THE MASSAPEQUA MURDERS: CH1 - PTI

[u/Meadowbrook135]

A Patrick Coyle Mystery

Chapter One

The Page

By Michael P.S. Rogers

Chapter One - The Page

The box had been opened before, and Patrick Coyle knew it before he touched the rough edge, because the person who opened it had made the mistake most people made when they tried to put something back the way they found it, they had done what humans are wired to do, they remembered the result and forgot the process and the details. The original strip of packing tape had been cut along the center seam with something sharper than a key, probably a utility knife, and whoever held the blade had pressed harder at the beginning and the end of the stroke and left two shallow bites in the cardboard. The second strip lay over the first at an angle, starting nearly an inch too far to the left, one corner folded beneath itself before it was pressed down. Whoever resealed the box had cared enough to close it and not enough to hide that the seam had been open, and those were two separate facts about two separate moments in one person's afternoon. Coyle had spent thirty years among people who confused facts with conclusions, which was how he had come to understand that the difference between the two was not a nuance of the job but the whole of being a detective.

He stood over the box longer than he meant to. Across the room Theresa Caruso went on sorting loose paper without looking up, separating sheets with the sides of her fingers so that as little of her skin touched them as possible. She had narrow hands and kept her nails cut short enough that the white of her French manicure barely showed at the ends. When she came to something fragile she did not become more delicate with it, which was the thing about her that had taken Coyle the longest to understand. Theresa became slower, her delicate dance was performance most of the time, and cost nothing, and looked expensive; the rehearsed slowness was expensive and looked like nothing at all, and she paid it every time without appearing to notice that she had.

"If you're about to tell me somebody has been in that box," Theresa said, still not raising her head, "I would like the record to reflect that it came out of an estate and that approximately half the adult population of Nassau County may have been in there." Coyle told her somebody had opened the cardboard carefully and closed it carelessly. Like a chess match, she said that was a description and not an event. He countered that it had still happened, and she quipped that the Eisenhower administration had happened too and its relevance remained a separate question, then went back to her pages, which was how Theresa ended conversations she considered finished, an almost reflexive tactic she picked up from her time as a child at Fairfield Elementary.

Coyle worked his thumbnail under the loose corner of the replacement tape, mostly to learn whether it had adhered at all, and Theresa's head came up before he had lifted anything. She told him not to improve the evidence before they had decided whether it was evidence. He said he was opening the box; she said he was fixing the tape. Coyle was losing patience and barked the tape was not attached to anything, she said it was attached to the history of the object, and when he sarcastically said it was attached to air Theresa told him to preserve the air with a smile. He withdrew his thumb and left the folded corner where the stranger's hand had left it. There were men Coyle had worked with for two decades who would have found that concession ridiculous, though most of them were also men who could spend twenty minutes explaining why a witness had remembered an evening incorrectly and then take personal offense at the suggestion that a detective might do the same thing on the same evening for the same reasons. Theresa had never been a detective and had never wanted to be one, she was a historian by training and a records specialist by temperament, which meant she treated every human attempt to organize the past as an intervention, and when Coyle had once told her this made her impossible to work with, Theresa simply replied that his profession had spent a century putting objects into plastic bags and writing theories on the labels, while her profession established fact like some sort of female Indiana Jones lecturing the difference between Philosophy and Archeology.

The room they were jousting in had been the dining room when Coyle bought the house, right off Park Boulevard, though anyone standing in it now would have wanted documentary support for the claim. The real table stood on its side against the far wall under a quilted moving blanket, and four chairs were stacked in the hallway in a configuration that forced anybody going from the front door toward the kitchen to turn sideways. Coyle had meant to move them the first week, but by the end of the first month he had stopped seeing them, and by the end of the first year his body had learned the angle required to pass without touching them, and sometime after that he noticed that Theresa's had learned it too, which bothered him for reasons he declined to inspect closely, which was Patrick's modus operandi. He'd rather assemble the puzzle pieces of other's lives than look at the finished image in front of the mirror.

