FIFTY-TWO
MURDERS DISTURB CALM WATERS OF LAKESIDE TOWN
BLAIRSTOWN, N.J.—Residents expected some pranks
from the teenagers and staff at the newly re-opened summer camp on
the shore. At worst, the local sheriff says, people worried about
vandalism.
Instead, seven grisly murders have shattered the
idyllic calm of the small town. Motives are unclear. The sole
remaining survivor is in psychiatric treatment, her identity
protected. One source close to the investigation said, “The girl is
out of her head, talking about some boogeyman that sliced up all
her friends.”
State police referred all inquiries to federal
authorities, who have assumed jurisdiction over the case. Special
Agent William H. Griffin refused to comment, and the Federal Bureau
of Investigation declined to provide any further details.
—Newark Star-Ledger, June 15,
1980
Gruff went home and stayed there. He didn’t
know what else to do.
He sat in the Barcalounger in his living room and
turned on the TV just for the noise. He looked at his creds and his
badge. Like the gun, they hadn’t taken them away. But they might as
well have. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for Cade or Zach.
He was frozen out.
He looked at the photo on the creds. In his head,
he could almost see it play out like time-lapse photography: a
series of photos on all the government ID cards that made up his
life. Starting with the photo the army took when he was twenty and
in the Signal Corps, training in intelligence. A kid with a shaved
head and a dumb-ass smile on his face. Then his first FBI badge—as
a trainee, then as a special agent. Longer hair, sideburns. Glaring
at the camera like it had done something. And then, year after year
of the generic White House priority pass, the one that didn’t have
any department or title on it but still got him into every locked
room. Growing fatter, balder and grayer in each one, until this
last ID, which had an old man’s face above his name.
He put the ID down and looked around his house.
Mostly empty. Not much to show for a life. No wife, no children.
With what he did, what he’d seen, it was hard to justify bringing
anyone else into his world.
Fuck it, he decided. He got up out of the chair and
went over to the liquor cabinet. His fingers traced dust on the
knob. He’d stayed away from the stuff since his first diagnosis,
over three years ago.
He got out the bottle of Bushmills—government
salary—and poured a tall glass. He threw it back, felt the pleasant
burn in his throat.
His doctor wouldn’t approve. Fuck him, too.
Sometimes, all there was to do was get tore up from the floor up.
Like the kids would say.
He noticed the blinking light on the answering
machine, but couldn’t work up the effort to listen. Probably just a
telemarketer anyway. Nobody called him at home.
He knew he was sulking. Knew that he should get off
his ass and try something—anything—to solve the problem. Save the
day.
But he was old and he was dying, and they’d managed
to disgrace him on his way out. That hill was just too steep to
climb tonight.
He settled in the chair, keeping the bottle with
him.