“Have you ever even caught a fish?”
I passed Morris Richmond, fishing pole angled under one arm, standing at the point on the beach where the dry, white sand became damp and, with the change in moisture content, a sort of Mother Nature’s etch-a-sketch. The subtle balance of wet to dry created a remarkable special effect, make an impression into the surface and instantly a haloed outline appeared. Of course, this magic only happened in the ever-shifting zone between earth and ocean. Sooner or later, usually sooner, a wave erased all signs of change.
Morris, I knew his name because it was stenciled on the canvas bag he always had at his feet, stood facing the water like a lighthouse, except not as tall and not made of stone. His grey ponytail divided the silk-screened words on his tee-shirt; ‘Winterland 1969’, beneath which was a list of groups, about most of whom I hadn’t a clue. He wore sandals and had a green plastic tackle box in the sand, next to his canvas bag. Off to his left, a yellow Labrador, tilted over spread front legs, was concentrating on the half-rotted remains of a pretty good-sized flounder. He (or she) looked up briefly, acknowledged me with a dog smile, i.e. tongue out, teeth showing, ears moving slightly forward, quick wag of the tail, and went back to staring down the remains of a once living creature and possible snack.
In the six weeks or so I’ve been running, Morris has been at the edge of the water with his fishing pole. Somehow, we developed an enjoyably odd sort of conversation; one of us spoke when I passed him on my right and then, after reaching my turnaround point, about 100 yards up the beach, the other would respond as I passed him the second time. The word ‘respond’ was a very liberal use of the word. Sometimes the two statements made contextual sense, more often, it did not. It was the conversational equivalent of his fishing. Stand near possible fish, throw out a line, reel it in and see what you’ve caught.
Despite the early hour, we had company on the beach; it was the last week in June and the summer vacation season was beginning. That meant out-of-state license plates, teenagers, traffic and noise. The increased traffic was of interest to me, as I had become the designated driver for St. Dominique’s.
Somehow, the renewal for my driver’s license arrived at the convent, courtesy of my pathologically helpful mother. It was from the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles. Like a time capsule’s collection of old newspapers, it was an artifact from a different time and different place for a different girl. Now, more than a year in the past, not a very impressive time capsule, when you thought about it, it was from when Boston was, not so much my home, as my base of operations. Radcliffe was my almost mater. If I ever wanted to be surrounded by people who knew me and wanted me, (for one of at least three different reasons), I would return to Cambridge. I didn’t. I haven’t.
At the halfway point, I checked my elapsed time. The temperature was summer high, which, at 6:15 am, meant 70 degrees. I had on a tee-shirt Maribeth recently sent me. ‘Chicago Police Department’ was stenciled across the back and ‘Detective Division’ over the left breast. I smiled as I realized that, including the silk boxing trunks, my entire running outfit was courtesy of my friend. Part of what made it feasible for me to wear such clothing, at least from the perspective of those in authority at the convent, was the fact that although tall, my figure is far less impressive than a certain homicide detective. The trunks hung below my knees and the tee-shirt tended towards a poncho fit. I grabbed a handful of sweaty cotton, and pulling it tight, tied it off at my midriff. I figured I might as well be comfortable, at least until I got in sight of St. Dominique’s.
Running gave lie to the common belief that the return home was always quicker and easier, than the trip away. My run back to the convent seemed longer than the first half. I nodded gravely to the dog, and Morris, who was staring out over the water, said, “It’s said that a good hunter knows his prey, but a great hunter becomes his prey. I often stand here trying to be a thirty-six pound striped bass. Trouble is, the times I’m successful and become my prey, I start to feel like I’m suffocating. Maybe it’s because I’m not meant to live on dry land.”
Eye contact was never an element in our conversations. He didn’t take his eyes off the water as I ran past him on my way back to the convent. I was glad that he didn’t. Sometimes all we really need is to know that someone has heard what we said. A response or follow-up only risks muddling the thought. The world, it seemed, as I ran through the sand and stone parking lot, has a way of taking the potential of life and making it feel like a threat. Having options and choices sometimes means never being able to rest.
