by Ron Levitsky
Twenty minutes later they arrived at Bixby’s apartment building. Keller parked a half block down, behind a squad car. Walking past two others with flashing red lights, they made their way through a small group of passersby before turning into the courtyard.
Lights blinked from the apartments on either side as people peeked through their curtains, then drew away before being seen.
“Innocent bystanders,” Keller said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to get involved. They might as well be stars up in the sky for all they care about their neighbors. Guess maybe that’s why I like fishing up in Wisconsin. Stars seem a lot closer. A lot friendlier too.”
“Some people say that about God,” Rosen replied.
“Huh?”
“That He’s as indifferent to us as stars in the sky.”
“You sound like a cop talking. Seeing the kind of things I’ve seen, even in Arbor Shore, kind of tests a man’s faith.”
“Are you religious?”
Keller stopped to light his pipe and took several puffs. “Me and the Mrs. go to church every Sunday morning. Of course, that’s expected of us. Can’t say that I feel anything but tired in church. But it’s different up in the woods by the lake. I feel God there, in the smell of pine and the silver flash of fish. You know what I’m saying?”
“I wish I did.”
Rosen looked up at the apartments, lights blinking like stars as people peeked through their curtains. That afternoon, standing inside the courtyard, he thought he’d seen Bixby’s curtains flutter. Had the teacher seen him? Had he been afraid and . . .?
They reached the entranceway. Keller said a few words to the policewoman on duty, who stepped aside to let them walk up the short flight of stairs. A second police officer guarded the door to Bixby’s apartment. Near his head a rectangular patch of wallpaper appeared brighter than the rest. A picture had been removed, the landscape that had hid Bixby’s key.
“I’m Chief Keller from Arbor Shore. Here to see Lt. McCarthy.”
“Yes, sir, go right in. He’s expecting you.”
“Is the body still here?”
The policeman yawned. “Oh, no. They carted it away about an hour ago. Not too messy. We’re just cleaning up. Be outta here pretty soon.” He narrowed his eyes at Rosen. “You look real familiar. Haven’t we met?”
Rosen looked away.
Bixby’s living room, which had been so tidy only a few hours before, was filled with the haze of cigarette smoke. Styrofoam cups fought the Dunkin’ Donut boxes for space on the coffee table, and the polished wooden floors were streaked with dirt and scuff marks. Uniformed police and plainclothesmen mingled in small groups, as if at a faculty party instead of a murder scene. After eyeing the newcomers, they resumed their conversations. Rosen heard his name mentioned a few times.
A yellow strip of tape had been drawn chest-high across the kitchen entrance. No doubt the place where Bixby had died. Following Keller to the tape, Rosen looked into the kitchen. The chair nearest the entrance had been drawn from the table; blood stained the floor beside it. On the table, in front of the chair, lay a plaque—Bixby’s Teacher of the Year Award, which had hung on the living room wall. Beside it was an eight by ten framed photograph. It showed a group shot, but from where he stood, Rosen couldn’t discern the images. A coffee cup and a plate with burnt bread crust had been pushed to the center of the table. Dark spots speckled all the objects. More blood. A uniformed officer built like a redwood pushed into Rosen, almost making him break the tape.
Instead of apologizing, the policeman looked Rosen up and down. “Watch it. Smart lawyer like you should be careful about evidence. No telling what might go into a court of law. Or who.”
“That’s worth remembering,” Rosen replied. “Why don’t you spread the word to your buddies. Some of them need the advice a lot more than I.”
Clenching his fists, the policeman whispered hoarsely, “The two cops you suspended were friends of mine. Friends of a lot a’ guys here. We’re all gonna take real pleasure, if it turns out that you—”
“That’s enough, Bruner.”
A short, balding man in a corduroy sports coat approached them. His wide mouth and bulging eyes resembled a frog’s, eyes that glanced from the policeman to Rosen, as if deciding which were the more appetizing fly. The big cop walked away.
Slowly blinking, the other man shook hands with Keller.
“Hello, Otto. Been awhile.”
“Too long. Jim, this is Mr. Rosen.”
