The Dead Don't Talk Page 13

  I was, first of all, physically tired. I needed sleep.

  I wondered if I were going crazy. After the author Virginia Woolf’s father died, she claimed to have heard birds chirping in Greek. I wasn’t there yet, but I didn’t feel far behind.

  I breathed irregularly.

  I needed to get out. I just needed to get out.

  I decided the solution to my problems started with speaking to my father. It was too late now, but in the morning, I’d drag myself over to see him.

  I wondered what my life would have been like if my father had been a doctor or a teacher, someone I could admire, someone my friends weren’t frightened of. Once a kid came to hit me. Then someone whispered to him, and he ran away.

  I had wanted to fight him, but I never got the chance to see if I had my own self separate from being my father’s son, to see if I had a being who wasn’t in my father’s shadow.

  I drove home and went to sleep. I had a stream of dreams, none of which made sense. Then I woke up in the middle of the night. I couldn’t fall back to sleep.

  I lay there, a living corpse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  My father had prepared a pleasant breakfast for me.

  I looked at him.

  He knew what I was going to say. I guess you don’t survive in his world for as long as he had by being stupid.

  We chatted about unimportant matters. Then we finished our coffee and went out to sit in his garden. He said the garden was the only place in the world where he felt innocent.

  “You look as though you have something on your mind, Danny.”

  I stared hard into his sunburned face.

  “Why did you kill Rabbi Siegel, Dad?” I asked.

  I gave him credit for not denying it.

  He remained silent, so I went on.

  “You always told me I shouldn’t think so bad of my father the hired gun because you killed bad people. Flanagan told me that wasn’t always true. That sometimes you just killed for money. I blocked that part out for my whole life. And now I can’t any more.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Why don’t you think I figured it out?”

  “Because I left no clues. No one could figure it...Oh, Krieger the art dealer. He told you.”

  “Yes, dad. He said he paid you to kill a Rabbi. So the moral murderer kills a man of God. Very nice.”

  “What are you going to do about it, Danny?”

  “I’ve already protected you. I’m not talking to the cops about Rabbi Siegel’s murder. It’s part of a deal I made with Krieger. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. I wanted to speak with you first.”

  My father nodded.

  “You’re young Danny. You can...”

  “Stop,” I screamed. “I’m not so young that I can’t understand what it means to kill an innocent man because he wanted to report a crime.”

  “Can I explain?”

  I shook my head. “What’s to explain, Dad? You went to his house. You shot him. You escaped without being caught. Isn’t that the explanation?”

  “All that you say is true, Danny, but it’s very incomplete. I ask only that you listen.”

  “And if I don’t like what I hear will you try to stop me from talking to the police?”

  “I would never try to stop you from anything. You’re my son.”

  “You have a story?”

  “I do, Danny.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Krieger hired me to kill Rabbi Siegel. But I had a plan. I would go to the Rabbi, tell him that I was a hired gun and give him a chance to move. Then I’d tell Krieger that the Rabbi was gone and couldn’t be found.”

  “But he didn’t want to move. So you killed him.”

  “No, Danny. Please listen.”

  My silence gave him permission to continue.

  “I did as I planned to do. I went to see him. He was shocked that someone would kill him just for trying to be honest. I told him I would never kill him, but the people who hired me would send others. He asked me if he could have a cup of tea and a slice of cake. It was awkward, but we sat there in his kitchen as he sipped. His face looked pasty to me, Danny, and it took me almost ten minutes before I remembered where I had seen a face like that before.

  “So, Danny, then the Rabbi leaned forward and told me he had cancer that had spread. He said he had four months to live. Then he laughed harshly. ‘Live,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to be life. I’m going to have great pain every minute. My family, my friends, and my congregation are all going to see me wasting away. For those who don’t know me well, for the rest of their lives their image of me will be of a dying man.’”

  “You know, Dad, if I were a more cynical person, I’d say perhaps you’re telling me a story with no basis in truth.”

  “I’m glad you’re aware of the possibility of the chance of that, Danny. In this case, he had plenty of reports. Check with his doctor or his widow. The medical reports are still there.”

  “Okay, so he was sick.”

  “No, not sick. Terminally ill and facing unendurable pain. Those were his two fates, he said. Pain he couldn’t endure and then the boundless darkness of death.”

  “So what? You shot him out of pity?”

  “No. He asked me to shoot him.”

  I stared at my father.

  “Yes, Danny. He wanted to kill himself. But he was a Rabbi. Suicide was not allowed. Also, as he explained to me, he didn’t want his wife or children or grandchildren to remember him as a suicide. They might, he felt, think they were guilty for not caring for him enough. They might in their own way be prompted to commit suicide themselves for he had given them, and these are his words, the right to do so. The insurance he had wouldn’t pay if he had killed himself. And finally, he looked down and said he didn’t have the courage to do it.