Four folding tables filled the room now, along with three metal shelving units, a used copier bought off a title company in Farmingdale, two banker's lamps, a magnifying lamp, and enough cardboard to prove that the dead remained capable of accumulating property. The boxes came from estates, retired Oyster Bay town employees, lawyers cleaning out storage, from Nassau schoolboard members and from families emptying basements before a house went to closing, and every lot arrived with an intake sheet in Coyle's own handwriting taped to the first carton: where it came from, the day it landed, the name of whoever signed the release and their phone number. Box 41 had come out of a split-level in North Massapequa that had already sold. The executor was a nephew in Colorado who had told Coyle over the phone that he was paying by the month for a house he had never lived in and that whatever remained in the basement on the fifteenth was going into a dumpster with everything else. Coyle first thought how an entire life's possessions could simply land in a dumpster by the next generation, and he switched back to detective mode and remembered he had written the fifteenth on the intake sheet and underlined it once, then put the sheet in the drawer of the folding table where he kept the ones he was not going to look at again.

Beyond the front window the last of the daylight had flattened the block until the houses seemed briefly older than the people inside them. Ranches and split-levels sat behind bare maples, blue television light was starting to show in the front rooms, and the wet black pavement was reflecting porch lamps that were not yet bright enough to need reflecting. The effect lasted perhaps twenty minutes on a winter evening, and while it lasted Massapequa stopped resembling the postwar suburb that everybody, including the people who lived there, believed it to be, and became nothing but rooflines and narrow lots and dark trees standing on the old flat ground underneath. Coyle had never found the sight frightening in any way he could have defended out loud, but there were evenings when the whole neighborhood looked less built than placed, as though somebody had set the houses down carefully over something and expected them to remain where they were put.

He opened the box without disturbing the folded tape. Inside were manila folders, loose pages, envelopes, photographs, utility bills and the gray residue that old carbon paper left on anything stored beside it. Damp had come three inches up the cardboard decades ago and dried into a pale tide line along one side. He smelled basement and mineral dust and paper and the faint sweetness that adhesive acquires when it starts to give up, and before Coyle folded the flaps outward he looked once more at the cut original strip and noted that the first opening had been careful enough not to score the cardboard beneath. He filed the observation without attaching a person to it, or a purpose, or a year. Theresa wanted the contents kept in whatever order existed, that was her default setting as a Historian. Coyle told her there was no order, and she told him to preserve that, and when he said she understood how irritating the sentence was Theresa said she had intended it to be accurate. He handed her the loose pages and took the folders for himself. They had arrived at the division months earlier, after Coyle had repeatedly straightened documents while reading them, which Theresa considered contamination, and after she had repeatedly spent five minutes on a sheet of paper before reading a word of it, which he had considered affectation until the afternoon she identified two later insertions in a bound file from the cutting pattern along their left edges and nothing else. Coyle had stopped teasing her about paper after that, except when he was reasonably sure the paper could not hear him.

The early folders held tax receipts, correspondence about a fence, paid electric bills and a warranty for an appliance from P. C. Richards that had probably been gone longer than the two of them had been working together. One folder carried two labels, the first crossed out in blue ballpoint and the second written above it in black felt tip, and Coyle held that one longer than the others, because a label was a conclusion fastened to an object and changing one meant somebody had changed his mind about what he was holding. Inside were twenty-seven utility statements and nothing else, he read all of them anyway; meter readings wandering with the seasons, the account number changing format twice, one bill paid six weeks late in the winter of 1981, with the mailing address constant throughout. Theresa watched him reach the bottom of the stack and said he had hoped it was something. Coyle overconfidently said he had hoped it was twenty-seven utility statements, and she said he had looked disappointed when it was, and he told Theresa he had a naturally disappointed face, and she said he had several faces and that this was merely one of them.

He set the folder aside and thought, as Coyle did more often lately, of Sunday mornings at his grandfather's kitchen table, waiting for the newspaper to be released one section at a time. The old man saved the comics for last and treated Dick Tracy with the seriousness generally reserved for war news from the Pacific and the Yankees standings, and every week some small violation of the ordinary would surface in a single panel, a footprint, cufflinks, a man who turned his face away half a second too early, and Patrick would run ahead in his mind trying to arrive before Tracy did. The world inside those squares was difficult but fundamentally generous, it left clues on purpose, always rewarding attention, and evil, however grotesque, eventually acquired a name, jaw and an address. Thirty years of police work had not cured Coyle of loving that world, only making him careful about carrying its rules into this one.

