by Ron Levitsky
The paper, titled “Relationships,” listed four possible topics as homework. Number 4 read,
Pretend you’re carrying on a friendship with someone much older. First write a diary recounting how that friendship began and, later, how it developed. Next, write a one act play based on your diary. As your final project for this course, you may wish to present your play to the class (as director, actor/actress, or both).
Rosen stared at the other man. “Are you saying that Nina’s diary was based on this assignment?”
“I believe it was. Nina came to me shortly after I’d given the assignment, and asked if she could write about a relationship between a girl and an older man. I don’t believe in censorship, but I realized such a diary, and subsequent play, might be viewed with disfavor by the administration.”
“What did you tell her?”
“To give her idea serious thought and, if she still wished to pursue it, we’d talk further.”
“Did she pursue it?”
Bixby shrugged. “The assignment is due at the end of this week. Nina didn’t speak to me about it again. I think the diary Mrs. Melendez found is a fictional account. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about the assignment as a possible explanation until a day or two after Mrs. Melendez’s sister read portions of the diary at our meeting last week.”
“Have you shared this information with the authorities?”
“Yes—with Dr. Winslow and Chief of Police Keller. Both men seem quite satisfied. Of course, as regards Nina’s death, it’s a moot point.”
“What do you mean?”
Bixby smiled. “I didn’t think you’d heard. Dr. Winslow called me into his office first thing this morning. He was nice enough to inform me that the police have arrested one of those Mexican landscapers. Yes, some Mexican.”
“For what?”
“Why, for murdering Nina.”
Chapter Nine
How often had his boss, Nahagian, with that acute sense of irony, said, “Sometimes the gods punish by giving us what we want”? Driving through Arbor Shore, Rosen could almost hear him chuckling.
Rosen had been pushing to keep the murder investigation open. He’d thought either Bixby was guilty or that the murderer might be someone in the Ellsworth home. But the teacher had said an outsider, “Some Mexican,” had been arrested. Most murders were for simple reasons—money, vengeance, lust—and so were the solutions. He hoped that’s what it was, an outsider. Better for everyone—Esther Melendez, Bess and Shelly, and especially Sarah.
Stopping at a red light, he watched a black man carrying an armful of sweaters cross the intersection. Built like a line backer, the man resembled Denae Tyler’s uncle who’d threatened Sarah after the trial. Threatened her because two murderers had been released on a technicality. Would Keller follow proper procedure with the man he’d arrested? Just because the accused was some poor Mexican, that didn’t mean there could be any slip-ups. No smart lawyer had better get him off.
Gritting his teeth, Rosen shrugged off a second irony. It was the first time he’d ever gone to a police station hoping the defendant was guilty.
The police and fire departments shared the new Public Safety Center, a long one-story building with the corporate look of red brick and glass. In back, a parking lot filled the right angle made by a line of police garages and one of fire trucks. Several firemen, sipping coffee beside their engines, nodded hello. Entering the building, Rosen walked through a corridor leading into the lobby.
“Is Chief Keller in?” he asked through the narrow opening of a glass window.
The receptionist, whose figure resembled a buoy with too many cherry Danishes as ballast, leaned forward. “Is he expecting you?”
“No, but this is important. My name is Nate Rosen. The chief knows me.”
Rocking back, she picked up the phone and engaged in a brief conversation.
“Chief Keller’s in conference but will see you in a few minutes.” She nodded at the lobby. “There’s a pot of coffee in the corner. Please help yourself.”
He sat on a leather chair and glanced at the magazines fanned across the polished coffee table—Time, People, Business Week, and Architectural Digest. On the wall behind him hung two large photographs, aerial views of Arbor Shore in 1947 and 1994. The opposite wall displayed several plaques honoring various police officers, including Chief Keller, for their civic duties. All very clean and nonthreatening, like a bank rather than a police station.
