When I’d finished talking, the man simply sat as he had before, staring at me with dark, sad eyes. Nothing I’d said had caused even the slightest flicker of interest or surprise, least of all the mention of June Towers’ death.
“May I have your name, sir?” I asked.
His voice was almost a whisper as he answered, “It’s Fisher. James Fisher.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Occupation?”
A moment of silent, regretful resignation. Then: “I’m unemployed.”
“What’s your profession, Mr. Fisher? Your line of work?”
He studied me for a long moment before saying quietly, “I don’t have a profession, Lieutenant. Or a line of work, either.” Another moment of contemplation followed, during which he looked at me with the detached, dispassionate expression of a monk sworn to silence. His eyes never left mine. His body hadn’t shifted; his hands hadn’t stirred. Finally he said, “Until three months ago I was an inmate at the State Rehabilitation Facility at Graceville.” He waited politely while the institution’s significance registered on me. Then he said, “I was committed to the facility twenty-six months ago, when I was judged criminally insane. It was a San Mateo County case.”
I turned immediately to the boy. “What’s your name, son?”
“D—” He swallowed. “David. It’s David. David Fisher.”
“How old are you, David?”
“I—I’m almost ten.”
I smiled at him. “I wonder whether you’d mind if I talked with your uncle for a few minutes, David? In private.”
He started to say something, then shrugged uncertainly. Finally he nodded his head. His eyes had grown very large. His mouth hung slightly open.
“Good.” I stepped close beside him, gesturing for him to rise. As he got obediently to his feet, I said, “You go downstairs, David. Your parents are down there with Inspector Canelli. He’s a detective. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
He stood perfectly still for a moment, staring wordlessly up at me with an utterly blank expression. Then he turned his whole body to face his uncle.
The man smiled wearily. “It’s all right, David. I’ll tell you everything that happens. I promise.”
“But…”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to worry.”
The boy walked slowly to the door. In the doorway he turned, staring at his uncle. I saw James Fisher smile slightly, then slowly nod. The boy closed the door. I waited for the soft sound of his footsteps on the thick stairway carpet before I sat down to face the uncle across the linoleum-topped worktable. The table was strewn with miscellaneous radio parts and a plan for an elementary receiver. My own son, years ago, had tried to build a similar receiver. He’d never finished it. I’d offered to help him, but he hadn’t accepted the offer. Later—much later—I realized that he’d probably known the offer was perfunctory—a well-meant fraud.
I raised my eyes to meet those of Peter Fisher. His gaze was unwavering. According to the squad-room cliché, a detective has only two essential tools of the trade: his gun and his long, cold stare. Of the two, the latter is more important.
Yet when James Fisher’s eyes finally fell, he seemed merely bored with the game—indifferent, totally unintimidated.
I decided to give him his constitutional rights. Still the dark, impassive eyes revealed nothing. In reply, he said, “Miranda and Escobosa have helped the common man more than Sacco and Vanzetti. Did you ever think about that, Lieutenant?”
“As a matter of fact,” I answered, “I never did.”
“Yet Sacco was better than Miranda, and Vanzetti was a better man than Escobosa. It’s the times, though—the times were worse, so the men had to be better. Now the times are better. But only easier, not really better. So, actually, they’re worse. Which means that…”
I drew a deep breath. “Would you mind telling me, Mr. Fisher, the nature of the charge against you? The San Mateo charge, I mean—the one on which you were sentenced.”
“It was aggravated assault.” His voice was totally un-inflected.
“What was the nature of the crime?”
The pale, haunted face stirred into a wan imitation of exhausted amusement. “Do you want my version, Lieutenant? Or the prosecution’s?”
“Yours.”
He nodded gravely, now mocking me faintly as he said, “Twenty-six months ago it would have taken me an hour to tell you about it. Now I can do it in a minute—one short, concise minute.”
I answered his nod. “Fine.”
“At the time,” he said slowly, “I was a paranoid schizophrenic—according to my lawyer’s psychiatrist, anyhow. We were living in Redwood City. All of us—just like we’re living now. David was only six then, and he couldn’t understand what was happening to me. And I couldn’t tell him, because it would’ve frightened him. So I stayed in my room and wrestled in the night with my demons. Slowly, of course, the demons began to win—as demons always will when they’re only in your mind. Finally they began driving me from my room, which was my last hope—my last line of defense. At first I thought it was only a strategic retreat—that I’d eventually outwit them by running. Then I realized that although they didn’t follow me outside, they were waiting for me when I returned to my room. I was playing their game—which, of course, always happens. Still, it was wonderful to find some peace during the night, even if it was alone, outside—even if I knew they’d be waiting for me at home. But then, of course, the inevitable happened.” He drew a deep regretful breath.
I decided to say nothing, waiting for what I knew must surely follow.
“My demons finally followed me outside—out into the night. And then, of course, it was hopeless.” His voice began to drop. “There was no place to run—or, at least, I didn’t think there was. I—I can remember that terrible feeling of waiting. I decided to wait for them in the park. I can remember feeling that when it happened, I wanted it to happen in the park. Because even then I used to take David to the park. So during the day, you see, it was a different place—sunny and bright and laughing. It—” Suddenly he stopped speaking. He was staring down at his hands, clasped like a penitent’s on the table before him.
