30
A Loser Who Kills Others
Sometimes it seemed that he had been locked indoors listening to the rain falling on the marsh outside his kitchen window for as long as he could remember. The oxygen machine in the corner. The suction machine squatting on the splintery wooden floor next to the black specter of the wheelchair. The bedroom smelled like his mother’s skin, which had turned waxy and soaplike in her endless state of suspended animation. The house had absorbed her smell. The years had been so long. The Tupperware out of which she had eaten her last meals was in the sink, still unwashed, the residue of yellow powder having dried and petrified and turned brown. The shore had always been raining. Raindrops clung to his windows. They atomized on his screens. The trees staggered wet and black on the roadside going uphill to town, past Albatross Lane, the asphalt wet and black. A gray light in the bathroom where she had fallen. The whole world through a plastic shower curtain, cloudy, filmy and mildewed. The rain kept dripping on his roof, working away at the timbers. The books all around absorbing the dreary twilight, too heavy to move, too many words, too much work to understand.
His litter of clothes and possessions—the remains of his obsessions—ropes, pulleys, boxing gloves, the term paper on ALS somewhere in the drawer of a secondhand desk his mother had gotten for him when she was well—the gangster license plate, the newsboy hat in the closet with his skateboard, the eyebolt hanging half ripped out of his ceiling—there was shame and sorrow in every square foot of the house. He lay on the futon with a T-shirt over his face, the marsh seething in his head.
When he couldn’t stay at home anymore, he began spending days away, wandering through Quincy, going for miles up and down along the shore, past the New England churches, below the granite cliffs, the old, dark brown terraced condominiums, the rocks wetted as if a giant had urinated on them after the rains—eating at convenience stores, drowning out his thoughts with music. Sometimes, he sat alone in Quincy Center by the T.
One day, after Tom died, he saw Stacy Carracola getting off the train, wearing nurse’s scrubs. They looked away from each other by mutual accord.
Not long after, a drug dealer, a filthy, shirtless tough in a backwards Bruins hat, circling the parking lot on a child’s dirt bike with a cigarette behind his ear, rolled up to Corey and asked if he wanted to score.
“You straight?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then how come I see you every day?”
Corey got up and left past the granite war memorial to Quincy’s Men of Honor.
He followed gravity downhill to Braintree and looked out at the water. He saw that he was close to buying opioids. He might wind up living in a halfway house with other addicts, spending his life overdosing and getting revived repeatedly with Narcan, whiling away the days talking about the unforgivable failures of character that had brought him to this.
There was a marina on the Braintree Landing. He went in and asked about a job, thinking at least he’d be on the water. They shrugged and gave him one.
He got a tour from a man in salt-stained shorts and wire-rimmed glasses: This was the boathouse; this was the dry dock; the channel was eroding. The Army Corps of Engineers was going to dredge it. The tidal current went down the middle road, carving its way in the silt. Sometimes it flooded to the parking lot. Riprap covered the banks. A drawbridge spanned the river. Last year they’d had a jumper, an Irishman, here on a working visa, who had drowned over a love affair gone wrong. At high tide, you had to contact the bridge by shortwave radio to request an outbound opening. The bridge said “ten-four” and the highway broke in half and started rising like the letter A. A craft was motoring away, Double Trouble on the stern, water boiling around its twin Evinrudes, like a pair of eggbeaters. Out in the bay were two-foot rollers. This was a workingman’s yacht club, the man told Corey. He could help them wash their sails.
He worked with a rigger named Ian, who stood six-foot-one and carried a stainless steel folding knife on a decoratively knotted lanyard. It had a locking marlinspike, which he used to pry apart knots by breaking their crowns. His purple hands were eagle-claw strong from ropework. Rope was line. Call it rope and he called you a scumpuppy. His lanyard had a Turk’s head in it.
Together, they stepped a mast, walking it forward like the Marines putting up the American flag at Iwo Jima. The base fit into a socket in the hull, known as the step. Ian inserted a cotter pin. They secured the standing rigging to the rails. He learned how to put a screwdriver through the turnbuckle and twist it, tuning the shroud until it twanged. The tension had to be the same on both sides or the mast would bend. Ian sighted aloft and declared that it was true.
When the job was done, Corey celebrated by jumping off the dock. A boater in mirrored sunglasses called him a retard. Corey swam back through a rainbow film of gasoline. Seagull feathers and Styrofoam cups clung to him in the green sloshing sea under the pier. He kicked away from barnacled pilings, looking for a way up. Ian looked down at him.
