Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “N—no.”

  “Why not?” I dropped my voice another note.

  “B—because we didn’t leave that way. I mean, we just went off through the woods, like we usually do. We go more in the woods than on the sidewalks, usually.”

  “Why is that, David?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you walk mostly in the woods, you and your uncle?”

  “Because it’s more fun that way. I mean, it’s like—” Glancing aside, suddenly embarrassed, he didn’t finish it.

  “It’s more like cowboys and Indians—something like that. Is that what you were going to say?”

  Looking with quick apprehension at his mother, as if he feared her response, he shook his head. “No. We—we just walk in the woods. Away from people.”

  I decided to let the point go, at least for the moment. “You do things like watch squirrels, though.”

  Again looking at his mother, this time he nodded tentatively. Something in my last questions seemed to bother him.

  “How many squirrels did you and your uncle see when you were in the area near the popcorn wagon?”

  “We—we saw two. Just two.”

  “Did you follow them?”

  “I—I don’t know wh—what you mean.”

  “I mean that when you saw the squirrels, did you go after them? Maybe you followed one while your uncle followed the other.”

  Plainly, he now recognized the trap. I saw his body tense. His small fists tightened in his lap. “No. We watched them together. We were both together, all the time. Just like I told the—the other man. The fat one.”

  Dismayed, his mother caught her breath, looking at me with prim apology. Then she raised her eyes, elaborately despairing.

  I hadn’t smiled. “All right, David. Now I’d like to ask you something else. From what you and your uncle said, I gather that you arrived in the area in question—near the popcorn wagon, that is—sometime between four and five. And piecing it together, you probably remained in the area for a half-hour or so, most of which time you were in a wooded area close by, watching squirrels. We’ve already established all that, more or less. So now I’d like to ask you whether you saw anyone there—anyone that you knew, or recognized, or would remember if you saw again.” As I said it, I slid open my center drawer, fingering the photograph of June Towers.

  Licking his lips, he frowned. “Well, I saw the popcorn man. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes. Good. That’s exactly what I mean. Who else?”

  He looked away, concentrating. The odds were even, I realized, that he was calculating the effect of his testimony on the safety of his uncle.

  “I—I saw some people,” he answered finally. “But I didn’t see anyone I knew, I don’t think.”

  I slid the picture toward him. “Did you see this girl, David?”

  He drew back, his eyes alarmed. “Th—that’s the girl that was m—murdered.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. June Towers. She was near you in the park on Sunday. Did you see her?”

  Staring at the photograph, fascinated, his lips moved before the words came. “I didn’t see her, though. Honest I didn’t. And my uncle didn’t see her, either. I know he didn’t.”

  “Oh?” I pretended an offhand surprise. “He didn’t see her?”

  “N—no.”

  “How do you know he didn’t, David?”

  He slowly, painfully swallowed—giving himself time. “Because we—were together all the time,” came the slow, stubborn answer. “So if I didn’t see her, then James couldn’t have, either.”

  “That’s not necessarily true, David. Just because the two of you were together, that doesn’t mean you were always looking in the same direction. Does it?”

  His chin was beginning to quiver. Hastily, before the mother became alarmed at the boy’s distress, I asked, “Did you see a green Volkswagen parked near the popcorn wagon, David?”

  “N—no.”

  “Did you see a teen-aged boy on a motorcycle—a good-looking boy with blond hair, wearing a fringed leather jacket?”

  A troubled silence. “Well,” he said finally, “I could’ve, I guess. I mean, there’re always lots of motorcycles around in the park.”

  “This teen-ager would’ve been parked, talking to someone in the green VW.”

  He hesitated. Then: “I—I don’t think I did.”

  I described Lester Farley. He hadn’t seen Farley, either. The boy was growing anxious again. Both the parents were plainly restive. My time was running out.

  “How about a man in a white car, David? A white Ford, quite new.”

  He looked at me speculatively—as if I’d offered him something that he could perhaps accept. “I—I might’ve seen him.” It was a timid reply, spoken in a low, uncertain voice—as if he were doubtful of his newly learned lines.

  I nodded encouragement, saying, “Are you pretty good at telling cars apart, David?”

  “Well—” He hesitated, worriedly blinking at me. “Well, maybe I’m not so good on all cars. But some I know.”

  “Do you think you could tell a Cadillac from, say, a Chevrolet?”

  Frowning, clearly trying to visualize the two cars, he nodded slowly.

  “How about a Chevrolet and a Ford?”

  “I—I don’t know. But I know a Mustang. And a Volkswagen. And a Buick, too. I can tell Buicks.”

  “What kind of a car do your parents have?”

  “A Buick.”

  “All right. Now I’d like you to tell me about the man who was in this white car. What’d he look like?”

  Biting his lips, he shook his head. “I—I can’t—” He shook his head again, this time with a sudden, despairing sharpness.

  “What color hair did he have? Dark or light?”

  “Dark.”

  “About the color of mine?”

  He examined my head with exaggerated care, then said, “Yes. Maybe a little more in front.”

  I smiled. “All right. Now what about his age?”