“Jim McCarthy,” the policeman said, extending his hand. “We’ve never formally met, but I saw you at the Tyler trial. Thanks for coming. Maybe you can clear up a few questions we have. Shall we?”
Like a maitre d’, the policeman removed one end of the tape and led the two men into the kitchen.
Keller said, “I assume that everything’s already been photographed and dusted for prints.”
McCarthy nodded. “This is where the body was discovered. Bixby called in sick this morning but asked a colleague to drop off some papers after school. The teacher came by around four-thirty. Bixby didn’t answer the buzzer, but a neighbor let the guy into the building. He knocked on the door but again got no answer. Know how he got in?”
Staring at Rosen, the policeman waited for a reply. When none came, he continued, “Bixby kept a key behind a picture in the hallway outside the front door. Guess all his friends knew about it. Well, the teacher let himself in and found Bixby slumped over in this chair. Dead. One bullet in the right temple.”
“Murder?” Rosen asked.
“An old revolver was lying on the floor near Bixby’s right hand. One bullet had been fired. Bixby’s prints on the handle. We’ve already received some preliminary information from the medical examiner. Powder burns around the head wound, and traces of powder burns on Bixby’s hand.”
“So you’re saying it was suicide?”
“He died around noon, give or take an hour.”
“Was it suicide?”
For a long time, McCarthy’s big eyes stared at Rosen without blinking. “We didn’t exactly find a suicide note, but maybe a psychiatrist would say these’d do.”
He pointed to the table. Bixby’s Teacher of the Year plaque and the photograph were dotted with blood, larger droplets than those scattered across the table. The photo contained another red mark, more methodical. Rosen had seen the picture yesterday morning on Bixby’s wall: the teacher stood beside Nina; Sarah sat at the piano, with Bixby’s hand on her shoulder. A circle had been drawn in red ink around Nina’s head.
McCarthy said, “We found a red pen beside the photo. Lifted a partial print belonging to Bixby. When I learned that he taught in Arbor Shore, I called Chief Keller, who filled me in on the death of this girl, Nina Melendez. Chief Keller also told me about the suspicion, held by the dead girl’s family, that Bixby murdered her. You’re asking me if Bixby committed suicide? What do you think?”
Rosen stared, not at Nina, but at Bixby’s hand on Sarah. The man was dead, yet still he didn’t know.
Keller said, “It looks like Bixby did murder Nina Melendez—otherwise, why circle her face on the picture? Maybe he was brooding over what he’d done and finally couldn’t take it anymore. Either he thought the girl’s family would keep after an investigation, or his conscience got too strong. So he took his revolver . . . Do you know if that was his gun?”
McCarthy shook his head. “No record of Bixby owning any handgun, but he could’ve picked it up on street for a few bucks. Weapon was a piece of crap—could’ve just as easily blown off his hand. Would’ve been better for him if it had.”
“So he went out and bought the gun, or maybe he already had it. He brooded all morning over his coffee.”
“Tea.”
“His tea. He takes down his award from the wall, thinks about how he’s not only taken a human life, but betrayed a trust and destroyed his reputation. I guess a teacher’s like a cop—nothing’s more important than your reputation. He can’t bring hims
elf to write a confession, so he takes down the photograph with the girl’s picture, circles it, then kills himself. That how you figure it, Jim?”
McCarthy rubbed his jaw. “Could’ve happened that way. The way you lay it out makes sense. One thing, though.”
“What?”
“On the phone, you told me you had no evidence linking Bixby to the crime.”
“No, that’s true.”
“Then why would he commit suicide?”
Keller took a deep draw on his pipe. “Like I said—maybe his conscience was getting to him?”
“Maybe, but it takes a pretty powerful conscience to make a man blow his brains out.” McCarthy returned his gaze to Rosen. “Do you have any ideas?”
Rosen shook his head, a lawyer’s reflex, but again remembered earlier that afternoon when he thought Bixby’s curtains had fluttered. The conversation they’d had at the ballpark yesterday. Rosen had discovered the other man’s pornographic fantasies and had guessed there was even more. Seeing Rosen walking up the courtyard—had that been enough to frighten the teacher into taking his own life? Was Rosen responsible for Bixby’s death?
