Hire a Hangman

by Collin Wilcox

  “But you married him.”

  “Yes,” she answered, “I married him. I was dazzled, that’s the only word. I grew up in Grand Rapids. My father owned a lumberyard. A small lumberyard. I’d never met anyone like Brice. I was”—she paused, searching again—“I was mesmerized. That’s all I can say. My whole life was music. It was all I knew. I was a virgin, for God’s sake, when I met Brice. A twenty-four-year-old virgin.”

  “Obviously, though, he was dazzled, too.”

  “I was beautiful.” As she spoke, she looked him full in the face, as if she were confessing to something shameful. “It’s hard to imagine now, I know. But I was beautiful. And I was good at what I did. I was very good. I had a very good, very unique tone. My technique was sound, too. Looking back, I realize that I had class. And Brice could always recognize class, I’ll give him that.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Almost twenty years. And all that time he was playing around. Always.”

  “Did you call him on it?”

  “No,” she answered. “I never did. Not for a long, long time.” She grimaced. “A lifetime, as it turned out.”

  “Why’d you wait so long?”

  “It was this.” Once more, she did the ballerina turn with her hands. “It was living here, in Pacific Heights. It was never having to think about money. Do you realize what that means, Lieutenant? Not to worry about money, that’s one thing. But not even to have to think about money, that’s something else.”

  “So you kept quiet about his playing around.”

  “I kept quiet about it—and I drank. So, of course, I lost my chair in the symphony. You can’t drink and play cello.”

  “You have one child?”

  As if she were confessing to another shameful secret, she nodded. “Some say—Brice, for one—some say I’ve spoiled John, made him a mama’s boy. And maybe they’re right. That’s one of those things, it’s not for me to say. The more I try to defend myself, the worse it seems.”

  “But you did ask for a divorce. Finally.”

  She smiled bitterly. “He and Barbara Gregg were practically living together. He’d rented a goddamn love nest for them. They started going places together—out to dinner, out to the theater. Finally they went to an opera opening together. There was a picture of them together, on the society page. That’s what did it. I saw that picture and I called a lawyer.”

  “And now Brice is playing around—was playing around—on Barbara. Did you know that?”

  “And Barbara was playing around on him.” This time, smugness softened the bitterness of her smile. “Did you know that?”

  “No,” Hastings answered. “Do you know his name?”

  “His name is Clayton Vance.” The smile widened subtly. “He’s a car salesman. Jaguars, of course, very upscale. Still, I doubt that Brice was pleased, knowing Barbara was involved with a car salesman. He’d consider it a negative reflection on his status.”

  “Do you think he knew his wife was seeing someone?”

  “I’m sure he did. That’s the way Brice liked to play the game. Everything on the table, let the blood spatter where it may.”

  “He drove a Jaguar. Brice, I mean.”

  “He drove three cars. At least.”

  Hastings wrote Clayton Vance in the notebook. When he reinterrogated Barbara Hanchett, he’d drop the name on her, watch for the reaction. Could he dent her composure, shake her up?

  For a long moment Hastings sat silently, his eyes thoughtfully unfocused. In an investigation that was barely twelve hours old, the list of potential murder suspects was impressive. Jason Pfiefer, Carla’s estranged husband, still consumed by love, was a classic suspect. Barbara Hanchett could have been driven by a combination of jealousy and the prospect of gain, also classic motives. Teresa Bell, the woman who’d lost her child when Hanchett’s decision went against her, was still to be interrogated. Could Fiona Hanchett, embittered by her own ruined life, have pulled the trigger? What about their son? How much would John Hanchett inherit at his father’s death?

  Those suspects, and perhaps many more …

  It was time to play the guessing game: pick a suspect. Any suspect.

  “I’ve got to be going, Mrs. Hanchett. But before I go, I’d like you to do something for me.” To reassure her, he smiled. “Call it a game. Call it ‘Who murdered Brice Hanchett?’”

  She frowned. “A game?” It was a cautious question.

