm tingle in his side.
The rose garden is beyond what even Mo could imagine. As he walks through a flurry of red, yellow, pink, and white, Mo’s only comparison is Mr. Ford’s Garden—equally colorful but significantly smaller. From a distance, a sea of tightly clustered white roses appears as the homemade sail of a fisherman’s skiff, his mother’s bedsheet tied to the mast, billowing in the breeze. The visual surges through him, carrying him back to one of the last times his mother was able to leave the house.
Not quite five, with red popsicle staining his shirt, Mo and his mother were drifting three property lines over in a light breeze and drowning heat to Jimmy Pierson’s house, having been invited to watch the grand opening of Disneyland on their brand-new television. Their progress was slow, young Mo navigating as he held his mother’s hand. They docked for a time in front of Mr. Ford’s Garden, so his mother could inhale the sweet aroma of lilies, lavender, and gardenia.
When they finally arrived, Mo sat on the floor alongside Jimmy and his sister. Awestruck by their black-and-white television, Mo wondered what colors the flowers were in the floral arrangement of Mickey Mouse’s face in front of the Disneyland train station. Looking back to the sofa behind him, he was touched by his mother’s warm smile, her wooden cane by her side.
Mo bumps into a park bench, snapping him back from the past. He sees Kay walking with Carlton up ahead. His mother wasn’t much older than Kay when she died. He wonders what Kay will be like when she becomes a mother. Will they still be his friends? Will they go to Disneyland together? Does Kay look forward to seeing him as much as Mo looks forward to seeing her? Having had similar questions about Emily when she was little, he shakes his head before catching up with his friends, letting them know he’s had enough of the rose garden.
During the ten-minute walk to the zoo, the status of the game hangs over Mo like one of Old Man Southerland’s prize-winning hogs at the Fauquier County Fair. However, working his way through the exhibits, his thoughts return to the past, and his parents, as he gazes upon animals he had previously seen only on television, in pictures, or as drawings in books his mother would read to him.
Stopping longest at the black bear and panther exhibits, Mo looks at the chain-link fence surrounding their enclosures. The fences make him feel safe—safe the way he does within the chain-link fence surrounding Mr. Griffin’s home when he visits. When he was young, his father would tell him about the black bears and panthers that roamed the woods of southern Fauquier, though he never saw one. He recalls asking his father if they were the black-haired critters that got hung up in the trees and floated down the Rappahannock. But his father told him they weren’t. His father’s black-haired critters walked upright and spoke nonsense. One night, when he was twelve, lying awake in bed and worried he might be one of those black-haired critters, Mo decided he would never again ask his father about them.
The afternoon sails by as Kay and Carlton wait patiently at each exhibit until Mo moves on to the next. Often, they seek cover from the late afternoon sun on a nearby park bench. When the zoo closes at six, their journey ends. His friends head out for a quiet dinner, leaving Mo to explore the park grounds. They agree to meet at Betsey Williams Cottage by eight. Park attendance thins out in the early evening, attractions closing, and most people switching their interests to Saturday night activities.
Mo walks to the more wooded southern end of the park, along some quieter trails around the ponds. Still unaware of the outcome of the game, Mo struggles to focus on other things. He thinks about the animals in the zoo, wishing Jake had come along. He wonders if Jake has gone to the zoo with the Branches, curious whether his brother wishes he were there with him. Thinking about his brother’s letter, he wonders how Jake has been impacted by Emily’s lies and her parent’s resultant anger. Fearing what would happen if Jake were discarded by the Branches the way he was, Mo shudders at the thought of his brother being sent to the Fauquier Motor Lodge with The Woman Leaning Against the Door watching over him.
Trying to keep his mind on the zoo and the animals and Jake while he walks, his thoughts keep circling back to his banishment, to Emily and Mr. Branch and how it all ended—the day his path out of the Branch home was decided.
Mr. Branch looked haggard, his five o’clock shadow a tad longer, his white collared shirt a bit more wrinkled. “Mo will sleep in my home office until I figure out what to do.”
“But, Daddy—” Paul cried.
“I cannot allow Mo to put our family at risk, and I will not listen to any more arguments. It won’t happen again.”
Nodding, Mrs. Branch stood next to her husband, her face like an overboiled egg.
“We’ll set up the cot,” Mr. Branch said.
Peter leaned forward from the sofa where he was sitting. “Dad, you can’t make Mo stay in there all alone.”
Next to his older brother, Paul’s head hung low as he nodded.
Jake sat on the opposite end of the sofa with his fingers interlaced. “Please, Mr. Branch. Please don’t make him sleep in there all alone. He’ll be good. I promise.”
Mr. Branch closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Boys, I’ve made up my mind, and that’s it.”
Paul raised his hand. “Can I sleep with him?”
Mr. Branch shook his head with greater vigor. “There’s only one cot in there. A sleeping bag will be too cold on the floor.”
“I don’t mind,” Paul said.
Mr. Branch glared at him. “No, young man, you’re not sleeping with Mo. You have your own bed.” His head fell to one side, his shoulders slumped, looking at Paul through the top of his lenses. “Besides, the storage boxes are in there.”
The room went quiet. Paul walked over and sat beside Mo, hugging him as he sobbed.
Mr. Branch massaged his forehead. “Dion can sleep with Mo.”
Paul looked up at his father, drying his eyes, brows furrowed. “How come Dion gets to sleep with him?”
“Because Dion’s older, and he’s not afraid of spiders.”
Dion stared at Mo. In his mute gaze, Mo knew this Branch needed him as much as he needed Dion.
Paul shivered, his head resting on Mo’s side. “How long do they have to sleep in there?”
