Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Rosen said, “You’re not having your calls held to tell us that.”

  Sighing as if bored, Grimes began collecting a set of papers, placing them in his briefcase. “Why don’t you enlighten me? Just what does it mean?”

  “It means the service was peaceful until Chief of Police Whitcomb disturbed the congregation and made menacing gestures with his shotgun. His striking the chair startled Banks, so that he lost control of the snake. One could argue that the police caused the disturbance and Lemuel Banks’s subsequent injury. The statute itself is vague, using the term ‘to endanger the life or health of any person.’ Reverend McCrae and his congregation certainly don’t believe their lives were endangered in any way . . . that is, until the police broke in on their service. If the state decides to prosecute, the church or Lemuel Banks individually may wish to take legal action. This could be very messy for your office, and you’d lose.”

  Grimes folded his hands and tilted his head, looking at Rosen as though he were looking at a piece of carrion. “So much for your high-minded principles, eh, Counselor? You’re a wiseass . . . a real wiseass. What happened to the constitutional issues involved?”

  “My organization would love nothing better than a test case, but in the interest of our client—”

  Grimes’s intercom buzzed. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Chief Whitcomb’s on line one and says it’s urgent.”

  Keeping his gaze on Rosen, the D.A. picked up the phone. “What is it?”

  As he listened, Grimes’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, just terrible.” A minute later, “Is the press there?” Then, “Don’t let them get on to anything until you see me. Everything goes directly through me. I’ll cancel all my afternoon appointments. As soon as you finish, come right over. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to do a thorough job.”

  He hung up, absently stroking the receiver as if it were a kitten. “Terrible, just terrible.”

  Jesse asked, “What is it?”

  Taking out a handkerchief, Grimes wiped his forehead. “Ben Hobbes died last night in his home.”

  “Good Lord! What happened?”

  “Whitcomb says—” The D.A. caught himself. “The investigation’s just begun. We’ll know much more after the lab work and medical examiner’s report.”

  Rosen asked, “You’re not assuming it’s natural causes?”

  As Grimes stared at the attorney, the corners of his mouth rose slightly. “You can read all about it in the newspaper.” Holding the transcript of the church service, he added, “I really must thank you all for bringing me this information. It should prove most enlightening. Now, I must be going. Jesse, remember me to your mother. Good day, gentlemen.”

  They left the new county building in silence. Several times Jesse was about to speak, but his friend seemed a world away, occasionally shaking his head. It was nine forty-five; Rosen’s plane was scheduled to depart at one. Inside the Porsche, Jesse turned on the engine, then cut it abruptly.

  “What is it, Nate?”

  “Will we pass Ben Hobbes’s house on the way to the airport?”

  “Sure, but . . .”

  “Let’s go.”

  As they drove up Jackson Street toward the college, traffic slowed considerably. Near the corner where Ben Hobbes had lived, a police car with its flashing red light blocked the oncoming lane.

  “Turn here,” Rosen said as they reached the intersection.

  Jesse had to drive another half block, past several police cars, before finding a space. He parked just beyond the alley that ran behind the homes facing Jackson.

  “What’s back here?” Rosen asked.

  “Garages. The alley gives the people on Jackson access—also for deliveries and garbage pickup. What’s this all about? Why’re we here?”

  Rosen strode up the block. Shaking his head, Jesse followed his friend to the corner. A crowd had gathered behind a yellow wooden barrier, while a policeman directed traffic around the squad car blocking the lane. Chief Whitcomb stood on the front steps of Hobbes’s home conferring with someone facing away from Jesse. When Whitcomb returned inside, the other man, holding a camera, turned and walked toward them.

  “Hello, Cousin Bobby,” Jesse said.

  As the photographer stepped around the barrier, the two men shook hands. “Been a long time, Jesse. Not since Aunt Harriet’s birthday. You haven’t seen the pictures I took of the party. You look mighty good in that herringbone jacket.”

  “I’d like you to meet an old friend, Nate Rosen. Say, what’s going on?”

