Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 16 - The Murder Book

by The Murder Book(Lit)

  'Contacting Hansen is a risk and maybe not a smart one. If he's still in touch with the others, everything hits the fan. If he's not, there may be no real payoff.'

  'But you're going ahead, anyway.'

  He yanked out a handkerchief and sopped moisture from his brow. 'The alternative is doing nothing. And who says I'm smart?'

  When we reached Hansen's property, he scowled and peered through a window of the BMW. 'Clean. Meticulous.' As he stepped up to the door and stabbed the bell, he looked ready to tear something apart.

  Nicholas Hansen answered wearing faded black sweats, white Nikes, and a distracted look. Brown and red paint stains on his fingers were the only clues to his occupation. He was tall and spare with an oddly fleshy face, looked closer to fifty than forty. Soft neck, basset eyes the color of river silt, grayish mouth stitched with wrinkles, a bald, blue-veined scalp ringed by a beige buzz. A

  middle-aged crisis stoop rounded his shoulders. I'd have guessed a burnt-out lawyer taking a day off.

  Milo flashed the badge, and Hansen's muddy eyes came alive. But his voice was low and mumbly. 'Police? About what?'

  I was standing behind Milo, but not so far that I couldn't smell the alcohol breeze Hansen had let forth.

  Milo said, 'High school.' His voice was rough, and he didn't use Hansen's name, hadn't even offered a cop's patronizing 'sir.'

  'High school?' Hansen blinked, and the paint-stained fingers of one hand capped his bald head, as if he'd been afflicted by a sudden migraine.

  'The King's Men,' said Milo. Hansen dropped the hand and rubbed his fingers together, dislodging a fleck of paint, inspecting his nails. 'I really don't understand - I'm working.'

  Milo said, 'This is important.' He'd kept the badge in Hansen's face, and the artist took a step backward.

  'The King's Men?' said Hansen. 'That was a very long time ago.'

  Milo filled the space Hansen had vacated. 'Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it, and all that.'

  Hansen's hand floundered some more, ended up on the doorjamb. He shook his head. 'You've lost me, gentlemen.' His breath was ninety proof, and his nose was a relief map of busted capillaries.

  'Be happy to clarify,' said Milo. He flicked his wrist, and sunlight bounced off the badge. 'I assume you don't want to talk out here in full view.'

  Hansen shrank back some more. Milo was only an inch or so taller than Hansen, but he did something with his posture that increased the gap.

  'I'm a painter, I'm in the middle of a painting,' Hansen insisted.

  'I'm in the middle of a homicide investigation.'

  Hansen's mouth slackened, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. He shut his mouth quickly, looked at his watch, then over his shoulder.

  'I'm a big art fan,' said Milo. 'Especially German Expressionism - all that anxiety.'

  Hansen stared at him, stepped back farther. Milo remained in the dance, positioned himself inches from Hansen's worried eyes. Hansen said, 'I hope this doesn't take long.'

  The house was cool and dim, saturated with the geriatric reek of camphor. The chipped terracotta tiles of the entry hall floor continued up the steps of a narrow, brass-railed staircase. Thirteen-foot ceilings were crossed by carved oak beams. The wood was wormholed and aged nearly black. The walls were hand-troweled plaster two shades deeper than the external vanilla and dotted with empty niches. Smallish leaded windows, some with stained-glass insets picturing New Testament scenes, constricted the light. The colored panes projected rainbow dust beams. The furniture was heavy and dark and clumsy. No art on the walls. The place felt like some ill-attended church.

  Nicholas Hansen motioned us to a sagging, fringed sofa upholstered in a scratchy tapestry fabric, sat down facing us in a bruised leather chair, and folded his hands in his lap.

  'I really can't imagine what this could be about.'

  'Let's start with the King's Men,' said Milo. 'You do remember them.'

  Hansen gave his watch another glance. Cheap digital thing with a black plastic band.

  'Busy day?' said Milo.

  Hansen said, 'I may have to interrupt if my mother wakes up. She's dying of colon cancer, and the day nurse took the afternoon off.'

  'Sorry,' said Milo, with as little sympathy as I'd ever heard him offer.

  'She's eighty-seven,' said Hansen. 'Had me when she was forty-five. I always wondered how long I'd have her.' He plucked at a cuff of his sweatshirt. 'Yes, I remember the King's Men. Why would you connect me to them after all these years?'

  'Your name came up in the course of our investigation.'

  Hansen showed yellow teeth again. His eyes creased in concentration. 'My name came up in a murder investigation?'

  'A very nasty murder.'

  'Something recent?'

  Milo crossed his legs. 'This will go more quickly if I ask the questions.'

  Another man might've bristled. Hansen sat in place, like an

  obedient child. 'Yes, of course. I'm just - the King's Men was just a stupid high school thing.' Slight slur in his voice. His eyes shot to the ceiling beams. A pliable man. The addition of booze made Milo's job easier.

  Milo pulled out his notepad. When he clicked his pen open, Hansen was startled but he remained in place.

  'Let's start with the basics: you were a member of the King's Men.'