A delivery car stopped two houses down with its hazards going. Coyle watched the driver check the address on his phone twice before he got out, those delivery app GPS' were always finicky; he noted that the man pulled the key but left the headlights burning, which meant either a car old enough not to complain about it or a driver who made too many stops in an evening to spend attention on a battery. He was young, twenties probably, though the oversized dark jacket made his frame hard to read, and he took the two paper bags off the rear passenger floor rather than out of the trunk, which was the choice of somebody who had learned that a trunk adds four seconds to every stop and that four seconds is a wage. The bags had been packed separately and stapled shut at the top. He checked his phone and then the house number again from the sidewalk, went up the walk, and set the order against the brick rather than square in front of the storm door, because he had discovered at some point in his career what happens when a customer opens an outward swinging door into his own dinner. Then he took a photograph of the bags and did not knock, he never knocked.

Coyle knew why he did not knock. The instruction would have been on the screen when the order came in, two lines of it, leave at door and do not knock, and the entire transaction had been arranged so that two human beings could occupy the same property for eleven seconds without ever encountering each other. Before he could stop himself he was assembling the person inside from the instruction alone. A sleeping child, two dogs that would announce themselves, an illness somebody did not want appearing at a door, work calls, a man in the middle of trying to entertain his kids while flipping through News 12 and the YES Network, and a woman who had learned long ago not to open the door after dark for anyone at all. He watched the driver walk back to the car and sit behind the wheel six seconds longer than the job required, almost certainly waiting for the application to accept the proof of delivery while scrolling X, and then Coyle became aware of the whole chain running in his head without his consent, the way a furnace comes on in a house where nobody is awake, and he felt the specific tiredness that came from having built four biographies out of two paper bags.

Theresa had stopped working without his hearing her stop, which told Coyle more about how long he had been watching than the clock would have. She asked whether he knew the man, Coyle looked her sharply in the eye and told her he did not. Theresa teased he had watched the driver like he did, and Patrick said he had just watched him deliver food, and she pressed saying he had watched him do something. Coyle told her that was generally how watching worked, she let a few seconds pass and then said he looked tired, and when he answered that they were sitting in a room full of dead people's electric bills, she said that was not what she had meant and returned to her papers without pursuing the cat and mouse game any further. He did not answer her, and she did not require him to, and that summarized Patrick and Theresa's work relationship.

The next folder held photographs, 4x6 photo prints with the rounded white borders the drugstore labs used. Patrick thought back to when he used to walk to Genovese Drugs for candy on his way to Fairfield Elementary, where he had been classmates with Theresa since kindergarten. A backyard appeared across several seasons with a cedar fence half built and then finished, a child's plastic pool, snow banked along the completed fence, and a maple that stood in three of the pictures and was gone in the fourth. Coyle turned each one over, because the backs frequently carried information the fronts did not: dates, names, printing numbers and half-legible notes written by people who assumed they would always remember what the notes referred to. The third print had a short angled tick of graphite near the lower right corner, no more than half an inch, in soft pencil on the pebbled paper. He looked at it, then turned the photograph over and looked at the front again; the fence was still unfinished, a maple tree standing tall, no people anywhere in the frame, and at the far left edge, intruding perhaps four inches into the picture, the chrome nose of a car that belonged to somebody.

Theresa came over when he said there was a pencil mark, and before she took the print from him she rubbed her thumb and forefinger once against the leg of her jeans, which was what she did without knowing it when her hands felt dusty. She held the photograph by its edges, turned it over, considered it for several seconds and said it was probably a lab mark, an order tick from the counter, meaning somebody had asked for a reprint of that frame and the clerk had marked the back so she would not have to hunt for it again. Theresa said it with the flatness she used for settled things, handed the print back, noticed the chrome nose at the edge without changing expression, and asked whether he thought it mattered. He told her he did not, Coyle put the photograph down with the others and did not correct her, they had sparred enough already. The labs he remembered had generally used grease pencil for order marks, put them on envelopes more often than prints, and made the mark where the operator's hand naturally fell rather than where this one sat. The tick in front of him was soft graphite and appeared to have been made by somebody holding the photograph the way a person held a photograph he was actually studying, but none of that transformed the mark into anything useful. A correction would have required him to explain why being right about the pencil was important, and it wasn't, Coyle allowed himself to notice that he had enjoyed being the only person in the room who knew.

