All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 5
The gym was silent. When I came in, I thought the place was empty and I picked up a ball before I noticed him, alone, slouched in the top row of the wooden stands. There was a vacant look on his face. I remember that lost expression of Jeff’s very clearly, even now. I think I knew, before I even spoke with him, that a terrible thing was happening. I knew that Jeff’s mom had not just slipped away for a few days, it was not just a misunderstanding, as my own parents had been speculating. I felt the change in Jeff immediately. At that age, I had never seen terrible things, not up close. It scared the shit out of me.
This is the story Jeff told me that day:
“A few months ago, my dad took Miranda and me out for pizza. It was a Friday night. It was really warm, so I think it was, like, July, maybe? Something like that.
“My mom didn’t come. She said she was too tired, she wanted to sleep. ‘I’m gonna take a pill.’ So we’re like, ‘Okay.’ That sounds like a big deal, I guess, but it wasn’t. She always has trouble sleeping, so she takes sleeping pills. But she was acting weird. And it was weird that Dad took us alone. That never happens. He was acting all pissy too. They must have had some kind of fight.
“So we go out for pizza, the three of us. We went to Pino’s. We were out for like an hour, maybe more.
“When we get home, the house is all quiet and sweaty from the heat. My mom is sleeping upstairs, so we all stay downstairs so we don’t bother her. We’re being all quiet and stuff. We put on a Red Sox game, real low. They were playing the Royals, I think, and we watched for a while, and Miranda got bored and she went off somewhere.
“And this whole time there was a sound, like a humming sound. Real low. Just, like, in the background. Like a machine running somewhere in the distance, like maybe a dishwasher or an air conditioner or something.
“Then Miranda calls down from the second floor: ‘Where’s Mom?’
“And my dad’s like, ‘I thought she was sleeping.’
“So we start calling for her and looking around the house for her, and she’s not answering. She’s gone. She left.
“So we keep looking and looking.
“And suddenly I figure out what that noise is.
“I run out to the garage. The doors are all closed.
“I open the side door to the garage. It’s kind of dark inside, but I can just make her out. She’s sitting in her car with the engine running. Her head is tipped back like she’s dead.
“So I’m standing by the little side door to the garage, and the button is right there to open the big garage door, so I just push it. The garage door opens, a little daylight comes in.
“So she wakes up and she looks up at me like Ooh!—like she’s surprised to see me. ‘I must have fallen asleep! I must have fallen asleep!’ ”
He mimicked her flustered voice with obvious scorn.
“So I was just like, Okay, right, whatever. It was bullshit, you know? It was pathetic. I was so mad. I wasn’t sad, I didn’t feel sorry for her or anything. I just hated her for it, you know? I just kind of walked away and left her there.”
I said, “Why were you mad?”
“It was just so stupid. And selfish. She wanted to kill herself? Why? And what about us? We don’t matter, we don’t get a vote?”
“But it was an accident, wasn’t it? Why would she want to kill herself?”
Jeff shrugged. “It’s just how she is. She goes up and down. Anyway, she never said anything about it. We never talked about it. We just kind of pretended the whole thing never happened. It was like we agreed, without ever saying anything, that we were going to act like I never saw what I saw. Like I didn’t know what she was doing.
“So that’s just what we did. She told Miranda and my dad that she just fell asleep in the car, like it was just a funny story. She left out the part about the engine running and the garage door being closed. My dad and Miranda still don’t know. I’m the only one. And now you.”
By the way, I still wonder why exactly Jane Larkin would want to kill herself. Was that really what she was trying to do? The whole incident is still puzzling. Recently I asked a friend of mine who is an ER doctor whether Jeff’s story rang true to him. He thought Jane’s excuse was plausible but unlikely. People do make mistakes with prescription drugs. If it was a prescription, in 1975 the drug might have been Valium, which could have made Jane drowsy enough to fall asleep accidentally after starting the car. But he thought it was unlikely, and I do too. I am still not sure what to make of it. The only detail about the incident that I have been able to pin down firmly is the date: July 18, 1975. That was the only Friday that month when the Red Sox played Kansas City. (They won 9 to 3, getting a complete game from the crafty left-hander Bill Lee.)
Jeff, the only witness, did not have an answer in the gym that day, either. Why would his mother want to kill herself? He just gave a disdainful snort, the sort of sound that naive teenagers use to express their contempt for adults and their sloppy, botched lives. He said, “They weren’t getting along. It was a mess.”
I did not push him any further. It would have been unkind. Better to be loyal than logical.
Jeff said, “She’s not coming back.”
Only four days in, Jeff had already lost hope, just as Miranda had the day she came home to discover her mother missing. But Jeff never lost his composure. Not that day, not ever, at least in front of me. You could feel how devastated he was. A sense of tragedy hung around him like a cloud—not sadness, tragedy—but he never broke down.
