Dunbar’s face was still impassive, but his eyes went to the wall above my head.
“It’s possible that Joshua Cantrell told Bertoli about that ring,” I said, “and that Bertoli told Neloms. Here’s the thing, Dunbar: Even if Neloms were to think it wise to frame someone like Sanabria—and he wouldn’t—and even if he did know about the ring, he wouldn’t have known where to find it. Because Cantrell never wore the thing. I suppose Bertoli could have known, and could have told Neloms, but I don’t think so.”
It was quiet. Dunbar looked at me for a while, then away.
“Of course I didn’t kill him,” he said.
“That’s your only denial?”
He nodded. “How do you know about the ring?”
“How, indeed.”
He sat back in his chair, blew out a shaking breath.
“Tell me what you did,” I said.
He turned his hands up. “You know what I did.”
“I know you left the ring. I’d like more details.”
“Joshua called me and told me that Bertoli was dead and he wanted out. Said they were leaving the country. I told him that he couldn’t do that; he had to be a witness for the investigation of Bertoli’s murder. He hung up on me. So I went to see him in person, and I found his body.”
His mouth worked for a bit without any words coming out, and then he said, “You can’t know what I felt then. I can’t explain that to you. I knew I was partially responsible, but I also knew who killed him.”
“You thought you knew,” I said. “You were wrong.”
That made his jaw clench, but he nodded. “At the time I was certain, and I thought, no, I will not let this happen again. I will not let Dominic walk away from this, too.”
“You knew where Cantrell kept the ring?”
“It was in a cabinet just inside the door. He kept it there in case Dominic made a surprise visit. So he could put it on at the last minute, you know? The ring was a big deal to Dominic.”
He said “Dominic” the way most people say “poison.”
“You had a key?”
“Door was unlocked. Open. His feet were still inside the house.”
“So you went away, and waited for the discovery.”
He nodded, and there was a tremor in his face, near his left eye. “Waited all night, and into the next day. Then I couldn’t wait any more, and I went back. He was gone, and the stone was clean. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was losing my mind.”
“You didn’t call anyone,” I said. “With the murder less than two days old, you did not call anyone.”
“I had tampered with a homicide scene, and then I had left it.”
“There was a murder to be solved. You were the only—”
“I didn’t think it would take twelve years!” He shouted it at me, and now his hands were trembling, too.
I shook my head in disgust.
“I tried to help,” he said. “Anybody would tell you that. I tried to guide things.”
“Guide things right to Dominic Sanabria. Right to an innocent man.”
“He is not an innocent man!”
“He was this time, Dunbar.”
“If you had known what I knew—”
“I did,” I said. “Me, and every other detective who’s looked at it. We fell all over ourselves looking at Sanabria and Harrison and all the rest of them. Shit, there was no shortage of suspects. All of them had been guilty. None of them were this time. Nobody could ever get it, could ever see the forest because there were too many damn trees. Until Ken Merriman. He got it. Then he was murdered, and some of that’s on your head, Dunbar.”
“Everything you just said is true, but it wouldn’t necessarily have changed because they had a corpse. They already had Bertoli’s corpse. That didn’t help.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Why would another crime scene possibly have been a help? Why would Alexandra’s testimony possibly have been a help? You know how long it took me to get to Neloms after I talked to her? One day. One day, you son of a bitch.”
He said, “When you talked to her?”
“That’s right, Dunbar. She’s out there—and she’s staying out there. You tell anybody that I’ve talked to her, and I’ll happily distract them with the rest of this conversation.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “I just can’t believe . . . I never knew . . .”
“She ran away. Because of what you did, she ran away. It wasn’t the murder. It was the ring and the message that it carried. Remove that, and you might have had an arrest within a week, might have had twelve fewer years of Alvin Neloms, might have had Ken Merriman alive.”
My voice was rising now, and I wanted to hit him, but instead I reached out and ran my fingers over my shirt, near the scars.
“I hope it weighs on you,” I said. “I hope that burden is terrible, Dunbar. It should be.”
“You hope it is? You don’t know?”
“I don’t know much of anything,” I said. “I just do a lot of hoping.”
I got to my feet and went to the door, walked back out into the cold wind.
That night I took Joe and Amy out for dinner at Sokolowski’s. I hadn’t been there since that lunch with Ken at the end of the spring. It was edging toward winter now, and the view of the city’s lights was hampered by rain-streaked windows. It was still beautiful, though. You just had to look harder.
I told them about my visit to John Dunbar. Joe’s initial response was for a call to action—he wanted police, prosecutors, punishment.
“He’s an old man now,” I said. “A retired and highly regarded FBI agent. You think they’ll ever actually let him get to a trial? For a charge of tampering with a crime scene, one that can no longer be proven?”
“It can be testified to.”
“By Parker Harrison and Alexandra Cantrell. Those are the people who could testify to it. I ask you this—is it worth it?”
Joe didn’t answer. Amy said, “No. I don’t think that it is.”
“Ken Merriman’s daughter might disagree,” Joe said. “As Lincoln pointed out, Neloms should have been arrested years before he had a chance to kill Ken.”
“Should have been,” I said. “Might not have been. Anyway, however corrupt Dunbar’s actions, you can be sure he didn’t want it to play out like it did. I’ve seen that man enough to know he won’t be able to find peace with this, Joe. Alexandra and Parker Harrison have come closer, and they deserve it more. I suggest we leave them to that.”
“What about you?” Joe said. “Have you found peace with it yet?”
“Sure.”
He and Amy exchanged a look.
“You remember the conversation we had in the hospital,” I said to Joe.
“Yes.”
“You were right, of course. I was trying to make this case my life without letting it into my life. Maybe that doesn’t make sense, but I don’t know how else to phrase it.”
“It makes sense,” he said. “I’ve seen plenty of police do it.”
“I have, too. They’re the ones who eventually end up divorced and drinking and angry. You know that.”
He nodded.
“So I see your point, is what I’m trying to say. Still, you have to understand that I’ve had trouble dealing with what happened when some of these cases found their way into my home, Joe. Found their way to Amy, to you.”
“He understands,” Amy said. “As do I. Trust me, as do I.”
“What are you leading up to?” Joe said. “Are you telling us you want to go back to PI work, or that you’re ready to truly quit?”
“I’m telling you I don’t have an answer yet. I need some time. There’s a part of me that would like to move on. Maybe the largest part of me.”
“What would the other part like?” Amy said.
“There are some people who have come to us because they really needed us. I’d like to think we’ve done some good in those situations.”
“You know you have,” she
said.
“Hell,” Joe said, “you don’t have to look at it like such a crossroads, Lincoln, like it’s a right turn or a left and you’ve got to make the decision now. Hang at the stop sign for a while. Keep it in idle. We still get calls for case work, you know that. Just because you take the calls doesn’t mean you have to take the cases. You can listen, and then you can decide.”
“That seems right,” I said, and it did. For now, that sounded like enough.
I would answer the phone when it rang. I would listen.
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Document creation date: 18.8.2012
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Document authors :
Michael Koryta
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The Silent Hour lp-4 Page 31