  He nodded. “If you had to guess—if you had to pick a suspect from among the people you know—whom would you pick?”

  “Is this a joke? Some kind of a joke?” As she asked the question, the words were slightly slurred. Her eyes were losing their acuity. She was regressing, once more the bleary, blowsy woman who’d opened the door. Was it an act? If it was an act, what was its purpose? To protect John? Someone else?

  He let the smile fade. “It’s no joke, Mrs. Hanchett. Murder is never a joke.”

  “But if I tell you—name a name—then I could be—” As if she were puzzled, she shook her head. “I could be sued.”

  “No. I’ll never name you as an informant. I promise you that. And even if I did name you, there’re no witnesses. It’d be just my word against yours.”

  It was a lie. But he’d told the same lie so often that it felt like the truth.

  Now she was studying him with her bleary eyes. But deep in those eyes, he could see resolution sharpening.

  Or was it calculation?

  Finally: “Have you talked to Paula?” she asked. “Do you know where Paula was last night?”

  He frowned. “Paula?”

  She nodded. “Paula Gregg. She’s Barbara’s daughter by her first husband. It’s common knowledge that Brice abused her. And now she’s wild. She’s wild, and she’s dangerous.”

  2:05 PM

  As the static-sizzling silence lengthened, Hastings drummed the steering wheel with impatient fingers. Finally, Friedman’s voice materialized: “Frank? Where are you?”

  “I’m on Washington Street. I’ve just finished talking with Fiona Hanchett, and I’m going to give Teresa Bell a try. But first I—”

  “Teresa Bell?”

  “She’s the one with the kid who died when he couldn’t get a transplanted liver.”

  “Oh. Right. So?” Plainly, Friedman was still short on time, as harassed as he ever permitted himself to become.

  “So I’ve got another possible. Barbara Hanchett’s daughter by a previous marriage. If someone can get an address for her, do a workup, maybe I can talk to her after I finish with Teresa Bell. Or, better yet, have Canelli talk to her. Tell Canelli that Paula Gregg is Fiona Hanchett’s pick for the murderer. Apparently she hated Hanchett. Really hated him, because he abused her sexually when she was younger.”

  “Got it. Gotta go. See you at four-thirty down here. Right?”

  “Right.” Hastings released the mike’s Transmit button and replaced the mike on its hook beneath the cruiser’s dashboard. Parked across the street from Fiona Hanchett’s town house, he was about to switch on the car’s ignition when he saw a tall, loose-walking young man approaching the vintage wrought-iron gate that led to the Hanchett house. He wore blue jeans, running shoes, and a regimental khaki shirt, shirttail out. His dark hair was lank, half-long and half-combed. Against the pallor of his face, his lips were unnaturally vivid, his eyes unnaturally dark. As he walked, his gaze was fix-focused, the lusterless eyes staring straight ahead. The movements of his thin arms and legs were oddly uncoordinated.

  With a practiced gesture the man tripped the gate latch, swung open the gate, and strode down a passageway beside the Hanchett house, disappearing behind a redwood lattice side gate.

  This, certainly, was John Hanchett, going to his in-law apartment at the rear of his mother’s house.

  Is it John? Fiona Hanchett had asked distractedly. John?

  Hastings picked up the microphone, cleared his unit, switched off the radio, got out of the car, and went through the iron g
ate. The lattice gate swung open to his touch, revealing a beautifully terraced garden of low-growing ferns, several small trees, and a series of low fieldstone retaining walls and flagstone walkways. The rear apartment’s rooms featured floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that offered a full view of the garden.

  Only a moment after Hastings had pressed the button beside the apartment’s single outside door, the door swung open.

  “Mr. Hanchett? John Hanchett?” As he spoke, Hastings offered his gold inspector’s shield.