  'I'd really like to know how you... never mind, let's do this quickly,' said Hansen. 'Yes, I was a member. For my last two years at Uni. I arrived as a junior. My father was an executive with Standard Oil, we moved around a lot, had lived on the East Coast. During my junior year, Father was transferred to L.A., and we ended up renting a house in Westwood. I was pretty disoriented. It's a disorienting time, anyway, right? I guess I was irritated at my parents for uprooting me. I'd always been obedient - an only child, overly adult. I guess when I got to Uni I figured I'd rebel, and the King's Men seemed a good way to do it.'

  'Why?'

  'Because they were a bunch of goof-offs,' said Hansen. 'Rich kids who did nothing but drink and dope. They got the school to recognize them as a legitimate service club because one of their fathers owned real estate and he let the school use his empty lots for fund-raisers - car washes, bake sales, that kind of thing. But the Men weren't about service, just partying.'

  'A dad with real estate,' said Milo. 'Vance Coury.'

  'Yes, Vance's father.'

  Hansen's voice rose at the word 'father,' and Milo waited for him to say more. When Hansen didn't, he said, 'When's the last time you saw Vance Coury?'

  'High school graduation,' said Hansen. 'I haven't been in touch with any of them. That's why this whole thing is rather odd.'

  Another glance upward. Hansen had never boned up on the body language of deception.

  'You haven't seen any of them since graduation?' said Milo. 'Not once?'

  'By the time we graduated, I was moving in another direction. They were all staying here, and I'd been accepted at Columbia. My

  father wanted me to go to business school, but I finally accomplished a genuine rebellion and majored in anthropology. What I was really interested in was art, but that would've caused too much tumult. As is, Father was far from amused, but Mother was supportive.'

  A third look at his watch, then a glance toward the stairs. Only child hoping for maternal reprieve.

  Milo said, 'You didn't really answer the question. Have you seen any of the other King's Men since graduation?'

  Hansen's muddy irises took yet another journey upward, and his mouth began to tremble. He tried to cover it with a smile. Crossed his legs, as if imitating Milo. The result was contortive, not casual.

  'I never saw Vance or the Cossacks or Brad Larner. But there was another boy, Luke Chapman - though we're talking twenty years ago, for God's sake. Luke was... what is it you want to know, exactly?'

  Milo's jaw tightened. His voice turned gentle and ominous. 'Luke was what?'

  Hansen didn't answer.

  Milo said, 'You do know he's dead.'

&nb
sp; Hansen nodded. 'Very sad.'

  'What were you going to say about him?'

  'That he wasn't very bright.'

  'When, after graduation, did you see him?'

  'Look,' said Hansen. 'You need to understand the context. He -Luke - was no genius. Honestly, he was dull. Despite that, I'd always thought of him as the best of them. That's why - does this have to do with Luke's drowning?'

  'When did you see Chapman?'

  'Just once,' said Hansen.

  'When?'

  'My first year in grad school.'

  'What month?'

  'Winter break. December.'

  'So just weeks before Chapman drowned.'

  Hansen blanched and brought his eyes back to the carved beams. He sank in his chair and looked small. Incompetent liar. Painting had been a better choice than the corporate thing. Milo slapped his pad shut, shot to his feet, strode to Hansen and placed his hand on

  the back of Hansen's chair. Hansen looked ready to faint. 'Tell us about it,' said Milo.

  'You're saying Luke was murdered? All those years ago... who do you suspect?'

  'Tell us about the meeting with Chapman.'

  'I - this is - ' Hansen shook his head. 'I could use a drink - may I get you something, as well?'

  'No, but feel free to fortify yourself.'

  Hansen braced himself on the arms of his chair and rose. Milo followed him across the tiled entry, across an adjoining dining room and through double doors. When the two of them returned, Hansen had both his hands wrapped around a squat, cut-crystal tumbler half-filled with whiskey. When he sat down, Milo resumed his stance behind the chair. Hansen twisted and looked up at him, drained most of the whiskey, rubbed the corners of his eyes.

  'Start with where.'

  'Right here - in the house.' Hansen emptied the glass. 'Luke and I hadn't been in contact. High school was long out of my consciousness. They were stupid kids. Stupid rich kids, and the thought that I'd found them cool was laughable. I was an East Coast nerd scared witless about making yet another lifestyle switch, thrown into a whole new world. Tanned bodies, loud smiles, social castes... it was a sudden overdose of California. Luke and I had World History together. He was flunking - he was this big blond lunk who could barely read or spell. I felt sorry for him so I helped him - gave him free tutoring. He was dull, but not a bad kid. Built like a fridge, but he never went out for sports because he preferred drinking and smoking dope. That was the essence of the Kingers. They made a big point of not engaging in anything but partying and at that specific time in my life that kind of abandon seemed attractive. So when Luke invited me to join the group, I jumped at it. It was somewhere to belong. I had nothing else.' 'Were you welcomed by the others?'

