William Landay - The Strangler

1963 and the first half of ’64 had been murderous years. Michael’s father, his brother, Amy, even Brendan Conroy-all dead. But they had not quite left. Michael had the feeling that any of them might wander into the room at any moment. They left their things around, too: Joe Senior’s coat still hung in the hall closet, Amy’s handwriting lingered in a notepad. When the newspapers were filled with the Gulf of Tonkin question, Michael wanted to hear Amy boil it all down with her cheerful cynicism. It came back to him that of course Amy was dead; the memory still carried a faint sting of surprise.

Yet life went on. The summer and fall of 1964 were strangely normal. In Michael’s presence, people pretended nothing had happened. They were determinedly cheery and superficial, until the merest mention of tragedy, any tragedy, started them stammering. The possibility that Michael might launch into a discussion of his losses terrified them. They would rather whistle past the graveyard-better yet, they would rather not acknowledge the graveyard at all. They wanted to go on pretending that murder could never touch them. The truth was, Michael felt hardly anything at all. He was as hard, or at least as numb, as a stone.

Michael felt no remorse for the blood on his own hands. The only question was: Could a man go from ordinary citizen to killer and back again? He assured himself that he could. Soldiers did it all the time. And if Michael were ever called upon to pass from citizen back to killer again? Well, he thought, soldiers did that, too, and so, if need be, could he.

So went 1964, or most of it.

On Christmas Eve, that desultory semi-holiday, Michael closed up his office in the middle of the afternoon. He had spent the day working, with no particular pleasure or urgency, on an eminent domain action: a few parcels around Scollay Square, which was already being razed to make way for a new “government center.” It was good, dull work. Michael made his way through the gloomy, nearly empty corridors of the State House.

At the Strangler Bureau, Tom Hart and a couple of the BPD Homicide detectives were lugging cardboard boxes out to the street.

“They’re shutting it down,” Hart said.

“Shutting down the Strangler Bureau? They haven’t even charged the guy, never mind tried him.”

“They’re not going to charge him. There isn’t going to be a trial.” Hart grabbed a box labeled Feeney, J., 11/22/63, and he hoisted it into Michael’s arms. “Here, make yourself useful.”

Hart took a box of his own and together they made their way out to the street.

“So,” Michael said, “the Boston Strangler is going to walk.”

“DeSalvo’s not going to walk. He’s doing life, on those rapes. He’ll be parole-eligible in ten years, but let’s face it: No parole board is ever going to release a guy who the whole world thinks is the Boston Strangler. DeSalvo is going to do life.”

“But if DeSalvo’s the wrong guy…?”

“If DeSalvo’s the wrong guy…I’d rather not think about it.”

“So what happens to the cases?”

“Nothing. They sit. Technically, if the A.G. does not want to pursue the case, it comes back to us. But realistically it would be impossible to convict anybody on these murders now. Where are you going to find a jury that doesn’t already ‘know’ DeSalvo is the Strangler? No prosecutor is going to touch it. The Strangler cases are closed.”

“So they wait till Christmas Eve to announce that the case against DeSalvo is going to be dropped. And hope no one notices.”

“The stranglings have stopped. If DeSalvo is the wrong guy, then the real Strangler has probably moved on. Or he’s in custody. No sense telling everyone the Strangler got away. It’d just start a panic.”

“Come on, Tom, listen to you. It’s politics.”

“No, it’s government.”

“What’s the difference?”

The detective thought it over. “There is none.”

They came out into the cold. Gray, sunless New England winter. Sunset coming earlier and earlier, daylight already beginning to dim in mid-afternoon.

“So what happens now, Tom?”

“Byron runs for governor or senator or whatever. DeSalvo sells his story to the movies. The rest of us just go about our business.”

“It’ll never work. They can’t keep it quiet forever.”

“The only one who could blow it up is DeSalvo. But he’d have to recant the confession, and he’s not going to do that. He’d rather be the Boston Strangler than be nobody at all.”

“A few years in Walpole will cure him of that.”

“Maybe.” Hart slid his box into the back seat of an unmarked cruiser, then relieved Michael of his box. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”

“Merry Christmas, Tom. Let’s hope the guy coming down the chimney tonight is Santa.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Whoever the Strangler is, he’s probably skipped town. He hasn’t made many mistakes. I bet he’s someplace far away, someplace no one is looking for him.”

“There’s no way this stays quiet. No way in the world.”

“Michael,” Hart said, “this isn’t the world. This is Boston.”

“Hey, you wanna see something cool?”

Michael was staring at The Tonight Show, a Christmas Eve special with Gila Golan and Woody Allen. He had been watching long enough that his eyes were glazed. His crossed feet, in sneakers, were on the coffee table.

“Hey,” Ricky repeated, urging him to wake up, “wanna see something cool?”

They were slouched at opposite ends of the couch. On the cushion between them was a green glass ashtray.

Michael said without turning, “Yeah. What?”

“Get your coat. We got to go for a drive.”

“Oh, forget it. I thought you were just gonna-Forget it. I’m going home. The hell time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

“I’m going home, Rick. It’s been a long day. I’ve had enough.” Michael swigged from his bottle of beer and sat up.

They would both need a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was Christmas, and Margaret was determined to snow them all under with presents and food and self-conscious cheer so they would not think about Joe. The tree, next to the TV, was over-trimmed, over-lit, over-everything. Ricky advised that no one look directly into it, for fear of burning the retinas.

“Forget it, Ricky. Mum’s a loon. She wants us back here at eight. You probably don’t even remember what eight in the morning looks like.”

“Am I missing anything?”

“Not really.”

“Come on, then. Sleep when you get old, right?”

“You know what you look like when you look like that? A mouse. Anyone ever tell you that? Beady little mouse.”

“Come on, big brother, don’t be a fag. Get your coat. I want to show you something.”

“Some other time.”

“No, it’s gotta be now. It’s a Christmas thing.”

“A Christmas thing. What do you know from Christmas?”

“I’ll show ya.”

They drove into town, Ricky at the wheel. At Park Street, near the State House, he pulled over. “Come on,” Ricky said.

They strolled into the Common, hands jammed deep in their pockets to hide them from the cold. The trees were loosely strung with long saggy strings of Christmas lights that swayed in the wind like women’s necklaces.

At the Nativity scene, Ricky took a quick glance around, then stepped into the manger and grabbed the figurine of the baby Jesus out of His straw bed.

“The fuck are you doing? Put that back.”

“Just wait, Mikey.”

“You can’t take that. It’s…God.”

“Would you relax. It’s not God. It’s just a little statue. God is within you.”

“No, He’s not. He’s in your hand. Now put Him back.”

“Come on. Don’t be such a baby.”