  “Ben Hobbes died last night. Won’t that make folks around here jumpy, what with all that talk about closing the factory?” He shook his head. “Glad to be outside. Poor Mrs. Hobbes having to sit in there with her brother-in-law, as if she hasn’t suffered enough.”

  “How’d Ben die?”

  Cousin Bobby glanced at the crowd. “Come over to my car.”

  They walked back to an old green Toyota. He lowered his voice. “I don’t rightly know what happened.”

  “You took pictures of the body.”

  “Yeah, but . . . he was lying on his belly across his bed, covers all twisted around him. Phone off the hook, glass of milk knocked onto the floor. I don’t know, Jesse.”

  Rosen asked, “Were there any marks on the body—gunshot, knife wound, punctures?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “Did it seem like he’d been struggling with anyone?”

  “I don’t think . . . you know, maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you all. I could get in trouble.”

  “Why? Is there anything to hide?”

  “I don’t know, mister. Lab boys come and gone. Police dug samples from the carpet. I don’t know. I better get going. Chief Whitcomb wants these pictures this afternoon. Remember, Jesse, I expect you next week for little Peggy’s confirmation.”

  As Cousin Bobby pulled away, Rosen said, “We’ve got to get inside.”

  Jesse crossed his arms. “I’d surely appreciate you telling me, why in the world are we here?”

  “Because I’m such a wiseass. I think we’d better try the back way.”

  “Wait. . . .”

  But Rosen didn’t wait, and once again Jesse followed him. They walked down the alley and stopped in front of the Hobbeses’ two-car garage. The door was up, revealing a battered pickup truck beside a new white Corvette. Next to the garage, a wrought-iron fence enclosed the backyard with its trimmed hedges, gazebo bowered by a pair of giant oaks, and a policeman standing guard on the porch steps.

  “Let’s try going through the garage,” Rosen said.

  The door to the house was unlocked and opened into a small hallway that, in turn, led to the kitchen. As large as most folks’ living room, the kitchen was an odd combination of traditional wood cabinets crafted from deeply veined oak alongside the latest built-in appliances. A trestle table with six chairs stood on a polished plank floor of tongue and groove, the kind it felt good to walk on in stocking feet.

  In contrast to the kitchen’s quiet dignity, the table was covered with Styrofoam cups, pieces of stale doughnuts and cigarette butts squashed like brown beetles inside tin ashtrays. A rough oak two-by-four leaned against a counter near the sink.

  Looking at the mess, Rosen said, “Police central.”

  They walked through the doorway into a formal dining room with its crystal chandelier, china cabinet, corner hutch, and an eight-foot table filled with more garbage, including a half-dozen Dunkin’ Donut bags. They continued into the hallway, only to be pushed back by two policemen.

  One was black, the other white—both young and clean-cut, the type who might advertise underwear in a Wal-Mart flyer. All four men looked at one another, not quite knowing what to do.

  Rosen said, “Mr. Compton and I have just come from the district attorney’s office. We’re here to see Chief Whitcomb.” He handed his card to the black officer.

  The policeman studied the card, then said to his companion, “I’ll go tell the chief. You’d bett
er watch them.”

  A few moments later Rosen brushed past the second policeman. “There’s something I’ve got to tell Whitcomb. Come along, Officer.”

  Again Jesse followed and found his friend in the foyer beneath another large chandelier. The walls were paneled in dark wood, with an old-fashioned umbrella stand in the corner. The two policemen flanked Rosen, and he faced Chief Whitcomb, who scratched his head while looking at the lawyer’s business card.

  “How in the world you get in here?”

  “The garage door was unlocked. We thought it best to enter unobtrusively, so as not to alert the press. We know how District Attorney Grimes wants to keep the lid on this.”

  “My deputy here says you just been with the D.A.”

  “That’s right. We’re representing Reverend McCrae and his church concerning the incident that occurred Friday evening. You know my colleague, Jesse Compton.”

  “Oh, Jesse. How are you?”

  “Nice to see you, Chief.”

  “I didn’t quite follow what this here feller was saying. You’re doing some lawyering again?”

  “A little.”

  Rosen said, “Mrs. Hobbes is a member of Reverend McCrae’s church. We wanted to offer her any help that she might need.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “We’d like to see Mrs. Hobbes.”