“Lieutenant Haynes, man, you’re killin’ me!”
Detective Glen Strahmani was talking, even as he walked into the office of the division commander. He did knock on the office door, as he opened it, his concession to protocol. Impulsive by nature and inclined to act before thinking, Glen was not unintelligent. In fact, if his grade school encounter with the Stanford-Binet was to be relied on, he was very intelligent. But intelligence manifests differently for different people. There are some, often bearing the label ‘genius’, who are methodical, (if not shy), fastidious, (and more than a touch unimaginative) and very likely to present empirically supported conclusions, (aka excessively timid). It was forgivable of the young Glen Strahmani’s teachers to put the test results away and focus on the ‘C’s and ‘D’s that showed with reliable frequency on his report cards. A brief stint in the military following high school provided him with an appreciation of the fact that, like it or not, he needed to counter-balance his impulsiveness in favor of obeying the rules. Joining the Atlantic City police department seemed to offer a good balance of opportunity to act out and a minimum of dressing and acting like a dweeb, or worse, like a stuffed suit.
Once successful in getting assigned to the detective division, the 25-year-old dove into the life of a plainclothes cop; his goal simple: earn a promotion to Lieutenant. Glen Strahmani was intelligent, impulsive, somewhat under-educated and very confident. He had a great future in the police department.
Cornell Haynes swiveled his desk chair to better take advantage of the clear, sunny afternoon. Through his office window he could escape the crushing demands of reports, accountability statements and action plans, in the serrated view of a sometimes-blue ocean, two blocks to the east. A natural overachiever, he found his newest detective a welcome relief to the un-anticipated price of advancement in his profession. That the view from his third floor office was being steadily eaten by the chaotic development of the city, tended to cause more stress than the demands of being in charge of 7 detectives. What made him one of the most effective division commanders was the simple, if odd fact that he knew the men in his command better than he knew his own children. Both his sons and, Gale, his only daughter, now long since escaped home for the allure of the adult world.
Lt. Haynes knew that turning his back on the detective would not interrupt or even slow the younger man’s attempt to understand his place in the chain of command.
“One more case! All I need is to close out one more and I qualify to take the next sergeant’s exam. Which, I might add, is only a month away. So you can certainly understand my whole-hearted desire to be relieved of this dealer and showgirl murder.”
“Glen, you have a case.” Cornell liked the young detective. He reminded him of a younger version of himself, at least the version of himself that he maintained inside his head when he started on the force. It took most of his professional life, and all of the time being a father to realize that maintaining ideals for himself in his thoughts alone was more of a burden than having no ambition at all. Ironically, it was only now, after he’d managed to find success in his profession, that he could recognize his limitations. Or, what he thought then, were limitations. Now, being in charge of men of varying experience, he could see the limited value of a disregard for consequences; all too often the over-riding trait of those patrolmen most often selected for the detective division.
So Cornell Haynes exhibited his skill for listening while appearing to do something else entirely. In this case, he watched, through the salt-hazy window as five seagulls dove for a school of McDonald’s French Fries, that, like spawning salmon in reverse, leapt from the window of a passing yellow school bus and landed on the sidewalk.
“A blackjack dealer with a history of drug abuse and a gambling jones, shacked-up with a showgirl. They both, apparently, commit suicide by strangulation and self-drowning… and, just in case I might think I was being given an easy case, the guy’s widow’s holding an insurance policy that the ink is barely dry on.”
The head of the homicide unit swiveled his chair, surprised to see the detective sitting in front of his desk. This elevated the need to focus on the mans’ concerns to an entirely different level. It was like seeing a neurosurgeon, in the glare of light in an operating theatre, surrounded by technology and highly skilled assistants, light up a cigarette before proceeding.
“Oh man, that’s not the worst! This widow? She’s got a nun for backup at the interview. The family consigliere is a fricken nun! You gave Mannheim and Osterbrook the dead bookie case. Why’d they get the easy one and I get the Case of the Sinister Sister?”
Cornell looked up, silence gripped both men up until the moment they burst into laughter.