The Whistler

16

After the early morning wave of doctors, nurses, and orderlies, things settled down somewhat and Gunther worked on his deals. Lacy was improving by the hour. The swelling in her face was easing, though her bruises were changing into various shades of blue. Around 9:00, Michael Geismar arrived and was startled to see such an elaborate makeshift office in Lacy’s room. She was awake and sipping lukewarm coffee through a straw.

Gunther, unshaven, in his socks and with his shirttail to his knees, introduced himself as her brother and was immediately suspicious of this guy in a dark suit. Lacy said, “Relax, he’s my boss,” and Gunther stood down. He and Michael shook hands tentatively across the bed and all was peaceful.

Michael asked, “Do you feel like talking?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Lyman Gritt is the constable for the reservation, and he wants to stop by and ask some questions. Probably a good idea if we cover things first.”

“Okay.”

Michael looked at Gunther, who showed no signs of even thinking about leaving the room. Michael said to him, “This is quite confidential. It deals with one of our investigations.”

With no hesitation, Gunther said, “I’m not budging. She’s my sister and she needs my advice. I need to know everything and I get the concept of confidentiality. Right, Lacy?”

Lacy had no choice but to say “He can stay.”

Michael was in no mood for a fight; plus, Gunther had a glow in his eyes that was clear evidence of a short fuse. What the hell. Michael said, “No word from Myers. I called the three numbers in your file several times and got nothing but ringing on the other end. Guess he doesn’t do voice mail.”

“I doubt if they could track him, Michael.”

“Who’s Myers?” Gunther asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Lacy said.

“Or not,” Michael said. “Back to Monday night, what can you tell me about the meeting with the informant?”

Lacy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, one that made her grimace. Slowly, she said, “Not much, Michael, not much. We went to the casino. We waited in the parking lot. Then we drove down a dark road and stopped at a small building.” She paused for a long time and seemed to be napping.

Michael asked, “Did you meet with the informant?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, Michael. I don’t remember.”

“Did Hugo talk to the guy on his cell phone?”

“I think so. Yes, he had to. The guy told us where to drive and meet him. Yes, I remember that.”

“What about the collision itself ? Anything leading up to it? The other vehicle?”

She closed her eyes again as if her memory might work better in the dark. After a gap, Gunther said, “Early this morning, she was having a nightmare. She woke up and said she could see the headlights, said she remembers Hugo screaming, and before she could react the truck was right there. She remembers it was a truck. She does not remember the impact or the noise or anything else. Nothing about the rescue, the ambulance, the medevac, the emergency room. Nothing.”

One of Gunther’s muted cell phones erupted in vibration, a call so urgent that the device tried to bounce across the purloined feeding table in his half of the room. He glared at it and fought the temptation the way a drunk in recovery stares at a cold beer.

He let it pass.

Michael nodded toward the door, and the two stepped into the hallway. He asked, “How much have you talked to her doctors?”

“Not much. I don’t think they like me.”

What a surprise. “Well, they tell me her memory will slowly come back. The best way to help is to stimulate her brain, primarily by talking. Make her talk, make her laugh, make her listen, as soon as possible get her some magazines and see if she’ll read. She loves old movies so watch them with her. Less sleep and more noise is what she needs.”

Gunther hung on every word, thrilled to be taking charge of things. “Got it.”

“Let’s chat with her doctors and try to keep the constable away from her for as long as possible. He wants to know what she and Hugo were doing on his land, and, frankly, we don’t want him to know. It’s strictly confidential.”

“Got that, Michael, but I want to know the details of the wreck. Everything. Tell me what you know so far. I smell a rat.”

“With good reason. Find your shoes and let’s get some coffee.”

–

After lunch on Friday, as Gunther stalked the halls with his phone and fought desperately to salvage one crumbling deal after another, Lacy typed an e-mail:

Dear Verna: Lacy here, on my brother’s iPad. I’m still in the hospital and finally have enough strength and clarity to check in. I don’t know where to start or what to say. I cannot believe this has happened. It is so surreal. I close my eyes and tell myself I’m not here, Hugo is fine, and when I wake up all will be well. But then I wake up and realize that this tragedy is real, that he has been taken, that you and the kids are suffering a loss that cannot be described. I am so sorry, not only for the loss, but also for my role in it. I don’t remember what happened, except that I was driving and Hugo was my passenger. That’s not important now, though I’ll carry it to my grave. I so wish I could see you right now, and hug you and the kids. I love you all and can’t wait to see you. I’m so sorry I’ll miss the service tomorrow. I’m crying just thinking about it. I’m crying a lot, but not nearly as much as you. My heart breaks for you and the kids, Verna. You are in my thoughts and prayers. Love, Lacy

Twenty-four hours later, the e-mail had not been answered.

