by Phil Swann
“Now, I’d like to move on to another matter,” Beckman said. “Is everyone familiar with Mrs. Gertrude Sugarberry?”
Everyone looked at each other in hopes they weren’t the only one who didn’t know the name.
“Well, you all should because Mrs. Sugarberry pays your salaries—well, at least a large chunk of it. Mrs. Sugarberry is a major—underline major—contributor to the Smithsonian Major Acquisition Fund. That fund, gentlemen…and lady, enables this department to operate. As well as being filthy rich, Mrs. Sugarberry is a rather eccentric old woman—actually she’s crazy as a loon, but be that as it may, she still represents a major part of the health of this department. So when she makes a request, the boys and girls on Capitol Hill do their damnedest to see it’s fulfilled. She’s made a request. It seems Mrs. Sugarberry possesses a collection of old sheet music she would like to donate to the museum. Now, that’s all well and good, except she wants them viewed. That means an exhibit. Unfortunately, her collection is not large enough for an exhibit. So the powers that be have decided to include her collection with others, thereby creating an American Sheet Music Exhibit.”
“But, Dr. Beckman, we don’t have a large cataloged collection of American sheet music,” the dweeb named Herbert offered.
“We don’t yet,” Beckman said.
Everyone understood.
“Parsons,” Beckman barked. “You and Rogers are heading this up.”
The rest sighed in relief.
“Dr. Beckman,” Rogers said, “I’m honored by your trust in me to co-head this project, but I’m not the best candidate. I’m in wind instruments—as of course you know—I’m not sure what use I would be in acquiring sheet music.”
“Forget it, Rogers, you’re doing it,” Beckman interrupted.
Dani started to speak, but Beckman cut her off. “Don’t you even start. You’re doing this. Everyone else has assignments that must be completed before the next quarter. You two are the only ones who don’t have anything pressing.”
Dani was fuming. “What about the Women in Song project I’m planning?”
“It can wait,” Beckman said.
“But—”
“It can wait,” Beckman said, emphasizing each word.
Dani threw her pencil down onto the table.
Beckman ignored her.
“After getting the collection together, you will coordinate with the Archives Center, which is where the pieces will be housed. I want the exhibit to exploit the enormous value the collection has in understanding this country's musical past. It should entail the mainstream, tributaries, and streamlets of American music. It should also highlight American social and cultural history, and history of graphic arts. Is that understood?”
Paul patted Dani's leg under the table, urging her to calm down.
“This could take the rest of the year,” Dani said.
Beckman grinned. “Yes, it could. Maybe longer.”
Dani thought at that moment how lucky Beckman was she wasn’t a man. For if she were, she would fly across the table and thoroughly kick his butt.
“I think that’s it. We’re adjourned. Have a good day.”
Beckman was the first out the door. Everyone rose from their chairs and gathered their papers. Dani rammed her file folders in her bag.
“Sorry, Dani,” Paul said.
“That man is a world class jerk.”
“I know.”
“Does he practice being a butthead, or does it just come naturally? Did you see that look on his face when he said the Women in Song project could wait? Joy. It was joy.”
“I know,” Paul replied.
Millie was standing behind her desk as Dani and Paul left the conference room. “Here you go, kiddo,” she said, handing Dani a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Mrs. Gertrude Sugarberry’s phone number. Dr. Beckman told me to make sure you got it. She’s expecting your call.”
Dani looked at Paul like a puppy begging for a treat.
“Oh, no,” Paul said, shaking his hands in front of him.
“Please, oh please, oh pleeeeeeease.”
“Nah huh. Beckman told Millie to give you the number, right, Mil?”
Millie nodded. “I’m afraid so, honey.”
“Ugh,” Dani groaned, taking the slip of paper. “It’s not fair.”
Chapter Six
Ravel leaped from David’s lap the moment the pounding started. David didn’t move. He didn’t notice. The pounding continued. Then came the demand.
