Nannerl's Symphony

1.

It was two hours before sunrise and Jacobs wanted to get his cans into the recycling office. It wasn’t much, four cents a can, but Jacobs, like thousands of others, was black and homeless in Georgia and he needed every cent he could get. It was another warm and muggy night in Atlanta and Jacobs’ beat-up Chevy choked as he tried to park it a little closer to the recycling bin. Muttering under his breath, he walked the rest of the distance. He pushed the plastic bag aside to reach for the cans.

Why don’t ’em folks leave the trash where it belongs?

He pushed the bag away and rubbed his hands against his worn-out overalls to rid them of some of the remaining soda. Suddenly, he froze. Under the bug infested light he saw what appeared to be a leg sticking out from the bag, the still toes clawing at the cans. Bending over, he peered closely, and his breath left his body. It was a human foot. Panicking, he reached out to push it back in, but it seemed to have a life of its own and slipped into his hand. He let out a small scream and fell to the ground.

Detective Sergeant Richardson was with an angry jogger who, upon finding the two bodies, had called 911.

Officer, I tell you the man was on the ground when I saw him.

We need to ask him a few questions, Richardson said to the uniformed male medic who was trying to revive Jacobs.

He won’t be up for a while. The poor bastard’s suffered a stroke.

Second Officer Foley, who looked like he could use some medical help of his own, took Richardson by the arm and led him out of earshot.

Sergeant, I think we better wake up the Chief on this one. That’s one ugly sight back there. He gestured towards a second female medic.

Get a grip on yourself, Foley. Tanner’ll have a fit if we get him up now.

His words fell on ears that were nearly touching the ground as Officer Foley doubled over and vomited, his half-digested donut attacked ravenously by crawling ants.

Richardson walked up to the woman, who was wrapping up the body.

What have we got?

A young boy. I’d say about seven, Caucasian. He’s been dead for about six, maybe seven hours.

The medic looked at the jogger who wandered over to the ambulance.

Richardson snapped at him to wait for him by the squad car. He turned and stripped the sheet from the body.

Detective Sergeant Richardson had recently won the award for outstanding service in the Fulton County area. Growing up in the marshlands of Mississippi, he had witnessed bloodshed and violence repeatedly during the early years of the Civil Rights Movement. He remembered the night the Ku Klux Klan painstakingly made a show of slowly burning the black minister outside the old parish near Starksville. The priest’s skin had hardly started burning, when the white figures put out the flames, and started the process all over again. When they were done, the only thing left was charred flesh skewered to the skeleton. He’d hidden in the bushes not breathing. That was 1958. This was 1994, and he wished he had not pulled the sheet back.

The mutilation began above the boy’s waist. Two bolts attached the sternum to the two hands that were criss-crossed across the chest. Two more bolts were driven into each of the two pink ears, as though the killer was trying to prevent the boy from hearing his own cries. Not that the poor child could have cried out. The mouth was stuffed with a piece of rag, and what looked like dry saliva and mucous had dribbled pitifully down the side of the mouth and nose. The mayhem concluded with the eyes, which caused Richardson to turn away and gag. They were hammered right back into the skull.

The medic handed Richardson a half-full bottle of Evian and wheeled the body into the ambulance. Getting a grip, Richardson walked back to the squad car and dialed Tanner.

2.

It was an unusually clear night causing Julie to hesitate momentarily on the steps of Albert Hall in London. The ushers looked at her with a mixture of surprise and annoyance when she hurried out at the end of the symphony’s second movement. She could not allow the strangers in the concert hall to witness the deep emotions the haunting music had wrought in her. It had reminded her of the Christmas Eve when she was seven, and her mother had played this same symphony, Beethoven’s sixth, for her on their old gramophone. Julie had begun crying right after the second movement that night as well. She could not explain the pain she felt then, and now, nearly 22 years later, she could not explain it still. This pain, as Emily Dickinson wrote, had an Element of Blank. It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not— This fog of pain had descended upon Julie in childhood and promised no clearing, despite the passage of time. Even her successful and rewarding career as a prosecuting attorney could not dull her ache.

