Wills instinct was to deflate moments like this. He was too English for such overt statements of feeling. He had so little experience of expressed love, he hardly knew what to do with it when it was handed to him. But now, in this moment, he resisted the urge to crack a joke or change the subject.
I love you quite a lot, you know.
I know. They paused, listening to the sound of Beth scraping her cheesecake fork against the plate.
Did something happen at work today to get you
You know that kid Ive been treating?
Child X? Will was teasing. Beth stuck diligently to the rules on doctorpatient confidentiality and only rarely, and in the most coded terms, discussed her cases outside the hospital. He understood that, of course, respected it even. But it made it tricky to be as supportive of Beth as she was of him, to back her career with equal energy. When the office politics at the hospital had turned nasty, he had become familiar with all the key personalities, offering advice on which colleagues were to be cultivated as allies, which were to be avoided. In their first months together, he had imagined long evenings spent talking over tough cases, Beth seeking his advice on an enigmatic client who refused to open up or a dream that refused to be interpreted. He saw himself massaging his wifes shoulders, modestly coming up with the breakthrough idea which finally persuaded a silent child to speak.
But Beth was not quite like that. For one thing, she seemed to need it less than Will. For him, an event had not happened until he had talked about it with Beth. She appeared able to motor on all by herself, drawing on her own tank.
Yes, OK. Child X. You know why Im seeing him, dont you? Hes accused of actually, hes very definitely guilty of a series of arson attacks. On his school. On his neighbours house. He burned down an adventure playground.
Ive been talking to him for months now and I dont think hes shown a hint of remorse. Not even a flicker. Ive had to go right down to basics, trying to get him to recognize even the very idea of right and wrong. Then you know what he does today?
Beth was looking away now, towards a table where two waiters were having their own late-shift supper. Remember Marie, the receptionist? She lost her husband last month; shes been distraught, weve all been talking about it. Somehow this kid Child X must have picked something up, because guess what he does today? He comes in with a flower and hands it to Marie. A gorgeous, long-stemmed pink rose. He cant have just pulled it off some bush; he must have bought it. Even if he did just take it, it doesnt matter. He hands Marie this rose and says, This is for you, to remember your husband.
Well, Marie is just overwhelmed. She takes the rose and croaks a thank you and then has to just run to the bathroom, to cry her eyes out. And everyone who sees this thing, the nurses, the staff, theyre all just tearing up. I come out and find the whole team kind of, having this moment. And there, in the middle of it, is this little boy and suddenly thats what he looks like, a little boy who doesnt quite know what hes done. And thats what convinces me its real. He doesnt look pleased with himself, like someone who calculated that Hey, this will be a way to get some extra credit. He just looks a little bewildered.
Until that moment, I had seen this boy as a hoodlum. I know, I know I of all people am meant to get past labels and all that. She mimed the quote marks around labels, leaving no doubt that she was parodying the kind of people who made that gesture. But, if Im honest, I had seen him as a nasty little punk. I didnt like him at all. And then he does this little thing which is just so good. You know what I mean? Just a simple, good act.
She fell quiet. Will did not want to say anything, just in case there was more. Eventually, Beth broke the silence. I dont know, she said, in an anyway voice, as if to signal that the episode was over.
They talked some more, their conversation noodling between his day and hers. He leaned over several times to kiss her, on each occasion hoping for a repeat of the open-mouthed treat hed had before. She was denying him. As she stretched forward, he could see the bottom of her back and just a hint of her underwear, visible in the gap between her skin and her jeans. He loved seeing Beth naked, but the sight of her in her underwear always drove him wild.
Check please! he said, eager to get her home. As they walked out, he slid his hand under her T-shirt, over the smooth skin of her back and headed south into her trousers. She was not stopping him. He did not know that he would replay that sensation in his hands and in his head a thousand times before the week was out.
FOUR
Saturday, 8am, Brooklyn
This is Weekend Edition. The headlines this morning. There could be help for homeowners after the Feds quarter point rise in interest rates; the governor of Florida declares parts of the panhandle a disaster area thanks to Tropical Storm Alfred; and scandal, British style. First, this news . . .
