by Andrew Lanh
“He spoke too quickly,” I said. “Now he’s sorry.” But I was curious. “This interview…”
Marcie was smiling as she pulled a tablet from a carryall she’d placed on the floor, switching it on. “I recorded it for your viewing pleasure.” Her eyes danced. “I figured you’d want—ocular proof, Othello. It’s short, and classic Laramie testosterone speaking, but what follows is more interesting.”
She pressed ON as we all leaned in. The reporter commented that she was following up on her interview with Laramie earlier that morning. She’d corralled him as he stepped from his car in the college parking lot, Laramie blinking his eyes rapidly as though unused to lights and attention. As Dustin’s advisor, he noted that the young man was “brilliant,” a “whiz,” “a pleasure to have in class,” but one “haunted by Professor Winslow’s cruel harassment.” Then, as Marcie noted, he stepped back from his earlier comments on death threats, though the reporter seemed unhappy he was now hedging. He told her he’d seen Dustin around six o’clock, right after he’d dismissed class because of the snow, spotting Dustin in the hallway as he chatted with his one friend on campus, “a Bosnian lad named Darijo Delic.”
“Christ,” I mumbled. “The man has no boundaries.”
“What were they talking about?” the reporter asked.
Laramie looked away from the camera. “The snowstorm.”
“How did they seem?”
Again Laramie avoided looking at her. “Like they were going home.”
I sat back. “Well, hardly troubling.”
Marcie held up her finger. “Wait for it.”
A break in the sequence, the reporter back in the studio now, breathlessly noting, “Breaking news. Just one hour ago.” She’d driven into the south end of Hartford, into Barry Square, an area called Little Bosnia, where she located Darijo Delic working as a waiter at his father’s restaurant, Sarajevo Café. She and her photographer surprised the young man as he stood outside, taking a cigarette break, Darijo leaning on a snow shovel.
A camera thrust into his face. “What about your friend, Dustin Trang?”
Surprised, the cigarette dropped to the pavement as he turned away, then back. “I don’t know. He’s not…my friend. Sometimes we study together, that’s all.” He stepped back.
“You were with him just before Professor Winslow was shot to death. Did he tell you anything?”
Silence, confusion. His fingers gripped the handle of the snow shovel.
The reporter hammered home the question. “What do you know about the murder? What did Dustin confide in you? You must have talked?”
“Nothing.” A thick Slavic accent, trembling. A scared look on his face. “I…”
At that moment a beefy man stepped quickly into view, pulled at Darijo’s arm, and dragged him out of camera range. “Odlazi,” he shouted to the reporter. Then in a gravelly voice, “Leave now. Yes.”
A quick glimpse of Darijo hustled back into the restaurant. The young man glanced back over his shoulder as the camera zeroed in on his frightened face.
The reporter, unfazed, spoke into the camera, “Darijo Delic’s father, justifiably concerned that his son is involved in a murder investigation.”
“Christ,” I said again. “Who hires these idiots?”
“Give the people what they want,” Jimmy grumbled.
Marcie switched off the tablet. “This is not good.”
Hank rolled his eyes, unhappy. “What we’re left with, folks, is the impression that this…this Darijo might know something about the murder. Hanging with Dustin minutes before.”
I breathed out. “And what’s worse is the possibility that the real killer, maybe watching that news snippet, might believe that Darijo does, indeed, know something.”
“Which means,” Liz concluded, “poor Darijo has to watch his back.”
Chapter Eight
Liz watched me carefully over the rim of her coffee cup, not saying a word. When she finally placed the cup back in the saucer, a smile covered her face.
“What?” I asked her. “Somehow this has to do with me, right?”
She was grinning. “It always does.”
We were sitting at noontime on Sunday in Rafi’s Eatery a block away from her apartment in the south end of town. Her idea: “Meet me for a quick lunch after my workout.” I’d been sitting in a booth, nursing a second cup of coffee when she rushed in, a loose-fitting lavender sweat suit under her unbuttoned winter coat, her long black hair tied into a careful ponytail. Sneakers with brilliant red stripes. “I didn’t have time to go home. Shower. Forgive me.” She’d dropped into a chair and caught her breath. “Although you’ve seen me look a lot worse.”