Rosen had just finished thumbing through Time when a door beside the receptionist opened. Chief Keller walked into the lobby, followed by Edward Masaryk.
They were an odd couple. The police chief, whose small body fit together in tight angles, nervously thumbed the bowl of an unlit pipe. Masaryk towered over him, the tailored camel hair jacket complimenting his broad shoulders and thick arms. His blue sunglasses were tucked into the jacket’s breast pocket.
Something about Masaryk was reminiscent of Clint Eastwood. Not looks, rather the way he carried himself with the quiet confidence of the mythic Western hero. A man who had no weaknesses and, therefore, was more than just a man.
Rosen stood as they approached. After Masaryk’s nutcracker grip, the police chief’s hand seemed like a glop of warm dough.
Keller asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here for the same reason as Mr. Masaryk.”
Masaryk looked at him without really looking, the way some people see waiters. “As chief of security for the Ellsworth estate, I regularly discuss questions of mutual interest with the police.”
“Such as what happened to Nina Melendez?”
“She was living in the Ellsworth home, and her body was found next to the estate.”
“So we are both here about Nina’s murder. ‘Murder’—we can use that word now.”
Glancing around the lobby, Keller said, “This isn’t the place to discuss the girl’s death.”
“Then your office? I’d like you to tell me about this Mexican landscaper you arrested.”
“I really can’t—”
“Go ahead, Otto,” Masaryk said. “Mr. Rosen does have a legitimate interest—his daughter was a good friend of Nina Melendez. Besides, you can show off your department to a very important attorney, from Washington, D.C. no less. You deserve to crow a little—very efficient the way that man was located.”
Rosen said, “Efficient, or just convenient.”
Masaryk almost smiled, or maybe that was the way he smiled. “I’ll leave you in Otto’s capable hands. Good morning.”
Reaching for his sunglasses, he walked away.
Left hand on right elbow, Keller again thumbed his pipe. “We’d better go into my office.”
Past the doorway to their right, a young policewoman sat before a state-of-the-art communications unit. Above her stretched an electronic map of Arbor Shore. An icon shaped like a running boy flashed in the center of town.
Rosen asked, “What’s that signal mean?”
“A sixth grader playing hookey. He was waiting for the ice cream shop to open. The owner’s holding the boy until we can take him to school.”
“Do you have icons for everything?”
“Just about. Broken window for burglary, car with a crumpled fender for an accident . . .”
“What about a murder?”
Eyes widening, the woman shook her head.
“This way, Mr. Rosen,” Keller said.
As they were about to enter his office, the dispatcher called out, “Mrs. McAllister’s on line one. The usual reason.”
The police chief sighed. “Try to handle it.”
Keller’s office was paneled in dark wood, his large desk in the middle of the room. There were no windows. A small glass-enclosed cabinet held three shelves of books. The other walls were bare, except for a gigantic stuffed bass mounted on the rear wall.
Keller settled behind the desk, his leather chair emitting the faint aroma of pipe tobacco. On the desk top rested a manila folder and a rack wi
th a half dozen pipes.
Sitting across from the police chief, Rosen asked, “You catch that fish?”
“Three years ago in Wisconsin. I have a summer place there. Probably where I’ll retire.” Nodding at the fish, he grinned. “I keep hoping he’s the runt of the family.”
“Did you catch another big one this morning?”
The smile froze on Keller’s face as he reached for the folder.
“The file on your suspect?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you were just going over it with Masaryk.”
“As Mr. Masaryk explained, there are certain things that occur in the community—”
“Crimes,” Rosen said.
“Yes, and the possibility of crime, that make it wise for us to collaborate. There’s nothing unusual about this. I deal with private security firms all the time.”
“And you’ve collaborated with Masaryk on this case.”
“He explained the reasons for that.”
“He also suggested that you share your information with me.”
Keller sucked his empty pipe. “Damn city ordinance about smoking.”
“I won’t tell.”
