The James Deans Part 19

"Me? I'm a reporter. I don't have theories."

"Did they ever recover the bicycle?" Wit wanted to know.

Micah Farr squinted at us suspiciously. "You two fellows seem awfully more interested in the Stipe murder than Brightman. What's going on, boys?"

"You're a sharp newspaperman," Wit complimented. "I am interested in the murder, because I think it's why the Brightmans moved to New York. I think the murder had a profound effect in shaping Steven Brightman. I think it's an angle that will work for me in the piece."

Farr bought it. "You're right. A few families moved away soon after the murder. If you want more info on the murder, I'd talk to Phil Malloy over at the munic.i.p.al building. He's mayor now, but back then he was a local cop. When we get back to the Herald, I'll put a call in to him if you'd like."

Wit clapped Farr on the shoulder. "That would be great. Thank you. May I just ask you one or two more questions, Mike?"

"Shoot, Wit."

"The stories said Carl Stipe was coming from a friend's house and using these woods as a shortcut. From whose house was he coming?"

Farr pointed again. "See that house right there, the one next door to where the Brightmans lived?"

Wit and I both said that we did.

"That was Ronny Bishop's house. That's where the kid was coming home from. They were one of the families that left after the murder. I guess I couldn't blame them."

There really wasn't very much more for us to do there in the woods between the pool club and the reservoir. We took a ride past the houses the Brightmans, Stipes, and Bishops had lived in. Carl Stipe's mother still lived in the big Tudor on Reservoir Road. We saw her outside, collecting her mail. I stopped the car and watched her retreat back into her home. My heart ached for her. I wondered what she believed about her son's death.

Wit treated us to lunch at a pub in a neighboring town. Here Farr gave us as much background on Brightman as he could. Which, frankly, wasn't much. Reporters, he said, weren't in the habit of researching eleven- and twelve-year-old kids. Steven Brightman, as it happened, had been a good student, a friendly kid who played Little League. The reporter seemed to know a great deal more about Brightman's dad, the big-time lawyer. I asked if Farr remembered the other families who had moved away in the wake of the murder. He wrote out a list of four or five names.

As we drove the old reporter back to the Herald, I couldn't help but feel disappointed. Although the proximity of Brightman's house to the crime scene and the Bishop kid's home was interesting, there was nothing in what Farr had told us to tie Brightman closer to the murder itself. Without something more substantial, all the intricate scenarios I had constructed would collapse under their own weight.

Micah Farr was good to his word and rang up the mayor on our behalf. The mayor was thrilled at the prospect of speaking to someone like Wit. Any good press for Steven Brightman was good press for him and his town. Three months ago, when Brightman's name was still tainted by Moira Heaton's disappearance, the mayor would probably have hung up on Farr. How quickly things change. Farr did warn the mayor that we might ask about the Stipe murder, but downplayed our interest. He told us to come ahead just the same.

The munic.i.p.al building was a converted school building around the corner from the Herald. The mayor's office was up on the second floor. Like the rest of Hallworth, the mayor's office was clean, well appointed, but unpretentious. Flags, portraits of past mayors, and all manner of certificates and medals were on display. After the introductions, I found my eyes searching out Mayor Stipe's portrait. He was a handsome man with distant eyes. My guess was he'd sat for the painting while the pain of his boy's death was still quite fresh. I thought of his wife, retrieving the mail. I felt much more sorry for her. I joined Wit across from the mayor's desk.

Phil Malloy was a loquacious fellow in his late forties who sported a thick gray mustache and a spare tire at what had once been his waistline. He was glad we were in town, glad to be mayor, glad to help. Phil was glad about most things. Unfortunately, gladness wasn't much of a replacement for substance. He had very little to tell us about Steven Brightman, but he would be glad to dig up his junior high school yearbook, glad to put us in touch with his old teachers, glad to give us another tour of the town.