“Do you expect to be saved?”
He dropped him a line and Corey climbed out, pulling himself up on the galvanized mooring cleat. His wet body ran brine on the planking. There was tar on his sneakers. Blood welled out of a slice on his ankle. Ian sent him to get the first aid kit in the shingled boathouse.
“I don’t know about you. You must like splinters. Explain yourself, scumpuppy.”
“I’ve wanted to do that since I was a kid.”
“You must have had an interesting childhood.”
The days were spent fiberglassing and power-sanding boats. In the middle of the summer, the rigger took him sailing on the bay. They seemed to be walking through the waves, against the chop, like farmers in a flooded field. Ian gave him the helm. The wind was blowing, the mainsail and jib were full, the lines that controlled them—known as sheets—were taut, creating airfoils that sucked the boat forward into the low-pressure zone beyond the bow. Telltales fluttered from the wire shrouds. The sun flashed on the waves, and the boat surged up and down like a skateboard doing ollies. Through his hands, Corey felt the balance of forces—wind from the side, low pressure from the front, the keel holding them in the water, the rudder pulling against his grip. He braced his sneaker on the deck and held his course for shore.
As the days went by, with Ian’s blessing, he began taking out the dinghy on his own, one-manning it around the bay, doing ollies, getting sunburned, staying in sight of land.
But soon he thought of turning the tiller the other way and fleeing. He wondered if he had escaped the further consequences of the murder.
The police investigating Molly’s murder were contacted by a man who called himself “a sergeant at MIT.” He said he was “on the job” and was going to help them “clear a case.” He wouldn’t give his name. They took several calls from the anonymous informant over the course of several days. He said he had important evidence to show them. The investigators, who were based in Springfield, traveled to Cambridge to meet him, a two-hour drive with traffic. They parked in front of MIT’s main building on the evening of a late-summer day. Dark blue dusk lay on the Charles River. At the top of the steps, they were met by a sunglasses-wearing individual in a jacket that said POLICE.
“I’m your contact.”
They followed him into the cavernous lobby under the domed ceiling. He led the way into a maze of corridors and stairs hidden inside the skin of the building, off to the side of the central Infinite Hallway, to an office with an antique wooden door, which he unlocked. It was a professor’s private office filled with academic journals. The informant took the chair behind the professor’s desk and the cops took seats in front of him like pupils. He said that now he could tell them a bit more about himself. He put his hands behind his head and talked.
Eventually, the investigators asked about the evidence.
He gave them a handwritten document. It read, in part: “I can’t reflect the colors of a rainbow when all that shines on me is darkness…Corey has become a black hole…I know what he wants is wrong. I’ve been asking myself if I should contact the FBI…” The next sentence was highlighted: “He wants to rape and kill a woman to know what it feels like.”
It was signed Adrian Reinhardt.
The top of the page was torn where the salutation of a letter would go.
“Can you tell us how you got this?”
“I cultivated a rapport with him.”
“And you did this because…?”
“Because of my background in law enforcement. I thought there might be something there.”
“When did he give this to you?”
“I don’t remember the date.”
“It looks like there’s a part missing. There’s no way for us to see who it’s addressed to. Was this addressed to you?”
“It was like that when I got it.”
The detectives didn’t pursue this further. They wanted to know about the “Corey” in the letter. The informant revealed this was Adrian’s friend, one Corey Goltz, last known address: Sea Street, Quincy, Mass.
They thanked him for his help and collected the document into evidence.
They figured out their tipster was Leonard Agoglia of Malden, Massachusetts, an hourly wage security guard working for a private company, Allied, which provided unarmed staff to sit at checkpoints and walk rounds at dorms and facilities on campus. It was decided not to confront Agoglia with any facts that might embarrass him, so as to keep him talking. Because of the avoidance of any subject close to the heart of who Leonard was, it took a while before anyone finally realized that Corey was his son.
A woman left a voicemail on Corey’s phone. He called her back. “This is Corey.” “Just a minute. My boyfriend wants to talk to you.” She gave the phone to a man. “This is Detective So-and-So.” Boston accent. No-nonsense. Not her boyfriend. They were cops. The reason for the ruse was to make certain that he called. There were some questions that needed clearing up.
“What kind of questions?”
“We just need your help. Are you at home right now?”
“Yes. Do you need me to come in?”
“No. We’ll give you a ride.”