“Los Angeles Police Department, open the door. We have a warrant.”
David still didn’t budge. He sat on the couch, all senses shut down. He stared at the television but didn’t see it. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was still in his robe.
Over the next sixty seconds, David was totally oblivious to the mayhem. The door crashed open. Splinters of wood from the door’s frame flew into the entranceway of the apartment. Four officers entered in a crouch with their side arms drawn. Two officers held their position at the door with shotguns leveled.
“Get on the floor, get on the floor!”
The coffee table was kicked out of the way. David was grabbed by his hair and dragged belly first to the ground. His arms were twisted around his back, and his wrists were cuffed, pinching his skin as the sharp metal locked into place. David was pulled to his knees, and then to his feet and frisked.
A man in a tweed sport coat, white shirt, and dark pants walked in as David was sat on the couch. The square-jawed man with salt and pepper hair carried himself with the air of a soldier. His voice was low and sharp. “He say anything?”
“Nothing, Lieutenant. He may be on something,” the young officer standing over David answered.
“Mr. Webber, I’m Lieutenant Pete Ryan of the LAPD.”
David looked up but said nothing.
“Mr. Webber, can you understand what I’m saying? Are you on something?”
David blinked twice as if waking up from a deep sleep. He looked around his apartment at the strangers. Men and women were going through his drawers, cabinets, clothes hamper, and closets. Everything was being invaded.
“I want everyone to be careful,” the detective said, looking over David’s shoulder. “Don’t touch anything unless you’re wearing latex. The boys in the white coats will be here shortly to get trace, and they better not come-up with anything off you screwballs.”
“What’s going on?” David mumbled.
“Mr. Webber, are you on something?” Ryan asked again.
David opened his eyes wide and stammered. “On something? What? You mean drugs? No. I’m…who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Lieutenant Pete Ryan of the LAPD. We’re investigating a murder. I need to tell you that you have the right to remain—”
David hung his head. “Henry.”
“Yes, Henry. So, you do know Henry Shoewalter?”
David began whispering. Ryan couldn’t make out what he was saying. “Okay, hang on, Mr. Webber, we’ll talk about Henry.” Ryan motioned to the officer standing behind the couch. “Get everyone out of here. Sanchez and Gilbert are getting statements from the neighbors. Get them here pronto.”
The officer nodded and began moving people out into the hallway. A minute later, two plain-clothed detectives entered the apartment. Ryan motioned for the detectives to come close. Both detectives pulled out note pads.
“Mr. Webber? David?” Ryan asked, his voice becoming calm, almost serene. “What do you know about Henry?”
“He’s dead,” David answered as if he were in a trance.
“How do you know, David?”
“Television.”
Ryan looked at the two detectives. “Were there any names released?”
Sanchez and Gilbert looked at each another. Sanchez responded. "Afraid so, Lieutenant."
Ryan shook his head in disgust.
“No, David, not television,” Ryan corrected.
David looked up
and nodded his head yes.
Ryan let out a breath. “Okay, David, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to think before you answer. What have you been doing since last night?”
“Nothing.”
“You must have done something, David. Think hard. Did you go to the Airport Holiday Inn?”
“Yes,” David answered.
All three police officers looked at each other.
“And you saw Henry, is that right?”
“No, I went to work.”
Ryan took another deep breath. “Okay. That’s right, David, you went to work. You got in a fight and got arrested. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
“J.P. picked me up.”
“That would be Ms. Peterson, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
At that moment David’s brain clicked in.
“Oh my God,” David whispered. “You think I—you think I killed Henry.”
“Come on, David, stay with me. We’re doin’ good here, don’t stop.”
“You can’t be serious?”
Ryan went on. “What did you do after Ms. Peterson picked you up?”
“You idiots," David said.
“What did you do after Ms. Peterson picked you up from jail?” Ryan repeated even stronger, ignoring David’s sudden belligerence.