He was slightly more informative about the Stipe murder, but not much. Within hours of finding the boy's body, the local cops had handed off to the state police. Unlike Farr, the mayor thought Martz had done it. What else would he think? This was his town now. If he had doubts about Martz's guilt, he wasn't saying. He didn't know if the state police ever considered other suspects or if they had alternate theories, but, he a.s.sured us, he would have been glad to share them if he'd known of any.

As the mayor rambled, Wit trying to seem interested, I found myself losing hope. We couldn't afford to walk out of Hallworth empty-handed. In a town this size, word of Wit's visit would spread fast. Even if we could count on Micah Farr not to mention it in the Herald, Malloy struck me as the kind of guy to spend the rest of the afternoon on the phone telling everyone he knew. And once word spread through town, it would spread out of town. Then we were finished. We had a one-day head start and we were on the verge of blowing it. The time for caution, I decided without consulting Wit, had pa.s.sed. There was one fact about the Stipe murder that no one had mentioned: the two boys who'd seen the man ride out of the woods on a bicycle. I had a hunch and took my shot.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," I interrupted, pulling out the detective's s.h.i.+eld which would never actually be mine, "I'm Detective Prager from the NYPD and I need your help."

I'm not sure who looked more surprised, Wit or Malloy. Wit kept quiet and let me play my hand. He, too, recognized that we needed to come away from today's visit with something tangible beyond scenarios and suspicions.

"I'm a little confused," Malloy confessed, "but I'll be glad to help any way I can."

Gee, what a surprise.

"I'm afraid I've enlisted Mr. Fenn in a bit of deception, and I hope you won't hold that against him," I continued. "I work cold cases, Mr. Mayor. And we've just had a very cold case heat up-two, actually. About the time of the Stipe homicide here, we had two similar cases in the Bronx. They've gone unsolved all these years, but recently, we received an anonymous tip that led us to a likely suspect. The thing of it is, we don't have anyone who can eyeball this guy. So what I was hoping was I could tie our cases to your case and clear them all up."

"Anything I can do, I will." Malloy was so pumped up at that moment, I think he could have chewed through steel plate.

"You had two witnesses see a man leave the wooded area around the reservoir on bicycle, right?"

The mayor was impressed. "You did your homework, I see."

"So, if they can ID our suspect as the man they saw that day ..."

Malloy fairly jumped out of his seat. "Holy cow!" Then, almost immediately, he deflated. "I really can't tell you who they-"

"I understand," I said, empathetic as h.e.l.l. "The kids were minors, and to protect them, their ident.i.ties were kept secret. I admire you, Mr. Mayor, for keeping your oath as a cop, but we're talking three dead little boys here. Now, I don't need you to go all the way. I know that one of the boys who saw the man that day was Steven Brightman. I've already talked to him about it and he's agreed to view a lineup."

"How'd you find out?" The mayor was flabbergasted.

I made it up, putz! "We have our ways," I answered. "But what I need from you is the other kid's name. If we can get him to positively ID our suspect, we're-"

"I'm sorry, Detective Prager, but-"

"Listen, Phil, I understand about giving your word."

"It's not that. Kyle Lawrence was the other kid's name," Malloy said without hesitation. "It's just that he's dead."

"When?"

"About two years ago. Some weird disease. He was a heroin junkie."

"Two years ago, you say," I repeated almost unconsciously. There was another one of those coincidences.

"Yup, Detective Prager, two years. Micah'll have the exact date. I'm sorry if I ruined your case for you."

"That's okay," I a.s.sured him, shaking his hand. "Brightman might be enough. But now I need something else from you, Mr. Mayor."

"Name it."

"You've kept those names secret all these years and now I need you to keep the subject of our little conversation a secret. Now that we're down to one witness, we can't afford to have Steven Brightman compromised in any way. I'm sure you understand. So, if anyone should ask, please say Mr. Fenn was here asking only about the wholesomeness of Hallworth and how it might have helped shape Steven Brightman's life. Please don't even mention the Stipe case."