I’d waited as she ordered coffee, rubbing her palms together. “So cold out.” Finally, her hands circling the warm cup, she took a sip and watched me with wide, lively eyes.
“What do you mean it has to do with me?”
A sly smile, barely there. “The fact that you were eager to meet me here.” She reached for her phone and scrolled through it. All business. “You want—information. According to police reports, the 9-1-1 call came in at exactly 6:47. Just as you said. From someone who was mightily out of breath.”
“Not fair. I was running through snow—and chaos.”
“Too much coffee.” But she got serious. “And you found disaster.”
“God, yes. I called the moment I realized Ben was dead. Maybe a half a minute later.”
“Which is why I’m sitting here now—to provide you with the timeline as worked out by the police. This morning I spoke to Detective Manus who’s shepherding the case with the state cops. The Farmington Police Department is all a-buzz. People don’t get murdered in this fancy town. Their fat wallets and stock portfolios stop the bullets.”
“And Dustin?”
“I’ll get there.” She signaled the waitress for a refill. “Despite the snowstorm and miserable driving conditions, the cops arrived within minutes.”
“I know, Liz. I’m the one who waved them over.” I tilted my head and smiled at her. “I was there, you know.”
Another glance at her phone as she scrolled text. “Forensics is doing due diligence, of course. As of now we suspect that the gun most likely was a Glock 26, a convenient pistol to pack a wallop.”
“Recovered slugs?”
“Two.”
“What else did they find?”
She waited as the waitress poured coffee, then slowly took a sip. “Preliminary search of Ben’s apartment came up with nothing. No threatening letters, no death threats nailed to the kitchen cupboards. No threatening notes pieced together from letters clipped from Guns and Ammo. Nothing in his office. Only one name surfacing. Dustin Trang. That boy a one-man plague. But only this last week. A new, uncommon wrinkle in his life.” She sucked in her breath. “And of course Professor Laramie’s now-disavowed comment didn’t help.”
I slammed my fist into my palm. “That’s the mystery, Liz. A quiet student, hidden in shadows, friendless, it seemed, suddenly became Ben’s nemesis.”
“But a pleasant shadow, according to unnamed sources. Ben encouraged his students—and that recently included Dustin—to hang out, joke, follow him to the ends of the Earth. He liked that student attention.”
“But something happened.”
She fiddled with her napkin, bunching it up. “I’ll say. Everything went south. Dustin’s over-the-top anger. The YouTube video going viral. Ben’s distractedness.”
I shook my head. “Christ, it doesn’t sound like Dustin.”
Her voice was sharp. “C’mon, Rick. You don’t know Dustin. Don’t sentimentalize him.”
I forced a smile. “I do that?”
Her return smile was warm. “All the time. Or, at least, when we’re talking about the Vietnamese. Your guilt or shame or—or whatever you carried from that orphanag
e—is baggage you never checked at the station.”
I tried to change the subject. “Okay, okay. So the police want to nail this on Dustin?”
She reached over and grasped the back of my wrist. “I’m not condemning you, Rick.”
“I know.”
For a moment we were quiet, watching each other, both of us with unaffected smiles. Finally, with a wistful twist of her head, she said, “Public Enemy Number One. Dustin Trang.”
“A tight timeline, no?”
She tapped the screen on the phone, scrolled down. “According to the manager at The Silo, Dustin walked into the restaurant the moment the regulator clock at the reception desk chimed seven. He remembers that. Also, a bus boy, headed to the kitchen, recalls Dustin rushing in.” She hesitated. “Unfortunately he told the cops Dustin seemed—frantic, disoriented.”
“A snowstorm, a party he’s not looking forward to, a new place.”
