I e-mailed Bud Giannopolous and asked him to please find out if SUNY had somebody on its staff named Blessing.
Then I called my pal at APD.
"I need to talk to a detective on the force named Ivor Nichols. Can you set something up?"
"Can't. Sorry. Ivor retired a couple of years ago. Even worse, both for him and for you, he passed away just last week."
"Crap."
"What's this about? Maybe I can help."
"What kind of cop was Nichols? Would he have altered a report to protect somebody important in the Legislature?"
"I guess you could say that Ivor was traditional in the regard. Yeah, I'd have to say so."
"What did he die of? Nothing violent, I hope."
"Lung cancer. It's not violent, technically speaking, although I've heard it feels that way."
* * * *
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108
Red White and Black and Blue
by Richard Stevenson
Chapter Twelve
I slept poorly. My back, legs and shoulders still ached, and the ear felt as if fire ants were gnawing at it. I had changed the bandage, per Albany Med's instructions, before I went to bed, and chowed down more Tylenol, all of this to not much effect.
When my wake-up call went off next to my flaming ear at five thirty Friday morning, I was already half conscious, half thinking and half dreaming about kahunas and Blessing and—
go figure—an elegant blonde woman jumping into San Francisco bay. I showered without getting the bandage soaked, just splashed a little.
After throwing on some jeans and a polo shirt, I made my way down to the hotel parking garage, bringing along only my Blackberry and the Smith & Wesson in the shoulder bag.
While the rental car appeared untampered-with, I gave the engine and wheel wells a quick once over.
Traffic was light at this early hour. I whizzed across the I-90 bridge and kept going east on the interstate, exiting briefly for a Dunkin' Donuts stop just past East Greenbush. I joined the orderly drive-thru queue—not wanting to go inside and frighten the bleary-eyed early morning customers with my repulsive hickey—and then got back on the highway and consumed the juice, coffee and bagel in the car. If anyone was tailing me, I was unaware of it, and I was staying watchful.
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I didn't have my GPS with me, which left me feeling naked and helpless on the one hand, but also gratifyingly self-sufficient. I would stalk my prey using mainly my nose and also my vague recollection that Arlington, Massachusetts was located just west of Boston. I confirmed this on a map I picked up at a Massachusetts Turnpike service area and arrived in Arlington just in time to get stuck in the morning commuter traffic inching its way into the city.
As I crept along on state route 2, I found an NPR station on the radio and caught the tail end of a news report on upcoming primary elections across the US. The roundup mentioned in passing the New York State primary. The reporter said political handicappers were putting their money on the Tea Party-backed conservative Democrat Kenyon Louderbush. The Shy McCloskey campaign was described as
"floundering." I said out loud, "You betcha."
I pulled into an Arlington Mobil station to ask directions to J&J's Auto Service, where Hugh Cutler worked, and was told that the Shell station diagonally across the intersection was J&J's. I made my way over there and filled the tank on the Hyundai. The station had no convenience store attached to it, just a two-bay garage, both doors up. I pulled over, out of the way of the comings and goings, and parked.
At the counter, a young guy with a rhinestone stud in his left ear and what looked like an incipient premature beer gut was giving an old lady the bad news about her alternator: kaput, big bucks to replace it. She looked downcast and said she would have to call "Mick." While she used the phone, I asked the counterman, whose name was Jim, according to 110
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some stitching on his work shirt pocket, if Hugh Cutler was there.
"Yeah. Why? Hugh's workin'."
"Need to talk. Department of Probation. This won't take long."
Jim took this in and didn't seem stunned. "What, like five minutes?"
"Or ten. No more."
He gave me a you-guys-drive-me-crazy-but-what-the-fuck-can-I-do look. "I'll get him."
I walked outside and stood on the far side of the rental car. Jim soon reappeared, followed by a frowning blue-eyed man with sandy hair over his collar, an unruly beard, and Hugh on his greasy work shirt.
"This won't take more than a few minutes," I said. "There's no problem. I just have a couple of questions."
Cutler looked apprehensive. Was I some new asshole he was going to have to deal with? "Okay. What questions?"
Jim turned and went back inside.
"This is actually unofficial." I showed him my ID. "I work out of Albany, New York and I'm looking into the circumstances of your brother Greg Stiver's death. I'm working for people who are very sympathetic to Greg and to your whole family situation. I've heard from your sister, Jennifer, how bad it was for both of you. I don't know how much you know about Greg's suicide."
He stared at me. "You're not from Probation?"
"Sorry about that. I thought your boss might be more inclined to let me talk to you for ten minutes."
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"Yeah, and what if he didn't know about my status? Fuck."
"Well, he would. Those are the rules, I do believe. Anyway, I'll be out of here in no time."
"You sure as fuck will."
"I just wanted to find out what you knew about the suicide, and if you had been in touch with Greg around that time, and what he might have told you about what was going on in his head. And why you think he killed himself."
Hugh kept staring. "This is incredible. How did you even find me?"
"Court records. The assault conviction. I guessed that you might have changed your name from Stiver. Anson Stiver was a piss-poor excuse of a stepfather, I've heard from several people."
"I just can't believe this. I've had no contact with that family for fourteen years!"
"How did you know about Greg's death?"
"A buddy in Schenectady I stay in touch with e-mailed me.
He saw it in the paper."
"I'm surprised that after you left Schenectady you didn't keep up contact with Greg. You were both victims of your stepfather's abuse. Or did you two also have some kind of falling out?"
His shoulders slumped a little. "Greg and I never talked to each other about anything. He went his way, and I went mine. He had school and all that stuff. I liked engines. There was nothing to fall out from. On my eighteenth birthday, I got out. And I never looked back."
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"Your sister Jennifer is a teacher. She seems okay in her life."
"I know. My bud back home told me. Jenny never gave a fuck about me. She was like Mom. And I don't give a fuck about either one of them."
"You knew Greg was gay?"
"Yeah. He used to yell it around the house when he was in high school. It was a way to get back at Anson. But I couldn't care less whose pants he got into. That's the way Greg was, and so what?"