"You have my word."

"Again, Mr. Mayor, thanks for the help."

"Glad to do it."

WIT DIDN'T SAY a word until we had exited the converted schoolhouse. He realized the risk I had taken. The stakes of the game had just been raised. It wasn't until we got back to my car that he spoke up.

"That was quite an improvisation. My compliments. But that little act in there, it could blow up in your face. You understand that?"

"Next to murder, what does it matter?"

"Murder! Moe, yes we will leave town with a little bit more information than we arrived with, but we're a million miles away from murder."

"We'll see. Do you have that list Farr gave us with the names of the families who moved out of town after Carl Stipe's death? Read off the names."

Wit complied: "Kenworth, Hitner, Lawrence-"

"Curiouser and curiouser," I said.

"It proves nothing."

"I'm sure Kyle Lawrence's death started the chain of events that led me here. It's a place to start."

"Start what, Moe? That was twenty-seven years ago. Lawrence is dead. The case is closed to almost everyone's satisfaction."

"Is it? Let's go ask Carl Stipe's mother."

"Point well taken. However, I would be remiss not to alert you to the fact that in spite of your rousing speech in the mayor's office, word is going to leak back to Brightman."

"I'm not an idiot, Wit. I know that. When it leaks back to him, we'll just have to figure out how to use it."

It was turning dusk when we plopped ourselves back in my car parked in front of the Hallworth Herald. I turned the ignition and pulled the transmission into drive, but Wit clamped his hand around my right forearm.

"Wait! Farr's niece is waving us into the office."

I put it back in park and left the car running. "You stay here, okay?"

Wit didn't protest. He was tired and badly in need of a drink. In any case, after the little coup I'd pulled off in the mayor's office, I think he trusted me to deal with Annie.

She was alone in the smoky office, a new cigarette dangling from her lower lip. Sitting across from her, I noticed that she was actually attractive in a bohemian sort of way. She wore no makeup, and her washed-out brown hair was just drooped over her rounded shoulders. The limp hair disguised sparkly brown eyes, a pleasantly sloped nose, and a strong jaw. As close as I was, I now figured Annie to be in her early forties.

"My uncle treats me like I'm not here, and I guess sometimes I let him," she said. "I should have introduced myself before."

"That's okay. My name's Moe Prager."

"I know who you are and so does my uncle Micah. You didn't let that aw-shucks small-town-reporter act fool you, did you? You're that investigator from the city that cleared Steven Brightman."

"How'd-"

"I know this is Jersey, Mr. Prager, but we get the same TV stations as you. That was big news in this town. My uncle and I watched the news conference when they announced that you had found that woman's killer. It was front page of the Herald the following day."

"Is that what you wanted to tell me, that my trying to keep a low profile didn't work?"

"No, I wanted to tell you some things about Steven Brightman."

I tried not to react, but in trying, I gave myself away. I went with it. "What about him? To hear the people around here tell it, he was a nice boy who got good marks and played Little League."

"That's because you talked to people who were adults when we were kids. Not that Steven was public enemy number one or anything, but he was a fourteen-year-old boy once."

I recalled what her uncle had said to us earlier in the day about how reporters were ill-equipped to research the lives of kids.

"Surprise me, Annie," I challenged her.

"Steven was in a gang."

My first reaction was to laugh at her, but I didn't. I had been a fourteen-year-old boy once myself. I remembered the intense desire to belong. It almost didn't matter to what, as long as my friends belonged too, and I was accepted. The intensity dimmed after I grew out of my awkwardness and girls appeared on the horizon.

Annie misread my silence. "Not a gang like in the city. There were no Sharks and Jets in Hallworth. It wasn't the Episcopalians rumbling with the Lutherans on Railroad Avenue at midnight. Maybe 'gang' isn't the right word. It was more of an 'us' and 'them' thing."