Cocking one eye at Rosen, the police chief took out a tobacco tin, lit his pipe, then leaned back contentedly. The room slowly filled with the strong aroma of tobacco cured in a particularly sweet liqueur.
Rosen cleared his throat. “Now, about this man you arrested.”
“He hasn’t been formally charged with a crime.”
“Do you suspect him of murdering Nina Melendez?”
“As far as I know, the state’s attorney has no plans to charge him with murder.”
“But the state’s attorney might change his mind.”
Keller took a long puff then waited for the smoke to clear. “I understand your interest in this case, but I have to respect this man’s privacy. I sure don’t have to tell you. It’s your job to defend guys like him.”
“You discussed this man with Masaryk, as well as with Dr. Winslow.”
“So you’ve already been to the school. All I told Winslow was that Al . . . that this man was in the park about the time of the girl’s death and that he saw nobody, including Martin Bixby.”
“How do you know he was there?”
Keller’s intercom buzzed.
“Yes.”
The receptionist said, “Mrs. McAllister’s here. It’s about her neighbor’s dog.”
“Already? She just called a few minutes ago.”
“From her car phone. Should I send her in? Oh, she’s on her way.”
Keller put down his pipe and reached the door just as someone knocked. He nodded to an elderly woman, no more than five feet tall, wearing a full-length mink coat.
“Chief Keller, I hope I haven’t disturbed you.” Her voice whispered like a crackling leaf.
“Not at all, Mrs. McAllister. Won’t you sit down.”
“Oh no, I can see you’re busy. It’s just that I’d like you to do something about those new neighbors of mine. You know, the woman who wears what looks like old drapes.”
“You mean Dr. Saraswati and his family.”
“Yes, I can never remember their name.”
“They’re very nice people.”
“I suppose, but that dog of theirs—always barking and scratching. I actually saw the creature’s paws under the fence this morning, so I had to see you. What if it gets into my flower bed? I’m just preparing it—we’re supposed to have such a lovely spring.”
“Have you spoken to the Saraswatis?”
“Oh, I just couldn’t. Ann Jenson, who used to live there . . . we’d have tea together. She knew so much about azaleas. Oh, why did she have to die?”
She trembled and, as Keller put his arm around her, started to cry.
“Sergeant Fuller!” he called.
“Yes sir!” a booming voice replied from down the hall.
“I want you to accompany Mrs. McAllister home and personally inspect her fence to make sure it’s secure against any encroachment, especially by the neighbors’ dog.” To the old woman, “Is that all right?”
Sniffling, she nodded.
“When you get home, I’d like you to go next door with the sergeant and introduce yourself to the Saraswatis.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. You know, their oldest boy is quite a cellist.”
“Sometimes, over the fence, I hear him playing.”
“Now you go along with the sergeant. I’m sure everything will be all right.”
She gripped his hand with hers. “Thank you so much. I hate to be such a bother.”
“Not at all, Mrs. McAllister.”
Closing the door, Keller sat down and relit his pipe.
Rosen said, “You handled that very well. I suppose you get that a lot.”
“I don’t mind—not the old timers like Mrs. McAllister. She goes back to the days of butlers and chauffeurs and the low-slung roadsters you couldn’t have dreamed to look any better. Old money. Real . . .” He scratched his head, searching for the right word.
“Proper?” Rosen offered.
Half closing his eyes, Keller blew a thick smoke ring. “No, I guess ‘helpless’ is the best way to describe it. They couldn’t do a damn thing and really appreciated whatever you did for them. Nowadays, it’s different. New money that orders you about. You know, brokers who strike it rich, computer jockeys—”
“And podiatrists?”
Keller blinked hard, then sat up straight. “I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. I treat everybody the same.”
“Sure. How did you know that this landscaper was in the park about the time Nina Melendez died?”
The police chief thumbed his pipe bowl. “Last Saturday morning, when you and Mr. Gold came to the park, remember seeing a pile of branches and grass clippings?”