“Sure you have no ideas?” the policeman repeated.
“Why are you asking me?”
“According to Chief Keller, you’ve been pushing him to investigate Nina Melendez’s death as much as her own family has. Besides . . .” Again he pointed to the photograph. “Your daughter was the dead girl’s best friend. Isn’t that her at the piano? The one Bixby has his hand on?”
Rosen nodded.
“And you still can’t think of—”
“No.”
The policeman nodded, more a twitch of the head. “This way, please.”
They followed him back into the living room, through the hallway and into Bixby’s bedroom. Lucila stood near the closet. Her jacket unbuttoned, she wore a baggy white sweatshirt and faded jeans, both stained with paint blotches of a dozen colors. So too was the scarf under which her hair had been tucked. Her arms were folded, but not in defiance. She held herself to keep from shivering, and her eyes were those of a frightened animal, shifting from one man to another.
“Of course you both know Ms. Melendez,” McCarthy said. “I called her apartment, and she was kind enough to come right over. Very civic-minded.”
McCarthy stared at Lucila, who looked away while rubbing her arms. What kind of game was the cop playing? Rosen kept quiet, waiting for the policeman to continue.
“You haven’t noticed?” McCarthy asked, still watching Lucila. “On the bed?”
It was all there, neatly arranged on the bedspread. The whip and handcuffs, the two dozen videotapes.
He said to Rosen, “The deceased had some strange habits. Well, maybe in this day and age, not so strange. We’ve run through a few of the videotapes on his machine here. Pretty strong stuff—leather and bondage. Some of the women aren’t much more than girls, probably the age of the dead girl. And your daughter.” He shook his head sadly. “I asked you and Miss Melendez here to help figure out what happened to Bixby.”
“You’ve already determined it was suicide,” Rosen said.
“Does seem that way. Tell me, did either of you know about Bixby’s interest in this kind of sleaze?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Well, at least you didn’t lie. Do you know that both of your fingerprints are on file back East? What was it . . . uh, Mr. Rosen arrested for an abortion rights demonstration and Miss Melendez for some civil rights marches down South? No, I believe it was the other way around. Anyway, we found both your fingerprints all over this apartment and, I mean, all over. Living room, kitchen . . . well, just Miss Melendez’s there, and in here. Closet, dresser drawers. It looks to me like you both were searching the place. What for—proof that Bixby was a pervert and maybe a murderer? Well, Miss Melendez?”
Trembling, Lucila was about to reply. Rosen shook his head to silence her.
McCarthy sighed, then nodded to a policeman standing in the doorway. The policeman left the room and, a few minutes later, returned with a short woman about sixty. A green turtleneck sweater hung loosely on her thin frame. Something about the woman seemed familiar. It was only when she stepped forward with a slight limp that Rosen recognized her. That same instant he knew the real reason why McCarthy had him picked up, the thought gripping him like a cold hand on his shoulder.
McCarthy said, “This is Mrs. Tonelli from upstairs. She went shopping today a little before noon. Bumped into a man standing in the courtyard. Mrs. Tonelli, do you recognize that man?”
The woman looked back at the policeman who’d brought her as if she needed his protection. Then she nodded and pointed at Rosen.
“He’s the one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. He was just standing there, looking at the door I’d just come out of.”
“The door that leads up to this apartment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. We appreciate your cooperation. Officer Berens will take you back to your apartment.”
The woman left the bedroom, while McCarthy stared at Rosen and waited. Rosen had to give some explanation, but what? How ridiculous the truth would sound—he’d just gone for a walk and stood in the courtyard for a few minutes before returning home. He had no alibi during the time Bixby had died. Quite the contrary; an eyewitness had just placed him a few steps from the dead man’s apartment. Then add his fingerprints all over the apartment. If Bixby’s death wasn’t suicide, Rosen was the prime suspect.
Tired of waiting, the policeman turned his attention to Lucila.
