A Measure of Darkness

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I don’t know. Awhile.”

  “A week? Two?”

  “About a month.” She paused. “A little longer…maybe six weeks, altogether. Seven? I wasn’t keeping a calendar.”

  “Did you help her out otherwise? Give her money?”

  “She took from the fridge. I didn’t ask her to chip in rent or anything. That’s not what it was about.”

  “You were helping a friend in need.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “After that, where’d she go?”

  “Wherever she went. ‘I’m a traveler.’ She liked how she lived. It was her choice.”

  Spoken like a true Watermark alum.

  I said, “When did you see her next?”

  Meredith shrugged. “She’d drop in whenever she felt like it. A night or two. She never gave me any notice.”

  “Using your place as a crash pad.”

  “More than that.” She bit her lip. “I wanted her to feel she belonged.”

  I remembered Winnie’s lonely, empty pockets.

  “Let’s talk about the night of the party. How’d you two end up there together?”

  Meredith stared at the tabletop, skimming her nails against fake wood. Glossy peach polish, now chipped and bitten ragged.

  She swayed, touched her hair. Closed her eyes. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

  “Meredith? The party.”

  “It was an accident,” she said.

  A lie. You can’t throttle someone accidentally.

  The first time I’d met her she’d come right out with it.

  I killed her.

  I’d assumed then that she meant Jasmine.

  But look at it another way: she’d been trying to get ahead of me, to absolve herself.

  Trying to do the same, now?

  I said, “Let’s start with, you hear about a party.”

  She opened her eyes. Moist, weary. “Winnie did. She read about it online.”

  “Did you know anyone else who was going to be there?”

  “No.”

  “So you decided to show up at some random thing.”

  “Yes. I mean, it wasn’t random, she thought it looked cool. She didn’t want to go by herself, so I was like, ‘Fine, whatever.’ ”

  “You remember what time you got there?”

  “Late. Probably around eleven thirty.”

  “And at that point, what was the mood between you two?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Were you arguing?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I mean, yeah. I was annoyed at her. I didn’t want to be there. It was crazy loud. I was tired, I wanted to go home. Now I can’t, because she has no car, and so I’m stuck, trying not to go deaf.”

  “She couldn’t make her own way?”

  “What?”

  “Winnie lived on the street. You didn’t figure she’d find a way to get back?”

  Meredith fidgeted. “I’m going to leave her there? That’s so cruel. Like, what if she, I don’t know. Gets raped. Think how I’d feel.”

  The irony appeared lost on her.

  “You need to realize,” she said, “these people are all strangers to me. To both of us. I don’t know who they are or what their deal is. What would you do in that situation?”

  “I get where you’re coming from.”

  Meredith Klaar crossed her arms with finality. “Right. So.”

  “So,” I said. “You’re at the party. You’re not getting along, but it’s no big deal.”

  “I’m like, ‘This sucks, let’s leave.’ She wouldn’t listen. Suddenly she goes off on me and starts screaming.”

  “What triggered it?”

  “I don’t…I mean, I don’t think it was one specific thing. She was high. Even when she’s sober, she’s not the most stable person in the world.”

  “Were you inside the house or outside, when she freaked out?”

  “Outside. They weren’t letting anyone in except to use the restroom. They had a rope set up. Red velvet. Like at a club? Anyway, I’d already peed, we were just hanging.”

  “What did you say to each other?”

  “Like the exact words?”

  “As close as you can remember.”

  Meredith cinched her arms across her torso. “It was months ago.”

  “Did she do or say something that made you especially upset?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even remember.”

  “Lots of people get into arguments,” I said. “What I’m trying to understand is how in this case it ends up with Winnie dead.”

  “I told you. It was an accident.”

  You told me I killed her. When I had no idea what you were really saying.

  I said, “Remind me what time you got there?”

  “Eleven thirty.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  She hesitated. “It might’ve been later.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. So explain to me this argument you had.”

  “Explain it how?”

  “It must’ve gotten pretty heated.”

  “She was upset. We both were.” Nibbling her thumb. “She pushed me.”

  “Pushed you.”

  “Hard. That’s what I’m saying. I didn’t mean to—I was reacting. She pushed me and I pushed her back and it just…happened.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can you walk me through it?”

  “She attacked me. She started hitting me. I—I don’t know. I yelled at her to stop. Have you ever tried reasoning with someone on meth? It’s not like they’re super logical.”

  “This is happening in the middle of the yard, everyone watching you.”

  “No one was watching us. There was nobody else around. Those guys came to the house to start shit, everyone left to see what was going on.”

  “Where in the yard is this taking place?”

  “I don’t…I’m having a hard time—it’s like everything is disconnected.” A beat. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re doing great, Meredith.”

  She looked at me. “What was the question?”