He went to the door and saw a car that reminded him of his father’s Mercury, only it was silver-gray, sitting in his driveway.
They drove him to the Quincy police station and took him through the lobby—low ceiling, dark glass booths like an aquarium where fish in uniform looked out at you, posters of sex offenders, trash cans, a bulletin board display of drawings by local school children. They unlocked a door and took him into a carpeted hallway that looked like a doctor’s office and into a room the size of a large closet. There was a camera in the ceiling, which fed to computer monitors throughout the building. There was a one-way mirror, which now was obsolete—it was covered by a curtain like a motel window. The furniture was arranged in a specific way: a table surface and two chairs positioned, not across the table but to one side, so that there was no physical or psychological barrier between the interviewer and subject. There was a wall switch, which started the recording, and the detective flipped it on as soon as they entered. He offered Corey a seat and took the other. There was a remote fob in his pocket. Pressing it would mark the recording if Corey said something interesting so they could find it later when they reviewed the interview.
He put a form in front of Corey and handed him a pen.
“You don’t have to sign this, but we can’t talk unless you do.”
Corey signed it and the detective gave it to someone else who took it and quietly closed the door. It felt like being in an examining room with a doctor.
The detective introduced himself again. He was with the state police homicide unit out of Hampden County. He was wearing chinos. He pulled his ankle onto his knee with both hands as if he were going to get into the lotus position.
“So, you know why we’re here?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you should tell me.”
“Smart guy! I can’t tell you how many guys think they’re smart and then they sit there and just—they’re not smart.”
“I’m not trying to be smart.”
“We’re here about Molly Hibbard.”
“I know her.”
“She’s the victim of a homicide I’m investigating. She was murdered on the twenty-first of March. You know about that, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Hey, this is easy. Most people don’t make my life easy. So, now we can get into this. I feel like you’re a guy I can talk to. You’re a pretty good guy, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’m a good guy.” Corey folded forward, covering his eyes, and tried to hold back a sudden urge to weep.
“It’s okay,” the detective said. A sharp-eyed look came over his face and he pressed the key fob.
When the interview was over, the detective let him find his own way out. Corey was unsure how long he’d been inside the closet. He was suddenly outside under the evening sky amid the sound of cars. It felt like years had passed. The whole universe had changed.
He contacted Shay for the first time since his vandalism charge and told him he had made a statement to the police.
“My friend was killed.”
“Are you a witness?”
“I’m not sure what I am.”
“What exactly did you say?”
Corey tried to recollect.
“Tell you what, I’m going to make a call downtown and see what they wanted with you,” said Shay.
The next day, he called back.
“It sounds to me like you’re a suspect.”
“I didn’t see this happening.”
“This is why you don’t talk without a lawyer.”
Shay had him take the number of a defense attorney. Corey wanted Shay to represent him, but Shay said this man had expertise with major felonies.
The attorney’s offices were located near Chinatown, near the dragon gate, old bars, and the major roads that converged at South Station bus terminal. Windows overhung the sidewalk like the high transoms of square-rigged ships. A buzzer entrance, an intercom, a room with a water bubbler, an oil painting, a high-backed leather chair. Corey sat. The attorney wore a pin-striped dress shirt with cuff links and a bright white collar.
The consultation was free. After that, his retainer was two thousand dollars.
Corey outlined his predicament. “Am I talking too much?” The attorney checked his watch. “Keep going. We’ve got five minutes.”
He kept going. When he finished, he said, “I know this was a long story, but am I going to jail?”
“I hope not,” the attorney said.
The forensic services division of the state police can be reached by traveling west on Route 2, past Lexington, Concord, but not so far as Harvard, Littleton or Ayer. It feels a long way from the shore. There is no ocean here. Driving this part of the state, one may have the pleasure of breaking out of light-dappling trees into the open vista of a cornfield, a farm stand selling pumpkins, summer corn or homemade pies. In the nearby town, there’s a hint of quaintness, of the historic past preserved. A thrift store sells Indian clothing out of a seedy mansion on a tree-lined byway. But there are pickup trucks as well—and perhaps a sullen, townie character. Maynard bleeds away into the trees, running out along the roads away from its own center, fleeing itself. The forensics office is in a plain brick strongbox of a building off the highway, behind a concrete wall.
Within this rural bastion, so far from Boston harbor, a forensic specialist had processed the blood and skin found under Molly Hibbard’s fingernails, to reveal a genetic sequence that matched one person in 360 million—the one person in North America whom she had clawed as she was dying: Adrian Thomas Reinhardt. Corey had admitted to police that he had been his friend.