David tried to adjust himself on the couch, but became aware of the pain caused by the handcuffs. The detective standing over him put his hand on his shoulder. He shut his eyes and answered, “She drove me home.”
“You came straight home?”
“Yes…no.”
“Which is it?”
His voice quivered when he spoke. “We stopped at a liquor store. I bought a bottle and some cigarettes, then she drove me straight home.”
“This bottle here?” Ryan said, holding up the three-quarters empty bottle of whiskey.
“Yes.”
“My, you did some drinkin’ last night,” laughed the short but muscular Latino detective named Sanchez.
“You know, David,” Ryan said, “back in my drinkin’ days, I used to drink so much that I’d forget entire days. I’d walk around, even go to work, but I was so plastered I couldn’t tell you a thing about it. Remember, guys?”
"Sure do, Lieutenant.”
“That ever happen to you, David?”
“No,” David replied. “I came home, I drank, I fell asleep. I might have passed out, but I did not kill Henry." The words were strangled but were now carried by rage. “Oh God, poor Henry. Why would someone kill that sweet old man?”
David swung his shoulders, fighting the handcuffs and causing the uniformed officer standing above to restrain him.
“Okay, David. Let’s take a break.” Ryan stood and took off his jacket. “Gilbert, see if the criminologists are here. Take this place apart, and don’t forget his car.”
“DMV says it’s a black ’94 Honda Accord.” Sanchez read from his notebook. “Parking is down below. I’ll get a team.”
“That’s it,” David suddenly yelled. “You won’t find it. It’s still at the hotel. I couldn’t have gone anywhere after J.P. dropped me off last night ’cause I don’t have a car.” David fell back into the couch.
Ryan looked at Gilbert. “Check it out.” Ryan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sanchez, call Ms. Peterson, confirm she brought him back here last night. I’m sure Mr. Webber won’t mind if you use his telephone, will you Mr. Webber?”
“No,” David answered, breathing heavily.
“I'll use the one in the bedroom,” Sanchez said. “You wouldn’t know her number off the top of your head, would you?”
David took a deep breath and gave him J.P.’s home and office numbers.
Sanchez left the room, but fifteen seconds later he was back. "Hey, you’ve got another phone in this place, don't you?"
David looked down at the cordless on the floor. Sanchez picked it up. "That's what I thought—man, your phone's turned on."
Sanchez turned off the phone, set it back in its cradle, and went back into the bedroom.
The criminologists overtook David’s apartment. Everything from dirty clothes to bath towels to garbage was inspected and labeled.
Ryan sat down in a chair across from David and crossed his legs. “This should only take a few minutes. Why don’t we just continue talking a little.”
“I didn’t do anything,” David said.
“Relax. I mean just talk. That’s all. So you’re a piano player, huh?”
David went limp. “Yeah, I’m a piano player.”
“Wow, a guy can really make a living doin’ that?”
“Just barely.”
“My folks gave me piano lessons. I lost interest, you know how it is?”
“Yeah,” David replied. “Can you unhandcuff me? This really hurts.”
Ryan brushed off the request. “So how did you know Shoewalter, uh–Henry, anyway?”
“He was my piano teacher as a kid, and became my professor in college.”
“No kidding, what college?”
“Juilliard.”
“That’s in New York, right?”
“Right,” David said, getting more agitated.
“So, Shoewalter was from New York?”
“Yes. But you knew that already from his I.D.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, we did,” Ryan said with a slight laugh.
"What have you done with Henry? Have you called anyone back east?"
"We're taking care of it. So what do you think he was doing out here?”
David sighed again, “I don’t know.”
“He must have told you. I mean, David, we know he talked to you. We have the phone records from the hotel.”
“If you have the phone records, then you know what time we talked. How could I have talked to him here and been there at the same time to do what you guys think I did?”
