The Wrong Man

9

When Scott was unable to reach Ashley either on her landline or on her cell phone, he felt a sweaty sort of anxiety, but he immediately told himself it amounted to nothing. It was midday, she was undoubtedly out, and he knew his daughter had on more than one occasion left the cell phone charging back at her place.

So, after he’d left brief “Just wondering how things are going” messages, he sat back and worried whether he should be worried. After a few moments feeling his pulse rate rise, he rose and paced back and forth across the small office. Then he sat down and maneuvered through some busywork, responding to student e-mails and printing out a couple of essays. He was trying to waste time at a moment when he wasn’t sure that he had time to waste.

Before long he was rocking ever so slightly back and forth in his desk chair while his mind fastened on moments in Ashley’s growing up. Bad moments. Once, when she had been little more than a year old, she’d come down with severe bronchitis, and her temperature had spiked and she’d been unable to stop coughing. He’d held her throughout the night, trying to comfort her, trying with soothing words to calm the hacking cough and listening to her breathing grow increasingly shallow and difficult. At eight in the morning, he’d dialed the pediatrician’s office and been told to come straight in. The doctor had leaned over Ashley, listening to her chest, then swung about and coldly demanded to know why Scott and Sally had not taken her to the emergency room earlier. “What?” the doctor had questioned. “Did you think that by holding her all night she would get better?”

Scott had not answered, but, yes, he’d thought that by holding her she would get better.

Of course, antibiotics were a wiser choice.

When Ashley started to split her time between her two parents’ homes, Scott would be up pacing in his bedroom, waiting for her to come home, unable to prevent himself from conjuring up all the worst cases: car accidents, assaults, drugs, alcohol, sex-all the nasty undercurrents to growing up. He knew that Sally was asleep in her bed those late nights that Ashley the teenager was out rebelling at Lord knows what. Sally always had trouble handling the exhaustion of worry. It was, Scott thought, as if by sleeping through the tension, it never actually happened.

He hated that. He’d always felt alone, even before they were divorced.

He grasped a pencil and twiddled it between his fingers, finally cracking it in half.

He took a deep breath. “What? Did you think that by holding her all night she’d get better?”

Scott told himself that worry was useless. He needed to do something, even if it was completely wrong.

Ashley arrived at her job perhaps ten minutes earlier than normal, her pace driven by anger, her usual leisurely walk replaced this day by a quick-time, jaw-set preoccupation with Michael O’Connell. For a couple of seconds, she looked up at the huge fortresslike Doric columns marking the museum entrance, then she turned and swept her eyes across the street. She was pleased with herself. Where she worked was filled with the colors of her world, not his. She was comfortable among the pieces of art; she understood each, she could feel the energy behind every brushstroke. The canvases, like the museum, were immense, taking up great patches of wall space with their insistence. They intimidated many of the visitors because the paintings dwarfed everyone who stepped in front of them.

She felt a touch of satisfaction within her. It was the perfect place to extract herself from Michael O’Connell’s crazy claims of love. Everything here was her world. Nothing was his. The museum would make him seem small and inconsequential. She expected their meeting to be quick and relatively painless for both of them.

She played it out in her head. Firm, but uncompromising. Polite, but strong.

No high-pitched complaints. No more whiny please s and leave me alone s.

Just direct, to the point. End of story. Finished.

No debate about love. No discussion about possibility. Nothing about the one-night stand. Nothing about the computer messages. Nothing about the dead flowers. Nothing that would lead itself into a wider exchange. Nothing that he might take as criticism. A clean, unencumbered break. Just, Thanks. Sorry. It’s over. Good-bye forever.

She even allowed herself to imagine that once she’d gotten through this meeting, perhaps Will Goodwin would call. It surprised her that he hadn’t. Ashley wasn’t really familiar with boys who didn’t call back, and so she was a little unsure how to feel. She spent some time thinking about this, as opposed to Michael O’Connell, as she made her way through the museum offices, nodding to the people she knew, and allowing herself to fill up with the benign normalcy of the day.

At lunchtime, she made her way to the cafeteria, took a seat at a small table, and ordered a glass of overpriced fizzy water, but nothing to eat. She had positioned herself so that she could see Michael O’Connell when he came up the museum steps and through the wide glass doors to the entrance. She glanced at her watch, saw that it was 1 p.m. straight up, and leaned back, knowing he would be prompt.

She felt a small quiver in her hands, and a little sweat in her armpits. She reminded herself, No kiss on the cheek. No handshake. No physical contact whatsoever. Just point at the seat opposite her and keep it simple. Do not get sidetracked.

She took a $5 bill-which would more than cover the price of her single glass of water-and put it in her pocket, where she could extract it rapidly. If she had to stand up and exit, she wanted to be able to move freely. She congratulated herself for thinking of this precaution.

Anything else? she asked herself. No loose ends. She felt excited but blank inside after performing a mental rundown of her plan.

