by Alan Russell
“Is Anita Walters buried in this field?”
The question silenced him, and changed his flush to a pallor.
“I just called a nursery,” I said. “I asked them if bamboo should be planted in January. They advised against it. Strongly advised.”
Harrison’s voice was whispery. “That hardly qualifies . . .”
“The last time I was here I asked Joseph what happened to Anita. I think he’s the only person who hasn’t lied to me on this case, who hasn’t guised the truth in a more acceptable form. And when I asked him what happened to Anita, he just looked out here. I think he told me something. Did you bury her here?”
Dr. Harrison’s fingers were trembling. “No, she’s not buried here.”
“Then what was Joseph telling me?”
Harrison didn’t answer right away. “I forgot about Joseph,” he said. “He was upset that day. He probably still is.”
“He’s got company. What happened on December thirty-first, Dr. Harrison?”
He chose to be evasive. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
I added some straw to his bending back. “I think you had better come clean. If you don’t, I’ll have to go to the media, the media that dotes on you. And I will tell them you’ve lied, and covered up, and possibly murdered. And I will tell them that your great apes are a danger to their trainers, and possibly the community.”
The last sentence, the last straw, hurt the most. His bent shoulders started heaving, dry sobs moving them. “No, you mustn’t.”
“I’ll show them Anita’s doctor bill, the one where she required thirty-six stitches. I’ll tell them that Joseph inflicted the wound, and that you covered it up. I’ll get Anita’s picture splashed on the front page of every newspaper, and with her face staring out of every news broadcast, my investigation might be helped. That is, if Anita’s not buried in this field.”
“She’s not,” he said again.
“I’d prefer not going to the media, Dr. Harrison. I’d prefer your telling me what happened on December thirty-first. Then I’ll leave your world as intact as I can.”
Dr. Harrison took a few deep breaths. There was a lot of will in the man, enough to steel himself quickly for some unpleasant admissions. But he was the parent first, the forgiving parent. Children don’t commit sins. Peccadillos maybe, but never outright sins. “It wasn’t really Joseph’s fault,” he said, “wasn’t really at all.”
And with that dispensation he continued. “It was at the end of their session. There was no one else there. Anita must have been looking away, must have been daydreaming.
“My guess is he grabbed at her, just like children do. It would only have been a game to him. But he’s so strong. He probably pulled her head against the cage—that would explain her contusions—and then grabbed at her earring. She must have struggled, and that was her mistake. You don’t try to wrench something from a gorilla. That makes them hold on all the harder. But Anita was panicked, I’m sure of that. She pulled and he tugged, and her ear was half ripped from her head.”
“You didn’t see any of this?”
“No.”
“You heard her screaming?”
“No. I don’t think she screamed. I think I would have heard that. I was outside, putting the dog in his pen, but I never heard anything. I saw her stagger from the bungalow. She was bleeding profusely.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to stop the bleeding. I tried to calm her down. She was in shock.”
“What was she saying? Signing?”
“As I said, she was in shock. She really didn’t know what she was signing.”
“And what didn’t she know she was signing?”
“She signed, ‘No, no. Stop it. No more.’ Something like that. She thought I was her father. She was very dazed, very confused.”
“What did you do with her?”
“I led her to the front of the house and sat her down. I ran into the house and got some towels. There was so much blood.”
“And what did she sign during that time?”
“Nothing at first. She was quiet while I tended to her. She only started signing when I said we’d have to take her to the hospital.”
“What did she sign?”
Harrison didn’t speak. He didn’t want to remember. Only one thing could have struck him that deeply.
“She threatened Joseph, didn’t she?”
Harrison nodded. “I didn’t expect that. She said Joseph attacked her. She said he should be destroyed. She said she would sue the project.”
“And what did you do?’
“I asked her what happened, and then tried to explain, to show her that Joseph didn’t really attack her, that he was just playing. She should have known that, but she turned . . . ”
“Vicious?”
“Yes. Vicious. She took the towel from her ear and shook it at me. Blood splashed all over. She signed she wasn’t going to be my victim, wasn’t going to be anybody’s victim.”
“What did you do?”
“I kept telling her to calm down, that we had to get her treated. Finally, she stopped her signing. She let me lead her to the truck.”
“Did you talk on your drive to the hospital?”
“No. I started to, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. There was too much anger there.”
The bell of truth sounded a little off. “Or maybe you were too guilty to look at her,” I said. “Maybe you had already thought up the lie you were going to tell at the hospital, and knew Anita would be able to read it.”
“No.” And then two seconds later, “Maybe.”
“So, you filled out the forms at the desk, and did all the talking with the nurses and the doctor.”
“Yes.”
“And you told them Anita fell, and struck her ear against a metal bar.”
“Yes.”
“Did Anita know you were lying?”
“I don’t know. I tried to avert my mouth from her when I told the story at the center.”
“But she might have seen you lie?”
“Yes.”