“Excuses, Rick. But whatever. The Silo is five or six good minutes drive from the college parking lot. Of course, it’s also snowing. Treacherous.”
“All right. So Dustin had time to shoot Ben—maybe at 6:45 or 6:46, seconds before I ran to Ben, then jump in his running car and make it to the restaurant down the street.”
“Yes, the cops like that timeline.” She appeared to be in thought for a minute or so. Then another glance at her phone. “No gun at Dustin’s home. Certainly not in his beat-up barely running Toyota.”
“Dumped in a snow bank?”
“Possibly. Let’s hope for a spring thaw in December.”
“But his clothes…other…forensics?”
She held up her hand. “When Dustin was taken in for questioning the next day—a live melodrama on local TV—even live streaming on Facebook—that rivaled O. J. Simpson’s meandering Bronco chase across the highways of that free-love state—they checked for gunshot residue on his hands. A day late, of course, he’s working in a diner, handling God-knows-what. Nothing. Wearing gloves—it’s winter. Who knows?”
“Ben was shot through on open window at close range.”
“Which suggests that he might have recognized the assailant. I stress—might. But, more importantly, the likelihood of blood splatter patterns. A lot of blood when you shoot someone from a few feet away.”
“And nothing?”
She shook her head. “They took the clothes from his closet, but he was also wearing his winter jacket when they grandly escorted him from the restaurant. A coat still damp from the snowstorm. No blood spatter. Nothing.”
I sat back. “All good news.”
She shrugged. “More or less. The problem is his recent spitfire battle with Ben. It’s hard to put that in any context. And the death threats—most likely that didn’t happen.”
I grumbled. “David Laramie. Not to be trusted. He’s walked back those comments.”
“Yeah, but in another interview with Manus, Laramie said he detected rage in Dustin. Someone bumped him in one of his classes, and Dustin flew up, made a fist, beet-red face.” She held my eye. “Laramie said he was afraid of the boy.”
“True, I’ve seen that. An angry boy. Not good. You know what Buddha says, don’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Here it comes, Confucian boy. What?”
“Anger is like holding a burning coal that you plan to throw at an enemy. But you’re the one being burned.”
She saluted me. “There is a lot of that going around these days. All directed at Dustin.”
“And there’s Reverend Simms of the Money Bags Church, or whatever it’s called. He’s angry at everyone but God. That damning statement on TV.”
Liz was nodding her head up and down. “Yeah, we talked about that. Good for Dustin if he killed that atheist scumbag. Dustin as Gabriel with the sword of God. Vengeance is mine sayeth the bored.”
“Is that in the Bible, Liz?” I asked, a smile on my face.
“Everything’s in the Bible.”
My cellphone buzzed. “Hank.” I switched it on. “I’m sitting with Liz at Rafi’s.”
“Some of us are working,” he answered. “Put me on speakerphone.”
Suddenly Hank’s voice filled the booth. “Liz, is Rick wearing that horrible ski sweater he sometimes wears—the one with the enormous snowflakes?”
Liz leaned into the phone. “He knows better when he’s with me.”
“Do you know how often I have to apologize for his appearance?”
“What are you, Hank?” I interrupted. “State cop or fashion police?”
“I’m on my way to a shift, but the weirdest thing happened this morning. I’m coming out of the shower, maybe six-thirty or so, like the crack of dawn, and my phone is ringing. I hear this small, distant voice, like someone who’s been awake all night long and…”
“Dustin,” I broke in.
“You got it. It took me by surprise.”
Liz leaned into the table. “What did he want?”
Hank’s voice sounded weary. “A sad conversation that lasted less than a minute. ‘You said to call you if I needed anything.’ That’s what he said. ‘Okay, tell me,’ I told him. A long silence, and then in a hesitant voice he goes, ‘I don’t know what to do. The police came again last night. I got fired from my job. I didn’t shoot Professor Winslow. I never even had a gun in my hands. I never even saw one close up.’ I mean, he went on and on, a little crazy, until I asked him, ‘“Who’s home?’ ‘My mother. Only her,’ he said. ‘What does she say?’ Then it got real strange. He whispered, ‘She doesn’t care what happens. She wants it to go away.’”