"Did they have a name, this gang?"

"The James Deans. The JDs for short."

"Juvenile delinquents. How perfectly fifties."

"But it was the fifties, Mr. Prager, and James Dean was a Hallworth kind of antihero. The boys in an affluent town like this couldn't relate to guys who played it tough like Brando or Lee Marvin or even Vic Morrow, but James Dean ... And when he died in a car crash, it just sealed the deal. You're probably a little too young to remember the stir he caused. In college, I wrote a paper comparing his career to that of the Romantic poets. I mean 'romantic' in the sense of the long ago-"

"-and the far away. Byron, Sh.e.l.ley, Keats, and company. Some cops go to college, Annie."

She apologized. "I didn't mean to condescend. Forgive me."

"Forget it. So Brightman was in this club or gang or whatever. Do you remember any of the other kids who were in the JDs?"

"There weren't many," she said, lighting up another cigarette. "Let's see, there was Jeffrey Anderson, Michael Day, Kyle Lawrence, and Pete Ryder."

"So few. Why?"

"Even in the midst of the baby boom, Hallworth was a small town. And like you said, Mr. Prager, it was the fifties. Conformity was still like everyone's second religion."

"Do any of the other James Deans still live in town?"

"Kyle died a few years back. Pete Ryder went to West Point and was killed during the Tet offensive. Jeff Anderson left years ago, California someplace, but I'm pretty sure Mike Day's still around."

"How sure?"

"I used to be married to the p.r.i.c.k."

THE HOUSES ON Conover Street were the smallest houses in Hallworth, but their lawns were just as green and their hedges as trim as in the rest of town. Maybe Micah Farr wasn't kidding about the lawn police. I wouldn't know. Local code enforcement isn't a huge deal in Brooklyn. There's such a mishmash of tastelessness and beauty in the County of Kings, it's hard to discern where the one started and the other one ended.

Number 23 Conover was a clapboarded saltbox set on a little bluff. Darkness had come in force, and climbing the steps up from the street was a bit of a challenge for Wit and me. Wit looked haggard, his age and addiction to alcohol showing in his face and posture. I wasn't too sure I would have withstood a close inspection myself. It had been a tiring day, long on hints and traces, but short on substance. Mike Day met us at the front door. Annie had called ahead.

He didn't look anything like I'd expected he would, given the appearance of his ex-wife. Mike stood an inch above six feet. He was still quite tan, athletic, good-looking, dressed in chinos and a golf s.h.i.+rt embroidered with the name of a big Wall Street brokerage. He welcomed us in and offered us drinks. I thought Wit might click his heels and scream, "Hallelujah, praise the Lord." I took a beer. Wit made do with a few fingers of Maker's Mark.

"So, gentlemen, Annie tells me you think I might be able to help you," he said, showing us into his living room.

"Maybe. Wit's doing a follow-up piece for Esquire on an old friend of yours."

Day's face brightened. "Stevie's going places now that that ugliness has been cleared up. I always knew he would. He has some set of b.a.l.l.s on him."

"Does he?" Wit, now feeling his oats, joined the conversation. Day proceeded to regale us with tales of the young Steven Brightman's bravery and daring. He swam across the reservoir at the age of nine even though it was illegal and most adults wouldn't have dared. He jumped off the rocks at Indian Falls into Iron Creek although the creek was only a few feet deep at most points.

"You see, the thing about Stevie was, he did it, but didn't expect the rest of us to follow. It was okay if we did and okay if we didn't. What he did was to challenge himself, not us. I always knew he had big things ahead of him."

Wit and I let Day go on as long as he wanted, hoping that he'd arrive at a natural segue into the subject of the James Deans. Unfortunately, we had let that opportunity slip by. We were forced instead to listen to an interminable sermon on the glories of junk bonds, the torturous saga of his marriage to Annie, and his take on the failures of the football Giants.