  “I don’t believe I can allow that. Mr. Grimes gave strict instructions—”

  “We’ve just been with the district attorney.”

  “That true, Jesse?”

  He didn’t like this; Rosen was close to causing a scene. Still, it was too late to back down. He nodded.

  Whitcomb said to one of his men, “Please ask Mrs. Hobbes to step out here for a moment.”

  “Which one?”

  “The young one.”

  A minute later, Claire Hobbes walked into the hallway.

  “Someone been asking for me?” Steadying herself like a drunkard, she stared at Jesse, her brow furrowing slightly. “I know you?”

  He nodded, barely recognizing the woman. Her pleated bathrobe of robin’s-egg blue was buttoned awry, so that she seemed a pale scrawny bird breaking from its shell. Her face was lost behind eyes raw from crying.

  Jesse said, “I was at the church service Friday night.”

  Her head cocked slightly as she walked toward him. “That’s right, you were there. You must be a friend of Reverend McCrae. He sent you here to comfort me.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes,” Rosen said. “You could say we’re here because of Reverend McCrae.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “He probably doesn’t know what’s happened.”

  She shivered and, moving closer, clutched Jesse’s arm as she had during Friday’s service. He was afraid the woman would again fall into tongues, but she pressed her lips together and spoke only with her eyes, red and glistening.

  “Perhaps we’d better stay,” Rosen said. “Mrs. Hobbes appears to be in no condition to face this ordeal alone.”

  Whitcomb glanced from the woman to Jesse. “I wanted to call her doctor, but she wouldn’t let me. I don’t like seeing anyone in such pain.” He paused. “All right, you two can sit with her a spell, but I’d appreciate you not interfering with my men. Mrs. Hobbes, best if you joined the others.”

  She wouldn’t let go of Jesse as they walked into her living room.

  The plank flooring, paneled walls with built-in bookcases, and stone fireplace at the opposite end identified it as a “man’s room.” On either side of the entryway stood an antique grandfather clock and a rolltop desk. Straight ahead a leather couch and love seat were arranged kitty-corner around a dark oak coffee table. Three Hobbes rocking chairs drew near the table. Behind the couch, two large windows faced Jackson Street. Between them hung a magnificent quilt with patches of brown and green hunter’s hues. At the far end of the room, adjacent to the fireplace, a doorway led into what appeared to be a greenhouse.

  Claire Hobbes joined Jesse on the love seat near her in-laws. Simon, Ben’s younger brother, sat with his wife on the couch, while their son Danny stretched lazily in a rocker. Simon was a softer version of his brother, his sharp nose and close-set eyes modified by a double chin and rounded belly. His hair was as gray as Ben’s but longer and styled. He wore a powder-blue seersucker suit, with a white shirt open at the throat, and puffed a pencilshaped black cigar. Smoke trailed from its tip thin as a spider’s thread.

  His wife, Ruth, clasped her hands, rough from working in the garden. From Kentucky, she was what people called “a handsome woman”—broad-shouldered, with high cheekbones, a broad nose, and laugh lines at the corners of her dark eyes. Her skin was copper-colored like her grandmother’s, a full-blooded Cherokee. She kept her long raven hair up with a tortoiseshell comb. As a boy, Jesse remembered walking past her backyard and watching Ruth, wearing a halter top, wash her hair in a large basin. It would spill over her shoulders like quicksilver and, when she stood, cling wet and gleaming all the way to her waist.

  Danny was about thirty, the youngest of three children: a married daughter lived in California while the older boy, a Marine, had died in Lebanon. Danny had inherited Simon’s light skin and sharp features, but his dark hair and wide-set eyes were his mother’s, giving him an Oriental cast. His tight polo shirt and jeans emphasized a strong muscular frame. Not that he was used to physical labor. People said the only thing he worked hard at was sex.

  Rosen and Whitcomb sat in rocking chairs across the table from the Hobbeses. Taking out a notebook, the police chief flipped through the pages.

  “Let’s see here. Looks like I got everything from you folks. You all can go on home. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else we need you for.”