  “Where you were when Winnie attacked you.”

  “Toward the, the, the…back.”

  “The back of the yard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s helpful,” I said. “Thanks. Could you describe the surroundings any more specifically?”

  “I told you what I remember.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. But it’s little details that really help us.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Understand.”

  “I wish I understood,” she said. “It was dark, that’s all I remember.”

  She wiped her spitty thumb on her pant leg. “Okay. Here’s something: when she hit me. All these thoughts, and memories…Like, how dare you. You’re out of my life, and now…” Beat. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was out of control. She got out of control and I caught it from her.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Hit her.”

  “With your hand? With an object?”

  “A—I think it was a shovel.”

  “Where’d you get a shovel?”

  “There was stuff everywhere, I grabbed the first thing I saw.”

  “Where on her body did you hit her with the shovel?”

  She indicated her flank. The site of Winnie’s bruising, the two broken ribs.

  “And then?” I asked.

  “And then, she fell down.”

  “Was she alive at that point?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her gaze ran back and forth across the tabletop; she had resumed gnawing on her thumb. “It’s like there’s a blank.” She let out a weird la
ugh. “Like someone took out a piece of my brain.”

  I waited for more.

  Nothing.

  “You hit her with the shovel,” I said. “She falls down. What’s going through your mind?”

  She murmured unintelligibly.

  “What’s that, Meredith?”

  No reply.

  “Putting myself in your shoes, I think I’d want to know how she’s doing.” Again I waited. “Maybe I’d get down on the ground, shake her. ‘Winnie, wake up.’ Check to see if she’s breathing. If she has a pulse.”

  “I didn’t. Nothing like that.” Her nostrils flared. “I was scared. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Once you realized she was dead, what did you do with the body?”

  “I…I can’t remember.”

  “Please try.”

  “I am.” She scrunched up her face. “It’s not like this is easy for me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s the next thing you do remember?”

  Her answer, without delay: “The car. I’m driving, they’re banging on the roof for me to stop. I got out, and everyone’s…They were pointing. Underneath the…”

  She shuddered and fell silent.

  “Just to be clear,” I said. “You remember hitting Winnie, and then you’re in the car and folks are banging on the roof.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing in between?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  My phone rang: Nwodo.

  “Tell you what,” I said to Meredith. “We’ve been going awhile. I think it’s time for a break. It might help you remember.”

  Meredith Klaar nodded listlessly.

  “You want something to eat?”

  Her response was to lay her head down on the table.

  CHAPTER 27

  I phoned Nwodo from the viewing room. Four thirty a.m. in London, she’d woken with jet lag to find my texts and emails.

  “Tell me it’s okay to bug you,” I said.

  “Sure. But I’m not getting on a plane till I hear something concrete.”

  I recounted the substance of Meredith’s story. “She’s lying. No doubt.”

  “What she did tell you fits.”

  “She gave me salad and left out the meat. I show up at her apartment, no warning. She gets in a car with me, no questions asked. Doesn’t want a lawyer. Has no trouble going on and on about stuff from years ago. Then I ask her to go back to December and it’s full of blanks? Bullshit. The question is why.”

  “Denial,” Nwodo said. “She can’t seal the deal.”

  “Maybe. But she admits attacking Winnie with a shovel. She showed me on her own body where she hit her. It matches what we know about the bruises and the ribs. She remembers the color of the velvet rope. When it comes to putting her hands on Winnie’s neck? ‘Whoops, that part of my brain’s been lifted out of my skull.’ ”

  “They see it on TV,” Nwodo said. “ ‘I have no memory, I was in a trance.’ ”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. The time frame’s wrong. ShotSpotter recorded the first gunfire at eleven fifty-five. Eyewitnesses saw Jasmine get run over within a few minutes of that. Meredith said she and Winnie showed up at the party at eleven thirty. They fight, blah blah, next thing you know Winnie’s under a hundred fifty pounds of dirt. Meredith’s doing all that by herself, in less than thirty minutes? I don’t think so. When I pressed her on their arrival time, she said it might’ve been later. Not earlier. She told me she and Winnie don’t know anyone else at this party. ‘Everyone’s a stranger.’ She said that more than once. Like she wanted to make sure I got it.”

  “There was someone else,” Nwodo said.

  “Male DNA under Winnie’s fingernails,” I said. “We know it’s not Larry Vinson’s. Whoever it was, she’s trying to cover for him, and painting herself into a corner. That’s why she can’t say how Winnie died: she really doesn’t know. She’s present when the argument starts. Then it turns physical. Winnie gets hit with the shovel, goes down. Meredith panics and runs. All she’s thinking about is escaping. She’s not watching the road. Back in January I interviewed her about the car accident and asked if she was scared of getting shot. You know what she told me? ‘I wish I had been.’ ”

  “Two people dead,” Nwodo said.