“Yeah. At the end of the road, beside the Ellsworths’ fence.”
“The landscaper who takes care of the Ellsworth home is supposed to haul the clippings away, but when he’s behind schedule, he sometimes gets rid of it in the park. He’s already paid one fine for illegal dumping.”
“I don’t follow you. He wasn’t cutting their lawn in the middle of the night.”
“No, he’d done that Friday afternoon, but he was in the park that night. Claimed he came back to clean up the clippings before anybody had a chance to complain. Didn’t want to pay another fine.”
Rosen shook his head. “You got him to admit that?”
“He didn’t have much choice. When my men looked over the area on Saturday morning, they found a McDonalds bag in with the clippings. It had the landscaper’s fingerprints on it; the date and time of purchase were printed on the receipt. Friday, 10:16 p.m.”
“So he was there, but he didn’t pick up the clippings. Why not?”
“He said he wasn’t feeling well—something he ate. He left and drove right home.”
“And you believed him?”
Keller shrugged. “No proof to the contrary.”
“That’s it? No mention of the rose petals scattered on the ground by the fence, or the missing pendant that goes with the gold chain you found?”
“No.” Keller took another long draw on his pipe.
“Why didn’t you pick up this man over the weekend?”
“He wasn’t at home until this morning. Said he was at a friend’s.”
Rosen stared at the policeman a long time, then shook his head. “There’s got to be something else. You must suspect the guy, or you wouldn’t have bothered going over his file with Masaryk. What is it? Does the man have a criminal record? Was he seen hanging around the neighborhood? Did he make a pass at Nina?”
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Rosen. What I’ve already told you is a courtesy. I can’t say anything more.”
“What about his name?”
“No. He’s not charged with a crime. In fact, I expect him to be released very shortly.”
“Are you
treating Nina’s death as a murder?”
“We’re open to whatever conclusion the facts indicate. At this point, there’s still no reason to believe the girl was murdered.” Keller stood. “I want to thank you for stopping by.”
“Sure.”
Back inside his car, Rosen waited. Fifteen . . . thirty . . . forty-five minutes passed, and still he waited. Nowhere to go; nothing to do. Thinking about his conversation with Keller, although what the police chief had said was less important than the simple fact of Masaryk having been there.
He rubbed his eyes, leaned back, and sighed. Nothing fit together. All the offices he’d been to—Ellsworth’s, Hermes’, Mrs. Agee’s, Keller’s—and what had they told him? Nothing he could grasp, despite all their computers and papers and folders that flashed before his eyes. He remembered in college reading a story by Franz Kafka. A man is sentenced to death, not knowing why he’s condemned. Tied to the bed of a horrible machine, he is slowly turned, hour after hour, while needles write the punishment on his body, until he bleeds to death. That’s the way Rosen felt, his body struck by thousands of letters spelling out the reports he’d seen or been told about. Reports revealing nothing about how Nina died, let alone if she had been murdered. And if he couldn’t discover that for his daughter—with all his training and cleverness, what could he do for her?
An old green pickup truck, mottled with rust, pulled into the edge of the parking lot, as if afraid to approach the police cars. Jumping down from the cab, a short, stocky woman wearing a beat-up Chicago Blackhawks jacket over a shapeless dress walked slowly toward the station. Her dark, round face and curly black hair were the same as those of the peasant women whose portraits hung in Kate Ellsworth’s gallery. Hesitating at the door, she finally stepped inside.
The side of the truck read, “Hector Alvarez, Landscaper” and a phone number. While copying the name and number into his notebook, Rosen felt his heartbeat quicken and almost smiled. He waited, his breathing growing steadier.
The woman returned twenty minutes later, followed by a man with shaggy black hair and a thin mustache. His jeans jacket hung loose on his scarecrow frame; he had to fold back the sleeves before lighting a cigarette. Then he and the woman climbed into the truck and drove away.