Mr. Branch’s voice was hoarse. “Mo will stay there until Virginia Social Services determines where he goes next. There will be no further discussion tonight. Everyone go to bed.” He swept his hand. “Mo, come with me and bring Dion with you.”
Head down, Mo followed Mr. Branch. Later that night, lying in his cot and not knowing who or what to pray for, he stayed up with Dion for hours before falling asleep.
When Mo’s thoughts return to the present, he’s clenching and unclenching his gloved hands. Having dragged himself, and his burden, through the trees and down to the lake, solace is present on the bank of Deep Spring Lake. When Mo arrives back at Betsey Williams Cottage a few minutes late, he’s relieved to see Carlton approaching from the opposite direction. He follows Carlton back to the car, where Kay informs him that the Red Sox won. Laying across the back seat, his anxiety’s lessened on several fronts.
-58-
MOLESTATION
Monday, 6 October 1975
Palmer collects remnants of cool morning air in his palm. Leaning against the cold cement of a portico column at the entrance to Boston Customs Tower, standing on the granite landing in a field of discarded cigarette butts, his eyes strain to read the words of a nearby billboard—Come to where the flavor is. He takes a puff, savoring the mythical flavor of his cigarette. He wonders if the taste is better somewhere else. Maybe in the tobacco fields of North Carolina or the wine region of Napa Valley outside San Francisco? In the mountains west of Denver or the steel mills in the Ohio River Valley? Pulling his hand from the portico column, he shakes off the cold, wondering what the weather’s like in Middleton, Ohio, this morning.
Seeing Lowe climb the stairs, Palmer adds his unfinished cigarette to the collection at his feet, compressing the unobjectionable litter into grooves of rock slab with each step. He rereads the eye-level sign stating there’s no smoking in the building, knowing their meeting will brief.
Lowe’s wavy black hair bounces like the mane of a loping stallion as he ascends. He gives Palmer an abbreviated wave at the top. “Morning, boss.”
“Agent Lowe,” Palmer says, tipping his head. “Drop the kids off early this morning?” He snickers.
Lowe sighs. The two continue to the fourteenth floor in silence.
Herman Oglethorpe holds his office door open, waving his guests in. “Good morning, gentlemen. I apologize for the mess. We don’t get many visitors here at the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service. As you might expect, they like to keep us cooped up.” He chuckles.
Palmer checks the office view of the city. “Good morning, Mr. Oglethorpe. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I’m Chief Investigator Palmer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you’ve already spoken with Agent Lowe.”
“Yes, we talked on the phone.” Oglethorpe motions for them to have a seat. “So, I understand you’re interested in recent import history for a designated variant of Spiranthes sinensis.” He rests his elbows on the desk, rubbing his hands together. “Does this have anything to do with the murders in the Providence area?”
Lowe scoots his chair forward. “It does. Please continue.”
Oglethorpe points to a bowl on the desk. “Would you like some jellybeans, gentlemen? I apologize if there aren’t any red ones. I always eat those first. I find they relieve stress.”
Palmer, noticing the grime under Oglethorpe’s fingernails, forces a smile. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to spoil my breakfast.”
“It normally takes weeks to research all the documentation for restricted plants or plant matter,” Oglethorpe says, his eyes filled with childlike awe. “But, given it was at the request of the FBI, I instructed the team to research the matter over the weekend so we could provide some preliminary results.” Oglethorpe pokes around the bowl with his finger. “We can do more extensive research, if required, but it would take weeks to sift through physical documents as opposed to microfiche.” He leans back with several jellybeans in his palm. “Orange is okay when there’s no more red.” He tips the bowl away from himself. “Sure you’re not interested?”
Palmer shakes his head, holding down the pulp that was his morning bagel.
Lowe winces as Oglethorpe tosses the jellybeans into his mouth before wiping his hand across his white collared shirt. “We appreciate your taking this matter seriously, Mr. Oglethorpe.”
“We went through nine years of import data from China. There are codes to mark restricted species, subspecies, varieties, and designated variants you know.” Oglethorpe chews while talking, spit collecting at the edges of his lips. “We were able to determine three unique instances of your designated variant coming into Logan on an approved waiver.” He eases into his chair, placing his feet at the end of the desk.
Palmer witnesses the stress on Oglethorpe’s shirt above his belt. “Would there be any other avenues for this flower to get into the area?”
Oglethorpe pats his belly. “There’s always illegal transit, but I don’t think anybody’s trying to bring these flowers into the country as a form of illicit drug.” Nodding, he smirks. “It’s no Cannabis sativa if you know what I mean.” He laughs, waiting for his guests to join in.
They do not.
Oglethorpe’s smile fades. Taking his feet off the desk, he sits up. “No, I don’t think so, Agent Palmer.”
“Were you able to identify where this plant matter, or these flowers, went after they arrived at Logan?”
“Yes.” Oglethorpe pulls a document from his desk drawer. “In two of the three instances, the material was delivered to a biologist at Pfizer in Cambridge. One shipment was in late 1973, the other in early 1974, both care of Dr. Charles Roeper.” He points to Lowe’s notepad. “It’s a weird spelling, has an ‘e’ after the ‘o.’”
Lowe nods, scribbling the biologist’s name on his pad.
“Those arrived as plant matter, so they wouldn’t have been usable for replanting. But…” Oglethorpe’s eyebrows rise, “the instance from 1971 involved full flower stems brought into the country. They were carried in aircraft stowage by Professor Gan Hsu at Brown University Medical School on a research waiver.” Oglethorpe reaches again for the jellybean bowl.