She inhaled deeply, her small breasts straining against the high-necked dark blue cotton dress she had bought earlier that morning at Jane Norman. Her mind suddenly resolute, she bent down and took off her high heels. Brushing back her soft auburn curls, she began walking towards Hyde Park, much to the dismay of the admiring taxi drivers anxious to chauffeur this attractive, hazel-eyed waif.

As soon as she turned the corner onto Exhibition Road, she felt the taste of her tears. She increased her pace and berated herself for returning to England. When her boss, Jaco Hawthorne, had suggested she take a break from courtroom battles and criminals, she had decided to return to London, which she hadn’t visited in four years. But she now realized this had been a mistake.

It’s my fourth day in London, but my mind is filled with nothing but overpowering memories of Sean and our final days together here—our love, laughter, tears, hopes … our wedding plans. Live life to its fullest, Sean used to say. It was easy then, before he boarded that flight to oblivion.

Sean and 263 other passengers had stepped onto a plane in Atlanta, which later blew up over the Atlantic. Search crews had found a few pieces of baggage and a Barbie doll in the cold waters. Minutes before the explosion, the captain had talked to the crew on another plane in the vicinity. He’d told them that the passengers were watching a movie and the cockpit crew was getting ready to play Scrabble. The bastards responsible for the bomb were never found.

I simply have no physical or moral desire to share the depth of what we had with anyone else. It’s a conscious decision and I have no regrets. Though my arms are now empty, the intensity and passion of our love remains my comforting nuptial and his memory my eternal wedding. This trip to England only confirms it.

It was a little past one a.m. when Julie returned to her room at the Holiday Inn on Cromwell Road. She was surprised to see the red message light on. She knew no one in England. It was from her boss, Jaco. Call as soon as you can! She accessed the phone operator, and a moment later was talking to Vera, Jaco’s secretary.

What the hell are you doing there this late in the evening? Julie asked.

The administrative staff at the courthouse seldom stayed after 4:30 p.m.

Honey, all hell’s breakin’ loose from what I hear. Jaco’s in a meeting. Hang on, I’ll connect you.

Kiddo, sorry to cut into your vacation, but we have a murder on our hands you’re not going to like. Can you get back on the next flight to Atlanta? Jaco’s deep voice sounded worried even from 3,500 miles away.

Damn it, Jaco, it was your idea in the first place that I take a vacation. But I was planning on leaving tomorrow anyway. What’s going on?

Can’t talk over the phone. Have a safe flight.

Julie was left holding the dead line. Inhaling deeply, she called British Airways to rebook her flight out of Gatwick Airport.

3.

Julie Conway walked quickly into the Fulton County Courthouse building as the rain started to come down just a little harder. She was halfway into her room when Jack Meredith, Deputy District Attorney, grabbed her elbow, his face not hiding his concern.

What’s up, Jack?

Julie, I’m sorry, but Stone—

Julie, come in right away. The mayor’s here, Jaco interrupted them from two doors down.

Looking quizzically at Jack, she shrugged her shoulders and walked into Jaco’s smoke-filled office. The mayor, Bill Crenshaw, the Chief of Police, Scott Tanner, and two men whom she did not recognize were waiting.

The Hammer is back. We found Senator Sharp’s son in the wee hours of Wednesday morning. I’m sorry we cut short your trip, but under the circumstances you know what this means. The press doesn’t know about this, but given Sharp’s political leanings, it’s only a matter of hours before he goes public, Jaco said.

Julie felt like someone had punched her in the gut. With a shaking hand, she reached for Jaco’s cigarette pack and lit one.