  Staring down at the shield with his fix-focused eyes, Hanchett nodded. It was a rigid, stiff-necked nod, complementing the strange fixity of the eyes.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Hanchett. I’m co-commander of Homicide. And I’m investigating the death of your father. I know it’s a bad time for you. But if you’ve got a few minutes …”

  Immediately, Hanchett turned away and walked through the small kitchen to the adjoining living room, with its intimate view of the magnificent garden beyond. Both the kitchen and the living room were littered with the leavings of everyday life: dirty dishes stacked in the sink, food wrappers on the kitchen counters, newspapers and magazines and empty bottles and dirty glasses strewn about the living room, some of the mess on tables and shelving, some on couches and chairs, some on the expensive Oriental rug. The smell went with the litter: musty and pungent, the odor of indifference and defeat.

  Hastings pocketed his shield, closed the outside door, and walked into the living room, where Hanchett sat slumped in a saddle-leather sling chair, his back to the view. Without being invited, Hastings cleared magazines and newspapers from one end of the couch and sat down.

  “It’s pretty tough,” he offered, adding mechanically, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Sitting with his straightened legs spread wide, his long arms dangling, his head bowed moodily, Hanchett gave no sign of having heard.

  “I—uh—I’ve only got a few questions,” Hastings said, “and then I’ll be—”

  “He was never a father to me,” Hanchett muttered. “If you know anything about him—about us—then you know that. Even when he was living here, he was never a father, never a husband.” Like his dark, dead eyes, Hanchett’s voice was fixed—a low, leaden monotone.

  “I’ve already talked to your mother,” Hastings offered.

  “Then you know about him. If you talked to my mother, then you know.”

  As Hastings nodded in response, an instant’s flash of memory erupted: his own mother, standing beside the kitchen table, reading the note his father had left propped against the salt cellar. He’d gone away with his girl Friday, his father had written. He was sorry.

  Experimenting, Hastings decided to say, “Your father—uh—seems to’ve made a lot of enemies.”

  Beyond a sharp, contemptuous grunt, John Hanchett made no reply. His posture remained unchanged: legs spread wide, arms slack, chin resting on his chest. Signifying that, cautiously, Hastings could take the next step: “It’s less than twenty-four hours, but already I’ve talked to several people, and heard about several more, who carried grudges against Dr. Hanchett. Deep grudges. Serious grudges.”

  No response.

  “What I—uh—the reason I rang your doorbell,” Hastings ventured, “is that I—uh—wondered where you were last night. It’s routine, you see, for us to—”

  A harsh laugh suddenly convulsed the long, sprawled body; the legs and arms contracted, the head jerked up. The voice was falsetto-shrill:

  “You think I killed him.”

  Hastings drew a deep breath. “If I thought you’d killed him,” he said, measuring the words, “I’d’ve given you your Miranda rights. It’s the law.”

  “‘You have the right to remain silent—’” It was a manic imitation of the TV-familiar ritual. “‘You have the right to—’ God.” He interrupted himself. “Give me a break, Lieutenant. I might’ve thought about killing him—fantasized about killing him—hundreds of times. But—Christ—” Contemptuously, mock-sadly, John Hanchett shook his head. “You must be hallucinating, if you think I killed him.”

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

  John Hanchett’s mouth twisted in a small, bitter smile. But the eyes remained coal-dead, sunken deep in the ravaged, sallow face. “If I had to guess,” he said, “then I’d choose his wife, Barbara. Otherwise known as the Dragon Lady.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “What about Paula Gregg?”

  “Why would Paula do it?”

  “Because,” Hastings answered, “Hanchett is supposed to have abused her when she was a child.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No comment.”

  “It was Mother. Wasn’t it?”

  “Still no comment.”

  “Mother gets fixated on ideas sometimes. That story about my father and Paula is one of her fixations. You have to make allowances. Especially when Mother’s drinking, which is most of the time.”

  “Then you wouldn’t say Paula is a suspect.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ll stick with Barbara Hanchett.”

  “Also right.”