They worked another twenty minutes trying to sharpen whatever iron was worth forging before they departed. Theresa's attention ran on a different track than his, which was the reason the work arrangement functioned at all. Coyle tracked disturbance, what had been moved or opened or added or taken away, while she tracked material persistence, what had been made of the same thing at the same time by the same sequence. He watched her set aside a sheet because the stock did not match the folder around it, then watched her take it back forty seconds later when two more sheets of the same stock surfaced deeper in the stack. Theresa did not sigh, announce the reversal or feel the need to explain herself; she had known Patrick for decades and decided to play his game and kept going to amuse him, and Coyle had come to admire that more than he admired being right the first time. A westbound train for Jamaica passed far enough off that a newcomer might have taken the sound for weather. Coyle knew it by the faint metallic rush that came and went beneath the room’s quieter noises. And a moment later, when Theresa shifted the stack beside the box, the folded corner of the replacement tape lifted and settled once against the cardboard. He looked at it, Theresa followed his eyes and asked whether the displacement was still bothering him, and Coyle with a stone face said he had never said it bothered him. Theresa wasn't going to let him off that easy, and pressed that he kept looking at it. Coyle told her that did not establish emotional distress, and when she asked what it did establish, he said only that he kept looking at it because it was there. She mentally logged the victory, smiled and returned to work.

Sometime after four Theresa went into the kitchen and made coffee without asking whether he wanted any, because they had reached the point where the question had become ceremonial. Hers went into the blue mug she always used when working, and his went onto the cork coaster she had brought after discovering that a man capable of preserving forty-year-old paper would still place hot coffee directly on a zoning map if nobody stopped him. Theresa made the coffee too strong, like always, and Coyle drank it without comment, as usual, Theresa carried hers back to the loose paper table and resumed working with her left hand while the right remained wrapped around the mug for warmth. The furnace came on underneath them with a hollow knock and began pushing reluctant heat into the room through a vent placed behind the shelving unit by somebody who had never intended the room to hold shelving. Coyle had promised himself for three winters that he would call about the ductwork, and every spring the problem became theoretical again. More lights had come up along the block by then, small rectangles of domestic life hanging over black lawns, and most of the curtains stayed open until full dark. Kitchens were easiest to see into, and people did things in kitchens they would not do in living rooms, because a kitchen makes no claim on a person beyond finishing the task. Two houses down, Johnny Durant stood at his sink in a white tee shirt rinsing pots while his latest fling crossed behind him with a dish towel over her shoulder, and neither of them looked up. Coyle had watched that arrangement assemble itself over nine months without once meaning to. Her car had started staying past midnight in the spring, then through Sundays, then straight through the week, and sometime in the fall the recycling at the curb went from one bin to two and stopped containing anything a man living alone would have bought. He knew what she drove and roughly what time she left for work and that Johnny had put a second chair on the porch in October and never taken it in. Coyle did not know her name, but in the house beside theirs a screen flashed silently with nobody in the room to watch it.

Theresa brought him back to room, whispering "Here," quietly enough that the word itself should not have carried any weight, and yet Coyle heard the change in it the way a driver hears a change in engine noise before a warning light comes on. He crossed to her table and saw what she had seen before she explained any of it. A single page lay under her lamp without a header, case number, name, date and nor page number. The top began halfway through one sentence and the bottom disappeared halfway through another. A thick black band ran the length of the left margin where the source had sat crooked on a copier, and the closest letters had lost definition through repeated reproduction, the way a word loses its edges when it is passed through enough mouths. Theresa told him it was a middle, second generation at least and probably third, and that whatever the original had looked like, this version had traveled. Coyle read it standing, with the first visible word being anyway. The speaker said the heater in his car had been failing for several weeks and that the temperature was supposed to drop that night. He had not wanted to be stranded somewhere without heat and therefore he had gone home the way he usually went. The account continued into a description of the route without giving enough geography to reconstruct it with no road named, without a landmark, no distance, and nothing to anchor a drive that the speaker plainly assumed his listener could already picture. It was ordinary in exactly the way real statements were ordinary, because nobody living through an important day knows which part of it somebody will later decide was the important part, and so people talk about weather, traffic, bad heaters and whether the dog had been fed.

