Where Love Has Gone (1962)

by Robbins, Harold

  “This is Miss Spicer, Daddy,” Dani said. “Miss Spicer, this is my father.”

  The young woman held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel Carey.” Her grip was firm and friendly. “I’m Marian Spicer, the probation officer assigned to Dani.”

  I stared at her. Somehow the term “probation officer” conjured up a vision of a harsh-faced man. This one was young, not more than twenty-eight, of medium height, with brown hair, cut in ringlets framing her face, and alert brown eyes. I guess some of my surprise showed for her smile grew broader.

  “How do you do, Miss Spicer?”

  I guess she was accustomed to this reaction because she ignored it. Instead she looked down at the packages. “I see your father brought some things for you, Dani. Isn’t that nice?”

  Dani looked at me questioningly. I knew she recognized the suitcase. “Your mother sent them,” I said.

  A kind of veil came down over Dani’s eyes. “Isn’t Mother coming?”

  “No. She isn’t feeling well—”

  The shadow was deeper over her eyes now. I couldn’t see into them at all. “I didn’t really expect her, Daddy.”

  “Dr. Bonner told her to stay in bed. I know she wanted to—”

  Dani interrupted me. “How do you know, Daddy? Did you see her?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “She probably sent Charles and he gave the packages to you. Isn’t that the way it was, Daddy?” Her eyes dared me to contradict.

  I nodded.

  She turned away with an almost angry gesture.

  “I’ll leave you to visit with your father, Dani,” Miss Spicer said quietly. “I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

  Dani walked over to the far side of the bed and sat down, her face averted. I glanced around the room again. It was at most eight by ten; the only other furniture besides the two beds was one chair and a small chest of drawers at the foot of each bed. The walls had once been green but had later been painted cream without too much success. They were heavily marked up. I looked more closely and saw that the scrawls were actually mostly boys’ names or dates. Here and there were what appeared to be telephone numbers. Occasionally there was a lewd invitation, usually the kind found scratched into the walls of public restrooms. I looked at Dani.

  The grown-up young lady who had come down the staircase yesterday morning had completely disappeared. Instead a little girl sat there on the cot. Her only makeup was a pale lipstick, and in place of the bouffant hairdo was a ponytail secured with a rubber band. In the blouse and skirt she looked even younger than her fourteen years.

  I reached for a cigarette.

  “Give me one, Daddy.”

  I stared at her. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “There’s lots of things you don’t know, Daddy,” she said impatiently.

  I handed her a cigarette and held the match for her. She smoked all right. I could see that from the way she inhaled, dragging the smoke up into her nostrils as she blew it out.

  “Does your mother know you smoke?” I asked.

  She nodded, giving me that challenging look again.

  “I don’t think it’s such a hot idea. You’re still young—”

  She cut me off quickly. “Don’t start being that kind of a father now. It’s a little too late for that.”

  In a way she was right. There were too many years that I hadn’t been around. I tried to change the subject. “Aren’t you going to look at what your mother sent you?”

  “I know what Mother’s sent me,” she retorted. “Candy, books, clothing. The same stuff she always sends whenever I go away. Ever since the first summer she sent me to camp.”

  Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “I guess she thinks this is just another camp. She always sent me something, sure. But she never came to visit, not even on Parents’ Day.”

  I wanted to reach out for her, to hold her and soothe her, but something about the way she sat there so stiffly made me keep hands off. After a few minutes she stopped crying.

  “Why didn’t you ever come to see me, Daddy?” she asked in a small voice. “Didn’t you care about me anymore?”

  5

  __________________________________________

  The coroner’s jury was already seated when I entered the small crowded courtroom the next morning. The only vacant seats were down in front and reserved for the witnesses. Harris Gordon noticed me standing in the rear of the room and stood up and waved. I walked down and he motioned to a seat beside Nora. There were others I would have preferred but I could feel the watching eyes of the reporters. I sat down.

  “Charles told me he saw you yesterday,” Nora whispered. “How is Dani?”

  Her face was pale. She was wearing very little makeup and was dressed very simply. “She was very disappointed that you couldn’t come,” I said.

  “So was I. I wanted to but the doctor wouldn’t allow me out of the house.”

  “That’s what I heard. Feeling better now?”

  She nodded. “A little.”

  I looked away, a faintly reminiscent bitter taste in my mouth. Nothing really changed Nora, nothing really reached her, even now. No matter what happened, there would always be the polite small talk, the little lies, the careful skirting of the truth. She had no more been sick yesterday than I’d been.

  There was the rap of a gavel from the small raised bench behind which the coroner sat. A hush fell over the room as the first witness was called—the medical examiner. An experienced witness, he reported rapidly and efficiently. He had performed an autopsy on the body of Anthony Riccio, deceased, and found that death had been caused by a violent rupture of the large aorta, inflicted by a sharp instrument. He further estimated that the time of death could not have been more than fifteen minutes after the inflicting of such a wound and in all probability even less.

  The next witness was another doctor, the police surgeon. Also an expert witness, he testified that he had arrived at the scene in response to a call from Police Headquarters and had found the deceased already dead. Beyond making the superficial examination necessary to completing the death certificate, he had done nothing but direct that the body be taken to the morgue.

