Forty Eight

2019

Becca and I certainly had our difficulties over the years. Our relationship spanned close to a decade with many break ups for long periods.  

When I returned from the hitch-hiking trip—after a few days of bliss--the familiar tensions surfaced.  When I was ready to leave for my Pennsylvania summer job both of us were eager to be rid of the other. 

Things had been sweet during those first days after my cross-country journey. Love making, soft affectionate gazes, and delicious shared time. We’d made noise then about how we might connect over the summer. Those sounds were muted by the time my car was packed. Not much of a hug when I left. We said we’d see “what was what” when I returned to Buffalo.  Not much was what when I got back.  We were on the low end of the Sine curve for quite a while.  Up again a few years later, then down, then up. That’s how it went with us.

Our hiccups and tensions in the 70s were one thing. But what she did, helping me in 2019 with the murder went beyond the call.  Meticulous about everything. Listening again and again to all details of my comings and goings. Keeping careful notes.

We had agreed to meet in her office on the Tuesday after Father’s Day. June 18, 2019. Becca’s space was impressive. In a tall building in downtown Boston, her corner office had a jaw dropping view of the Public Garden.  Glass on two walls looking out over the city.  Secretary buzzing me in.  Big sign on the office door, Rebecca Carey. Vice President of Human Resources.

“Well done.” I say when I entered.

“Thank you.” She smiled “A long way from Buffalo.” 

“A long way.”

“We’ll use the conference room.” She said. 

Becca led me into a room that was part of her office suite.  I see she is ready for me. There are two copies of the original newspaper article. On a white board is a list of familiar names.  There are also two copies of a document that catalogued all rides taken during my 1974 hiking trip.  I learn that she’d compiled the list from my log, my map, and conversations that we had had.  Her laptop is open and, while I could not see immediately what files are up, it is apparent that she was beyond prepared for our meeting.

“Thank you.” Was all I could say when I saw how much work she had done.

“You’re welcome, Z. You deserve this.”

Very unusual for us not to take shots at one another. It would be just a matter of time, but I truly was grateful and did not want to undercut my genuine appreciation by being a wise guy just a few minutes in.

“This whole suite is your office, Becca?”

“Pretty much.” She said.

“Conference room. Little kitchen. Clothes Closet. Secretaries. Computers with multiple screens. All for you.”

“I guess so.” 

“Very impressive Becca. Congratulations.” 

“Thank you” said Becca. Then she paused. “When do you start breaking my stones?”

“Any time now.”  

“Good.  For a minute I was not quite sure if it was really you, or a kind twin was here in your stead.”

“I don’t know what got into me.”

Becca came over and touched my nose. “Let’s get going.”

She had done her homework. I was sure who had killed Jenny, but Becca was not, and wanted to go through it all.  I’d provided her with Tim’s information after Lomack had sent me the registration he’d stolen from the car.  I had found addresses for Pedro Ramirez, the husband of Mike’s sister, and Pedro Ramirez Jr. their now 50-year-old son.  I had Mike’s last name and 1974 address because I’d retained it from when he signed in to have the truck serviced in Albuquerque.  I’d done some sleuthing on my own and learned where Shel was living and where he had done time.

I look at the long list of names on Becca’s document. She has the name of every single person. Some are abbreviated or in code. Nelson, Phil Motorcycle, Grand Junction Records, Shel, Barbara, Salt Lake Toothless, Maurianne, Mustache. 

“Who is Jim Giggles?” I ask.

“Jim, the Allied Van Lines driver with the sister-in-law, who wanted to listen to those bad porn tapes.”

“Right.”

I see Chicken Farmer on the list. Cocktail Party Artie. John the Savior. One name just reads, Sonuvabitch. Another, Proselytizer. There’s Coors Not, Mechanic Lover, Corvette, Albondigas, and CD Trucker.  They are all there.  She even has listed, Buffalo Cop, as the last entry.

“You think maybe the cop who drove me to Wehrle could have done it?”

“Don’t start Z. On the document is everyone.  If you look at it, over in the column to the right, I’ve checked him as a No.”

“Sleuth.” 

“I’ve got about an hour Z before my Four.”

“ ‘Before my four’ is that how Vice Presidents talk? Do we have a hard stop at 355 then? Or can we push back on that. Is there something you need to leverage, or do you think we’ll get a quick buy-in on our strategic plan?”

Becca laughs.  “Very good. Buy some duds a notch up from your Salvation Army wardrobe and you’ll fit right in. I can send your resume around.” She flips her hand wrist up. “Really, let’s get to this. The document with everybody on it is not the key.  It’s the names on the white board. I’ve narrowed it down to these.”

Becca has listed several names on the white board.

“I’ve told you I know who it is.”

“You are infuriating, Alan. You’re so convinced. Why can’t it be Tim, for example.”

“Tim was crazy true. But how did he get there?”

“Let’s say he drove there.”

“What was his motive?

“He was crazy. He doesn’t need a rational motive. You told me that when you were in the pancake house with Jenny you went through the entire trip; all the people who picked you up and emphasized the ones who were dangerous.”

“So?”

“So when Jenny called her mother and she said ‘Kozak knows who did this’, she could have meant anyone you met on the trip. You’d told her about everyone. And you had highlighted Tim.”

“Right, I did highlight Tim, but I stressed Mike more.”

“You’re impossible Z. It could definitely be Tim.  It could even be Sonuvabitch.”

“Oh. Come on. It can’t be Sonuvabitch.”

“I agree he is unlikely, but if she met someone who said sonuvabitch every two seconds…”

“Becca. We are wasting time.” I shook my head.  “And it can’t be Shel or Barbara.”