  “But, he said, if I shot him his problems would be done. He’d be a victim. He wouldn’t suffer any more. His wife and family and friends and congregants wouldn’t suffer any more. His wife would get the insurance. Didn’t I, he asked me, see how much of a favor I would be doing him?”

  My father stood up and walked around in the garden, inspecting his careful work.

  Then he returned and sat back down again.

  “I wasn’t sure what to do, Danny. We talked for another hour.”

  My father sighed.

  “And then I shot him. Earlier I had told him about the money I had been paid. We had agreed I would donate it to a charity to feed the hungry. I did that. I made sure I covered myself. And, as you know, I was never caught. Until now.”

  “I’m going to check the medical records.”

  “I urge you to do so.”

  “It’s still possible you killed him without any of what you told me being true, but only found out about his medical condition in an obituary or from someone after he was dead.”

  “I’m old, Danny. I will face eternity soon enough. Do you think I’d leave this Earth telling my son a horrible lie?”

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  He was silent.

  I wanted to believe him. I desperately wanted to believe him.

  I got up.

  “Don’t leave like this, Danny. Tell me you believe me. It’s very important that you believe me.”

  “I’m going to act as though I believe you, Dad. I’m going to keep coming over here. I don’t want to punish you or our relationship for the life you chose to lead.”

  He got up and outstretched his hand.

  I took his hand.

  I noticed I was trembling.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I called Martha Kruzan, Rabbi Siegel’s widow. She told me to come over, that she was about to have lunch.

  The woman could cook. That was another item on a long list of skills that I lacked, and I appreciated the meal.

  “I am afraid I have to raise a difficult matter, Mrs. Kruzan.”

  “I’m insulated from shock, Mr. Ryle.”

  “I wish I
were. Mrs. Kruzan, was your husband ill at the time of his death?”

  She put her head to one side as though she was working out what and how to tell me about so private a matter.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m working on a theory and before I question someone I want to have all the knowledge I can.” It was hopelessly vague, and she knew it. But she was a nice woman.

  “My husband was terminally ill. I cannot tell you what that man went through. He told no one. He could have gone maybe one more month and it would have been obvious to everyone. And three months after that he’d have been dead. He was a hero, you see. He didn’t let me or the children, much less the grandchildren, see him complain. The doctor told me the pain was beyond understanding.”

  She paused.

  “I’m going to say something to you, Mr. Ryle, that I’ve never said to anyone. But you will understand. And perhaps I need finally to get it out to someone who will be discreet.”

  “No one will hear it from me, Mrs. Kruzan.”

  She nodded.

  “I was relieved when he was shot. Is that terrible for me to admit? All the pain was gone. The death was inevitable but, had he lived, the suffering that he most certainly didn’t deserve would have been beyond human endurance. And besides...”

  “What is it, Mrs. Kruzan?”

  “I’m afraid to say.”

  “I certainly won’t push you. But it may be a relief to get it out from being trapped within you.”

  “Yes, it may. Mr. Ryle...” She paused. “I thought of shooting him myself. I expected to go to jail, but I thought if I took away his pain that was more important than whatever happened to me. I never even bought a gun, of course. And I wouldn’t have known how to shoot it if I did, but I thought about it.”

  She sat sniffing for a moment.

  “It’s so ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. But the killer did my husband and our family a favor by killing him. I could never say that. I’d deny it if anyone else suggested it. But it’s true. Have my words been able to help you?”

  “More than you can imagine, Mrs. Kruzan.”

  She stood up.

  We hugged and I went out into the bright sun, which blinded my sight for a few seconds.

  I was meeting Rebecca Roth in an hour, so I went to a diner. I couldn’t eat much because I was filled from Mrs. Kruzan’s meal, but I ordered some coffee and apple pie. The waitress was very friendly. I needed her kindness.

  After I ate, I drove over to see Rebecca.

  She looked older, with more sadness in her eyes.

  She didn’t reach out to hug me, so I didn’t reach out to hug her.

  She invited me into the house.

  “Thank you, Danny. From what the police told me, if you hadn’t done what you did, I’d probably be in jail for several decades more. I owe you my freedom, maybe my life. I owe you because my father’s killer was identified even though no one knows exactly where he is. I’m sure he’ll be caught one day.”

  “People like that, they live too dangerously. Who knows? He might already be dead and buried.”

  “I wouldn’t cry.”

  “Rebecca, I want to say...”

  She held up her hand.

  “Please, Danny. I appreciate what you did more than I can say. I know you have feelings toward me, ones I don’t have toward you. Maybe I should just pretend I do. I owe you as much. But I was just behind bars. The freedom of being able to walk around is inexpressible. If I pretended I love you because I owe you so much, it would be like going back to a different sort of imprisonment. I wouldn’t have my freedom. Maybe one day I will grow up and understand what you’ve done, the depth of your sacrifice and my lack of gratitude for such a gesture. But I can’t now. Can you ever forgive me?”

  I was so overwhelmed I had trouble talking. It was as though a giant wave had swept over me and taken away my soul in its wake.

  “But I love you, Rebecca.”

