Unknown - The Genius

MONDAY JANUARY 23 1967

breakfast oatmeal

lunch apple ham & cheese

dinner apple ham & cheese

McGrath looked at me. “That’s the day after Alex Jendrzejewski disappeared.”

I reread the journal entry.

breakfast oatmeal

“I know,” I said. “So what.” “So, it’s a difference.”

“Oatmeal? Who gives a shit?” Some part of my brain noted that we’d gotten a lot looser-tongued since our smoking break. “Who cares about fucking oatmeal?”

“It’s a difference, and that’s significant.” “Not the same thing.”

McGrath told me to lift the Jendrzejewski file out of the box. Inside, I found the familiar snapshot: blunt-cut hair, square teeth, beachball face, pug nose. Little Alex, had he grown up, probably would have turned out plug-ugly, had fate not frozen him cute.

“We talked to the mother,” he said, turning over pages of transcript. “I remember that. She sent the kid to the market. That milk bottle, I remember that.”

“You said you got a footprint.”

“No telling if it was the right guy, though. Lotta people around that area.

“Then how did he snatch the boy without being seen?”

“Maybe he lured him into a car. He might have offered him a ride home. It was freezing that night. Check the weather book, you’ll see.”

I did. The forecast had called for snow throughout the evening.

“Where are you,” he said to the file box.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m loo—ah. Here. Listen to this, this is the mother talking. ‘I sent Alex to the store.’ Detective Gordan: ‘What time?’ Pamela Jendrzejewski: ‘About five o’clock. I needed some things.’”

“Who’s Detective Gordan.”

“My old partner,” he said without looking up. His lips moved as he skimmed the transcript. “Mm, mm, mm, come on. I swear to God I remember her saying something about …” He didn’t finish.

“About what.”

“It’s not here,” he said. He found another transcript and let out a triumphant grunt. “This is it.”

I scooted my chair over to have a closer look. The transcript was of an interview conducted by Detectives L. McGrath and J. Gordan, New York Police Department, 114th precinct, January 25, 1967. The interviewee was Charles Petronakis, owner and proprietor of the corner market where Alex’s mother sent him to fetch groceries.

Det McGrath: You remember seeing the boy?

Charles Petronakis: I saw him, yes.

M: When did you see him?

P: He came in about five fifteen.

M: Was there anybody with him?

P: No.

Det Gordan: Was there anyone in the store at the time aside from you?

P: No.

G: Did you notice anything unusual, either with the boy or anyone outside the store?

P: I don’t think so. It was very cold that night, I didn’t see too many people. The boy was the first one I seen all afternoon. I was getting ready to close up when he came in. He wanted some milk, some oatmeal, and sugar. I said I could help him carry it home if he waited a few minutes for me to close up. He told me he couldn’t wait, he had to go or his mother would get mad at him. So he went

I stopped reading and looked at McGrath, who picked up a pencil and drew a circle around the word oatmeal.

10

have no early memories of my father. This is because he was most

Ë often out of the house. He worked (still does, as far as I know) incredibly hard, sometimes eighteen hours a day, and although I wasn’t around to witness the demise of his first three marriages, I can guess that his habit of sleeping at the office didn’t help. How I even came to be conceived is something of a mystery to me. The age gap between me and my siblings has often led me to believe that I was an accident, and for him, at least, not a happy one.

In his defense—a phrase that rarely crosses my lips, so you can be certain that what I’m about to say is true—it must be said that he singlehand-edly restored the Muller name to glory after inheriting a corporate structure swollen with inefficiencies. He downsized before downsizing was downsizing; and he spun off or closed antiquated branches of the company that he had no real business running: a commercial bakery in New Haven, a textile mill in Secaucus. What he understood was real estate, so he focused on that, thereby turning an already healthy sum of old money into a new, towering heap.

It is solely to my mother’s credit that I am not spoiled worse than I am. Despite the lavishness of our surroundings, and the dozens of people who waited on me from the moment I entered the world, she did her best to ensure that I never considered wealth a substitute for decency. It’s hard to

be rich and a true humanist. She was. She believed in the inherent value of every human being, taking that as the premise for her actions. Children have exquisitely sensitive bullshit detectors, and that’s why her lessons made an impression on me. If my father had lectured me similarly, I would have seen right through him; he seldom acknowledged the staff, and then only curtly. My mother, on the other hand, did not condescend to the people she employed; at the same time, she didn’t pretend that she was their friend, which is in its own way equally insulting. She always said hello and good-bye and please and thank you; if a door was held open for her, she hurried to step inside. She held a few doors of her own. I once saw her stop and help push a stuck taxi out of a snowbank.

I’ve never fully understood how she tolerated—let alone loved—my father, who could be so indifferent to the distress of others. I can only hope and assume that he was a better man before she died. Either that or she saw in him something invisible to the rest of us. Or maybe she liked a challenge.

My awareness of him thus begins with her death, and the most pungent memory is also the earliest. It was the morning of the funeral and I was getting dressed—or, rather, resisting attempts by the nanny to get me dressed. It’s my fault for throwing a tantrum. I probably should have felt the numbness in the air, known that I had a burden to shoulder. Looking back I realize that I was probably more confused than anything else: for days people had been acting skittish around me, making me feel like I was the source of everyone’s misery. I was in no mood to confront the public; I didn’t want anything to do with anybody, and I certainly didn’t want to be forced into a suit and tie.

The service was scheduled for nine A.M., and by eight thirty I was still half-dressed. If the nanny managed to tuck in my shirt, I would untuck it while she reached for the necktie. Then when she began again to tuck it back in I would start unbuttoning it from the top. She was on the verge of tears by the time Tony Wexler arrived to escort me downstairs. He found me pulling off my pants and stepped in to take over, and as he reached for my arm I slugged him in the eye.

Normally Tony was a model of patience. (In later years, he would endure much worse.) But that morning he wasn’t up to the task. He might have yelled or smacked me across the face; he had that kind of authority over me. He might have told the nanny to hold me down. Instead, he took more decisive action: he went for my father.

It was a Friday. My mother had died on the Tuesday prior, after three days in a coma. During those three days I had not been allowed in to see her—something I’ve never forgiven my father for. I think in some idiotic way he intended to protect me, but even thinking about it now makes me tense. Since I had been barred from the room, and he had barred himself inside to watch her slip away, we hadn’t seen much of each other for a week, my father and I; I had been with the nanny or else Tony. So this would be our first moment together as a family, a downsized unit of two. Though too young for symbolism, I had some idea that the conversation about to take place would be a neat preview of life without a mother.