11/22/63, and he hoisted it into Michael’s arms. “Here, make yourself useful.”
Hart took a box of his own and together they made their way out to the street.
“So,” Michael said, “the Boston Strangler is going to walk.”
“DeSalvo’s not going to walk. He’s doing life, on those rapes. He’ll be parole-eligible in ten years, but let’s face it: No parole board is ever going to release a guy who the whole world thinks is the Boston Strangler. DeSalvo is going to do life.”
“But if DeSalvo’s the wrong guy…?”
“If DeSalvo’s the wrong guy…I’d rather not think about it.”
“So what happens to the cases?”
“Nothing. They sit. Technically, if the A.G. does not want to pursue the case, it comes back to us. But realistically it would be impossible to convict anybody on these murders now. Where are you going to find a jury that doesn’t already ‘know’ DeSalvo is the Strangler? No prosecutor is going to touch it. The Strangler cases are closed.”
“So they wait till Christmas Eve to announce that the case against DeSalvo is going to be dropped. And hope no one notices.”
“The stranglings have stopped. If DeSalvo is the wrong guy, then the real Strangler has probably moved on. Or he’s in custody. No sense telling everyone the Strangler got away. It’d just start a panic.”
“Come on, Tom, listen to you. It’s politics.”
“No, it’s government.”
“What’s the difference?”
The detective thought it over. “There is none.”
They came out into the cold. Gray, sunless New England winter. Sunset coming earlier and earlier, daylight already beginning to dim in mid-afternoon.
“So what happens now, Tom?”
“Byron runs for governor or senator or whatever. DeSalvo sells his story to the movies. The rest of us just go about our business.”
“It’ll never work. They can’t keep it quiet forever.”
“The only one who could blow it up is DeSalvo. But he’d have to recant the confession, and he’s not going to do that. He’d rather be the Boston Strangler than be nobody at all.”
“A few years in Walpole will cure him of that.”
“Maybe.” Hart slid his box into the back seat of an unmarked cruiser, then relieved Michael of his box. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”
“Merry Christmas, Tom. Let’s hope the guy coming down the chimney tonight is Santa.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Whoever the Strangler is, he’s probably skipped town. He hasn’t made many mistakes. I bet he’s someplace far away, someplace no one is looking for him.”
“There’s no way this stays quiet. No way in the world.”
“Michael,” Hart said, “this isn’t the world. This is Boston.”
“Hey, you wanna see something cool?”
Michael was staring at The Tonight Show, a Christmas Eve special with Gila Golan and Woody Allen. He had been watching long enough that his eyes were glazed. His crossed feet, in sneakers, were on the coffee table.
“Hey,” Ricky repeated, urging him to wake up, “wanna see something cool?”
They were slouched at opposite ends of the couch. On the cushion between them was a green glass ashtray.
Michael said without turning, “Yeah. What?”
“Get your coat. We got to go for a drive.”
“Oh, forget it. I thought you were just gonna-Forget it. I’m going home. The hell time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“I’m going home, Rick. It’s been a long day. I’ve had enough.” Michael swigged from his bottle of beer and sat up.
They would both need a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was Christmas, and Margaret was determined to snow them all under with presents and food and self-conscious cheer so they would not think about Joe. The tree, next to the TV, was over-trimmed, over-lit, over-everything. Ricky advised that no one look directly into it, for fear of burning the retinas.
“Forget it, Ricky. Mum’s a loon. She wants us back here at eight. You probably don’t even remember what eight in the morning looks like.”
“Am I missing anything?”
“Not really.”
“Come on, then. Sleep when you get old, right?”
“You know what you look like when you look like that? A mouse. Anyone ever tell you that? Beady little mouse.”
“Come on, big brother, don’t be a fag. Get your coat. I want to show you something.”
“Some other time.”
“No, it’s gotta be now. It’s a Christmas thing.”
“A Christmas thing. What do you know from Christmas?”
“I’ll show ya.”
They drove into town, Ricky at the wheel. At Park Street, near the State House, he pulled over. “Come on,” Ricky said.
They strolled into the Common, hands jammed deep in their pockets to hide them from the cold. The trees were loosely strung with long saggy strings of Christmas lights that swayed in the wind like women’s necklaces.
At the Nativity scene, Ricky took a quick glance around, then stepped into the manger and grabbed the figurine of the baby Jesus out of His straw bed.
“The fuck are you doing? Put that back.”
“Just wait, Mikey.”
“You can’t take that. It’s…God.”
“Would you relax. It’s not God. It’s just a little statue. God is within you.”
“No, He’s not. He’s in your hand. Now put Him back.”
“Come on. Don’t be such a baby.”
Michael looked up at the sky to address the Lord. “I have no part of this.”
They walked back to the car with the statue stuffed inside Ricky’s coat.
“You know,” Michael said, “I think there’s a special part of hell for people who do this.”
“Yeah, okay, Mikey. Whatever. Come on, get in.”
Inside the car, Ricky took the statue out again and looked it over, front and back.
“What do we do now, Rick? Make a sacrifice to Beelzebub?”
“Something like that.”
Ricky wrapped his hands firmly around the baby’s torso and with a swift up-down he smashed the back of its head on the dashboard. The head snapped off neatly. It rolled on the floor at Michael’s feet.
“What the f-What are you doing? Look what you did!”
“Put out your hands, Mike.”
“Holy shit! Ricky!”
“Put out your hands.”
When Michael did not respond, Ricky wedged the statue between his legs to hold it upright, then cupped Michael’s hands together. He tipped the statue and poured from its open neck. Stones. Cold and heavy and rough- edged in Michael’s palms.
“Jesus saves.” Ricky smirked.
Michael lifted his hands to see better in the light. Diamonds.