“His mother?” Liz asked.
“Then he said, ‘She doesn’t even know I’m in the house.’”
“Good God.” From Liz.
“What does he want from you, Hank?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, then quietly, “He didn’t do it, Rick. I told you that. I don’t know for a fact, but I know it. That call from The Silo.”
“But the police…” I began.
“I’m the police.” His voice rose, agitated. “You’re the police. Sort of.” I could hear him swallow. “Rick, nobody’s his advocate. It has to be—us. You, mainly. You knew Ben, the others. The school. Even Dustin—a little. You gotta take this on.” A pause. “I gotta run.” Another pause. “Promise me, Rick.”
I waited. Liz watched my face, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “I’ll ask around.”
Hank broke off the connection.
Liz said, “I knew we’d come to this.”
“I’ll ask around.”
“Hank’s instincts are always on target. Yours—sometimes. Mine—always. Do this.”
“I said I would.” I sat back, took a sip of my cold coffee. I spoke to myself. “Where to begin.”
“I know where,” Liz said. “One last thing I didn’t get to. Manus interviewed Ben’s ex-wife and their kids. The daughter gave the cops an interesting interview.”
“Ben always called Melody…scattered.”
“Yeah, she was focused enough to talk about the last meeting with her dad. She said he was pacing the floor, nervous, and he told her he was facing the most difficult decision of his life.”
“Did he say what it was?”
Liz’s voice was dark. “Only that it involved one of his students who confided something horrible to him and he didn’t know what to do with the information.”
“Good Christ,” I said. “Dustin.”
“He didn’t tell her a name.”
“Dustin,” I echoed myself. “What secret could that boy have?”
Liz sat back and ran a fingertip across the rim of the cup. “Here’s your starting line. Charlotte Winslow, bitter ex-wife, and the son and daughter that Ben always mentioned with a sad shaking of his head.”
Chapter Nine
Charlotte Winslow wasn’t happy
to hear my voice. When I repeated my name, she broke in, “I know who you are, Mr. Lam. A friend of Ben’s from the school.”
Yes, I told her, and I offered my condolences to a woman who’d not been married to Ben for over fifteen years.
“What do you want?”
“This is a little awkward, Mrs. Winslow.”
A raspy laugh. “Call me Charlotte. I hate that last name.”
“And yet you kept it after the divorce.”
“Because of the children.” A deep intake of breath. “What do you want?”
“One of Ben’s students, Dustin Trang, is a suspect in his murder,” I began. “As you probably know. Everybody knows. The whole world who watches TV—or refreshes their tweets. I’m a PI, and…and I’m concerned that there might be a rush to judgment.”
An artificial laugh. “And you’re trying to clear his name?”
“I’m trying to find out what happened. He maintains his innocence, so I want to follow up on it. No one wants an innocent young man charged.”
“I don’t really care. I’m assuming he’s guilty.”
I caught my breath. “And why is that?”
“What do you want, Mr. Lam?”
“Your daughter Melody had a last talk with Ben. He told her he was dealing with the worst decision he ever had to make.” I stopped because I could hear her gasp. “What?”
She barked out her words. “The worst decision he ever made happened fifteen or so years ago. An annoying social worker intern from UConn who sliced our marriage into pieces.”
I waited.
Into the silence she said, “I suppose you gotta do this.”
“Yes.” Then, quickly, “Is it possible for me to talk with Melody?”
That surprised her. Suddenly she muffled the phone with a hand, and I could hear unintelligible, whispered voices. Then she came back on the line. “She says it’s her decision. Not mine.” A gruff laugh. “When have I ever been allowed to make any decision?” Again the muffled voices. “Come here at four, Mr. Lam. But I’m not guaranteeing a pleasant visit.”
“Thank you,” I told her. “You live over Avon Mountain, right? The address…”