She looked through the plate-glass windows, expecting to see him. A few couples hove into view, then a family, two young parents dragging a bored six-year-old. There was an odd-looking elderly pair of men, who were slowly walking up the expanse of steps, pausing, as if on cue, to rest before continuing. Her eyes swept the sidewalk, and far down the street. There was no sign of Michael O’Connell.

At ten past the hour, she started to squirm in her seat.

At quarter past, the waiter came over and politely but firmly asked her if she wanted to order.

At one thirty, she knew he wasn’t coming. Still, she waited.

At two, she put the $5 on the table and left the restaurant.

She took one last glance around, but Michael O’Connell was nowhere she could see. Feeling a black emptiness within her, she headed back to work. When she reached her desk, she put her hand on the telephone, thinking she should call him and demand to know where he was.

Her fingers hesitated.

For an instant, she allowed herself to think that perhaps he’d simply chickened out. He’d understood that she was going to dump him once and for all and decided not to hear the bad news in person. Maybe, she thought, he’s out of my life already. In that case, the call was unnecessary and, in fact, would defeat the purpose.

She didn’t think she could be that lucky, but it certainly was a possibility. She could be suddenly, abruptly, delightfully free.

A little unsure about precisely what had happened, she went back to work, trying to fill her head with the humdrum of the job.

Ashley worked late, although she didn’t need to.

It was spitting rain outdoors when she exited the museum. A cold, angry sort of rain that played a drumbeat of loneliness on the sidewalk. Ashley tugged on a knit cap and pulled her coat tight as she set out, head down. She gingerly walked down the museum’s slick steps to the sidewalk and started to turn up the street, then her eyes caught a red neon reflection glistening from a storefront opposite her. The lights seemed to wash into the glare from automobile headlights that swept past. She was not sure why her eyes were pulled in that direction, but the figure she saw was ghostlike.

Standing just to the side, so that he was halfway in the light, halfway in a shadow, Michael O’Connell waited.

She stopped sharply.

Their eyes locked across the street.

He was wearing a dark stocking cap and a olive-drab, military-styled parka. He seemed both anonymous and hidden, but, at the same time, glowed with some intensity that she could not put a word to.

She felt a sudden heat within her and gasped for air, as if she’d suddenly turned short of breath.

He made no gesture. No sign other than his fixed stare that he even recognized her.

On the street in front of her, a car suddenly swerved to avoid a taxi, sending a sheet of light across her path. There was a sudden blaring of horns, and a momentary screech of tires against wet pavement. She was distracted for just an instant, and when she turned back, O’Connell was gone.

She recoiled again.

She looked up and down, but it was as if he had vanished. For a moment, she was unsure precisely what she had seen. He seemed more hallucination than reality.

Ashley’s first step forward was unsteady, not in the same way that a drunken person at a party might take, or a bereaved widow at a funeral service might manage. It was a step filled with doubt. Again she pivoted, trying to spot O’Connell, but she could not make him out. She was overcome with the sensation that he was right behind her, and she abruptly turned around, nearly colliding with a businessman hurrying down the street. As she lurched out of the man’s path, she almost bumped into a couple of young people, who managed a quick “Hey! Watch out!” before sliding past her.

Ashley turned and followed them, her feet sloshing through puddles, moving as quickly as she could. She kept swiveling her head, searching right and left, but without success. She wanted to turn and check behind her, but she was too scared. Instead, she barreled on, almost running.

Within a few seconds she was at the T station, and she pushed her way through the turnstile, almost relieved by the crowds and the harsh, glaring lights of the platform.

She craned her head forward, trying to pick O’Connell out among the knots of people waiting for the train. Once again, he was nowhere. She turned and stared at the people coming through the turnstiles and up the stairs, but he wasn’t among them. Still, she wasn’t at all certain that he wasn’t there. She couldn’t see through every clutch of people, and posters and stanchions obscured her line of sight. She leaned out, wanting the train to come. At that moment, more than anything, she wanted to get away. She reassured herself that nothing could happen to her in a crowded train station, and as she told herself she was safe, she felt herself jostled from the back, and for a dizzying second, she thought she was going to lose her balance and fall onto the tracks. She gasped and jerked back.

Ashley swallowed hard and shook her head. She braced herself, tightening her muscles like an athlete anticipating the blow of contact, as if Michael O’Connell were directly behind her and ready to push her. She listened for the sound of his breathing in her ear, too crazed to turn and look. The approaching train filled the platform with harsh braking noises. She released a long breath of relief when the train slid to a stop in front of her and the doors opened with a whooshing sound.

She let herself be carried forward by the surge from the commuters and slid into a seat, immediately crammed between an older woman and a student, who slumped beside her smelling of cigarettes. In front of her a half dozen other riders clung to the metal hand straps and overhead bars.

Ashley looked up, right and left, inspecting every face.

With another whoosh, the doors closed. The train lurched once as it took off.

She was unsure why, but she swiveled in her seat and took a single glance back at the elevated train platform as the train started to pick up speed. What she saw almost made her choke, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out in fear: O’Connell was standing right in the same spot where she’d been seconds earlier. He didn’t move. He was statuelike, impassive. His eyes were once again locked on hers, as she was carried away by the accelerating train. As they pulled away from the station, O’Connell disappeared behind her.