* * *
—
The same day Jeff related that story to me at school—Monday, November 17, 1975, according to my reconstruction—Jane’s car was found at the Route 128 train station. It was a ’75 Ford Thunderbird coupe, white with a brown landau roof and tan leatherette interior. The car was unlocked and undamaged. There was no sign of struggle. The key, removed from any key ring, was stashed under the visor on the driver’s side. The car started easily; there was no sign of mechanical difficulty. When the state trooper turned on the ignition, the eight-track tape player started. Apparently when she turned off the car Jane (or someone) had been listening to “Cecilia,” from the Simon & Garfunkel album Bridge Over Troubled Water. The trunk and passenger compartment were empty except for some small loose items: coins, pens, a ponytail holder, a sloppily folded road map in the glove compartment.
The car had not been hidden in any way. It had taken four days to discover only because the police had not started looking for Jane until Saturday, and even then they had not taken the case seriously, presuming that if Jane truly was missing, it was probably a personal matter between man and wife (an attitude more prevalent in 1975 than now, no doubt). Also, no one had thought to look at the train station because Jane had never been known to take the train. In fact, Tom Glover actually had prowled through the long-term parking lot at Logan Airport, guessing it might be more Jane’s style.
The car was photographed from every angle, inside and out, before it was towed away to the Newton Police lot, where it was examined for fingerprints. Several prints were found, but all belonged to the Larkin family. The key, steering wheel, and driver’s door handle—the parts necessarily touched by whoever abandoned the car there—all showed no prints.
Over the next few days, the detectives working the case—besides Glover, a state police detective was now investigating, plus others temporarily assigned to help with the legwork—tried to confirm the theory that Jane had boarded a train. They were unable to do so. They canvassed witnesses and conductors at the station and on various train routes. None remembered her specifically. In 1975, IDs were not checked and passenger manifests were not kept. Passengers commonly bought their tickets with cash, leaving no identifying record of the transaction. In the end, the detectives could neither prove nor disprove that Jane had actually gotten on a train.
* * *
—
That night, Glover confronted Dan Larkin with his suspicions for the first time. In hindsight, he says now, he regrets doing so. There was no upside in it, no tactical advantage. The detective just lost control of his emotions. He tipped his hand because he was tired and he wanted Larkin to know he wasn’t fooling anyone. Today, Glover confesses that “I wanted him to know I was just as smart as he was.” A more experienced—and more self-assured—man would not have made the same mistake, or so Tom Glover seems to feel.
For what it’s worth, I don’t see it that way. The mistake, if it was one, probably did not make any difference. Dan Larkin was an experienced criminal lawyer. He must have been on guard. He must have known he was a suspect, as any husband would be in the disappearance of a married woman. Glover was not giving anything away.
But every cop knows the self-lacerating guilt that comes with an unsolved or mis-solved case. The gnawing questions of “what if?” The shame of personal failure. Glover has taken this case hard. It is one thing to fail, as we all do, and another thing to live with that failure year after year, to carry it around in your pocket and worry it with your fingers.
The conversation took place in the Larkins’ kitchen, after Glover told Dan they found Jane’s car. The new evidence obviously created a dilemma for the detective: Should he continue to treat Dan as a victim whose wife was missing, and thus entitled to complete information? Or as a suspect, entitled to no information—or even false information if that served the cops’ purposes? In the end, Glover held back a few facts, particularly the lack of fingerprints, which by the evening was already known to the investigators. But he gave Dan enough detail to keep up the pretense that they were still on the same side.
When the conversation seemed at an end, Glover added, “You mind if I ask you something? Didn’t you represent Vincent Tancredo?”
Dan bowed his head and gazed at Glover from beneath his brows, taking a moment to recalibrate. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s a famous case. I’m curious. What was he like?”
“I have no idea. Vincent was a client, not a friend.”
“You spent a lot of time with him. You must have some impressions.”
“Not really.”
“Was he smart?”
“Not especially.”
“Did you like him?”
“There was nothing remarkable about him. He was just a guy. Same as anyone. Same as you.”
Some background: Vincent Tancredo’s wife, Janice, had been murdered in April 1972. The body was found in her car, folded in the footwell behind the driver’s seat, covered with a blanket. The car, a forest green ’69 Buick Wildcat convertible, was parked in the lot at the Faulkner Hospital in Boston, where Janice was a nurse in the ICU. She had worked a regular shift one day but never returned home. When Janice’s husband reported her missing the next afternoon, the car was quickly found. No one had thought anything of the parked car until then; the staff was used to seeing her car parked in that area for long periods.
Glover said, “It’s the car that makes me think of it, is all. I spent the day with your wife’s car in that lot today. It just made me think of Tancredo, how that case got started.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“They said he was a mastermind. Was he?”
“Vincent? Pf, no.”
“He was a doctor.”
“So?”
“He must have had something on the ball.”
“You think? You ever heard the old joke: What do they call the dumbest guy in his med school class?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“ ‘Doctor.’ ”
“Well then, there’s a thought: you don’t even have to be that smart to get away with murder.”
“Who says he got away with murder?”
“Everyone.”
“Not me.”
“Of course. You’re his lawyer.”
“That’s not it. If Vincent got away with murder, I’d have to agree with you: it doesn’t take a genius. Since he did not do anything at all, I’m not sure how you can draw any conclusions from the case. There was no evidence, that’s all we can say for sure.”