It was eight am and Will was barely conscious. They had not fallen asleep till well past three. Eyes still shut, he now stretched an arm to where his wife should be. As he expected, no Beth. She was already off: one Saturday in four she held a weekend clinic and this was that Saturday. The womans stamina astounded him. And, he knew, the children and their parents would have no idea the psychiatrist treating them was operating on a quarter cylinder. When she was with them, she was at full strength.
Will hauled himself out of bed and headed for the breakfast table. He did not want to eat; he wanted to see the paper. Beth had left a note Well done, honey. Big day today, lets have a good night tonight and also the Metro section folded open at the right page. B3. Could be worse, thought Will. Brownsville slaying linked to prostitution, ran the headline over less than a dozen paragraphs. And, in between, was his by-line. He had had to make a decision when he first got into journalism; in fact, he had made it back at Oxford, writing for Cherwell, the student paper. Should he be William Monroe Jr or plain Will Monroe? Pride told him he should be his own man, and that meant having his own name: Will Monroe.
He glanced at the front page of the Metro section and then the main paper to see who among his new colleagues and therefore rivals was prospering. He clocked the names and made for the shower.
An idea began to take shape in Wills head, one that grew and became more solid as he got dressed and headed out, past the young couples pushing three-wheeler strollers or taking their time over a café breakfast on Court Street. Cobble Hill was packed with people like him and Beth: twenty- and thirtysomething professionals, transforming what was once a down-at-heel Brooklyn neighbourhood into a little patch of yuppie heaven. As Will made for the Bergen Street subway station, he felt conscious that he was walking faster than everyone else. This was a working weekend for him, too.
Once at the office, he wasted no time and went straight to Harden, who was turning the pages of the New York Post with a speed that conveyed derision.
Glenn, how about Anatomy of a Killing: the real life of a crime statistic?
Im listening.
You know, Howard Macrae might seem like just another brief on the inside pages, another New York murder victim. But what was he like? What had his life been about? Why was he killed?
Harden stopped flicking through the Post and looked up. Will, Im a suburban guy in South Orange whose biggest worry is getting my two daughters to school in the morning. This was not hypothetical; this was true. Why do I care about some dead pimp in Brownsville?
Youre right. Hes just some name on a police list. But dont you think our readers want to know what really happens when someone gets murdered in this city?
He could see Harden was undecided. He was short on reporters: it was the Jewish New Year, which meant the Times newsroom was badly depleted, even by weekend standards. The paper had a large Jewish staff and now most of them were off work to mark the religious holiday. But neither did he want to admit that he had become so tired, even murder no longer interested him.
Tell you what. Make a few calls, go down there. See what you get. If it makes something, we can talk about it.
Will asked the cab driver to hang around. He needed to be mobile for the next few hours and that meant having a car on stand-by. If he was honest, it also made him feel safer to have the reassuring bulk of a car close at hand. On these streets, he did not want to be completely alone.
Within minutes he was wondering if it had been worth the trip. Officer Federico Penelas, the first policeman on the scene, was a reluctant interviewee, offering only one-word answers.
Was there a commotion when you got down here?
Nah-uh.
Who was here?
Just one or two folks. The lady who made the call.
Did you talk to her at all?
Just took down the details of what shed seen, when shed seen it. Thanked her for calling the New York Police Department. The consultants script again.
And is it your job to lay that blanket on the victim?
For the first time, Penelas smiled. The expression was one of mockery rather than warmth. You know nothing. That wasnt a police blanket. Police use zip-up body bags. That blanket was already on him when I got here.
Who laid it out?
Dunno. Reckon it was whoever found the dead guy. Mark of respect or something. Same way they closed the victims eyes. People do that: theyve seen it in the movies.
Penelas refused to identify the woman who had discovered the corpse, but in a follow-up phone call the DCPI was more forthcoming on background, of course. At last Will had a name: now he could get stuck in.