“What were you waiting for?” My voice, I realized, was as quiet as my victim’s.
“I was waiting for them to touch me,” he said simply. “Every night I could feel them coming closer. Until one night they touched me. But—” He sighed deeply. “But of course, they weren’t really my demons after all. They were just three teenagers—two boys and a girl—out for a night’s fun.”
“And you attacked one of them.”
He raised his dead-calm eyes, empty of hope. He simply nodded.
“Which one did you attack?”
“It—it was very dark, Lieutenant. But it was the girl.”
I nodded. It was all together now—the park, the female victim, even, indirectly, the boy. And the darkness. Not the night, but the darkness.
“Are you aware,” I began, “that June Towers was murdered yesterday evening in Golden Gate Park?”
“I heard about it,” he answered calmly. “But I don’t know what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened later, Mr. Fisher. But first I’d like you to account for your movements yesterday, from, say, four o’clock until six o’clock.”
“I can do that very easily, Lieutenant. I was with David.”
“During those hours?”
“We left the house in the afternoon after lunch. We—” He hesitated. “We played together in the park until it got dark. Then we came home.”
“At about what time did you get home?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid time isn’t the same for me as it is for you, Lieutenant. We don’t use the same measure.”
“Was it after five o’clock?” I pressed.
“I’m sorry, I can’t say.”
“Was it dark—fully dark—when you got home?”
Helplessly
he shook his head. Now his eyes were looking far away, unfocused. He seemed to be losing interest in my questions, as a child might lose interest in a dull game.
“Was anyone at home, here, when the two of you arrived?”
He nodded vaguely. “My sister-in-law was at home. She can tell you what you want to know. Time is very important to my sister-in-law.”
“I’d like you to tell me exactly what you and David did yesterday—from the time you left here until the time you returned.” I spread my notebook on the worktable, pen poised.
“Well, first we went to feed the ducks,” he answered dreamily. “We used the last of David’s allowance to buy some stale bread, and we fed the ducks. Then we watched the model sailboat races for a while. And then we walked over to the polo field and watched them fly model airplanes. And—” He paused, frowning. “And that’s all we did.”
“Do you remember passing by a popcorn-vendor’s wagon on your way home?”
He brightened. “Yes, I do. That’s when we stopped to watch the squirrel. It was just beginning to get dark. And that’s the best time to watch squirrels.”
“You watched this squirrel in the area near the popcorn wagon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feed the squirrel? Or just watch it?”
“We just watched it.”
“Were you together the whole time?”
Frowning, he looked up. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Conscious of a sudden, irrational goad of uncontrollable irritation, I said sharply, “It’s a simple enough question. I’m asking you whether, when you were watching this squirrel, you and David were together the whole time.”
Suddenly downcast, he sat slowly shaking his head, mumbling that he didn’t remember. He was avoiding my eyes, plainly hurt. My moment’s surrender to pique had snapped something essential between us: that delicate, tenuous filament that binds inquisitor and victim together in some strange, necessary union.
It was time to go.
As I rose to my feet I was aware that now I felt a sense of sadness, just as irrational as the previous moment’s sudden anger.
I folded my notebook together, clicked my ballpoint pen, and returned both to my jacket pocket. Pitching my voice to an impersonal note, I said, “We’ll be checking on your story, Mr. Fisher. It will probably take us a day or two. We’ll probably want you to come downtown to be interviewed and identified. Do you understand?”
“Yes. You’re talking about a line-up. And long hours of questioning in small rooms.”
“It’s the only way we can get the job done, Mr. Fisher. A girl has been murdered. I have to find out why—and how.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He nodded.
“Good.” As I left the room, he was sitting exactly as I’d first seen him a half-hour ago—a lonely figure beneath a cone of cold white light. He was staring expressionlessly at the boy’s empty chair.
Nine
AS I GOT INTO the cruiser beside Canelli, the time was ten minutes after seven. Allowing fifteen minutes for business, I could go home, wash my face and change my shirt, and pick up Ann by eight o’clock.
“Well,” I asked Canelli, “what’d you find out?”
“From the kid, you mean?”
“Yes.”
While I fidgeted, Canelli took five full minutes to outline, with embellishments, David Fisher’s movements during the critical three hours of the previous day. The boy’s account tallied with his uncle’s in almost every particular.
When Canelli finally finished, I sat for a moment in thoughtful silence, deciding whether to call in for a stake-out. I thought of the Lester Farley stakeout, still with several hours to run. A homicide detail, like every other department of municipal government, must ultimately answer to the efficiency expert, whose sole concern is how many man-hours are required to solve a given crime. The fewer the man-hours, the better the officer’s record looks when promotions come around.
“What about the time that they were watching the squirrel?” I asked. “That’s the critical point.”