  “I know you do. I wish I loved you, Danny. I really do. Those feelings don’t inhabit my mind or my heart. Please forgive me.”

  “When you’re in love, it’s easy to forgive.” I paused. “Where will you go?”

  “I’ll sell the store and the house and travel. I want to go on an archeological dig in Israel. I want to take a tour of the nightclubs in Paris, to go on a literary tour in London. There’s so much I want to see.”

  “You deserve it all, Rebecca.”

  “Thank you, Danny.”

  She was staring deeply into my eyes.

  “Maybe someday,” I said.

  She was silent.

  It was a quiet shattering of my world.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  There were no cheers when I returned to the Congressional office. Janet D’Amaro showed me her engagement ring. Her face glowed.

  Ennis was running around. Finally, he saw me.

  “Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Ryle.”

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Good words. They would have been even more deeply appreciated two weeks ago when we needed you. For now, the Congressman wants to see you and then you can go to the trailer and speak with our pollster.”

  I liked politics in Suffolk County. It was all so simple. Local leaders didn’t force the Congressman to hire some nationally-known pollster who would fly into MacArthur Airport and provide the same advice he gave to a Congressman in St. Louis. There the pollster wouldn’t be at an airport but cross the bridge over the Mississippi and see the Arch on the right and the Cardinals’ stadium straight ahead. On the stadium block there are lots of wonderful places to eat with waitresses who have terrific stories about ball players who came to eat there. Still, the pollster would say just what he had to say on Long Island, hopelessly abstract plans all in return for an expensive salary. The pollster could do this because he was politically connected. The candidate had no choice but to hire him even though his advice was worthless. We didn’t have that. We had a campaign manager, a nice man who was some kind of an assistant to a judge. We weren’t forced to hire someone we didn’t like or didn’t want. I wasn’t kidding myself, though. That day of so-called professionalism would come, sooner rather than later, and probably much sooner.

  For now, we were all friendly.

  I went into the Congressman’s office.

  “Mr. Ennis tells me you’ve been a naughty boy, Danny “

  “I’m sorry, sir. I tried very hard to discover Rabbi Siegel’s murderer.”

  “But you didn’t succeed. And managed at the same time to not be here precisely when we needed you most.”

  “I did help with an art forgery ring that involved murders.”

  “Yes. I understand the Governor has been arrested. You’ve done well in destroying my future, in burying my hopes. All I have left is remaining in Congress.”

  His voice had risen.

  He was much more nervous about the race than I expected.

  “Get over to campaign headquarters and see what’s going on in the polls. You better be able to figure something out.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and left.

  I walked over to the trailer and stepped inside. People were calling, stuffing envelopes, and talking to each other.

  I walked over to the pollster. He had never done any polling before. He had been a history teacher at a local high school. Maybe he had good political knowledge, but if he hadn’t been in campaigns before I was suspicious of his help. He was friendly and everyone liked him.

  We shook hands, and I said, “The Congressman wants me to talk to you.”

  “Let’s get out of here. I feel as though I’m in a submarine under water.”

  We found a pizza place, got slices and a drink, and sat down as far away as possible from other people.

  “Where are we in the polls?”

  “That’s direct.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “We’re up a point.”

  “That’s not much of a cushion.”
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  “That’s no cushion at all, Danny. Well within the margin of error. And given my so-called expertise we may really be down five points.”

  He needed calming down. “Listen, I usually do other work for the Congressman. If you want the truth, I don’t know much about polling or believe in it. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled. “A television critic told me once that people always complained about ratings. That a very small number of people were supposed to be the sample for tens of millions of Americans. He said he would tell those people the next time they get a blood test, they should tell the person giving it to them that they don’t believe in sampling and to take all the blood.”

  I laughed.

  “The idea of polling is simple, at least it is for us. Consider the voters in the District your universe. The idea is to give everyone in the universe an equal chance of being picked for the poll. You can’t just check at the Board of Elections about who voted last time. Some voters will have died or moved. New voters will emerge. You use a phone book.”

  “But not everyone is in the phone book.”

  “That’s the benefit of being in our County. It’s relatively well-off. Most people do have phones. The people who don’t mostly don’t vote. So we get a good sample. At least I hope so.”

  “How many people do you call?”

  “We could get by with a hundred or two hundred using standard statistical measures. But I’m very nervous. I have done four hundred a day, which, as I say, is very high. So we get phone books. To make this easy, say there are four hundred pages in the phone book. So the first day of polling we take the top name on each page. The second day we take the second name. Of course, sometimes we can’t reach people so we go to the next name on that page.”

  “And you just hope it all turns out.”

  “I hope more than you can imagine.”

  I took a sip of the soda. “How did you meet the Congressman?”

  “I went in to lobby him. It turns out we had both read a history book by Barbara Tuchman. That started the conversation. And then one day he called me and asked me to volunteer to do his polling. I said I would. I thought it would be great experience. And he saved a lot of money because I did it for free. I think my polling will hold up.”