The Man Who Swore He'd Never Go Home Again

Looming there in the doorway was an extremely tall, broad-shouldered black man, about forty, wearing a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and muted tie. He was a good two or three inches taller than I am, which meant he was six-feet-five or six, and looked extremely trim and fit. His hair was cropped short and showed a few traces of gray. His face was clean shaven. He had an extremely stern expression on his face, bordering on severe. He would, I imagined, be a very intimidating person to be grilled by. I was glad he wasn’t there to grill me. Or I certainly hoped he wasn’t.

“Stewart Hoag?” he asked me in a baritone voice.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Mr. Hoag, I’m Detective Lieutenant Mitry of the Connecticut State Police Major Crime Squad, Eastern District. I’m investigating the homicide of Mary McKenna. I’ve had several conversations with her daughter, Maggie, and she suggested I speak with you. Said you had been close to the victim and might have some personal insights to share.”

“Absolutely. Anything I can do to help.” I stuck out my hand. He shook it. His was the largest hand I’d ever shaken in my life. Given his height and the way he carried himself I was curious if he’d played college basketball before he joined the State Police, but he did not come across as the sort of man who’d invite a personal inquiry. “Come on in.”

He came on in, looming large as he gazed around at the living room. “I understand from Maggie that this entire apartment complex was once your family’s home.”

“You understand right. This was the caretaker’s place.”

As he stood there, Lulu whimpered and tried to climb up his leg. Lieutenant Mitry looked down at her, his facial expression thawing perhaps one degree. “Well, now, look at you.” He picked her up and cradled her in the palm of his huge right hand as if she were scarcely bigger than a hamster.

“That’s Lulu. I don’t know if she’ll grow into her ears or if they’ll just keep getting bigger. The lady in my life had to go back to New York City this morning on urgent business so it’s just we two for now. After Mrs. McKenna’s funeral tomorrow morning we’ll be heading home. This is the first time I’ve been back in Oakmont since I graduated from high school, but I had to pay my respects to Mrs. McKenna. She meant a lot to me. Have a seat, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you.” He settled himself on the sofa. “This lady in your life to whom you refer would be Merilee Nash?”

“Correct,” I said as I heard the thump-thump-thump of the black Bronco’s stereo slowly approaching again.

Lieutenant Mitry immediately went to the window to have a look. Sly and Shade didn’t linger when they saw his Crown Vic still parked there – and the man himself standing in the window watching them. They sped off. Mitry remained at the window, gazing out at the street. “I remember driving through this town many times in my youth. It was prosperous, clean and the town green was lovely. Now it’s a blighted, run down magnet for druggies.”

“That’s what happens when a mill goes under. Especially a toxic one like my family’s brass mill. The owners leave nothing behind but malign neglect.”

He turned his gaze from the window to me. “I gather from Maggie that’s what your novel is about. It must be quite a feeling of accomplishment, writing a novel and having it be so well received.”

“I’ve been very pleased with the response.”

“I also gather that the two of you were very close.”

I nodded. “Best buddies. We spent our childhood together seated back-to-back on the floor of that library devouring books and Snickers bars.”

He returned to the sofa and sat back down. This time Lulu climbed her way into his lap. He petted her. “Maggie has never married?”

“She told me she came close once. A dentist in Fulton. But she broke it off. Thought he was boring.”

“What about you?”

“Couldn’t say. I never met the guy.”

“No, I mean have you ever been married?”

“Not yet. The closest I came was a wild affair in the Seventies with a gifted poet named Regina Aintree. We haunted the punk rock clubs. Tore our way up to after-hours dance clubs in Spanish Harlem on my motorcycle. I had a Norton Commando in those days.”

“Had yourself a sheet, too,” he said with chilly disapproval, pulling a small notepad from the breast pocket of his suit. “Reckless driving, drunk and a disorderly, indecent exposure. You also threw a barstool through the front window of a restaurant called P.J. Clarke’s. There was a man sitting on it at the time. Why did you do that, Mr. Hoag?”

“Because he stole my seat. I was an angry young man, Lieutenant. Angry at my father. Angry at everyone. A lot of first novelists are. I needed to write it out of my system.”

“And now you’re, what, living the life of a prosperous man of letters?”

“Compared to the three years I spent banging my head against the wall of my crummy, unheated apartment, the life I’m living now is like a dream. But when Maggie phoned to tell me about her mom it brought me right back down to earth. I can’t believe that somebody bashed Mrs. McKenna’s head in. I understand the weapon was her cast iron Mark Twain paperweight.”

“Correct.”

“I gather you didn’t find any fingerprints on it or you would have a suspect in custody by now.”

“Also correct. It was wiped clean. And no one witnessed anyone leaving the library at the time of her death, which we believe to be a mere few minutes before Maggie arrived at six o’clock to drive her home. It was Maggie who found her there at her desk with multiple wounds to the back of her head.”