He had to walk through the projects to find her. A six-foot-two Upper East Side guy in chinos and blue linen jacket with an English accent, he felt ridiculous and intensely white as he moved through this poor, black neighbourhood. The buildings were not entirely derelict but they were in bad shape. Graffiti, stairwells that smelled of piss, and plenty of broken windows. He would have to buttonhole whoever was out of doors and hope they would talk.
He made an instant rule: stick to the women. He knew this was a cowardly impulse but, he assured himself, that was nothing to be ashamed of. He had once read some garlanded foreign correspondent saying the best war reporters were the cowards: the brave ones were reckless and ended up dead. This was not exactly the Middle East, but a kind of war whether over drugs or gangs or race raged on these streets all the same.
The first woman he spoke to was blank, so was the next. The third had heard the name but could not place where. She recommended someone else until one neighbour was calling out to another and eventually Will was facing the woman who had found Howard Macrae.
African-American and in her mid-fifties, her name was Rosa. Will guessed she was a churchgoer, one of those black women who stop communities like this one from going under. She agreed to walk with him to the scene of the crime.
Well, I had been at the store, picking up some bread and a soda, I think, when I noticed what I thought was a big lump on the sidewalk. I remember I was annoyed: I thought someone had dumped some furniture on the street again. But as I got closer, I realized this was not a sofa. Uh-uh. It was low down and kind of bumpy.
You realized it was a body?
Only when I was right up close. Until then, it just looked like, you know . . . a shape.
It was dark.
Yeah, pretty dark and pretty late. Anyway, when I was standing over it, I thought. That aint a sofa, that aint a chair. Thats a body under that blanket.
Sorry, Im asking you to go back to what you saw right at the beginning. Before the blanket was laid on the corpse.
That is what Im describing. What I saw was a dark blanket with the shape of a dead man underneath.
The blanket was already there? So you were not the first to find him. Damn.
No, I was the first to find him. I was the one who called the police. Nobody else did. It was the first theyd heard of it.
But the body was already covered?
Thats right.
The police seem to think it was you who laid down the blanket, Rosa.
Well, theyre wrong. Where would I get a blanket from in the middle of the night? Or do you think black folks carry blankets around with them just in case? I know things are pretty bad round here, but theyre not that bad. None of this was said with bitterness.
Right. Will paused, uncertain where to go next. So who did leave that blanket on him?
Im telling you the same thing I told that police officer. Thats the way I found him. Nice blanket, too. Kind of soft. Maybe cashmere. Something classy, anyway.
Sorry to go back to this, but is there any chance at all you were not the first there?
I cant see how. Im sure the police told you. When I lifted that blanket, I saw a body that was still warm. Wasnt even a body at that time. It was still a man. You know what Im saying? He was still warm. Like it just happened. The blood was still coming out. Kind of burbling, like water leaking from a pipe. Terrible, just terrible. And you know the strangest thing? His eyes were closed, as if someone had shut them.
Dont tell me that wasnt you.
It wasnt me. Never said it was.
Who do you think did that closed his eyes, I mean?
Youll probably think Im crazy, what with the way they knifed that poor man to death, but it was kinda like . . . No, youll think Im crazy.
Please go on. I dont think youre crazy at all. Go on. Will was stooping now, an instinctive gesture. Being tall was usually a plus: he could intimidate. But right now he did not want to tower over this woman. He wanted to make her feel comfortable. He bent his shoulders lower, so that he could meet her eyes without forcing her to look up. Go on.
I know that man was murdered in a horrible way. But his body looked as if it had been somehow, you know, laid to rest.
Will said nothing, just sucked the top of his pen.
You see, I told you. You think Im crazy. Maybe I am!
Will thanked the woman and carried on through the projects. He only had to walk a few blocks to get into real sleaze country. The boarded-up tenements he knew served as crack-houses; the shifty looks of young men palming off brown parcels to each other while looking the other way. These were the people to ask about Howard Macrae.