“Anita loved an ape that hurt her, maimed her even. And then you lied, a man she probably respected more than any other. And what did your lie do? It put her in the position of once more having to defend herself.”
Harrison didn’t like my version. “But you can see it wasn’t Joseph’s fault. He can’t defend himself, so I did. I tried to avoid a circus. My research, my gorillas, were never meant for the Ringling Brothers. Gorillas are sensitive, very sensitive.”
I was glad his self-righteous steam didn’t take him too far. His only sin was loving his children too much. “What else did you say to Anita that night?”
“I tried to talk with her on the ride back. But she wouldn’t acknowledge my signs.”
“What were you signing?”
“How sorry I was. How Joseph’s actions weren’t malicious. How I’d make it up to her.”
“And she didn’t sign anything back?”
“No.”
“What happened when you returned?”
“I asked her to come in the house, but she wouldn’t. She just stood next to the truck in the driveway.”
“That would be out of Joseph’s line of vision, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I told her she should stay for the night. And when she didn’t respond to that, I offered to get her a robe, said that would be much better than her bloody clothes. But she still didn’t respond, and still wouldn’t follow me, so I went inside and got her the robe.”
“And she just stayed outside in the cold?”
“Yes.”
“What happened after you brought her the robe?”
“I asked her in again, but she ignored me. Then I signed to her that I was going inside to make her some tea. When I came out with the tea, I saw she had changed into the robe. Her bloody clothes were on the ground. I told her I’d have them dry-cleaned,
and if the blood didn’t come out I’d have them replaced. And then she finally signed back.”
He said her words slowly, even unconsciously signed them while he spoke. They were words that had haunted him. “She said she didn’t want the clothes back. She said the only replacement she wanted for them was a gorilla coat.”
“And what did you do?”
“You mean, did I murder her? Is that your question, Mr. Winter?”
“Yes. That’s my question.”
“I did not. I considered somehow stopping her, but didn’t know how. It was later that night when I thought about murder, one of those fleeting visions, the kind you think about but dismiss in the same second. But in that second, I wondered whether I could do it.”
“And could you?”
“To protect Joseph and Bathsheba I could. Yes.”
“But you didn’t murder. What did you do?”
“I decided to hide the accident. I turned on all the outside lights. I took all of her bloody clothes, and mine, and buried them. Then I went into Joseph’s bungalow and scoured the floor. I didn’t want any trace of the blood. I did the same with the truck.”
“Did you talk with Joseph?”
“No. I was too busy. But tonight I will talk with him. He knows about death. He saw us bury a cat once, and asked a lot of questions. He saw his mother die while he clung to her. With all that blood and activity, Joseph must have thought he killed Anita.”
“Why the bamboo?”
“I’d been talking about planting it for some time. I decided if anyone asked about the digging out back, I would say it was in preparation for the bamboo. I planted seeds a few days later and it’s actually done quite well. We didn’t have any frost this year.”
“But if Anita hadn’t disappeared, if she had gone to the authorities and tried to have Joseph taken from you, would you have persisted in your lies?”
Harrison didn’t like himself at that moment. “Probably,” he said. “Yes.”
I let his own indictment hang in the air for a few seconds. “When did she leave?” I asked.
“It must have been about eight o’clock.”
“And she just drove off wearing your robe?”
“No. She changed. Most of the workers here keep a spare set of clothes.”
“She went to a New Year’s celebration,” I said. “Don’t you find it strange that a woman who has just experienced a severe laceration to her ear would have the energy to go out that same night?”
“When Anita makes up her mind,” he said, “I’ve found her to be a very determined woman.”
“That being the case,” I said, “You must have been very concerned about her threats.”
Harrison averted his eyes and said nothing.
“How did you explain Anita’s absence to others at the Project?”
“I described her accident—my version of it. I said she wouldn’t be back for some time. People forget.”
“But gorillas don’t.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Harrison and I talked for five minutes longer. I think he became as happy as humanly possible—in a human presence possible that is—when I told him his secret probably wouldn’t have to go beyond me and Joseph. I asked him about Anita’s disappearance, but he had no idea what could have happened to her. For the sake of his charges, I had the feeling he hoped I wouldn’t find her soon.
I asked him one last question. I positioned my hands and asked him to translate my signing. He tried to explain about ASL, and how it could be interpreted differently, and how signs were often used in the context of others, but I shushed his hedging. I asked him what I was saying.
And he told me.
I wasn’t surprised, just a little more angry.
16
IT HAD BEEN a long time between invitations to Piedmont. Once upon a time I had visited regularly. Piedmont hadn’t changed, but I had. The mansions were still there, and the people behind the mansions—people who didn’t pop their p’s or forget to say please. The letter P kept surfacing in my mind as I drove along the Piedmont streets. P for palatial, plenty, and Protestant. Piedmont has the same kind of gentry that live in Palm Springs, Pasadena, Palos Verdes, and Palm Beach. But I hadn’t come to Piedmont for polo and pools, or palaver and pageantry. Putting a pervert in the pokey would have been fun, but I was willing to settle for a few good leads.