She felt the rhythmic sway of the commuter train as it gathered speed, sweeping her away from the man who’d followed her. But no matter how fast it went, Ashley understood that the distance it placed between them was elusive and probably, ultimately, nonexistent.

The campus of the University of Massachusetts-Boston is located in Dorchester right next to the harbor. Its buildings are as graceless and stolid as a medieval fortification, and on a hot, early-summer day, the brown brick walls and gray concrete walkways seem to absorb the heat. It is a plain stepsister of a school. It caters to many seeking to take a second bite at education, with an infantryman’s sensibility: not pretty, but critically important when you need it most.

I got lost once in the sea of cement, had to ask for directions, before finding the right stairwell that descended into a threadbare lounge outside a cafeteria. I hesitated for a moment, then spotted Professor Corcoran waving for me from one of the quieter corners.

Introductions were quick, a handshake and a little small talk about the unseasonably hot weather.

“So,” the professor said as he sat down and took a swig of bottled water, “How precisely is it that I can help you?”

“Michael O’Connell,” I replied. “He took two of your computer courses a few years back. I was hoping you might recall him.”

Corcoran nodded. “I do, indeed. I mean, I shouldn’t, really, but I do, which says something all in itself.”

“How so?”

“Dozens, no, hundreds of students have passed through the same two courses he took from me, over the last few years. Lots of tests, lots of final papers, lots of faces. After a while, they all pretty much blend into one generic blue-jeans-wearing, baseball-cap-on-backwards, working-two-different-jobs-to-support-themselves-through-Second-Chance-U sort of student.”

“O’Connell, though…”

“Well, let’s say it doesn’t surprise me to have someone show up asking questions about him.”

The professor was a wiry, small man, with bifocals and thinning, sandy blond hair. He had a row of pens and pencils in his shirt pocket, and a battered, overstuffed, brown canvas briefcase.

“Okay,” I said, “why doesn’t it surprise you?”

“Actually, I always figured it for a detective who would show up with an inquiry or two about O’Connell. Or the FBI or maybe an assistant U.S. attorney. You know who comes to the classes I teach? Students who quite accurately believe that the skills they will learn will improve their financial outlook considerably. The problem is, the more adept the students become, the more clear it becomes how you can misuse the information.”

“Misuse?”

“A nicer word than what the truth is,” he said. “I have an entire lecture on lawbreaking, but still…”

“O’Connell?”

“Most of the kids that choose, ah, the dark side, ” he said with a small laugh, “well, they’re pretty much what you might expect. Overgrown nerds and losers to the nth degree. Mostly they just make trouble, hacking, downloading video games without paying licensing fees, or stealing music files or even pirating Hollywood movies before they’re released to DVD, that sort of thing. But O’Connell was different.”

“Explain different. ”

“What he was, was infinitely more dangerous and more scary.”

“How so?”

“Because he saw the computer precisely for what it is: a tool. What are the sorts of tools a bad guy needs? A knife? A gun? A getaway car? Sort of depends on what crime you have in mind, doesn’t it? A computer can be just as efficient as a nine-millimeter in the wrong hands, and his, trust me, were the wrong hands.”

“How could you tell?”

“From the first moment. He didn’t have that bedraggled, slightly-amazed-at-the-world look about him, like so many students. He had this, I don’t know, a looseness to him. He was good-looking. Well put together. But he exuded a sort of dangerousness. As if he cared not one whit for anything other than some unspoken agenda. And when you stared closely at him, he had this truly unsettling look in his eyes. This don’t-get-in-my-way look.

“You know, he handed in an assignment once a couple of days late, so I did what I always do, and which I tell every class about on the first day: I marked it down one full grade point for each day late. He came to see me and told me that I was being unfair. This was, as you would probably guess, not the very first time that a student had come to me complaining about a grade. But, with O’Connell, the conversation was somehow different. I’m not sure how he did it, but somehow I was in the position of justifying what I had done, not the other way around. And the more I explained that it wasn’t unfair, the more his eyes narrowed. He could look at you the way some people might actually strike you. The impact was the same. You just knew you didn’t want to be on the other end of that look. He never threatened, never suggested, never said or did anything overt. But every instant we spoke, I could feel that that was precisely what was happening. I was being warned.”

“It made an impression.”

“Kept me up at night. My wife kept asking me, ‘What’s the matter?’ and I had to reply, ‘Nothing,’ when I knew that wasn’t precisely true. I had the sensation that I managed to dodge something truly terrifying.”

“He didn’t ever do anything?”

“Well, he let me know, one day, in passing, that he’d just happened to find out where I lived.”

“And?”

“That was it. And that was where it ended.”

“How?”

“I violated every rule I have. Complete moral failure on my part. I called him in after a class, told him I’d been mistaken, he was absolutely one hundred percent right, and gave him an A on the assignment, and an A for the semester.”

I didn’t say anything.

“So,” Professor Corcoran asked as he gathered his things together, “who did he kill?”