The Hammer was the nickname that Duane, the pesky reporter from Action 2 News, had coined for the murders that shook Atlanta and the nation two years ago. The case had been given to Julie. She’d cracked it in four months, making her a local celebrity. The man they’d convicted, Isaac Stone, who was now on death row, pleaded not guilty throughout the trial. In addition to other evidence, DNA tests had matched Stone’s blood with blood found on one victim’s body. Stone’s record was a mile long. He’d previously served seven years for the attempted murder of a teenage boy deep in South Carolina’s Low Country. Prosecutors couldn’t convict him on the murder of two boys in Miami. He had confessed to being part of an attempted robbery that resulted in the death of the owners of a seaside bar. Stone had lacked an alibi at the time of the two murders, attributed to the Hammer, which had occurred prior to the death of Luke Tracey, the Hammer’s third victim. The public had been so outraged by the nature of the crimes that many were ready to lynch Stone outside the courthouse the day the sentence was handed down.

Julie took a deep drag. Could we begin with some introductions?

Mayor Crenshaw spoke. That’s Bob Lindsay from the FBI, pointing to a balding man with an intelligent face and sharp blue eyes, and James Vanhout from the State Department.

Vanhout immediately struck her as a phony, someone who simply did what he was told without questioning its impact on national policy. The Washington type she loathed.

Apparently, Sharp spoke to the Chief of Staff. Tanner and I are going to meet the press in a few hours, Crenshaw continued.

Why the rush? If Sharp’s willing to hold off for a while— Julie began.

"No such luck. This is going to hit the Post sometime today," Lindsay cut in.

I want answers, and I want them quick, and this time, the goddamn truth. Crenshaw left.

What’s your position on this? Julie asked Vanhout.

Our message is simple; if you folks need help, it’s there. In any case, we’ve been asked to look into it. I know, I know. This is your territory and all that, but the heat is on and it’s going to get very warm, very soon, Vanhout said.

Tanner looked at Jaco and shrugged. Picking up his coffee cup, he followed Crenshaw, winking at Julie on his way to the door.

I know there are some big guys that are upset right now. But I don’t need any of you baby-sitting us. We’ll cooperate with you as and when we need to. Moving quickly, Jaco opened the door, waving the men to leave.

Julie stared at her cigarette end. Jaco was trying to protect her because if the axe were to fall, she would be the first one to go. After Sean’s death, she’d taken a leave of absence for three months, and then decided to quit work altogether. It was Jaco who had told her he would not let her go; they’d argued about it for hours. Then she’d heard about the Hammer and had agreed to take on the case. But somehow, after the conviction, she had hung on for two more years, working behind the scenes for Jack Meredith. The trip to England had been a waste, and she now felt extremely vulnerable. She stared at an old reprint of Van Gogh’s The Potato Eaters hanging behind Jaco’s mahogany desk and shivered when he spoke softly.

Want some coffee, kiddo? You gotta get a grip on yourself. We have work to do, and we’ll get the son-of-a-bitch this time. I’ll get Jack to take over the case, and you can continue to work with him. Jaco handed her a cup of coffee.

No, I screwed up and I’m going to have to fix it. I made up my mind to quit in England, but this time I don’t need any convincing to stay. I’ll get on with it right away. Has Stone’s attorney been in touch? He’ll probably want to appeal for release and probation soon.

Not yet. Tanner’s going to give you some protection from Stone for a while, you know, just in case. In any event, he deserved to be arrested for mutilating the Tracey boy beyond what the killer did.

What do we have on this new victim?

I left a folder on your desk highlighting the facts. You may want to talk with the old man who found the body. He’s recovering at Northside. Also, get in touch with Tanner. The man’s getting a lot of heat on this one.

Julie nodded. The APD Chief Tanner was a rare breed in the police business. He was ruthless at his job, but underneath the hard exterior was a caring heart. There had been an instant warmth and friendship when she first met Tanner three years before the Hammer case. She now felt like she had let him down too. Lighting up another one of Jaco’s cigarettes, she headed for the door.

Kiddo, don’t worry. I’ll make certain Sharp stays away from this as much as possible. We’re all responsible; don’t blame yourself entirely.

Pausing, she turned around and looked at the black giant in front of her. Jaco was like a father to her. She smiled and, blowing him a kiss, walked out.

4.