  “Well, he was about your age, I guess.”

  “Not young and not old, then.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Did he wear glasses?”

  “No.”

  “What was he wearing? What kind of clothes?”

  “I—I couldn’t tell.”

  That much, at least, was true. As long as the man remained in the car, the clothing wouldn’t have registered.

  But was he telling the truth about the man in the white car? Or was he merely seizing a last opportunity to turn suspicion away from his uncle?

  I rose, extending my hand across the desk. “Thank you, David. You’ve been a lot of help. You’re a bright boy and you’re very loyal. I’ll see you soon.”

  His grip, like his narrowly clenched fists, was too slight for a boy.

  I turned to the mother. “I wonder whether you and David would mind waiting outside for a moment, Mrs. Fisher? I’d like to talk to your husband and you separately, to get adult verification of your son’s testimony.”

  As she and the boy were leaving, my buzzer sounded. This time it was Markham.

  “I’ve finally found the Miller kid—not in school.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  “Where?”

  “Sitting at my desk. I’m talking from Culligan’s phone.”

  “Keep him there. Start the interrogation. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

  “All right. Walter Cross is here, too.”

  Irritated, I tapped my pencil sharply on the desk. They’d all come at once. I had no one available to interrogate Cross. “Ask him to wait for a few minutes. At Canelli’s desk. I’ll have Canelli there as soon as possible.”

  “All right.” The phone clicked dead.

  I turned to Bill Fisher, smiling mechanically at him. “Sorry. A little administrative foul-up, I’m afraid.”

  With an obvious effort he returned the smile, shifting uncomfortably.

 
I settled back behind the desk, deliberately allowing a long, heavy silence to settle before saying, “I wish you’d take a few minutes and fill me in on your brother’s background, Mr. Fisher.”

  Plainly, he was unprepared for the polite, placating tone in my voice, asking for his help, not demanding. If I’d chosen an opposite course, I felt, he would have met me head-on. Now, scrubbing his big-knuckled hand across the sparse fringe of his faded red hair, he looked at me uncertainly. “What’d you mean?” he asked with grudging civility.

  I spread my hands. “I need to know everything I can about your brother. The more I know, the better.”

  “The better for who?”

  “The better for him, if he’s innocent. And for you, too.”

  “What kind of things do you want to know?”

  “Start with his early life.”

  He snorted. But now his manner was more rueful than rude. “James was always a—an oddball. Always, even when he was a kid. He never had any friends. He never even tried to make any. He just—just moped around. Just exactly like he’s doing right now.”

  “What was his profession?”

  The other man shifted in his chair, flinging out his right hand in a flat, slicing movement. “He never had a profession. My—our—father was a painting contractor. He never had a big business, but it was always a good business. While James was in college, studying art and English and philosophy and everything, I was in Korea. Then my father died. I got out of the army, and came home, and took over the business. I knew James wouldn’t be any good at it, so I told him to take his share of the insurance and stay in college. Which he did. When he finally got out of college—he never did graduate—he tried to be an artist for a while. Then he tried to write—poetry, for God’s sake. But he could never do either one, and he could never hold any kind of a job that meant anything. And all the while he was getting—stranger.”

  “Did he live with you during that time?”

  He shook his head abruptly. “No. He just lived—around. Half the time I didn’t even know where he was living. Not until—” He broke off.

  “Not until when?”

  “Not until just before he got into that—that trouble. I hadn’t seen him for two years—hadn’t even heard from him for a year or more. Then he just showed up one day on our doorstep. He—he looked like a bum, an honest-to-God bum.” He shook his head again, baffled at the memory, angry. “We were living down in Redwood City then. We—we had a nice house in a nice neighborhood. I—I’d worked hard for years so that I could afford—” Again he broke off, staring down at my desk, blinking. “I guess you know the rest of it.”

  I nodded, asking, “How’d you happen to move to San Francisco?”

  He shot me a resentful look. “The last couple of years, with this recession—” He shrugged irritably. “Where we’re living now, that place belonged to my folks. We rented it out while we were in Redwood City. But last year we had to sell the house in Redwood City. Partly we needed money for the lawyer—James’ lawyer. And partly it was the recession, like I said.”

  “So your present house is really half your brother’s, I suppose.”

  He nodded, bobbing his head wearily.

  “But you aren’t really very happy with the arrangement,” I pressed. “None of you.”

  “Not unless you count David, we aren’t very happy. I might as well be honest about it.”

  I nodded, studying him as he sat hunched in the chair, his body oddly slack. “Do you have any idea who might’ve phoned us about your brother, Mr. Fisher?”

  He shook his head. His wide chest heaved as he drew a deep breath.

  “Do you think your brother killed June Towers?”

  He raised his head. His voice was a ragged whisper as he said, “I don’t know. I—I honest to God don’t know.”

  “If your son is telling the truth, your brother can’t be guilty.”

  His blank expression didn’t change. He’d come to the end of his resources sooner than I’d expected. When the blustering was finished, so was Bill Fisher.