  'Not with open arms, but they weren't bad,' said Hansen. 'Tested me out. I had to prove myself by drinking them under the table. That I could do, but I never really felt comfortable with them and maybe they sensed it because, toward the end, they got... distant. Also, there was the economic thing. They'd figured I was rich -

  there'd been a rumor circulating that Father owned an oil company. When I told them the truth, they were clearly disappointed.'

  Hansen passed the tumbler from hand to hand, stared at his knees. 'Listen to me, going on about myself.' He took a deep breath. 'That's the sum total: I hung out with them for the second half of my junior year and a bit into my senior year, then it tapered off. When I got into Columbia, that put them off. They were all planning to live off their parents' money in L.A. and keep partying.'

  Milo said, 'So you were home on break and Luke Chapman just dropped in.'

  'Yes, it was out of the blue,' said Hansen. 'I was spending my time holed up in my room drawing. Luke showed up unannounced, and Mother let him in.'

  Hansen hefted the empty tumbler.

  'What did he want?' said Milo.

  Hansen stared at him.

  'What was the topic, Nicholas?'

  'He looked terrible,' said Hansen. 'Disheveled, unwashed -smelled like a barn. I didn't know what to make of it. Then he said, "Nick, man, you were the only one who ever helped me, and I need you to help me now." My first thought was he'd gotten some girl pregnant, needed guidance about where to get an abortion, something like that. I said, "What can I do for you." And that's when he broke down - just fell apart. Rocking and moaning and saying everything was fucked up.'

  He held up the tumbler. 'I could use a refill?'

  Milo turned to me. 'The bottle's on the counter. Nicholas and I will wait here.'

  I entered the kitchen and poured two fingers from the bottle of Dalwhinnie single-malt on the counter. Taking in details as I made my way back: yellow walls, old white appliances, bare stainless-steel counters, empty dish drainers. I opened the refrigerator. Carton of milk, package of sweating bacon, something in a bowl that looked like calcified gruel. No food aromas, just that same mothball stink. The whiskey bottle had been three-quarters empty. Nicholas Hansen cared little for nutrition, was a solitary drinker.

  Back in the living room, Milo was ignoring Hansen and flipping the pages of his notepad. Hansen sat paralytically still. I handed

  him the drink and he took it with both hands and gulped.

  Milo said, 'Luke fell apart.'

  'I asked him what was wrong but instead of telling me he pulled out a joint and started to light up. I grabbed it out of his hand, and said, "What do you think you're doing?" I guess I sounded irritated because he shrank back and said, "Oh, Nick, we really fucked up." And that's when he let it all out.'

  Hansen finished the second Scotch.

  Milo said, 'Go on.'

  Hansen regarded the empty glass, seemed to be considering another shot, but placed the tumbler on a side table. 'He told me there'd been a party - a big one, some place in Bel Air, an empty house-'

  'Whose house?'

  'He didn't say and I didn't ask,' said Hansen. 'I didn't want to know.'

  'Why not?' said Milo.

  'Because I'd moved on, they were long gone from my consciousne-'

  'What did Chapman tell you about the party?' said Milo.

  Hansen was silent. Looked anywhere but at us.

  We waited him out.

  He said, 'Oh my.'

  'Oh my, indeed,' said Milo.

  Hansen snatched up the tumbler. 'I could use a-'

  Milo said, 'No.'

  'A girl got killed at the party. I really need another drink.'

  'What was the girl's name?'

  'I don't know!' Hansen's irises were wet - boggy mud.

  'You don't know,' said Milo.

  'All Luke said was there'd been a party and things had gotten wild and they'd been fooling around with a girl and things got even wilder and all of a sudden she was dead.'

  'Fooling around.'

  No answer.

  'All of a sudden,' said Milo.

  'That's how he put it,' said Hansen. Milo chuckled. Hansen recoiled, nearly dropped the tumbler.

  'How was this sudden death brought about, Nick?'

  Hansen bit his lip.

  Milo barked, 'Come on.'

  Hansen jumped in his chair and fumbled the glass again. 'Please - I don't know what happened - Luke didn't know what had happened. That was the point. He was confused - disoriented.'

  'What did he tell you about the girl?'

  'He said Vance tied her up, they were partying with her, then all of a sudden it was bloody. A bloody scene, like one of those movies we used to watch in high school - slasher movies. "Worse than that, Nick. It's much worse when it's real." I got sick to my stomach, said, "What the hell are you talking about?" Luke just babbled and blubbered and kept repeating that they'd fucked up.'

  'Who?'

  'All of them. The Kingers.'

  'No name for the girl?'

  'He said he'd never seen her before. She was someone Vance knew, and Vance noticed her and picked her up. Literally. Slung her over his shoulder and carried her down to the basement. She was stoned.'

  'In the bas
ement of the party house.'

  'That's where they... fooled with her.'

  'Fooled with her,' said Milo.

  'I'm trying to be accurate. That's how Luke put it.'

  'Did Chapman take part in the rape?'

  Hansen mumbled.

  'What's that?' demanded Milo.

  'He wasn't sure, but he thought he did. He was stoned, too. Everyone was. He didn't remember, kept saying the whole thing was like a nightmare.'