Parking her ’88 Jetta near the emergency entrance, Julie walked into Northside Hospital and looked around for Tanner at the front desk. He was chatting with Richardson and Foley, and beckoned Julie to follow them to the elevator. Everyone was quiet as they glided up to Intensive Care. A security guard opened the door to Jacobs’ room.

Jacobs had recovered somewhat. He stared blankly at the ceiling when Tanner spoke to him.

Tell us what happened and take your time.

Jacobs peered at Tanner and shook his head. I seen nothin’ man. I was pickin’ up ’em cans and saw this foot coming at me. I didn’t do it, man.

No one is accusing you. When did you find the body? Tanner continued.

It must been half-past four; was doin’ my usual rounds, and didn’t see or hear a thing.

Where were you before you proceeded to Holcomb Bridge Road?

I was on the north side, my man. I tell you I done nothin’ wrong.

Julie signaled to Tanner to step out.

He’s not going to be much help. I read the autopsy report. It’s identical to the Hammer victims, down to the bolts that were used.

Julie, they’ll be releasing Stone on probation within the next few weeks. I’m going on the air with the Mayor shortly. There’s no point waiting much longer, word’s already getting out. Second Officer Foley is going to be watching over you from the time they release Stone until we straighten this mess out.

Thanks.

Julie walked into Applebee’s on Peachtree Boulevard and ordered a Tanqueray chilled. Sipping on her drink, she watched Linda Duane’s face appear on the bar’s TV screen.

Good afternoon, this is Linda Duane reporting live from the Mayor’s office. We have reason to believe that the most shocking murder this state has ever witnessed is going to be resurrected again.

Resurrection, my ass, said a voice behind Julie.

Julie turned around and, smiling, kissed her best friend Rena, who had sneaked in from the rear entrance. Putting her forefinger to her lips, she motioned Rena to listen.

"Viewers will recall the Hammer, who brutally killed three young children two years ago. We have reason to believe he’s back. Sources close to Action 2 News have confirmed that a new victim was found early Wednesday morning in the Fulton County area. The new victim, it is believed, was killed in a similar manner. This means the prosecution could have sent the wrong man to jail. Sources have also confirmed that Isaac Stone, the man convicted of these brutal murders two years ago, may soon be released on probation. The Mayor is expected to make an announcement shortly. Standing now with Stone’s defense attorney is our correspondent, Andrew Morris. Andy, what can you tell us?"

Good afternoon, Linda. With me outside his residence is James Walker, Isaac Stone’s attorney. Could you tell us if Stone might be released soon?

As of now, we are pushing for an immediate court hearing since we have reason to believe my client’s not guilty, a fact we unsuccessfully tried to show two years ago. Walker stared down his pincenez.

We have to interrupt you, Andy. The Mayor and Chief of Police are getting ready to make an announcement.

Mayor Crenshaw was doing wonders for the State of Georgia, particularly with the upcoming Olympics, although many felt the real credit ought to go to former mayor Andrew Young. Crenshaw’s career as a politician was gaining momentum, and the last thing he needed was a serial killer running loose in his city even as the Olympics were just around the corner. He started reading his statement.

On Wednesday, August 10, at approximately six a.m., Roswell police discovered the body of Nathaniel Sharp, the eight-year-old son of Senator Sharp, in a parking lot on the north side of Holcomb Bridge Road. The manner in which the victim was killed leads the Fulton County Police Department to suspect that this murder was committed by the same person or persons responsible for the shocking murders two years ago and which have since been known as the Hammer killings. I’m personally taking an interest in resolving this issue once and for all, and offer my deepest condolences to the Senator and his family. We won’t tolerate this brutality in our state. This administration will not let whoever is behind this gruesome act get away with it this time. I am committing all the resources possible to the case.

The news reporters started their barrage of questions.

So, what do you think? Julie asked.