  I dismissed him and asked him to send his wife in to me. During the interval I called the squad room, leaving instructions that Canelli was to finish with Randall Grant, then interview Walter Cross. Grant was to wait for a few words with me. Later Cross was to do the same.

  As I’d been talking on the phone, Marge Fisher came into the office and sat down directly across the desk from me. She looked as if she were a dissatisfied department-store customer come to complain about the service.

  “I won’t keep you but a moment, Mrs. Fisher,” I said. “In fact, I don’t have much time myself. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  She sat with white-gloved hands holding her gleaming black handbag precisely centered in her lap. Her gaze was bright and hard, her face firmly set. Dressed in a checkered wool suit, her make-up applied with more precision than art, she suited perfectly the image of the middle-class housewife. Her previous night’s wide-eyed uncertainty had vanished completely, along with her anxious apprehension for David just a few minutes before.

  I decided to test her poise with a quick, tough question: “Do you think it’s possible that your brother-in-law murdered the Towers girl, Mrs. Fisher?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” she answered promptly. “It’s your place to say, not mine. It’s your job.” Her voice was level, her eyes steady. She still seemed the brisk, hard-to-please department-store customer.

  “That’s true,” I said. “But I’m asking for your opinion as to whether he’s capable of murder. As a personality.”

  She paused briefly, considering. Finally, in a steady, measured voice, she said, “He almost committed murder two years ago. I don’t think he’s changed. If anything, he’s worse.”

  “Psychologically, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s certainly on the ragged edge,” I agreed. “At least as far as I can see.” I paused. Then, still with my voice at a casual, neutral pitch, I asked, “Do you mind your son seeing so much of James?”

  The white gloves tightened spasmodically on the black purse. “Yes, Lieutenant, I do mind. Very much.” Her voice was unnaturally soft, her eyes unnaturally bright.

  “I can understand that. By the way, do you have any idea who might’ve phoned us about your brother-in-law?”

  She drew a deep, measured breath. “No, I don’t. But I can tell you it could’ve been lots of people—a half-dozen, for instance, right on our block.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s the truth. People don’t like the idea of a—a criminal living next door.”

  “Does he go outside much—mix with the neighbors?”

  “No,” she answered slowly, making an obvious effort at quiet, ladylike self-control. “No, he doesn’t go out much, except with David. But people come in, you know. And people talk. Believe me,” she said softly, her outraged eyes straying off, “people talk.”

  “I can imagine. It must be very difficult for you.”

  She made no reply, but instead modestly dropped her gaze to the gleaming black plastic handbag, sighing faintly.

  “As to whether your brother-in-law is actually guilty of the Towers murder,” I said, “that, of course, depends on whether or not your son’s testimony is accurate—whether it would stand up in court, for instance.” I paused, then asked quietly, “What do you think, Mrs. Fisher? Is his testimony accurate?”

  She still sat bowed over the handbag. When she raised her head, her expression for the first time seemed hesitant, unsure. Finally, with plain reluctance, she said, “Two years ago, in the judge’s chambers, David gave some testimony that—hurt James’s chances. I tried not to let David know. We never really talked about it, but I’ve always thought that he did know. So now—” She gestured with her gloved hand: a small, eloquently regretful raising of the fingers. “Now he’d rather die, he thinks, than do anything to hurt his uncle. But”—she licked at her lips—�
��but the truth is that last night David let it slip that during their walk yesterday he and James played hide-and-seek. It came out because David mentioned what a good hiding place James must’ve found. He couldn’t find his uncle for a long time, he said. So I—” Her voice caught. Eyes averted, she swallowed painfully before saying softly, “It isn’t that David was lying. It’s just that—that he couldn’t tell it all.”

  “Was it near the scene of the crime that they played hide-and-seek?” As I asked the question, I became aware that I suddenly felt very tired.

  “I think so. But I—I’m not sure.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying, Mrs. Fisher?”

  She nodded slowly.

  I sat for a long moment staring at her bowed head. Then: “I’d like you and your husband to wait in the reception room for a few minutes. Fifteen minutes, say. Will you do that?”

  She nodded, rose, and left my office. She didn’t look at me directly.

  Thirteen

  FRIEDMAN GESTURED FOR A patrolman to keep watch at his open office door, then walked with me to an empty interrogation room. “You first,” he said.

  Conscious of Randall Grant, Kent Miller, and Walter Cross, all waiting for me, I outlined the Fisher interrogation as quickly and concisely as possible. No matter what we decided to do with James Fisher, I still wanted to talk to the other subjects.

  When I’d finished, Friedman snorted ruefully. “Hide-and-seek. Jesus. I can’t even remember how the game goes.”

  I glanced at my watch. “What’d you think? Shall we hold him?”

  “If we lock that character up now,” Friedman said, “I can promise you one thing for sure: by morning, we’ll have a gibbering idiot on our hands.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve got to admit, though,” he said, “that it’s been an experience interrogating him—something like listening to the sound track of a Dali painting. By the way, have you seen the afternoon papers?”

  “No.”

  “They’ve got the whole story on James Fisher—his record in San Mateo, his brother’s business, everything. I couldn’t believe it.”