In fact, there was substantial evidence that Vincent Tancredo strangled his wife to death. It was simply a circumstantial case—lots of evidence establishing motive, means, and opportunity, but no direct proof of the act itself. The particulars were banal: a bored husband with a growing appetite for the high life and for women not his wife, and without the means to pay the tab. There was a girlfriend, there was a life insurance policy on Janice Tancredo. It was a string of clichés, as domestic murders often are. What made it interesting—really the only thing that made it interesting—was that he got away with it. The district attorney held off indicting the case for nearly two years, hoping for more evidence. It never came, and the DA decided, unwisely, to play the cards in his hand rather than wait to be dealt an ace. At trial, day after day Dan Larkin harped on the insufficiency of the evidence; Vincent Tancredo never left his seat to testify, and the jury came back not guilty after just a few hours of deliberation. Game over.
“Maybe I’m just naive—”
“Oh, I doubt that, detective.”
“But I look at that case and I think, Y’know, maybe it’s not so hard to get away with it. Hasn’t that ever crossed your mind? It must have, right? You watch case after case, you see the mistakes these guys make, you see patterns, you learn.”
“I see people, not patterns.”
“Yeah, I know, you have to say that. But that’s the dirty little secret, isn’t it? It’s not so hard to get away with it, you just have to know what you’re doing and not make stupid mistakes. Most people are amateurs at murder. They make mistakes. Not you.”
“Yes, detective, I’m a real expert at wife-murdering.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Yes, you did.”
Dan had a way of staring, of locking eyes without blinking. In court, he used it to make witnesses uncomfortable, make them fidget, which juries misread as a sign of dishonesty. Now he fixed his eyes on Tom Glover.
A long moment passed.
“Detective—Tom—let me help you. Don’t play little games like that. This isn’t the movies.”
Dan softened his tone, allowed the witness to relax. He liked to say, You cannot endlessly flog a witness; you have to show him a little tenderness, too. Take his side now and then, give him hope, or you will lose him, he will simply go silent.
“Listen. Forget Vincent Tancredo. It’s not necessary. You don’t have to play games with me. I understand what you’re thinking. It’s natural for you to have these questions. You have suspicions, of course you do. You’re doing your job. In your shoes, I would suspect me too. From now on, just ask me straight out, all right? Ask me anything at all. I’ll answer every question you have.”
Glover said nothing. His head was empty, he had no idea what to ask next.
“How old are you, Tom?”
“Almost thirty-two.”
“Almost thirty-two. Never had a case like this, have you?”
“No.”
“Look, I think you want to hear this from me, Tom. I want to be crystal clear. I don’t want anyone saying, down the road, Why didn’t that rat-bastard Larkin ever deny it? Okay? So listen: I did not harm Jane. Not in any way, ever. I have no idea where she is or what happened to her. My wife is missing and I don’t know why. I am devastated—devastated, Tom, do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Now, do you have any other questions for me?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I want to answer all your questions, Tom. I want you to know you can ask me anything. I’m not asking you to trust me; that wouldn’t be reasonable. Just be up-front with me.”
“Okay.”
“Because I trust you, Tom. I do. I’ve never refused to answer any of your questions. I’ve never hid behind the Fifth Amendment. Never asked you to get a warrant to search anywhere you liked. I’ve barely slept or eaten in days, but I’ve still been ready to help in any way you asked, haven’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Now, does that sound like a guilty man, Tom? Does that sound like a murderer?”
“No.”
“Good. Then go find my wife. Please. Find my wife. Can you do that?”
Glover did not answer. He stood there feeling like Dan had picked his pocket.
“Okay then. I think it’s time for you to go, detective.”
Glover turned to leave, anxious to be out of that house, and only then saw Alex looming in the kitchen doorway. Alex’s arms were folded. Glover approached Alex, who was a good six inches taller, but the young man did not immediately move aside. “Excuse me,” Glover had to say, whereupon Alex turned his body, leaving a narrow gap for Glover to squeeze through. “Excuse me,” Glover repeated, a little more firmly, and the young man stepped back out of the doorway to let him pass.
In the front hall, he saw Miranda sitting on the landing halfway up the staircase, in her nightgown. Miranda’s eyes were wet with tears. The little girl waved to him weakly. Miranda was only a few feet away—eight steps up—and Glover wanted to say something, to help the kid somehow, to be kind to Miranda as she had been kind to him. But, caught between Miranda’s despair and Alex’s contempt and Dan’s manipulations, he fumbled for the right words, then could not find any words at all. He stood there a moment, absorbing his failure, then let himself out.
* * *
—
When Glover related this incident to me, I thought I might look up Vincent Tancredo to see if he would speak with me. It would make a nice sidebar. Did he have any memories of Dan Larkin? Did he recall any of their conversations? What was Dan like in court? But Vincent Tancredo died in May 2005, of “natural causes,” according to his obituary in the Globe. He was eighty-two years old, which—in one of those nice symmetries that are quite common in life but that novelists ought to avoid—was precisely twice his wife’s age when she was killed.