  Simon Hobbes folded his arms. “What do you mean, we can go home? You still haven’t told us what the hell happened here . . . what really happened.”

  “Medical examiner needs to run tests on the body. Once we get his report plus results of the lab workup—”

  “Cut the crap, Whitcomb! Something ain’t right here.”

  “Until we can prove otherwise, it looks like your brother had a stroke around midnight, give or take a few hours.”

  “Bullshit. My brother was never sick a day in his life.”

  Danny said, “It could’ve happened that way, Daddy. Sometimes those things just—”

  “Shut up. Ben was too mean to die of natural causes. You put a double round of buckshot into him, he’d spit out the pellets and ask for dessert. Something ain’t right. Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to see Grimes myself?”

  Whitcomb looked as if he had just tasted spoiled chicken salad. “Sony, Mr. Hobbes, that’s all I can tell you now.”

  Ruth touched her husband’s arm. “Leave the man alone. He’s just doing his job.”

  “Hmph. Maybe these fellers know something. You two more cops?”

  She said, “Don’t you recognize Bedford and Lilian Compton’s boy? How are you, Jesse?”

  “Just fine, Miss Ruth. Real sorry about this.”

  “Compton?” Simon Hobbes repeated. “What’re you doing here?”

  Jesse glanced at Rosen, who said, “We’re here at your sister-in-law’s request.”

  “And who’re you?”

  “My name’s Nate Rosen.”

  “I don’t understand. You a friend of this here woman?” He nodded curtly at Claire.

  “We’re representing Reverend Gideon McCrae concerning an incident that occurred in his church last Friday evening. I’m sure—”

  “Damn it! I knew that snake man was somehow mixed up in this. I warned Ben. Course he couldn’t see past this here young female he picked outta that church. She blinded him . . . her and that snake man. Whitcomb, there’s something ain’t right.”

  The police chief stared at his notes. “There’s nothing I can tell you—don’t know nothing yet. That’s the Lord’s truth.”

  Ruth Hobbes leaned forward. “We ain’t loo
kin’ to make your job hard, but something’s peculiar. Else why all these folks taking pictures and scraping Lord knows what from the floor?”

  “Like what?” Rosen asked.

  She nodded past him, toward the opposite wall, where two windows faced the backyard.

  He asked the policeman, “Can I take a look? I won’t touch anything.”

  “Guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Whitcomb led Rosen to the wall. Both windows were built of the same dark wood used to panel the walls. The right window was broken near the sill; a few bits of glass lay on the sill and floor. Jesse watched his friend examine each window carefully. Rosen tried to raise the unbroken window, but it was latched at the top. He squatted and pointed to where a dirt mark had darkened the floor directly below the right window. His finger followed traces of dirt that grew fainter as they led from the wall.

  “What’s outside?”

  The police chief said, “Flower bed.”

  “Anything disturbed?”

  “I’d rather not say right now, but we’re doing a thorough investigation.”

  “Did you remove any glass from the floor?”

  “No.” Bending closer, Whitcomb half whispered, “Sure looks like somebody broke in. Can’t be sure, just yet, that the intruder killed Ben Hobbes, but sure is suspicious.”

  Rosen shook his head. “If someone broke in from the outside, he would’ve cracked the glass much higher. Where it’s broken, he couldn’t reach through and get his hand high enough to unlock the clasp. Besides, most of the glass is on the outside, meaning the force of the blow came from inside the room. Someone wanted you to think this was a break-in.”

  Rosen studied the marks, then once again looked at the floor. He asked, “Will you let me take a look upstairs where the man died?”

  Whitcomb was studying the window intently and scribbling furiously into his notebook.

  “Chief, can I look upstairs?”

  “Uh, sorry. No way, unless you get clearance from Mr. Grimes. I believe it’d be best if you left. Ain’t nothing you can do for young Mrs. Hobbes. She needs a doctor or a preacher . . . well, a doctor anyways.”

  Jesse glanced back at Claire. She looked so fragile, a dying flame consumed by its own grief. Why was he here, a voyeur spying upon a family’s misery? Why had Rosen insisted upon coming?