–

The funeral service for Hugo Hatch began at 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, at a suburban megachurch with a soaring, modern sanctuary that seated almost two thousand. Hugo and Verna had joined Gateway Tabernacle years earlier and were semi-active members. The congregation was virtually all African-American, and many of their family members and most of their friends also attended. As 2:00 p.m. approached, the crowd settled in somberly as everyone braced for the waves of emotion to come. There were a few empty seats but not many.

First up was a slide show on a massive screen above the pulpit. As a mournful spiritual was piped in from the sound system, one photo after another of Hugo came across, each a painful reminder that he had indeed been taken much too soon. Cute little Hugo as a toddler; Hugo gap-toothed in grade school; Hugo in all manner of football shots; Hugo on his wedding day; Hugo playing with his kids. There were dozens of photos, and they provoked a lot of tears, and as the service continued there would be a lot of everything. Finally, after a gut-wrenching half hour, the screen disappeared as the choir loft filled with a hundred singers in beautiful burgundy robes. Their mini-concert swung haphazardly from low, mournful dirges to rowdy, foot-stomping old-time gospel favorites to which the entire congregation sang along.

There were a few white faces in the crowd. Michael and his wife had a front-row seat in the long, sweeping balcony. As he glanced around, he saw others from BJC. He noted that most white folks were in the balcony, as if trying to keep some distance from the rowdiness below. Michael, a child of the 1960s and Jim Crow, saw the irony of the blacks in the best seats while the whites seemed banished to the balcony.

After an hour of warm-ups, the reverend took charge and spoke for fifteen minutes, his opening. A gifted and seasoned orator with a powerful baritone, he offered comfort to the loved ones while making the crowd cry even harder. The first eulogy was from Hugo’s older brother, who told funny stories from their childhood but broke down halfway through. The second eulogy was from his high school football coach, a tough, crusty old white guy who barely uttered three sentences before choking up and crying like a baby. The third eulogy was from a teammate at Florida State. The fourth was from a law school professor. Then a soprano gave a magnificent rendition of “How Great Thou Art,” and when she finished there was not a dry eye to be found, including her own.

Verna, in the center of the front row, somehow managed to hold things together. She was surrounded by family and had the two older kids next to her. An aunt was keeping Pippin and the toddler. Even as others wailed and collapsed, Verna just stared at the casket, ten feet away, and wiped her eyes without making a sound.

Upon the advice of a doctor friend, and against tradition, she had decided to close the casket. A large handsome photo of her husband stood next to it on a tripod.

As the service ground on, Michael couldn’t help but glance at his watch. He was a devout Presbyterian, and in his church sermons were strictly limited to twenty minutes, weddings to thirty, and if a funeral inched past forty-five minutes somebody would catch an earful.

But the clock did not matter on this day at the Gateway Tabernacle. This was the last song and dance for Hugo Hatch, and it would be a glorious send-off. The fifth eulogy was given by a cousin who’d served time for drugs and was now clean and working, thanks to Hugo.

It was all quite moving, but two hours in Michael was itching to leave. He was also relieved to be sitting comfortably in a padded chair and not worrying about standing down there behind the pulpit. The Hatch family had initially asked if he “would consider” saying a few words at the funeral, but the offer was quickly withdrawn by Verna. Michael was aware of some initial grumblings on her part. Hugo’s death, whether accident or something else, could probably have been prevented if his boss hadn’t sent him into such a dangerous situation. Hugo’s older brother had called twice, curious about the trip to the reservation that late at night. The family was getting over the shock and asking questions, and Michael smelled trouble.

The sixth and last eulogy was from Roderick, Hugo and Verna’s oldest child. He wrote a three-page tribute to his father, and it was read by the reverend. Even Michael Geismar, a cold-blooded Presbyterian, finally succumbed to his emotions.

The reverend wrapped things up with a lengthy benediction, and as the choir hummed and swayed the pallbearers rolled Hugo down the aisle. Verna was close behind, holding a child with each hand, her jaw tight with determination, her head held high, her cheeks dripping with tears. She was followed by a pack of family members, few of whom were making any effort at restraint.

The mourners left the building and scattered into the parking lots. Most would reassemble in half an hour at the cemetery for another memorial that would be too long and too gut-wrenching. Through it all, not one harsh word was thrown at the person responsible for Hugo’s death. Of course, no one knew his name. “A drunk driver in a stolen truck who got away on foot” was the accepted version and so, with no one to blame, the reverend and the speakers took the high ground.

When Hugo Hatch was lowered into his grave, only Michael and a few others suspected his death had not been accidental. Not far away, on a slight incline at the rear of the cemetery, two men sat in a car and watched the crowd with binoculars.