The Dream of the Broken Horses (8 page)

We descend the main stairs, exit the house, then circle round back to look at the gardens. Mace tells me that all the trees near the house were strung with lights, creating a magical effect outside the club windows at night.

"I've been waiting years for someone to come forward, say he knew who did the Flamingo hit on Cody's orders. But no one has. Maybe they figured once Jack was dead there was nothing to be gained."

Mace describes how less than a year after the Flamingo killings, Cody was ambushed.

"He was in his Cadillac, sitting beside his driver the way he liked to do, when they stopped at the traffic light at the corner of
Joslin
and
Tremaine
. Suddenly two gloved and helmeted motorcyclists pulled up on either side, drew pistols, and blasted the driver and Cody at the same time. Then the shooter nearest Cody pulled open the door and shot him twice in the head. It was all over in a couple of seconds. Both shooters dropped their weapons, then peeled off in opposite directions."

"Did this have anything to do with Flamingo?"

"Not as far as we know. Cody was connected with the Torrance Hill mob, then there was a falling out. We thought it had to do with the big stickup happened out here. Quite an event. One Saturday night, just after the midnight floor show, eight guys with submachine guns, wearing fatigues and stocking masks, came in through the kitchen door, rounded up the staff, pushed them into the Cub Room, shot up the ceiling to get attention, announced a stickup, and demanded jewelry and wallets. Three of them went around collecting valuables while two escorted Cody upstairs, where they forced him to open his safe and hand over the weekend receipts. It was scary and also exciting. A couple of the more clever ladies had the presence of mind to hide their rings by dropping them into their coffees. One guy dumped his watch into a pitcher of cream. Later everyone spoke with admiration of how well Cody handled himself. Even though he was cleaned out, he never lost control. Next morning it was all over the papers: GAMING CLUB HEIST. Everyone was talking about it: '
D'you
hear what happened out at The Elms?' 'Wow, isn't that wild!' Contrary to what you'd expect, it added another layer of glamour to the place. Among Cody's regulars, it was prestigious to have been here. People who were nowhere near at the time went around claiming they were among the robbed. Meantime, Cody told some of his friends he knew who'd done the job and promised he'd get even."

We mount the terrace that runs along the length of the gaming room.

"The robbers came in through there," Mace says, gesturing toward a field below the gardens. "They avoided Cody's security guys by crossing the adjacent property, then approaching from the rear. It was a slick operation, showed intimate knowledge of The Elms, which is why some, me included, thought Cody staged it.

"Later when he was assassinated, I changed my mind. Then it looked more and more like a chill off, a bunch of out-of-town guys, maybe the Purple Gang from Detroit acting for the Torrance Hill mob, brought in to send Cody a message. They wanted a bigger slice of the action, Cody refused, so they sent in some muscle to show what they could do. A classic move, what they used to call 'dressing down the joint,' 'giving the joint a shake.' Afterwards Cody confronted them, there were hard feelings, and a few months later they had him killed."

As we walk back up the drive, I tell him what bothers me about his theory that Cody ordered the Flamingo killings.

"Seems like there's a big difference," I tell him, "between ripping up your girlfriend's face with a broken bottle and ordering your mistress and her lover killed. One's a hot, angry act that has to do with punishment. The other's totally cold-blooded."

Mace shrugs. "Depends on how you size the guy up. I saw him as a sociopath subject to flashes of rage but also cold and cruel. So, see, for me it can work either way. Also, who else had a motive?"

"Andrew Fulraine?"

"He wanted his kids back and was looking for evidence to get custody, but he was in New York at the time and wouldn't have had the slightest idea how to hire a hit man. Bottom line—he didn't have the heart. He was too fancy and wimpy. When he heard what happened, he burst into tears."

"What about her other lovers?"

"We checked them out. Cody and Jessup were the only current ones. Far as we could tell all the old ones had cooled off."

"What about someone you didn't know about?"

"You mean like someone who'd been spurned. Look, we did a thorough investigation. Since we suspected Cody from the start, we made a point of looking deep to eliminate everybody else. When a couple's killed like that, shot to pieces in their love nest, the motive's almost certain to be sexual jealousy. Jessup wasn't involved with anybody. He was new in town, been here less than a year, barely knew anyone outside his colleagues at the Hayes School. Barbara Fulraine had had a string of lovers, but she was a classy lady who ended her affairs in a classy way. Several were visibly upset when they heard the news. All seemed genuinely sad. We looked at Cody's old flames but couldn't find one who cared. Couple of them made it clear they weren't even sorry. Cody was the only one who refused to talk with us. He referred us to his lawyer, who told us to arrest him or buzz off. So if there was someone else, we didn't find him. And, God knows, we looked."

Back at the ruined gates, there's a quiet moment as Mace and I get ready to part. He looks me in the eye in the manner of a seasoned cop.

"Those drawings you did of the Zigzag Killer," he says, "they were knockouts. Law enforcement folks give you great references. After you called I checked you out, wanted to know who you were before I agreed to meet."

"Guess I passed the test."

"You did. But I'm curious about something, David. Why so much interest in a twenty-six-year-old crime that's been mostly forgotten by everyone else?"

"You haven't forgotten it."

"That's for sure. I doubt a day goes by I don't think about it."

"Then you of all people should understand."

The way he continues to stare tells me he needs a better answer.

"Put it like this," I tell him. "I was a kid when Flamingo happened. All of twelve years old. I was a student at the Hayes School. Mr. Jessup was my French teacher. I played soccer, and he was assistant coach of the lower-school soccer squad. I also knew the Fulraine boys. Mark Fulraine was in my class. Me and all my friends read about the case. The following autumn, we could talk of nothing else. It was morbid and romantic, and I guess you could say some of us got obsessed. In a weird way, considering the career I've had, I think for me those killings were a defining event. They haunted me. So now, twenty-six years later, I find myself back in Calista. With that in the background, how can I
not
make time to give the case my best professional look?"