The attorney repeated this over and over, in a phone call a few days after their first face-to-face meeting, as if awakening to the realization that Corey was going to be a more-difficult-than-expected client.
The police had wanted to search his mother’s hatchback for forensic evidence. The attorney had told them no; they had promised to get a warrant, which led him to believe they had probable cause.
“They have these things you said. I don’t want to repeat them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I wish my penis was made of steel, so that when I fucked a woman I could destroy her pelvis,” the attorney said.
“I never said that.”
“The district attorney read it aloud to me.”
“Something’s wrong here. I never said that.”
“They have you on tape, I’m told. This is not made up.”
“I’m telling you, there’s a mistake. I never in my life said that. What tape are you talking about?”
The attorney confirmed that the police had spoken to his father. His father had played them a recording of Corey threatening him in violent language on the phone. The DA had heard it and come to the conclusion that Corey was a sick and dangerous young man.
The police brought a tow truck to the marina and hooked up his mother’s faded hatchback. Corey put down his sander and walked up the ramp to see what was going on. A woman with a pistol on her hip was filling out a form. She pointed: “Watch him.” A patrolman turned to face him. Corey stopped and put up his hands, which were white with dust from sanding. They gave him paperwork and drove away.
They kept the car five days. When they finished searching it, they notified him. He went on foot to the police station, where he paid a fee at the window. It came to twenty-five dollars a day, but they only charged him for three days. They gave him another form to take to the tow truck company’s lot and reclaim his car.
“Did you find anything?” he asked.
“I don’t know what they found,” said the cop behind the window.
“They won’t have found anything. I’m innocent.”
“Have a nice day.”
“What happened?”
Corey stopped in his tracks. He had a centerboard in his arms—a sheet of reddish steel. “What happened with what?”
“The other day when the cops were here. They were looking for you, weren’t they?”
“It’s a misunderstanding.”
“That must be some misunderstanding.” The boat owner, wearing a sun hat tied under the chin, was carrying a canvas tool bucket down to the flashing water. “They had the SWAT team here for you.”
“Is everything okay? They’re not going to fire me, are they?”
“You’re getting paid to do a job. Nobody wants you bringing your problems to the workplace.”
“Should I try and explain? The problem is I don’t know where to begin. I had a friend who got murdered by someone that I knew.”
“That’s not my department. That’s your business.”
“All right.”
Ian was waiting on the dock, belly thrust forward, forearms ruddy-tanned, a kerchief around his neck, the stainless knife hanging on his chest. Corey walked down to him and laid the rusted board on the planks at his sandaled feet.
“Ian, can I talk to you a minute?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
“Did you notice the cops were here the other day and took my car?”
“I did happen to notice that.”
“Is everything okay after that? Is my job okay?”
“As far as I know.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Questions?”
“Is there anything I should tell you about?”
Ian shook his head as if he’d never heard anything more absurd.
“Your timing’s good. I was about to call you.”
Corey said, “We need to get in touch with the police or the DA or somebody and tell them everything.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” replied his attorney.
“That’s exactly what should happen.”
“That’s why you don’t have a law degree.”
“I’ve got information they should know.”
“What information do you have, Corey?”
“I think my father is trying to frame me.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Aren’t you supposed to defend me? Why wouldn’t you be interested in what I’m saying?”
“It surprises a lot of clients when they find out that their lawyer doesn’t do everything they say. I have to explain this to people sometimes. It’s the lawyer’s job to keep you out of jail. You might think it’s my job to do what you want. If I did that, I wouldn’t have a practice. Now, listen, Corey, here’s what I want you to do. We’re going to have you see a psychological counselor.”
“What for?”
“So you can show the court that you’re trying to resolve your issues and get some help.”
“This doesn’t seem right. I don’t think I’m crazy.”
“Nobody’s calling you crazy. It’s at the office of probation. You see a psychologist. He interviews you and prepares something called a presentencing report.”
“Why would I want a presentencing report when I haven’t even been sentenced, because I haven’t even been found guilty, because I haven’t had a trial yet, because no one’s even heard my side of what’s going on here—including you?”
“Call them and make an appointment please.”
Corey hung up. A minute later, he called his attorney back and said, “I’m not doing this.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I think it’s time I fired you.”
The attorney laughed and sent him a bill for $2,000.