5
Mario Bennati lived in Gloucester in a small, gray-shingled house with a deck where you could sit and drink beer and look at the Annisquam River. He and I were sitting there, doing that, in the late afternoon. With us was a large friendly German shepherd named Grover.
"Wife died four years ago," Bennati said. "Daughter comes up from Stoughton usually once or twice a week, vacuums, dusts. " He shrugged. "Mostly it's me and Grover. I can cook okay and do my laundry."
We were drinking Miller High Life from the clear glass bottles.
"I don't smoke no more," he said, looking at the boats moving toward the harbor across the wide water below us. "Ain't got laid since she died." He drank some of the Miller High Life with an economy of motion that suggested long practice. "We done fine, 'fore she got sick." Grover put his head on Bennati's thigh and looked at him. "Watch this," Bennati said. He tilted the bottle of beer carefully and Grover drank a little. "Right from the bottle," Bennati said. "Huh?"
"Cool," I said.
"Don't let him drink much," Bennati said. "Gets drunk real easy."
I patted Grover on the backside. His tail wagged, but he kept his head on Bennati's lap. "I'm looking into an old murder," I said. "One of yours. September 1974. Woman was killed in a bank holdup in Audubon Circle."
Bennati drank the rest of his beer and reached down and got another one out of the cooler under the table. He twisted off the cap and drank probably four ounces of the beer in one long pull. He looked at the bottle for a moment and nodded.
"Yeah, sure, bunch of fucking hippies," he said. "Stealing money to save America. Killed her for no good reason."
"I read the case file yesterday," I said.
"So you know we didn't clear it." He drank some more beer. "They're always a bitch, the fucking cases where shit happens for no good reason."
I nodded. "Anything you remember, might help me?" I said.
"You read the case file, you know what I know," he said.
"I used to be a cop," I said. "Everything didn't always get included in the case file."
"Did in mine," Bennati said.
"What happened to the FBI intelligence report?" I said.
"Huh?"
"In your notes you say the FBI was sending over an intelligence report. It's not in the file and you never mentioned it again."
"FBI?"
"Uh-huh."
"For crissake, we're talking like thirty fucking years ago."
"Twenty-eight," I said. "You remember anything about the FBI intelligence report?"
"Too long," he said. "I'm seventy-six years old and live alone except for the dog, and drink too much beer. I can barely remember where my dick is."
"So you don't remember the FBI report?"
"No," he said and looked at me steadily. "I don't remember."
I took a card out of my shirt pocket and gave it to him.
"Anything occurs to you," I said, "give me a buzz."
"Sure thing."
As I walked toward my car, he took another High Life out of the cooler and twisted off the cap.