  “Can you imagine? She looked a fucking wreck, and at the time I’m asking myself, Can I walk out of here, or is she going to throw herself out the window? She’s going, ‘I killed her, I did it, let’s get this over with.’ ”

  “Mr. X,” Nwodo said. “Why’s Meredith willing to take a murder rap for him?”

  “Why do people do anything?”

  “Sex and money.”

  “Not love?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Goddamn but you’re bleak,” I said. “When are you back?”

  “Supposed to be Friday. If I could beam myself over there, I would.”

  “You mind if I go in and take another swing?”

  There was a pause. “You think you can crack her.”

  “Right now she’s vulnerable. Wait too long and she could go into her shell. Or pull a Larry on us.”

  “Mm.” Another pause. “Do your thing, Barnacle Man.”

  * * *

  —

  I CHECKED THE monitor. Meredith had moved to the floor and was balled up, fetal. I stayed put, letting the minutes drag out, waiting for her to get restless. I felt keyed up, my adrenaline flowing. Not a good disposition to take into an interrogation. You win by staying calm.

  I stood, shucking in place to shed excess energy. The cushion of the chair was compressed from too much cop ass. All viewing rooms are the same.

  “Look what the mother-loving cat dragged in.”

  Grinning at me, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other tucked inside his bulging waistband, was Sergeant Joey Vitti, my ex-boss.

  “Someone said you were in the building,” he said. “I didn’t believe em. Clay Edison? The Clay Edison?”

  “Appearing one night only.”

  We shook warily. It was Vitti who’d suspended me, emphasizing all the while that it was for my own good. He wasn’t a bad guy at heart. He just viewed everything through one lens: How does this affect me? Any deviation from protocol had the potential to disrupt his unstoppable, sloth-like progress up the ladder. Your basic bureaucrat.

  It felt awkward now to be shooting the breeze, catching him up on the other members of our team. True what they said about Turnbow, tough but fair. Lindsey Bagoyo was working out fine. Zaragoza, how many kids did he have by now, eleven? Shupfer’s son Danny: could be better, health-wise, but you wouldn’t hear her complaining.

  And Big Brad Moffett, his former protégé?

  “I heard he caught that shooting back Christmas,” Vitti said.

  “We all did. Bad scene.”

  “Gotta say, I don’t miss it, not one second.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip; I saw his gaze snag on the screen, where Meredith Klaar lay like a stone. “So what brings you to our neck of the woods.”

  “Incidental shit.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Favor for a pal. She’s tied up out of town.” When that failed to satisfy him, I added: “I’ve met her witness before, she’s comfortable with me.”

  “The Great Communicator.”

  I smiled tensely.

  “Well,” Vitti said, “don’t stay up too late, you got school in the morning.”

  “Thanks. Take care, Sarge.”

  “Yeah, you too.” He didn’t leave. “One thing I feel I should mention—and I say this cause I care, you know that, right?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “You know I do. It’s been a good year for me, you know? Time to reflect.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

 
“You might consider doing the same, whether you can be happy there, long term.”

  I said, “At the Coroner’s, you mean.”

  “Not that I’m suggesting you do one thing versus the other. But we all make choices in life. Right? You and me, we’re not that different. Not everybody’s cut out for it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He drummed the doorframe. “Back to our regularly scheduled program.”

  On the monitor, Meredith Klaar had stirred at last, reaching for her water bottle to drain it. I went down the hall to the vending machine to buy her another.

  * * *

  —

  WHOEVER DEFINED INSANITY as doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results never conducted a police interview.

  You ask the same question a thousand times because most people can’t stand to give the same answer a thousand times. Human beings crave variety. Eventually, they slip, out of carelessness or boredom.

  All interview rooms are the same.

  All police stations are, at root, the same: incubators for psychological breakdown.

  The risk is that the subject starts inventing things, to please you or to get you off their back.

  So far, that did not appear to be an issue for Meredith Klaar.

  It was an accident, I was upset, I don’t remember.

  Her mantra.

  When pushed for specifics she embellished some extraneous element of the story. She could tell me about the music. She could tell me about Winnie’s outfit. But the critical period surrounding the murder remained a black box.

  After a whole bunch of that, I took a risk of my own.

  “Who else was with you that night, Meredith?”

  Wire-tight: “No one.”

  “Come on, now. You and he didn’t take the time to get your story straight?”

  Silence.

  I loomed in, making use of my height. “Is that what you want? To go down for someone else? Why would you do that?”

  She was chewing on her thumb so hard I thought she might bite it off.

  I switched to the credit cards. Veered back to Winnie’s death.

  It was an accident.

  I was upset.

  I don’t remember.