“Great question,” Ryan said with a chuckle. “You’re a bright guy. Well, to be honest, that was a concern. But it’s lookin’ like Shoewalter wasn’t killed until after five-thirty a.m. We know that because he ordered room service—strudel and coffee. We figure it happened right after that. To be honest, David, you could’ve talked to him, gotten into an argument, and had plenty of time to get down there and get back. Sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the truth.”
“Right,” David said, feeling like someone was hitting him in the stomach every time Henry’s name was spoken.
“So, what did you two talk about?”
“I was supposed to see him today.”
“Really, why?”
David didn’t get a chance to respond. Sanchez came from the bedroom wearing a frown. David couldn’t hear what he was saying to Ryan.
Ryan got up from the chair and paced in front of the couch. “We’re unable to locate Ms. Peterson, David.”
David rolled his eyes. “Did you call her at home?”
“First place I tried,” Sanchez responded. “Her maid answered. Said she hasn’t seen her all morning. Says she must’ve left for work before she arrived.”
Ryan broke in, “Then he called her office. Her secretary, Sherry, isn’t that her name, Sanchez?”
David interrupted, “No, it’s Cherry.”
“Okay, Cherry said she hasn’t seen her all morning.”
David thought for a second. “Wait a minute, what time is it?”
“Quarter ’til ten,” Ryan answered.
“I know where she is. She told me she had a morning breakfast meeting with a buyer. Some guy from a cruise ship company, what was the name…?”
“South Pacific Cruises.” This time Sanchez interrupted. “We know. Cherry said the guy's been calling all morning. Ms. Peterson never showed.”
David’s face went numb.
Detective Gilbert walked in.
“Lieutenant?” Gilbert smiled as he came toward Ryan and Sanchez, who were standing at the television in fro
nt of David. “It’s down there, ’94 Honda Accord, plates check out. And Lieutenant, the engine’s still warm.”
David looked at the detective.
Lieutenant Ryan looked at David. “Mr. Webber, you have a problem.” He nodded to Sanchez and Gilbert.
The detectives grabbed David by each arm and lifted him off the couch. Sanchez spoke methodically, “Mr. Webber, let's get some clothes. David Webber, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”
David went deaf. He heard nothing but the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. As he was led out of his apartment, he looked back to see Ravel being placed in a cage by a man in an orange jumpsuit with the words “Animal Control” embroidered on the back.
David Webber was led into the elevator. As the doors shut, his wail echoed through the apartment complex. "What's going on?”
Chapter Seven
The black limousine sputtered through midtown Manhattan, crossing Seventh Avenue on Broadway at Forty-fourth Street. Anthony Depriest, adorned in a perfectly pressed black tuxedo, sat with legs crossed, fingers locked, and eyes closed, oblivious to the carnival that was New York City on a Friday night.
This was his favorite time, the moment before. The moment where he could sit in anticipation of the accolades that were sure to be bestowed upon him by evening's end. This is where he could be still and take in all of himself and his life—the what was, the what is, and the what soon shall be.
The what was: it never ceased to amaze him how far he'd come. The limo and the clothes were light years away from little Tony Roberto Depriestiano of Flatbush and Avenue J. Son of a pathetic fish merchant and the smelliest, smallest kid in the neighborhood. The one all the boys liked to call tuna-fishy-sissy-ass and queer bait—the one who was too scared to fight, too slow to run, and just too talented for his own goddamn good. From the moment Father Francis of Sacred Heart parochial school realized nine-year-old Tony had an ear for music, his life became a never-ending roulette of beatings by playground bullies and sexual liaisons with Father Francis after music lessons.
By age eleven he had consciously surrendered his childhood. He recalled, in awe really, how he so willingly and beautifully accepted it. Buying time, and not for one instant considering himself the abused and manipulated. But instead, knowing he was the ultimate abuser and manipulator. For he knew, even then with the mind of a child, his time was coming. A time when Father Francis and all the kids on Flatbush and Avenue J would look upon him with respect, admiration, guilt, and, yes, even fear. So he took it. And used it. The bullies were his motivation, the good Father's penis his manipulation.