Bram
Erwin Wilson is a sad looking creature who once had the ability to frighten innocent people with his menacing tall frame, his natural muscular build. He was a homeless vagrant for years in the downtown district of Kaswell, a mere hop, skip, and hammer’s blow from my former residence. But prison life, one might say, agrees with him. Gone is the layered grime that gave him an otherworldly glow of despair. His trash can meals have been replaced with powdered eggs and potatoes made fresh and hot daily. Chemically subdued are the inner voices and active hallucinations. In place of his scraggly mane, his hair has been shorn a tame two inches off his scalp. The holey scraps he once wore, layered like armor, an entire closet of despair all at once had vanished, and in its place a bright blue jumpsuit that brings out the cerulean hue in his eyes. Yes, you might say the three hots and a cot life is agreeing with Erwin Wilson very, very much.
It was Mason who garnered us clearance to visit Erwin on such short notice. Mason is a licensed private detective in New York and now in Maine and has been for as long as my life has warranted the effort. It’s an odd thing to have shaped your brother’s future by way of your own screwed-up existence, but that is what has landed this man, the one I called a monster for many, many years before us.
Erwin folds and refolds his hands. His eyes flit from Mason to me, unsure of what this visit entails. He’s been briefed on who we are, and he offered a prolonged nod my way as if he understood my intimate relation to the woman he’s doing time for killing. He should know me well. I sat in that courtroom like a dutiful husband. I had patted myself on the back for helping to put him away. Mason bought me a beer afterwards to celebrate.
“How are you?” I go with something benign. An icebreaker that works in most every situation but this one, I suppose. If I were in prison, doing fifty to life, the answer would always beshitty.
He lifts his chin, a move that almost looks scholarly on him. “I’m good, Peter. And you?”
Something inside of me flinches when he says my name so boldly. But it came out frank and honest, and suddenly, it feels as if we’re visiting a long-forgotten uncle instead of the man who slaughtered my wife. And that is the primary reason for our visit. One last turning of the stone to see if we’ve left anything undiscovered. My gut has been churning for the last few days because I am certain as hell we have left a lot of damned things undiscovered.
I glance to Mason, unsure of how to dive in. I’m positive Erwin Wilson does not care how I am doing. He maintained his innocence all through the trial. But the fact he was covered in my wife’s DNA, the murder weapon tucked hastily in his jacket, did not bode well for him.
Mason clears his throat, then flashes that warm, welcoming smile that could make the strongest believer hand over his soul. Yes, Mace can be a devil when he has to, and for me, he will wear those horns twenty-four seven. I do appreciate all he’s done for me. If there were a decent way to pay him back, I would have done it by now.
“Erwin”—Mason starts—“we know you’d like to put the case behind you. As would we.” He tips his head my way as if I were just an aside. “You do look good, by the way. I’m glad about that.”
“Me too.” I decide to jump in, both feet. “Erwin, tell me exactly what you think happened that day. How did you get from Kaswell to Lake Glen?” I already know every detail of his story, but I’ve let his words collect dust in the recesses of my mind, and it’s time for a good buff and polish.
His jaw moves from side to side as if he were chewing on his thoughts, literally. There is something methodical about Erwin I had not seen before. But I was filled with rage back then. I only saw what I wanted to, and what I saw was a very guilty bastard. And yet ironically, and I’m ashamed to admit it, I had a touch of relief once Simone passed away, and to this day I’m not sure why. Life kept folding in on itself, one nightmare after the next. I had fully expected to meet with an untimely demise myself. Part of me still waits for my own proverbial hammer to drop.
He takes in a full breath, sniffing hard like a coke fiend. The pale backdrop of the room behind him makes him stand out like a shadow, a negative of himself. That’s what happens when you stare at something for too long while the sun casts its fury behind it. It burns the image into your mind, and you can see the impression of it long after you’ve closed your eyes. Something tells me I will see this new version of this once monster in my sleep. I had before. Only this time I will see him as a frail old man—a softer version, sanitized of all the rage I funneled his way. There is no more rage left inside of me for Erwin because I realize how powerless he really is. All of my rage is shiny and new for whoever is clawing at the back door of my life, demanding entry the most frightening way of all, through my mind.
“I was told it was a Tuesday.”
My stomach tightens, and I try not to look at my brother. As much as I hate the fact that Erwin began his diatribe with hearsay, I understand how needless it is to remember which day of the week it is when your life is turned upside down.