Rena Ashton shook back her blonde mane as she fixed her light blue gaze on Julie. They had met when students at UCLA and hit it off right from the beginning, their common love of music developing into an incredibly close bond of friendship. They had become even closer after Sean’s death in that horrible crash. She knew Rena felt helpless to see her friend become more and more of a recluse. Rena had moved to Atlanta to take a position as a Professor of Music at Georgia State, partly in the hope she could help Julie overcome her grief. But it had been close to three years now, and Julie’s social life was confined to occasional trips to bars and classical music concerts. Despite their intense friendship, she still could not penetrate Julie’s closely guarded feelings.

Are you going to be all right? That man might come after you.

Tanner’s promised me protection. I’m going to solve this case, Julie replied with conviction, mixed with a tinge of desperation.

What leads do you have?

None so far. The murder is identical to the previous crimes. I don’t understand how the bastard could have waited so long before striking again. There have been no reports elsewhere in the country about this type of murder. I suspect he’s been in Atlanta all the time. The strange thing about this murder is, like the other boys, Nathaniel came from a rich family, and went to the same school as the others.

The convent up near Dahlonega?

Yes. I’m driving there shortly to meet with the Head Sister.

Were the boys related in some way?

No. That’s what’s puzzling. If this is a serial killer, he likely wouldn’t have waited two years to strike again. But then again, the manner in which he kills his victims fits the profile of a serial killer.

What if Stone’s really guilty? This could be a copycat killer, Rena said.

Julie shook her head. I think we’re dealing with a very clever son-of-a-bitch who has a specific reason to kill. That might explain the long waiting time between this murder and the ones that happened two years ago. Something else doesn’t make any sense. Back then, why did he kill three victims in a span of six months? How did he find three victims so quickly? At the time, Stone fit the killer’s profile almost perfectly. The evidence was overwhelming but clearly I missed something crucial. The Defense had no position, and Walker all but begged Stone to change his position to guilty. No, Rena, Stone is not the Hammer. I goofed … overlooked some evidence involving the Hammer’s first victim.

Julie looked at her watch and gulped down the rest of the Tanqueray. Can I come by later tonight to chat some more? I finally found Emil Gilels’ rendition of Brahms’ First Piano Concerto. Let’s drink and listen. Also, I wanted to spend some time with Little Tigi. How is she doing?

Jules, one of these days your liver will go down the toilet if you keep pounding away at that stuff. It’s your life, but I can’t stand to watch you destroy it. Tigi is fine. You can have her back if you want, although I’ve grown terribly fond of that critter.

No, she’s probably better off staying with you. Julie smiled, kissed Rena’s cheek, and left the bar.

5.

Driving to the convent, I thought about how much Rena had meant to me over the years. Almost like a sister, she had helped fill the void left by my difficult childhood. My father was a struggling actor, so we didn’t have much. My mother practically supported us. She was also my closest friend. She suffered my father’s philandering activities quietly and when one day he announced he was moving to New York, she let him go without asking why. She knew he was seeing another woman, but never once confronted him for fear it would affect me. But even though I didn’t understand all the implications then, I knew enough. My mother was devastated, but strangely enough she continued to love him.

My mother taught me to play the piano. Finally when she could teach me no more, she would take the bus to the local library and bring me back pieces that I would play for hours. She gave me the gift of appreciating great music and literature. We would spend weekends reading aloud the classics. I grew up entranced by the poetry of Emily Dickinson. Out of fear I would miss out on a normal childhood, she used to send me off to summer camps with other children. I hated school and did not hide my contempt for it. I was disenchanted with the normal activities of girls my age. I never owned a doll, and when mom asked me what I wanted on my eighth birthday, I didn’t hesitate. I asked for an album of Mozart’s 27th Piano Concerto. And that was the only time I ever saw her cry. She was haunted, and as I grow older I realize how alike we are. She was a small woman, not beautiful but attractive. I don’t have a picture of her any more, but I remember her eyes. They were distant, seeing and not seeing. She lived for one reason alone and that was to provide me all she could afford to master the classics of music and literature. In her heart, she felt they were the pillars upon which to nurture a sensitive heart.

