Page 77 of Coram House

We follow the fence that stretches along the southern edge of the property, weaving through gravestones tilted at crazy angles. A limp angel sits on the roof of a mausoleum, her wings drooping like a bird waiting to be plucked. Bill slips his fingers through the chain-link fence and shakes it. Checking for holes, I guess. Or pretending to.

“You mentioned a favor?” he asks without looking at me.

“I was hoping to take some more pictures of the interior of Coram House,” I say. Not a total lie. “We have some historical photos, but none of them are great. I think it would really help ground readers in a sense of the space.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding relieved. “Yes, of course. That would be fine.”

I ask him some innocuous questions about the building itself. Does he know anything about the history of its construction? Not much. Did they find anything of historical interest during renovations? Some statues of the saints stored in the attic—given back to the church. But not much else, unless you count the mouse poop, he says with a laugh. His tone is light, but he still seems uneasy.

The fence ends in a stand of scrubby pines. “We’re going to clear all this out,” he says, motioning to the choking undergrowth. Glimmers of water are just visible between the branches. “So residents will have direct access to the water and then the trails at Rock Point just through there.” He points to a gap in the fence, the woods beyond.

“Access through the graveyard?” I frown, surprised. I’d assumed they’d move the graves at some point.

Bill shrugs. “This piece of land is deeded over in perpetuity to the church, and it’s too close to the water, so we couldn’t build on it anyways. Besides, it’s a piece of history. Think of it like a park.”

So the new residents, the young professionals with lakeview balconies, they’ll be looking down at the graves just as the children did.

“I met Xander Nilsson, by the way,” I say.

He perks up. “Xander? He’s a wonderful guy. A real visionary. He really understands what we’re trying to do here.”

I nod. “When did he get involved with the project?”

Bill thinks. “Two or three years ago? Once things really got going.”

“Seems like the property sat here for a long time, then.”

He looks at me, and I detect a hint of wariness. “We acquired the property ten years ago. But there’s a lot that goes into a project of this scale. A lot of planning. Red tape.”

I nod, but say nothing. We follow a path through the scrub and emerge at the water. The beach is narrow and rocky, covered in dirty piles of snow. Bill crouches down beside a hole filled with blackened chunks of wood and crushed beer cans. “Idiot kids,” he mutters. The fire pit stands barely three feet from the side of the wooden boathouse. “They could have burned the whole thing down.”

I scan the beach but the canoe is gone. “You put the boat away,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Finally decided it was too cold?”

He looks distracted. “The police took it. You know, I didn’t take it out once this summer. I thought my grandkids would use it but it just sat there on the beach.”

I keep my tone nonchalant like the news hadn’t sent something surging inside me. “The police took it?”

“To dust for Fred’s fingerprints, I assume. I told them of course they’d find them. I’m the one who asked him to put the boat in the shed. Thanks to you, actually.”

It sounds like an accusation.

“The day you noticed it from the window,” he says. “I’d completely forgotten it was down here.” He looks at me, coldly. Like my casual act isn’t fooling anyone. “Why are you really here, Ms. Kelley?”

It’s now or never. “Are you close with Fred?”

He frowns. But it’s not consternation, it’s confusion. This isn’t the question he was expecting.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were at Coram House together as children. And you’ve employed him for—what—twenty years? Even after he wrecked your equipment, when he showed up drunk at a funeral, threatened a priest. I’m not sure most people would be so charitable.”

Bill shrugs. “He’s had a hard time of it. And I—well, I’ve been lucky. I’m in a position to be charitable, as you say.”

It’s a convincing portrait of a man carrying guilt for profiting when so many others suffered. Or it would be if I didn’t know how ruthlessly he’d fought to make the case go away. We face off over the fire pit.

“Mr. Campbell,” I say. “Did you pay Fred Rooney and others to drop the case?”

A curtain comes down over Bill’s face. Gone is the affable, thoughtful expression. His eyes narrow and his mouth sets into a firm line. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Ms. Kelley.”

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