Mace nods casually as if to say he's willing to accept my explanation, though he's still not completely satisfied.

We shake hands.

"If you come up with more questions, give me a call." He smiles. "Flamingo's one case I'm always happy to talk about."

T
he Hayes School:
Standing now before its gracious Georgian facade, I'm suffused with melancholy. It was here that I, like all children at their schools, learned some of the awful lessons of life: that human beings compete; that competition can be ruthless; that those we love best may turn upon us and betray us; that those we respect most may show themselves to be flawed.

It's summer now. School is out of session. But the campus is open for two summer programs, a day camp for soccer players, and a high school theater workshop. When I arrive, the soccer players are practicing on the school's lush green athletic fields, while the theater students are in the midst of a dress rehearsal. I stop by the school auditorium, watch a couple of scenes from Shakespeare's
As
You Like It,
then wander off.

The smells here bring back memories: polished stone, freshly waxed wood floors, the lingering odor of bad school food. "Fish eyes and glue" and "mystery meat" were among our gleeful descriptions of Hayes specialties.

Off the main foyer, lined by glass cases filled with sports trophies, is the corridor that leads in one direction to the Headmaster's Office, in the other to the school Common Room. I walk through, then enter the gym, immediately noticing several unfamiliar features—new Plexiglas basketball backboards and differently colored markings on the floor. Most of all, I'm impressed by the volume of the space. It used to seem so vast. Now it strikes me as small, almost intimate.

I've come to revisit the site of a boxing match I fought here under Athletic Department auspices. In fact, it was a mean, ferocious battle waged to settle a bitter personal feud.

Tom Jessup, acting that day as coach and referee, appeared to view it as simply another fair if particularly combative bout. Perhaps, as I and my opponent were being bloodied as we flailed away, he was daydreaming about his new socially prominent paramour. Or perhaps, as I believed at the time, he unfairly refereed the bout so I would lose, my opponent, after all, being Mark Fulraine, scion of a founder of the school.

I walk to the end of the gym where the boxing ring was set up. Mats, perhaps the very ones we trod upon that day, are piled neatly in a corner. The vaulting horses are in their niche; the climbing ropes are hoisted to the ceiling. Taking a seat on the bench in front of the radiators, I feel the grid against my back, the same grid I leaned so hard against that day while my friend, Jerry Glickman, laced up my gloves.

Funny how many things come back when you revisit the scene of a traumatic event, details I would not remember were I not now at the site. As the memories flood in, I set my sketchbook on my knees and begin to draw, working to recapture the awful drama of that day.

There'd been much anticipation surrounding our fight. People knew we hated one another, that Mark, president of the Lower School Student Council, had deeply offended me, calling me "Jewboy" because he didn't like a caricature I'd drawn of him for the school paper. After he spat out the epithet, we stared at one another, me incredulous, he, perhaps, equally shocked that he'd uttered such a vicious affront. Then I swore I'd knock his fucking block off.

Just as we were about to come to blows, a teacher intervened, which led to our being called separately into the Head of Lower School's office. Mr. Leonard, who owned that kingly title, decided that since our rancor was high and we were approximately the same weight, we should settle our differences in the ring.

An idiotic solution. Had I been Head of Lower School, I'd have suspended Mark till he issued a public apology. But the Fulraine family was a major benefactor of Hayes, people felt sorry for Mark because his sister had been kidnapped, and, anyway, in those days, genteel anti-Semitic remarks were not uncommon in the homes of Calista's social and financial elite.

Since our feud erupted on a Monday morning, Mark and I had five full days to look forward to our bout, scheduled to follow regular optional boxing practice on Friday afternoon. In that time, we carefully kept our distance so as to avoid exchanging further words.

My friends, all two of them, Tim Hawthorn and Jerry Glickman, assured me I'd win if I kept my head.

"Make him fight your fight," Jerry coached me.

"Sucker punch the creep, then sock him," Tim advised, smacking his fist into his palm.

Both pieces of advice seemed valid enough, though I had no clear idea what they meant. All I knew was that I was facing the fight of my life, and, unlike other student fights, it was being sanctioned by the school. Though participation in a grudge match was a fearful prospect, at least I could count on it being fairly refereed. Mr. Jessup, who had boxed as an undergraduate at State, was, I knew, not only an honorable guy but was also a favorite teacher, and, I then believed, my friend.

Friday, 2 P.M., the day of the match: I enter the Lower School locker room. Mark's already there wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts, one foot on the bench tying up his sneakers. We glare at one another as we suit up side by side.

"It's going to be fun whipping your ass," he taunts.

"There's an ambulance outside waiting for you," I respond.

Every student, upon admittance to Hayes, is assigned to one of two teams, Eagles or Mustangs. Thereafter, no matter the sport, all intramural teams are demarcated this way. Mark Fulraine was a Mustang, thus the tank top he pulled over his head was a vivid fighting scarlet. Since I was an Eagle, mine was but a muted blue.

Together we strode into the gym to receive our gloves, head-guards, and mouthpieces. Another match was in progress with at least a hundred boys seated about the ring. Normally less than twenty spectators attended Friday practice, but that afternoon interest was high as word of our impending battle had spread through Lower School.

Mark was popular; I was not. He was a star athlete, a football player, graceful and handsome with manly features and a head of unruly golden locks. I, dark-haired, skinny, sometimes gawky, was not particularly good at sports. Moreover, I was disliked on account of my sarcastic manner and for being among the smartest kids in sixth grade.

As we walked forward, I could sense the waves of approval washing over him and feel the disdain directed at me.