  He stepped down and the court clerk called the next witness: “Dr. Alois Bonner.”

  I looked up as Dr. Bonner rose from the far side of the witness bench. It had been a long time since I’d seen him. He hadn’t changed very much over the years. He was still handsomely gray, with an important and distinguished manner that had earned him the richest practice in San Francisco.

  He took the oath and sat down in the witness chair.

  “In your own words, Dr. Bonner,” the coroner said, “tell the jury exactly what happened on Friday evening last.”

  Dr. Bonner turned to the jury and his mellifluent bedside tones rolled beautifully through the dingy courtroom. “I was just leaving my office a little after eight when the phone rang. It was Miss Hayden’s butler, Charles, who informed me that there had been an accident there and would I please hurry over.

  “Since my office is only one block from Miss Hayden’s house, I arrived not more than five minutes after his call. I was taken immediately to Miss Hayden’s studio, where I saw Mr. Riccio lying on the floor, his head in Miss Hayden’s lap. She was holding a blood-soaked towel to his side.

  “When I asked her what had happened she told me that Mr. Riccio had been stabbed. I knelt on the floor beside him and lifted the towel. There was a large, ugly wound, bleeding profusely. I put the towel back and felt for Mr. Riccio’s pulse. It was very faint and irregular. I could see that he was in great pain and sinking fast. I opened my case to give him an injection of morphine to ease his pain, but before I could administer it he was gone.”

  He turned and looked up at the coroner.

  The coroner stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then turned towards a man sitting next to the court stenographer. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Carter?”

  “Carter’s from the d
istrict attorney’s office,” Gordon whispered as the man nodded and got to his feet.

  “Dr. Bonner, at any time during your examination before actual death, did the deceased say anything, make any remarks?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He repeated the same phrase twice. ‘She stabbed me.’”

  “When Mr. Riccio made that remark, Dr. Bonner, did you have any idea to whom he referred?”

  “At the time I did not,” the doctor replied firmly.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the glint of satisfaction in Gordon’s eyes and I knew that he had already spoken to the good doctor.

  “Was there any other person in the room besides Miss Hayden and the deceased when you entered?”

  “Miss Hayden’s daughter was also there,” the doctor answered.

  “Did she remain all during the time you ministered to the deceased?”

  “She did.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Bonner.” The assistant district attorney went back to his chair and sat down.

  “You may step down, Dr. Bonner,” the coroner said. “Thank you.”

  “Inspector Gerald Myrer,” the court clerk called.

  A well-built, quietly dressed, crew-cut young man rose from the end of our row of seats. He stepped forward, took the oath and sat down.

  “Please state your name and occupation for the information of the jury.”

  “Inspector Gerald Myrer, San Francisco Police, Homicide Squad.”

  “Now, please tell us of your activities in regard to the matter before the court on the evening of Mr. Riccio’s decease.”

  The inspector took a small notebook from his pocket and opened it. “We received the call at Homicide about 8:25 P.M., from the radio car which first answered the summons. We arrived at Miss Hayden’s home at 8:37. Two radio cars were already there and the policeman at the door told me that a man had been murdered in the studio. I went directly there.

  “The deceased was lying on the floor. Also in the room were Miss Hayden, her daughter, Dani Carey, Dr. Bonner, and the butler, Charles Fletcher. Mr. Harris Gordon, the attorney, who had arrived a few moments before me, according to the patrolmen, was also there. I immediately began my investigation.”

  He cleared his throat and looked around the courtroom. “My investigation revealed that Miss Hayden and her daughter were the only two people in the room at the time the blow was struck which resulted in the death of the deceased. Questioning of Miss Hayden and her daughter led me to understand that the daughter had struck the deceased with a sculptor’s chisel, during an argument between Miss Hayden and the deceased. The sculptor’s chisel was found on the floor near the deceased’s body. I had it sent to the police laboratory for examination.”

  “Pardon the interruption, Inspector Myrer,” the coroner said. “But

  can you please inform us at this time of the results of that examination?”

  The policeman nodded. “Yes, I can. The police laboratory informed me that the blood on the chisel was type O, which corresponded to the blood type of the deceased. They also informed me that there were three different sets of fingerprints found on the handle of the chisel—those of Miss Hayden, her daughter and the deceased. Some of the fingerprints were smudged or overlaid, but enough separate prints were found to establish clearly that each of these three persons had handled the chisel.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. Please proceed.”

  “After completing my investigation, I then took the daughter, Danielle Carey, to headquarters. We were accompanied by the attorney, Mr. Gordon, whom I previously mentioned as being on the scene. At headquarters Miss Carey dictated a statement to the police stenographer which was read back to her in Mr. Gordon’s presence and signed by her. Then, pursuant to law, I took her to Juvenile Hall on Woodside Avenue, where I placed her in the custody of the probation officer on duty. Mr. Gordon accompanied us there also.”