In those formative years, she never once uttered an unkind word about my father. I did not and to this day do not hate him. The language of hate comes easily to those who are morally deprived, she taught me. I don’t know whether he’s alive. My mother told me the truth about the other woman the day she decided to put me up for adoption. I protested and cried. But she simply wouldn’t listen. She wanted me to have a good education and the other opportunities she couldn’t afford to provide me. When we parted she said to me: Baby, remember, it’s not important you leave something of value to posterity; it’s posterity itself that you must value.

And one November morning, when I was 16 years old, my foster parents told me she had ended her life. I was not surprised. I loved her deeply and never recovered from her loss. I decided to leave my foster home. My foster parents had tried everything with me, but I knew it was time to move on. I packed up what little I owned and lived in L.A. for a long time, working odd jobs and teaching music. I put myself through school until, finally, I won a scholarship to enter law. To this day, I don’t know why I chose law, maybe because deep down I loathe some of the waste that passes for the human race. Yet, I cannot bring myself to hurt anyone.

In Rena, I found a girlfriend that was patient and sensitive. Her family is wonderful, and I spent Thanksgiving with them last year. But I sense a deep emptiness in her; perhaps that’s why we grew close. Sometimes, I feel I’m not a friend in ways in which she would want me to be. But then again, we wouldn’t have much of a relationship if we tried to impose our idiosyncrasies on each other. We laugh together and share a common passion, music. In the four relationships I have cherished the most, the underlying bond has been, to a greater or lesser degree, classical music. And as I watch the slow death of the symphony in modern America, I cry for the youth, who do not understand the nature of their poverty. The immeasurable lightness of being that penetrates my spirit when the lights dim as the conductor walks up to the podium can never be matched.

6.

Waiting at the gates of the convent, Julie read the words, inscribed in marble, on the convent wall.

‘I did not possess riches, talents, or any exterior attraction, but I always loved … and I loved with all the strength of my soul’ —St. Mary Euphrasia Pelletier, the foundress of the Order of the Good Shepherd Sisters (1796–1868).

St. Mary’s Convent was a retreat for little rich kids. The convent was the brainchild of the financial tycoon, Frances Morrison, a strict Roman Catholic. She turned her success in the music and movie distribution industry into a variety of philanthropic activities, and the convent had benefited handsomely. Morrison insisted she would build and support the convent in the middle of Baptist country. After 47 years, the convent was now being funded generously by donors from as far away as Australia, South America and Europe. In return, St. Mary’s provided some of the finest education in arts, music, and languages for bright young boys and girls ages 6 through 11.

The school was notorious for its discipline and the talent it produced. In music alone, some of the finest violinists and pianists trained here. The school was also quite unorthodox. The sisters were free to travel and learn so they could bring back new ideas in instruction and thought. In recent years, performances by the likes of Domingo and Perlman at the indoor auditorium were a commonplace. But as Julie stared at the chapel tower on the hilltop, a shiver ran down her spine. Boarding schools such as this one reminded her of animals in a zoo. She hurriedly put out her cigarette as one of the sisters opened the gates.

Hello, I’m Julie Conway. I’m here to see the Head Sister; I have an appointment with her.

Please drive up to the rear of the chapel and park your car. Sister Ann will see you in the chapel abbey.

Thank you, Sister.

Parking and getting out of the car, Julie admired the beautiful chapel and its Gothic architecture. The stained glass windows were a deep purple and red, and reflected the sunlight that trickled through the densely wooded lot surrounding the chapel. The aura around the convent was that of an Ivy League school, and she saw not much had changed since her last visit two years ago. Construction was underway in one corner of the lot where the forest was cleared. Orosco Construction, a leading architectural firm, had secured the contract to build a new indoor gymnasium for the kids.

Walking into the chapel, Julie closed the door gently behind her and stared at the altar. She loved visiting churches. She was not religious, but there was something about a church that always made her feel warm.

What can I do for you, Miss Conway? said a voice from behind.

Julie turned around, a bit startled. She had not heard Sister Ann come in.

"Hello, Sister Ann. I didn’t realize you were still working at this convent. I thought you normally rotated your appointments