“I had just finished up my work for the day”—he continues—“I felt uneasy. No voices that afternoon or evening, though, and that might be why I felt so uneasy.” His chest bounces with a chuckle. “Camden House was taking care of me. Gave me meds each damned afternoon.” Camden House is a halfway house that volunteers its resources to helping identify the homeless and aid the mentally ill with medication if need be. They corroborated this part of his story. What they could not confirm was whether or not he wascheekingthose meds. Not an uncommon practice among the mentally ill. In fact, rumor has it that all of those “voices” frown upon imbibing the best that modern medicine has to offer. It’s unclear how lucid he really was that day. Thus, his testimony is more than questionable.
“Go on,” I prod. My stomach is lightly growling. It’s almost time for my next meal, and God knows this entire experience is beginning to exhaust me. I used to chide Simone that she wore me out. And here she’s been dead for close to a decade and she’s still wearing me out just the same. Deep down, I damn her for that. It doesn’t bode well for the poor widower to think darkly of his long-deceased spouse, especially not after the bludgeoning that took place. But Simone wasn’t your average beloved spouse. She was so much more, a well that ran too deep, too dark. I can see her eyes piercing me with their hypnotic stare.You are my everything, she would repeat for years. It was her choral lament. But it never came out with kindness. Simone had a way of shrouding each of her words in a veiled threat.
Erwin picks at his left nostril. “So I don’t think I saw the Camden people that day because the car they sent to pick me up came a little earlier than that.”
There is that nebuloustheyonce again. If you simply popped into the conversation, one might assume that he was talking about the Camden people themselves, but I didn’t just pop into the conversation. I’ve been listening in for years. The legal system, however, concluded there was no “they”. That there was no car. Erwin took a bus to Madrano Heights, the neighborhood just below ours, and hoofed it the rest of the way. Uphill—a steep hill at that. It would have been exhausting, considering all of the clothes he had on that day, dirt encrusted jackets, two pairs of jeans. That was the one element of the story that has always bothered me. In fact, I walked it a few weeks later, granted in the heat of the day, but I was wheezing by the time I made it back to the house, back to the crime scene. But this old man had the energy to bash my wife’s face in within an inch of his life, and, of course, all of her life was spent in the effort.
Mason leans in, letting out a sigh that sums up everything. “What kind of car was it again? What did the person look like?”
“Small car. Hell, I don’t know if it was a man or woman or what they looked like. It was dark. I went for a ride. They gave me a beer out of the deal.”
Mason lifts a brow my way. There was a beer missing from the fridge. I only know this because I was down to three that morning. It’s the kind of things men notice when it’s the only thing keeping them going. My kids were dead. My career wasn’t important. I was still grieving, reeling. And that’s why I went fishing. An overnight trip that I will forever live to regret.
Mace wraps his knuckles over the table as if calling him back to attention. Although, he might have been calling me. I can’t seem to get my mind to sit still, not here, not ever.
“And when you got to the house, what happened?”
“I opened the door and went inside like I was told to do.”
Here is where that nebulous “they” come into play again. Erwin was told to do many things that night.
He cocks his head as if considering this. “I went into the kitchen and got the damn beer myself. Had an opener in my pocket. You never know when something like that will come in handy.”
“And my wife?” I interject. “What was she doing at the time?”
He purses his lips, his eyes slit to nothing as he takes me in through those seething slits. Erwin has never appreciated the fact that I’ve accused him of such a heinous crime. He was prosecuted by the state, but his crooked finger always seems to point right back at me for landing him in the predicament he’s in. And in a way, itwasmy fault. I had married that woman who was killed. Had those kids who had drowned. I had started this nightmare, someway, somehow. It feels comfortable to bear the blame. That woman and those children were my charges, and somewhere along the line I fucked it all up. I couldn’t keep anyone alive or safe, with the exception of myself. I’ll be dammed if I’m going to screw it all up a second time. Ree and the kids come to mind, and my chest bucks with emotion as I do my best to stifle it.
“I never saw your wife, Peter. I got the beer and left. When I got dropped back off, they shoved a parting gift my way. I didn’t notice the blood. Just put the damn thing in my pocket. A hammer is hard to come by where I lived, but a good accessory to have with you in case the wrong people come around.”