Canelli nodded. “Yeah. Right. And that kid, you know, is pretty smart. He’s real fond of his uncle, that’s for sure. And the kid knew all about the murder, and where it was committed, and all. And it didn’t take him two seconds, probably, to figure out that we suspected the uncle. So right away he says that he had his uncle eyeballed right from the second they left the house until the second they got back.”
“Do you think he was lying?”
“I don’t know,” Canelli answered slowly. “I couldn’t decide. With kids, it’s hard to tell, at least for me. And he’s one of these quiet, saucer-eyed kids with lots of imagination. You can tell that about half the time he’s living in some kind of a dream world all his own, and making up stories that he tells to himself and everyone else, if they ask him.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to the parents separately?”
“No. I didn’t have the time. And besides, I know that it’s tricky where kids are concerned. I remembered that hassle you had a couple of months ago, and…”He stopped speaking—having already said too much.
“I think,” I said, “that we’d better set up an interrogation for the whole Fisher family—all four of them. At the office, about eleven tomorrow morning. We’ll plan on having a staff meeting in my office about ten.” I glanced moodily at the Fisher house, again conscious of the dull, unfocused anger I’d felt interviewing James Fisher. Friedman had once remarked that there was no sport in putting the arm on a looney. Friedman’s flip, throwaway remarks often had the cold, hard ring of truth.
I glanced again at my watch. “I’d like to have you drop me at my place and then come back here and tell the Fishers about the interrogation tomorrow. That is, if you don’t mind. I, ah, have something to do.”
“Sure,” he answered cheerfully, switching on the engine. “No sweat.” He got the car under way with a series of lurches, then asked, “Do you think Fisher is our man, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know,” I answered shortly. “Suddenly this case is going too many directions at once.”
“Well,” Canelli said, “that’s better than no place at once.”
I glanced at him, sighed, and settled back in the seat. I suddenly felt tired. At age forty-three, after a hard day, I should be returning home for a late dinner, an hour of newspapers and TV, and a good night’s sleep. Instead, like someone half my age, I would only be home long enough to change my shirt. And at that, I could be late picking up Ann.
Ten
I CLOSED THE PASSENGER’S door, rounded the car and slipped behind the wheel. The time was just after midnight.
“If you don’t have to be home,” I said, “let’s go to my place. I’ve got some Hennessey four-star.”
I saw her smile. “What you’re really saying,” she said, “is ‘my place or yours.’”
“I guess I am, at that.” As I started the engine, I studied her shadowed profile. I’d known her for more than a month. I’d seen her three or four times a week. Yet her wide forehead, her small, straight nose, and her firm chin still seemed subtly different each time I really looked at her.
It had been in the line of duty that I’d met her. My first cop’s impression, neatly categorized, had been of a small, stylish blonde named Ann Haywood—a grammar-school teacher, the divorced wife of a society psychiatrist, the mother of two over-privileged sons, ages ten and sixteen. She’d been in trouble when I’d met her, and she could hardly smile. But as the danger to her family passed, she’d slowly revealed a quiet, subtle sense of low-keyed humor. She was a very private person. She seldom laughed, but she often smiled.
“Your place, then,” she said. “But I have to be home sometime. Dan’s out with his father, for a late night, but he’ll be home. He might be home now, in fact.”
“Where’s Billy?”
“Spending the night with a friend. They’re studying their lines for the fifth-grade play.”
“Good.�
�
We were driving slowly down Union Street. Even on a Monday night it was thronged with bar-hopping pleasure-seekers, most of them dressed in the latest with-it fashion. Bar for bar, smile for smile, more pickups were consummated on sophisticated Union Street than in the Tenderloin.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said. “Quieter than usual, that is.”
Rather than reply, I simply looked at her, smiling. Sharing a silence was something we did well together.
“I thought policemen didn’t personalize their work,” she said finally. Her voice was bantering, friendly.
“We don’t.”
“You are, though. You’re wrapped in a dark, mysterious cloak.”
I sighed.
“The reason I’m bugging you about it,” she persisted, “is that I teach in the district where June Towers was murdered. Did you know that?”
“Well, I…”
“I’m the victim of natural human curiosity. Plus my students are the victims of a sordid, morbid preoccupation with violence, entirely natural to children. If they knew—if they should ever find out—that I was actually driving down Union Street with the stern godlike creature who…”
“Did you ever have a boy named David Fisher for a student?” I interrupted. My voice, I knew, was harsher than I’d intended. I never like to discuss business after hours.
“I taught him last year.” She paused. Then, in a lower, graver voice, she said, “Is David involved?”
I hesitated, sorting out my personal motives and professional obligations as we drove a long stop-and-go-block in silence. I could feel her eyes on me, waiting patiently.
“David’s uncle could be involved,” I answered shortly.
To my surprise, she didn’t reply. I saw that she was biting her lips, looking straight ahead.
“What is it?” I asked.
She drew a deep breath. “Teachers personalize, even if detective lieutenants don’t. And it just so happens that David’s always had a—a kind of a stray-puppydog appeal for me, probably because he doesn’t seem to have much of an appeal for anyone else.”
Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 6