  3:00 PM

  As Hastings turned in to the 600 block of Moraga, the predictable happened: a bittersweet pang of recall. It was here, in San Francisco’s Sunset District, that he’d grown up. At the turn of the century the Sunset had been nothing more than sand dunes rolling gently down from the highlands of Twin Peaks to the ocean, with only an occasional house dotting the dunes. In the 1920s the dunes had been subdivided, and in the thirties the real-estate developers began covering the sand with small stucco row houses, affordable housing for the workingman.

  Hastings parked the cruiser and consulted the slip of paper attached to the dashboard by a small magnet: Fred and Teresa Bell, 643 Moraga. The house was exactly what he’d known he would find: a small stucco house, attached on both sides. Like most houses in the 600 block of Moraga, the Bell house was adorned with a few terra-cotta roof tiles and hand-hewn timbers meant to suggest a Spanish influence. The house looked freshly painted; the small front garden was well tended.

  Hastings cleared his unit with Communications, switched off the radio, locked the car, and began walking toward the Bell house. As he drew closer, a sense of reluctance compounded his previous nostalgia. Interrogating the victim’s widow and his ex-wife was part of the homicide detective’s standard job description. Coping with parents who’d watched their child slowly die of liver failure was something else.

  In response to a loud buzzer, the front door opened promptly. A bald, slightly built man stood in the doorway. His face was pale and narrow, his mouth permanently drawn, as if he’d always been in pain. When he looked down at the badge Hastings held in his hand, the man’s eyes widened. It was a common response. A response of the timid—

  Or the guilty.

  “Mr. Bell?”

  A nervous tongue-tip touched pale lips. “Yes. Fred Bell.” He continued to stare down at the badge.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Bell. I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Dr. Brice Hanchett.” He spoke flatly, matter-of-factly, as if he assumed that Bell already knew Hanchett had been murdered.

  Bell’s instantaneous reaction was shock—sharp, stunned, spontaneous shock. The reaction was unmistakable, more revealing than the results of any polygraph. Until that moment, Fred Bell hadn’t known of the murder.

  But, just as certainly, just as irrevocably, Bell possessed guilty knowledge.

  Susan Parrish hadn’t spoken of Fred Bell, the husband, but only of the dead child’s mother.

  Instinctively taking a single step backward as he covertly unbuttoned his jacket and inched his right hand closer to the .38 holstered at his belt, Hastings drew a long, measured breath. It was important, he’d learned, never to reveal the excitement of the hunter at the first sight of his prey. Therefore, he must control both his facial expression an
d his speech. Thus the deep breath. Thus the carefully neutral voice as he asked, “Can we step inside, Mr. Bell?”

  “Oh. Oh. Yes. Sure. Please.” Anxiously, Bell stepped back, waited for Hastings to enter the hallway. Then Bell closed the door—and locked it.

  For Hastings, the house’s interior and its furnishings evoked another pang of recollection and recall. The narrow entry hallway, the crocheted antimacassars pinned to the overstuffed furniture, the ruffled curtains at the windows and the ruffled shades on the lamps, all of it was there. All carefully cared for, each item of furniture precisely placed, each dust-free surface gleaming.

  As they sat down facing each other, Hastings said, “You didn’t know about Dr. Hanchett’s death.”

  Quickly, anxiously, Bell shook his head. “No. I—” He faltered. “I work nights, you see, and I sleep during the day. So I never hear the news. Not until later in the day.”

  “Ah.” As if he were satisfied, Hastings nodded. “Yes, I see. But you knew him, of course.”

  “Oh, yes. I—”

  From the hallway behind his chair, Hastings sensed movement, confirmed by the shift of Fred Bell’s eyes, tracking the movement. Turning, Hastings saw a woman standing silently in the archway. The instant’s evocation was of stark black-and-white photographs documenting the Great Depression. One of those photographs, Hastings vividly remembered, showed an emaciated, hollow-eyed woman standing in the doorway of a sharecropper’s shack. The woman’s face was wasted, a haunted mask of utter despair.