“Why can’t it be Shel or Barbara?” Becca asks this but I get the sense she already has ruled them out. As if she is waiting for me to confirm what she has previously concluded.

“Look at the newspaper article” I say.  I point to a section in one of copies.  “‘Get a hold of Kozak. Barbara’s friend’ If it was Barbara or Shel, why does she have to say ‘Get a hold of Kozak.’ Why doesn’t she say. ‘It’s Shel’ or ‘It’s Barbara.’”

Becca plays devil’s advocate. “It could be that she meant, Kozak, who is Barbara’s friend, will be able to confirm that Barbara or Shel did it.”

“Come on” I say “After the cops came to the Smiths’s house they went next door and spoke with Barbara and Shel.”

“Maybe Barbara and Shel had someone do it.”

“Nonsense.”

“You’re probably right.” Becca says.  “But I like to be careful. And they had motives.  Shel especially.  Good Lord. When you came back that day and told me what Jenny told you in Bickfords.  I’ll never forget that.”

“He was slime. But he could not have done it if he was in the house in Elko, 2000 miles away. Remember what I found out at the Fireside.”

“What you learned in the Fireside is that Jenny is dead. Not who did it. And really, you can’t even be 100 per cent sure it was Jenny.”

“Oh Becca. We’ve been through all this.”

“You can’t just accuse people on a hunch Zeke. You’ve got to be thorough.”

“It’s more than a damned hunch.”

“It will sound like a hunch to a cop. ‘Well, officer I met a woman in Nevada who had a tattoo. And then I met a guy in New Mexico who did not like women with tattoos. And then the woman in Nevada disappeared.  The guy in New Mexico must have done it.’  Case closed. Hamilton Berger finally prosecutes successfully. Perry Mason is fucked.”

“Becca you know there’s more to it than that.  What about the article. I point again to the clipping on the conference table. ‘Kozak knows.’  I am Kozak.”

“And just how are you going to prove that.  There are three people in the solar system who know that Kozak is a nickname you once used. For three weeks!  Tell the cops that you met a guy hitchhiking who had been stationed in the Arctic. And this guy from the Arctic got bored and to pass the time made up his own language. And in this made-up language your name is Kozak. You, the Arctic guy, and me are the only people who know that you were ever called Kozak. How are you going to convince a cop that Jenny Smith was referring to you?”

“Because I told Jenny when I met with her at Bickfords that my name was Kozak.”

“This just in, Zeke. Jenny Smith is now dead and cannot corroborate. Maybe you can hunt down the pancake house waitress. Maybe she overheard you, and now 45 years later the waitress can recall it crystal clear.” Becca snaps her fingers. She points a finger at me. “I know. We can get a hold of Bunk, that ol’ sonuvabitch and he can testify. Or how about Cocktail Party Artie, now only 45,000 shots later. His mind must be sharp. He’ll remember the nickname of a hiker he picked up half a century ago.”

Becca waves at me. She’s miffed. She sits at her laptop and pushes a few buttons.

“What are you doing?”

“I was able to get some pictures of them. Maybe there is a clue here. I’ve shown you a few of these before when we were in the library in Newton.  Sit down and take a look at these with me. Maybe we can see something.”

I park myself next to Becca.  There’s a picture of Tim, that maniac, at a jail sentencing for some offense.  Looks like the nutcase that he was. Just with some more years on him. There’s another photo of the fine citizen who is Shel Worthington. These are a couple of bona fide mugshots taken when he was arrested for burglary and domestic violence.  There’s a newspaper picture of Barbara wearing sunglasses at her front door. She’s attempting to shoo away a reporter who is investigating an alleged beating.  

Becca has unearthed Facebook photos as well. Tim has a Facebook page and there are several shots of him with those wild eyes.  Barbara now is on Facebook.  Mike does not have much of a photo presence on the net.  His nephew Pedro does.  And there is a recent posting of nephew Pedro with his arm around Uncle Mike. Happy Father’s Day Uncle Mike. You’re like a father to me, reads the accompanying text.  Pedro Jr’s real father must have been a doozy if Uncle Mike is a refreshing surrogate. Mike is gray now, but still scrawny.  Still a sourpuss. No smile, some sort of scar on his chin, same smashed-up nose and spectacles that can’t find a purchase at the top of his flattened snout.

I stand up and walk around to the other side of the table.  “I’m going down there Becca. I know it is him.  The Fireside and what he told me was his mo. They were both in the same vicinity.  It’s got to be him.”

Becca is silent. She is squinting at something on the screen. I look at her and see her eyes slowly open very wide. She freezes for a moment. And then gasps.

“Zeke!” she shouts. “O my god Z. Z come over here.”

I rush around the table to where she is seated.

“Look. Look. Z.” Becca is nearly beside herself. She is starting to tear.

I am crouching over her shoulder. “What is it Becca? What are you looking at?”  All I see is one of the photos we had been staring at moments ago.

“There.” She points. “Oh my God Z. There. Do you see it?”

“Do I see what Becca? What are you looking at?”

“Let me enlarge the picture.”

She does.  I still don’t see what she is making all the fuss about.

“Look! Look Z.” She points to a spot on the screen. She then takes both hands and puts them on either side of her head. “Oh dear God.”

Finally I see it. I feel as if my feet, involuntarily leave the ground. I gasp audibly. The sound is like something that would come out of a kazoo. 

We turn and bearhug each other. 

We disengage and return our gaze to the screen. Again we stare at the photo.

There is no doubt. Now we know. We know, if we ever had an iota of doubt before. We know that Jenny Smith is dead.  And we know for sure and certain who killed her.