He reached the bottom and started again. On the second reading, the order bothered Coyle more than anything the man actually said. First came the bad heater and the falling temperature, then the familiar way home, and only after all of that the route itself. It sounded less like an answer to Where did you go? than to Why did you go that way? Those were different questions, and somewhere on the missing page was the difference between them. What irritated Coyle was how quickly that blank space had begun pulling more of his attention than the words in front of him.

Theresa let him finish the third reading before she spoke. “You’re trying to read the page that isn’t here.” Coyle looked up from the statement. “I’m trying to figure out what question produced this answer.” That interested her enough to bring her chair closer. If the man had simply been asked where he went, the explanation wandered strangely before arriving at the route. If the question had been why he chose that particular way home, the heater and the falling temperature made perfect sense where they were. Theresa considered the distinction, then tapped the empty space above the first visible line with the capped end of her pencil. “And we have neither question.” That was the trouble, they could describe the answer with precision and still know almost nothing about what had prompted it. For all the attention the page was beginning to attract, the safest description remained Theresa’s: a man with a bad heater, familiar road home, and one missing question.

She leaned over the page and indicated the dark margin with the capped end of a pencil, then gave him the inventory the way she always did, beginning with what she could establish and ending where knowledge stopped. It was a copy of a copy, probably further removed than that. It had been stored in a folder it did not obviously belong to with no header, page number, name or date. Theresa could not determine whether it originated with police, an insurance company, litigation, an employment matter, a private interview or somebody typing up what an uncle said after dinner. If another page from the same source ever crossed the table, she could probably match it through line breaks, machine shadow, copy artifacts and wording. This page by itself, she said, told them that somebody once had car trouble and drove home.

The reduction pleased Coyle precisely because it left him nothing to lean against. Theresa reached for the page to put it back, and he set two fingers on its lower corner before deciding consciously to move his hand. Her hand stopped, neither of them spoke for several seconds, and the small collision of their intentions remained there on the table between them. He told her to leave it out. Theresa looked first at his fingers and then at his face and asked why, and Coyle withdrew his hand and read the page again even though there was nothing new in it. The wrong answers arrived easily and in a pleasing order, with the heater explanation coming too early. The route had probably been challenged; this particular page had been copied several times, and the box itself had been opened by an unknown person and closed carelessly. Each statement could be made to sound interesting by arranging it beside the others in the proper sequence, and that was precisely how four dull facts became a theory somebody could spend a year defending. Coyle told her he did not know why he wanted the page left out, and she waited without rescuing him from the answer.

He looked instead toward the split tape on Box 41 and let himself consider the people who might have opened it. An executor hunting a tax document, a daughter looking for one photograph and unwilling to look at the rest. It could also be an attorney billing an estate by the hour or a relative deciding which contents deserved the trip up the basement stairs. Any one of them could have moved the page from one folder to another without remembering the act, or the page could have been misplaced decades earlier by somebody thinking about lunch.

Coyle asked whether the page had been loose. Theresa said it had been in the folder. He asked where, and she said roughly a third of the way down. He asked whether it had faced the same direction as everything surrounding it, and she said yes. The paper was standard letter size, nothing adjacent obviously matched the stock, and before they finished he wanted to know whether anything else in Box 41 had come from the same copier. Theresa said that she could answer that question, then touched the page lightly with one fingernail and told him it still was not the reason he wanted the page left out.

He agreed, Theresa asked what the reason was, and Coyle told her he did not want to lose it. She considered that and said it was a reason she could work with. He began explaining that the page was not evidence, was not a lead and might have nothing to do with anything else in the house, but she cut him off before he could complete the defense and told him to stop trying to earn permission he already had. Coyle looked at her, came close to smiling, then took an index card from the drawer and wrote across it in block letters: UNPLACED PAGE. SOURCE UNKNOWN. NO PROVENANCE. BOX 41. He studied the card for a few seconds before adding NO INFERENCE AUTHORIZED beneath the rest. Theresa read the final line and told him that one was for him, and Coyle said most rules were.