“What goes for Mr. Rosen may also go for you, Miss Melendez. You’ve admitted having no alibi for the time of Bixby’s death.”
She looked down at the floor. “I told you. I was working in my studio all day.”
“And you were alone.”
“Of course I was alone. I was working.”
Rosen remembered calling her just before taking his walk to Bixby’s condo. If she’d been home, why hadn’t she answered the phone?
The policeman asked, “Can you explain your fingerprints being all over the apartment?”
Again Rosen cut her off. “I thought you’d come to the conclusion that Bixby’s death was suicide.”
“Loose ends, Rosen. They’re bugging the hell outta me. You two don’t want to talk. Fine. Let’s go down to the station. We like nothing better than having a lawyer call his lawyer.”
“No,” Lucila blurted. “We did search Bixby’s apartment, but not today. We came yesterday morning.”
The policeman asked, “How’d you get in?”
“The key behind the picture.”
“You knew about the key?”
“I was here before with Kate Ellsworth. Bixby and I talked about a theatrical project he was working on. He asked me to drop off some costume sketches. So we weren’t really breaking in.”
“Weren’t you? Did Bixby also ask you to go through all his personal belongings?”
“No. It was like you said. We were looking for something to prove Bixby killed my niece. It was all my idea. Nate . . . Mr. Rosen just came along. But this happened yesterday, I swear.”
“Did you find a revolver?”
She shook her head.
McCarthy’s wide mouth broke into a self-satisfied smile, as if she and Rosen were flies and the policeman had swallowed them both.
“All that’s very interesting. You know, Rosen, if the police had done the same as you, entering and searching this apartment without a warrant, a lawyer like you’d be all over us. Isn’t that what happened in the Denae Tyler case?”
Feeling his cheeks burning, Rosen swallowed hard. “You heard what Ms. Melendez said. Bixby had given her permission to—”
“Of course. After all, we have her word for that.”
“You can check with Kate Ellsworth.”
“Oh, we will. Of course, even if Mrs. Ellsworth substantiates what Miss Melendez has said, you two
still can’t prove you entered the apartment yesterday and not today.”
Rosen almost replied that it was the police’s job to prove the opposite, but didn’t want to goad McCarthy into arresting them.
Instead he asked, “Do you intend to charge either Ms. Melendez or me with a crime?”
Still smiling, the policeman replied, “I like the way you say that, like you’ve had lots of practice. No, you’re both free to go for now. I only gather the evidence. We’ll see what the medical examiner’s final report says. Who knows, maybe more evidence will turn up. Did Martin Bixby kill himself, or was he murdered? Interesting, huh? Don’t worry—I’ll keep in touch with both of you.”
Keller thumbed his pipe bowl. “Uh, come on, Mr. Rosen. I’ll drive you back to your car.”
Rosen’s eyes locked on Lucila’s. She said, “That’s all right. I’ll take him.”
“Very neighborly,” McCarthy said. “Gives you both a chance to get your stories straight.”
Taking Lucila’s arm, Rosen led her from the bedroom and through the gauntlet of policemen’s stares. He walked quickly into the courtyard, kept walking even when Lucila struggled against him.
She twisted away and rubbed her arm. “You hurt me.”
Hands balled into fists, he looked up at the apartments, at the people hiding behind their curtains, inscrutable as stars in the heavens. He was angry at Lucila for breaking down before McCarthy, angry at McCarthy for his veiled accusations, angry at Bixby for dying without revealing the truth about Nina.
Most of all, Rosen was angry with himself. Had the curtain fluttered this afternoon? Had Bixby, seeing Rosen coming like an avenging angel toward him, panicked and committed suicide? If so, then Rosen wasn’t merely Bixby’s prosecutor, but his executioner as well. A man’s blood was on his hands. A man he’d tried to hate but who was, after all, like him, made in God’s image.
Chapter Seventeen
“Where are you going? Nate!”
Rosen stopped at the end of the courtyard and waited for Lucila to catch up.
She stopped a few feet from him. “I told you I’d drive you home.”
“Maybe I’d better walk. It’s not much more than a mile, and I think we’d be better off if—”