  “Do you have a copy of that statement with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The coroner turned to the jury. “Under the law of the State of California, a minor may not appear in any court where he or she may be in jeopardy as a result of a felony. The only court in which a minor may appear is in Juvenile Court. We are permitted, however, since our only concern is to establish the physical cause of the death of the deceased, to read to the jury the statement given by the minor concerned.”

  He turned back to the policeman. “Would you please read the statement, Inspector Myrer?”

  Inspector Myrer took a folded sheet of paper from his inner pocket. He opened it and began to read aloud in a flat, expressionless voice.

  The Statement of Miss Danielle Nora Carey, a Minor:

  My name is Danielle Nora Carey and I live with my mother, Nora Hayden, in San Francisco. I was upstairs in my room studying for midterm examinations when I heard voices coming from my mother’s studio downstairs. I knew that my mother and Rick had been quarreling all day over something. Usually when they had a quarrel I stayed in my room because it was always very upsetting. But this quarrel had been getting worse all day and I began to be frightened for my mother. Once before when they had a quarrel Rick had hit her and she couldn’t go out for three days because she had a black eye and my mother would not appear in public with a black eye.

  Their voices kept getting louder and louder. Then I thought I heard my mother scream and Rick yell, “I’ll kill you.” I ran out of my room and downstairs to the studio. I was very frightened for my mother and when I opened the door of the studio I saw Rick had her arm and was twisting it back and forcing her backwards over a table. I grabbed the chisel from the table near the door and ran toward them. I yelled at him to leave my mother alone. He let go of her arm and turned around. He took one step toward me and told me to get the hell out of there. I forgot I had the chisel in my hand and I punched him in the stomach with my fist.

  He stood there for a second, then put his hands to his stomach and said, “Jesus Christ, Dani, what did you have to go and do a stupid thing like that for?” Then I saw the chisel sticking out between his hands and the blood coming out from around it. I ran past him to my mother screaming, “I didn’t mean to do it.” My mother pushed me out of the way and went to Rick. He turned toward her and pulled the chisel out and dropped it in her hand. The blood seemed to come bursting out of him and my mother dropped the chisel on the floor. Rick took one step toward her and then fell down too. I couldn’t watch it anymore so I covered my face with my hands and began to scream.

  Then Charles and Violet came in and Violet slapped my face and I stopped screaming. Then Dr. Bonner came and told me Rick was dead. I guess that is all except that I didn’t mean to do it.

  I have read the foregoing statement which I have given of my own free will and volition and I submit that it is a true and accurate account of the incidents described herein.

  The policeman looked at the jury. He still spoke in the same flat emotionless voice. “It is, of course, signed Danielle Nora Carey.”

  The coroner turned to the assistant district attorney. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Carter?”

  Carter shook his head.

  “Thank you, Inspector. You may step down.”

  The court clerk stood up as the policeman walked by him. “Nora Hayden.”

  I stood up as Nora got to her feet and slipped past me into the aisle. Her face was pale and set, her lips pressed firmly together. For the first time I could see a little of her mother in her. She held herself erect, her chin high. She had all flags flying.

  She took the oath and went to the witness chair. Harris Gordon took a seat next to the assistant district attorney.

  The coroner’s voice was sympathetic and gentle. The Hayden name still went a long way in this town. “Please tell the jury, Miss Hayden, what you know of the events already described.”

  Her voice was low but it carried. At least to the jury and the first few rows in the court But I could sense the strain
ing of the spectators behind me to hear what she was saying.

  “Mr. Riccio and I had been quarreling. He had been my business manager for several years but I had become dissatisfied with his services and had discharged him. He was not satisfied with the severance that I was willing to offer and he persisted in carrying on the argument all day. Finally he came into the studio that night while I was working, and became very abusive. I told him to leave me alone, that I could not work, that I could not concentrate, that he was ruining the sculpture upon which I was working.

  “At this point he seized me by the shoulders and began to shake me violently, saying that he would not be put off by excuses like that. I tried to push him away but he grabbed my arm and was bending it back, causing me to fall against the table in severe pain. Then the door opened and Dani came running in and shouted at him. He turned to Dani and told her to get out.

  “I saw her hit him. I remember how surprised I was. I had never seen Dani strike anyone before. She had always been a very calm and good girl, quiet and self-controlled. You would never know she was around the house if you didn’t see her.

  “Then Mr. Riccio turned around and I noticed the blood. Dani ran past him to me, screaming that she hadn’t meant to do it. I told her to step aside while I tried to help Mr. Riccio. I didn’t realize what had happened until I saw the chisel in his hand. He—he gave it to me and—and it was wet with blood. I dropped it. He began to fall. I tried to catch him but he was already on the floor.”

  The tears came into her eyes. She choked up, tried to speak again but couldn’t find her voice, then began to cry. But like a lady. Her handkerchief raised delicately to her eyes. There wasn’t another sound in the court as the coroner spoke in his gentle sympathetic voice. “Please bring Miss Hayden a glass of water.”

  The clerk filled a glass from the vacuum pitcher on his table and brought it to her. She sipped it delicately.

  “Would you like a short recess, Miss Hayden?” the coroner asked.

  Nora gave him her grateful look. “I—I don’t think so. I’ll be all right now. Thank you.”