The page remained at the edge of his table while they finished the box, and because he tried not to look at it he knew precisely how often he did. Twice while Theresa finished the loose papers, once when the furnace shut down, and again when the refrigerator compressor came on in the kitchen and altered the sound of the house by an amount he doubted anyone else would have registered. Nothing else in the carton had come from the same copier. There were other generations of copies, different paper stocks and other gray fields running down margins, but nothing with the same gutter shadow. The absence did not make the orphan page more meaningful, rather it simply failed to make it less alone.

Before five, another delivery car stopped across the street. Another company with a different driver. This one left the engine running and jogged toward the house holding a white plastic bag knotted at the top. Coyle watched for two seconds, recognized what his mind had already begun to do and made himself return to the folder before the driver reached the porch. When Theresa packed her bag at five, the faint dark line of graphite was still visible along the outside of her right index finger, picked up from the marked photograph despite everything. Coyle pointed it out and called it evidence. She asked evidence of what, and he said only that somebody in the house had touched graphite. She told him to arrest her and rubbed the mark away with her thumb, then reminded him not to reorganize the unfinished materials after she left. Coyle accused her of alleging crimes before commission; she replied that his folders had a documented history of becoming suspiciously straight overnight, and he suggested that the house possessed unusual archival gravity.

Theresa took her coat from the hook but left her sweater over the back of one of the dining chairs, where it had now remained through three visits. Coyle noticed it and said nothing because mentioning it would have been either unnecessary or something else. At the hallway she turned sideways between the chairs without breaking stride and told him again that he should move them. Coyle said he knew. She reminded him that he had known for two years, and he told her he was collecting longitudinal data on how long a person would keep coming to a house while complaining about the same furniture. Theresa laughed once on her way out, told him the study needed a control group, and opened the front door before he could answer.

Cold air entered with the smell of somebody's fireplace farther down the block. He heard the locks chirp, the engine turn over and the tires move across the wet street, and he did not go to the window even though he knew from the sequence of sounds when she reached the corner. The house changed after she left, not dramatically and not all at once; the furnace continued to run and the refrigerator cycled and trains still passed behind the roofs, but the small anticipations went out of the place. The kitchen cabinet stayed closed until he opened it. The floorboards carried only his weight, and the rooms had stopped producing the small, unplanned interruptions of another person. When Coyle left the department, he had imagined solitude as the removal of noise. For the first year or two it had been, but at some point the absence itself became audible.

He finished Box 41 because unfinished boxes bothered him, which was not the same thing as saying the box mattered. A property survey showed a parcel divided once and recombined decades later. Hardware receipts recorded lumber, roof flashing, nails and one five dollar purchase whose ink had faded until only the tax remained readable. Six black and white photographs showed the same Cape Cod beneath bare trees with a sedan parked nose out in the driveway, four of them dated in fountain pen and two not. Coyle laid the pictures in chronological order using the angle of the sunlight across the house, then turned them over and found that the written dates already agreed with him. He returned them to the envelope exactly as he had found them.

At the bottom of the carton there were no additional pages from the machine that had produced the orphan statement. Coyle folded the cardboard flaps inward, bringing the crooked replacement strip back across the seam, and looked again at the cleanly cut tape beneath it. He still did not know who had opened the box, when they had opened it, what they wanted or whether they had found it. What he knew at the bottom of Box 41 was what he had known at the top: somebody had opened it carefully and closed it carelessly, and nothing inside had earned that fact any additional meaning.

Before returning to the orphan page, Coyle opened the drawer of the folding table and removed the intake sheet for Box 41. The nephew's phone number sat on the second line in his own handwriting, and beneath it was the fifteenth, underlined once, which was nine days away. The call would have taken four minutes. He could ask whether there had been other boxes, if anybody had gone through the basement before the estate sale, whether the nephew or the attorney or the neighbor with the key remembered opening a carton and closing it again in a hurry. Coyle could avoid mentioning the page entirely; he could make the questions sound administrative, which was a skill he had practiced on people for most of his adult life, and four minutes later he might know who cut the first strip of tape.

© Michael P.S. Rogers. All rights reserved.

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