The Walters house was on Sea View Avenue, which could just as easily have been called the Street of the Seven Zeroes and then some. Versailles wasn’t too far removed from the domains on Sea View. Many of the houses actually did have a view of the Bay, but the greater attraction was the estates themselves. The smallest was large, and the largest was a fiefdom with attendant serfs. Piedmont’s plebeians. The cars in the streets didn’t belong to the owners, but to the gardeners, and painters, and service people, workers who kept the hedges trimmed, and the gates shiny, and the equipment functioning. You rarely saw an owner from the street, and even then you needed binoculars to make a proper identification.
As Sea View residences went, the Walters house was nouveau riche, bereft or aged ivy and dusty marble. Their property also lacked the acreage and castle-like edifices of the old guard, but its occupants weren’t exactly roughing it. The house was well away from the street, and lined on all sides by a wrought-iron fence. The driveway and the front gate were electrically secured, but I found a house phone near the gate. I lifted the receiver and waited for an answer.
“Yes?”
“I’m Stuart Winter, here to see Mrs. Walters.”
The gate buzzed in answer. I hung up the phone and pushed the gate open. I was glad I had worn my comfortable walking shoes. It was a pleasant enough stroll, roses lining the path, and I stopped to smell a few on the long way to the front door. Chimes that went up the scale answered my pressing finger, and the door was opened by a black domestic in uniform.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m still Stuart Winter,” I said, “and I’m still here to see Mrs. Walters.”
I followed a stiff back down a hall and was led to a living room, not the living room, but one of several. “Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Winter,” the woman said.
I don’t make myself comfortable in the usual ways. I poked around the fancy glossy magazines and coffee table books. I looked at the paintings on the wall and was glad I didn’t see any by Vincent. I examined everything in the room, and when I finished I was ready to start on the next room, but the sound of approaching footsteps stayed my snooping.
“Mr. Winter.”
“Mrs. Walters.”
She held her hand out to me in a horizontal reach. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake it or kiss it, so I shook it. I didn’t know the etiquette of the situation, which is what happens when a philistine comes to Piedmont. I followed her example and found a seat.
“Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Winter?”
She was the nightingale calling, and I was an answering crow. My velvet voice was years gone, and not even velveteen was left.
“Nothing, thank you.”
The servant entered the room, and Mrs. Walters shook her head. Then it was the two of us again. I suppose I should have said how much I admired the room, or the view, or something, but I waited for her. And she didn’t know me enough to ask about anything except the thread connecting us, which, after clearing her throat, she did.
“Why don’t you tell me how your business is proceeding, Mr. Winter?”
I told her. Went through the picayune details that showed I hadn’t left a stone unturned. I had researched jail records, and checked birth records. I had records checked from the coroner’s office to marriage records. I had investigated Anita’s driving history at the DMV, seeing of in the past six months there had been any vehicle registration, or accident, or driving infraction. I had researched the civil, superior, traffic, and small claims courts, and since Anita was supposed to be politically active, I had even checked with the registrar of vote
rs. All of that had turned up only a pair of worn shoes. My own. I told Mrs. Walters about the witnesses I had interviewed, and finally handed her some typed reports of all my activities and interviews. She barely gave the papers a look.
“Everything you have said and done sounds well and good, Mr. Winter,” she said, “but it begs the question. Do you think Anita is still alive?”
I considered hedging, but didn’t, and hoped she wouldn’t blame the messenger. “There’s been no sign of murder, Mrs. Walters. But I think Anita’s dead.”
She asked me my reasons, and I gave them to her. Our conversation was calm. Her grief was long past, and my conclusion was just an opinion. An expensive opinion, but she could live with that. I told her I had some leads I was still pursuing, but I needed more of a background on Anita, and she agreed to answer my questions.
“How well do you sign?”
“Fairly well. Anita and I had no problem communicating.”
“You took courses?”
“Yes.”
“But your husband didn’t?”
“He was too busy, he said.”
There was the faintest hint of acrimony in her cultured voice.
“Has he always been too busy?”
“Terrence works very hard. I come from a background of wealth, and Terrence doesn’t. He always wanted to measure up, and he’s worked twice as hard as anyone to do it.”
“Has he measured up in your eyes?”
She seemed amused by the question. “He worked very hard at winning me,” she said, “twice as hard as anyone else.”
“Past tense.”
“Poor, poor, pitiful me.”
“You only had Anita.”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you stopped having relations?”
“Did we ever really start?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was avoiding your question. I was trying to be funny. Is your question really necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Terrence and I have had separate rooms for some time.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen years. Twenty.”
“Why your incompatibility? And why’d you stay together?”
“In the beginning it just seemed a matter of our not having enough time together. And then there were—complications.”